ficlet: contusio varians -- SPN
in honor of the immanent new spn season, and because I am apparently incapable of finishing any fic, I'm going to try and post at least one fic(let) a day this week. These will be in varying states of done, and I may go back later and shape them up.
I'm gonna start with this one, which I envisioned to be the start to a longer missing-year-at-Lisa's fic, but I think it stands okay on its own.
contusio varians: a bruise which waxes and wanes according to an unknown cycle
-1-
They're at the park, a month and change in. Ben's been roped into an impromptu soccer match with some of the neighborhood kids. It's a cool evening for June, so they're in jackets and jeans, but there are cicadas chirping in the trees. She and Dean sit on a bench, a good foot between them, Dean about as relaxed as he gets, which is to say he looks casual enough at first glance but his eyes never linger long on any one thing, scanning the trees and the play equipment and the kids and the parking lot and the other parents, constantly watching. It's... familiar.
"My dad was a cop," Lisa says.
Dean's shoulder lifts, like he's going to shrug her off, and then he takes a breath. "Yeah?"
He's not good at keeping up his end of conversations. Which is a new thing, just one more new thing Lisa catalogs but lets go unmentioned for now.
"In Indianapolis," she says. His own father is dead, she knows that much. That's all she knows about him. "He retired about five years ago."
Dean nods, but his attention has suddenly focused. She follows the line of his gaze to the edge of the grassy field where Ben and his friends are kicking the ball back and forth. They only have one goal, but they seem to have divided into two teams, so god only knows what scoring rules they've made up to compensate.
One of the parents has pulled a boy a couple of years younger than Ben aside. From the sullen expression on the kid's face and the man's sharp gestures toward the field, they're arguing about the game. Lisa's still puzzling out what exactly could have caught Dean's eye when there's movement next to her on the bench. By the time she glances back Dean is halfway between the bench and the field, in a brisk walk that's nothing like nonchalant, heading toward the kid and his dad.
The father doesn't see him coming. Instead he grabs his kid's shoulder and shakes him, face twisted with frustration.
"Hey," Dean barks when he's a couple of yards away. Lisa bolts off the bench and jogs to catch up.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
Lisa doesn't know what's going on but Dean's got a cop's voice when he wants to. A cop's stance, too, in the lines of his shoulders, in the set of his jaw. The father's head jerks up and around. His fist is wrapped tight in the collar of his kid's sweatshirt.
"Who're you?" the father snaps.
"What's going on here?" Dean is about the same height as the guy he's facing but still manages to loom. There's nothing overtly threatening about him, nothing you could put your finger on -- his hands are in his jacket pockets, he leaves a healthy couple of feet between himself and the other man. Even so the father takes a step back, then seems to catch himself. Straightens up, and his kid is standing very still.
"Not that it's any of your business, but I was giving my son some pointers."
When Lisa reaches them, the kid's eyes flick to her, then to Dean, then to his father. Behind them the game blithely continues on, broken here and there by the gleeful hooting of kids in summertime. Dean is smiling, but it's a cop's smile. The kind that's asking whether you really want to push things right now.
"Dean," she says. He doesn't spare her any attention, but she knows he's aware of her, at his right shoulder. Not quite between him and the father.
"It's just a pick-up game," Dean says, even, still smiling. "You gonna let the kid play?"
"What the fuck do you care?"
The kid squirms. "Dad--"
"You want to keep playing the game wrong, Danny?" The father's voice is cutting. He punctuates it with another shake of the kid's shoulder and something in Dean shifts. His smile flattens out.
Dean's been skittish about being touched, moving away from even the most casual brushes. Not flinching exactly, just not tolerating the contact for longer than a few seconds. But Lisa reaches out and puts a hand between his shoulder blades. Just rests it there. He doesn't shake her off but he's stiff under his jacket.
She doesn't know what's going on here. Just another asshole parent, sure, but Dean isn't budging.
"You gonna let the kid play?" Dean repeats. It sounds like a warning.
The father smiles, ugly, and his grip shifts from his kid's shoulder to his forearm. "I think it's time we got home," he says. He turns and yanks the kid around with him, heading back toward the small parking lot.
Dean slides out from under Lisa's hand, takes a step after them and then stops.
When he turns around his expression is hard to look at straight on. But she does.
"Hey," she says. She can't tell what it is, if it's anger or grief or just exhaustion. "Do you want to go back?"
"Ben's still playing," he says, but it sounds automatic.
"S'okay, we've been here awhile. We can go, if you want."
One of his hands comes up to knead at the place where the back of his neck and shoulder join up. He's stiff in the mornings, stiff like a man twice his age. He doesn't complain but it's hard not to notice. It doesn't quite jibe with what he's told her about his angelically remade body, but she hasn't pushed him on it, yet.
"Sorry," he says finally, and she has no idea what he's apologizing for. Wanting to leave? His weird confrontation just now? She lets it slide and calls for Ben, who jogs over to them grinning and sweaty.
