just a soul whose intentions are good
Title: just a soul whose intentions are good
Warnings: Spoilers for 6.06
Summary: Dean and Lisa after You Can't Handle the Truth. Drabble-ish.
This is Dean, leave a message.
"Dean, it's Lisa. I'm--look, can you please call me back? I know I said--I just want to talk, okay? Please?"
She slides her cell phone shut, leans her head back against the brick wall next to the smokers' corner. She doesn't smoke, normally. Hasn't since before Ben was born. In fact, she thinks maybe the last cigarette she had was shared over a few glasses of whiskey with a cute green-eyed stranger in some dive bar, thirteen years ago. Or so.
She bummed a menthol from Vicki at the front desk. It's disgusting, and it makes her hands shake.
Her cell phone rings. AC/DC, and she's pretty sure Ben's the one who programmed it. He's going through all the classic metal bands. Last month it was AC/DC. Now it's Metallica. Dean introduced him to the Black Album, a week before Sam showed up.
She doesn't need to see the number on the display, but she stares at it for three rings anyway, doesn't pick up until her phone's about to go to voicemail. "Hey."
His voice is rough, tired. "Hey, Lisa."
"Dean, I'm. I--" She wasn't expecting him to call back. Not really. Dean has a lot of faults, God knows, but he's a man who knows how to take get the hell out of my life. Not that she meant that. Really. Dean's a good man. He's just-- "I wanted to apologize."
"It's okay."
"No, it's not okay. What I said--I didn't mean to say it like that."
"It's fine," he says, sighs. "Lisa, it wasn't your fault. Okay? And you were right, what you said."
"I didn't--"
"I'm not good for you and Ben. It's not safe. I know you're--look, you can find a good guy. Somebody who can look after you two."
You look after us, she thinks, but she's still seeing Ben's head jerk back when Dean slammed him into the wall. The bruise wasn't bad, and it's fading fast. Ben thinks she's overreacting.
But still.
"Just--Dean, please. Just tell me what happened to you. Tell me the truth."
"You should be careful what you ask for," he says gently, and she thinks, yeah, ain't that a fact.
"Tell me," she says. "Please."
"Lisa--"
"You're not--God knows you're not a saint, but--"
Drinking, sometimes a fifth a day, sleeping all the goddamn time on the couch in that leather jacket until her neighbors and her friends and her sister where wondering why the hell she didn't kick his ass to the curb and she didn't say 'he's Ben's father' even though it was true and it might have made them lay off. Pacing the house at three in the morning with a knife in his hand, held low and tight like he really knew what to do with it, like she would have been more worried about a burglar that tried to break in. Telling Ben stories so off-color they made her blush, shaking his head when she said something like he didn't really know what her problem was.
The nightmares. The bruises she got sometimes when he flailed in his sleep, or when she startled him awake. The moves. The shouting. The--
"--that isn't you."
He's silent for a long time.
"Dean--"
"Lisa," he says quietly, and she can already hear the shape of the lie.
Warnings: Spoilers for 6.06
Summary: Dean and Lisa after You Can't Handle the Truth. Drabble-ish.
This is Dean, leave a message.
"Dean, it's Lisa. I'm--look, can you please call me back? I know I said--I just want to talk, okay? Please?"
She slides her cell phone shut, leans her head back against the brick wall next to the smokers' corner. She doesn't smoke, normally. Hasn't since before Ben was born. In fact, she thinks maybe the last cigarette she had was shared over a few glasses of whiskey with a cute green-eyed stranger in some dive bar, thirteen years ago. Or so.
She bummed a menthol from Vicki at the front desk. It's disgusting, and it makes her hands shake.
Her cell phone rings. AC/DC, and she's pretty sure Ben's the one who programmed it. He's going through all the classic metal bands. Last month it was AC/DC. Now it's Metallica. Dean introduced him to the Black Album, a week before Sam showed up.
She doesn't need to see the number on the display, but she stares at it for three rings anyway, doesn't pick up until her phone's about to go to voicemail. "Hey."
His voice is rough, tired. "Hey, Lisa."
"Dean, I'm. I--" She wasn't expecting him to call back. Not really. Dean has a lot of faults, God knows, but he's a man who knows how to take get the hell out of my life. Not that she meant that. Really. Dean's a good man. He's just-- "I wanted to apologize."
"It's okay."
"No, it's not okay. What I said--I didn't mean to say it like that."
"It's fine," he says, sighs. "Lisa, it wasn't your fault. Okay? And you were right, what you said."
"I didn't--"
"I'm not good for you and Ben. It's not safe. I know you're--look, you can find a good guy. Somebody who can look after you two."
You look after us, she thinks, but she's still seeing Ben's head jerk back when Dean slammed him into the wall. The bruise wasn't bad, and it's fading fast. Ben thinks she's overreacting.
But still.
"Just--Dean, please. Just tell me what happened to you. Tell me the truth."
"You should be careful what you ask for," he says gently, and she thinks, yeah, ain't that a fact.
"Tell me," she says. "Please."
"Lisa--"
"You're not--God knows you're not a saint, but--"
Drinking, sometimes a fifth a day, sleeping all the goddamn time on the couch in that leather jacket until her neighbors and her friends and her sister where wondering why the hell she didn't kick his ass to the curb and she didn't say 'he's Ben's father' even though it was true and it might have made them lay off. Pacing the house at three in the morning with a knife in his hand, held low and tight like he really knew what to do with it, like she would have been more worried about a burglar that tried to break in. Telling Ben stories so off-color they made her blush, shaking his head when she said something like he didn't really know what her problem was.
The nightmares. The bruises she got sometimes when he flailed in his sleep, or when she startled him awake. The moves. The shouting. The--
"--that isn't you."
He's silent for a long time.
"Dean--"
"Lisa," he says quietly, and she can already hear the shape of the lie.