Dean pulls out a smile, a real one, as Ben breathlessly details the game. By the time they get home, it's still unclear which side won.
go to -2-
*title from Inventory/A taxonomy of bruises (Dominic Pettman, Cabinet no. 39)
I'm gonna start with this one, which I envisioned to be the start to a longer missing-year-at-Lisa's fic, but I think it stands okay on its own.
contusio varians: a bruise which waxes and wanes according to an unknown cycle
-1-
They're at the park, a month and change in. Ben's been roped into an impromptu soccer match with some of the neighborhood kids. It's a cool evening for June, so they're in jackets and jeans, but there are cicadas chirping in the trees. She and Dean sit on a bench, a good foot between them, Dean about as relaxed as he gets, which is to say he looks casual enough at first glance but his eyes never linger long on any one thing, scanning the trees and the play equipment and the kids and the parking lot and the other parents, constantly watching. It's... familiar.
"My dad was a cop," Lisa says.
Dean's shoulder lifts, like he's going to shrug her off, and then he takes a breath. "Yeah?"
He's not good at keeping up his end of conversations. Which is a new thing, just one more new thing Lisa catalogs but lets go unmentioned for now.
"In Indianapolis," she says. His own father is dead, she knows that much. That's all she knows about him. "He retired about five years ago."
Dean nods, but his attention has suddenly focused. She follows the line of his gaze to the edge of the grassy field where Ben and his friends are kicking the ball back and forth. They only have one goal, but they seem to have divided into two teams, so god only knows what scoring rules they've made up to compensate.
One of the parents has pulled a boy a couple of years younger than Ben aside. From the sullen expression on the kid's face and the man's sharp gestures toward the field, they're arguing about the game. Lisa's still puzzling out what exactly could have caught Dean's eye when there's movement next to her on the bench. By the time she glances back Dean is halfway between the bench and the field, in a brisk walk that's nothing like nonchalant, heading toward the kid and his dad.
The father doesn't see him coming. Instead he grabs his kid's shoulder and shakes him, face twisted with frustration.
"Hey," Dean barks when he's a couple of yards away. Lisa bolts off the bench and jogs to catch up.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
Lisa doesn't know what's going on but Dean's got a cop's voice when he wants to. A cop's stance, too, in the lines of his shoulders, in the set of his jaw. The father's head jerks up and around. His fist is wrapped tight in the collar of his kid's sweatshirt.
"Who're you?" the father snaps.
"What's going on here?" Dean is about the same height as the guy he's facing but still manages to loom. There's nothing overtly threatening about him, nothing you could put your finger on -- his hands are in his jacket pockets, he leaves a healthy couple of feet between himself and the other man. Even so the father takes a step back, then seems to catch himself. Straightens up, and his kid is standing very still.
"Not that it's any of your business, but I was giving my son some pointers."
When Lisa reaches them, the kid's eyes flick to her, then to Dean, then to his father. Behind them the game blithely continues on, broken here and there by the gleeful hooting of kids in summertime. Dean is smiling, but it's a cop's smile. The kind that's asking whether you really want to push things right now.
"Dean," she says. He doesn't spare her any attention, but she knows he's aware of her, at his right shoulder. Not quite between him and the father.
"It's just a pick-up game," Dean says, even, still smiling. "You gonna let the kid play?"
"What the fuck do you care?"
The kid squirms. "Dad--"
"You want to keep playing the game wrong, Danny?" The father's voice is cutting. He punctuates it with another shake of the kid's shoulder and something in Dean shifts. His smile flattens out.
Dean's been skittish about being touched, moving away from even the most casual brushes. Not flinching exactly, just not tolerating the contact for longer than a few seconds. But Lisa reaches out and puts a hand between his shoulder blades. Just rests it there. He doesn't shake her off but he's stiff under his jacket.
She doesn't know what's going on here. Just another asshole parent, sure, but Dean isn't budging.
"You gonna let the kid play?" Dean repeats. It sounds like a warning.
The father smiles, ugly, and his grip shifts from his kid's shoulder to his forearm. "I think it's time we got home," he says. He turns and yanks the kid around with him, heading back toward the small parking lot.
Dean slides out from under Lisa's hand, takes a step after them and then stops.
When he turns around his expression is hard to look at straight on. But she does.
"Hey," she says. She can't tell what it is, if it's anger or grief or just exhaustion. "Do you want to go back?"
"Ben's still playing," he says, but it sounds automatic.
"S'okay, we've been here awhile. We can go, if you want."
One of his hands comes up to knead at the place where the back of his neck and shoulder join up. He's stiff in the mornings, stiff like a man twice his age. He doesn't complain but it's hard not to notice. It doesn't quite jibe with what he's told her about his angelically remade body, but she hasn't pushed him on it, yet.
"Sorry," he says finally, and she has no idea what he's apologizing for. Wanting to leave? His weird confrontation just now? She lets it slide and calls for Ben, who jogs over to them grinning and sweaty.
Dean pulls out a smile, a real one, as Ben breathlessly details the game. By the time they get home, it's still unclear which side won.
go to -2-
*title from Inventory/A taxonomy of bruises (Dominic Pettman, Cabinet no. 39)