Fic: Every Fucking Saturday 1/1
Title: Every Fucking Saturday
Author: wave_obscura
Rating: R (for sex kinda)
Word Count: ~2000
Summary: Sometimes he wanted to say it out loud, scream it, to all of them: you’re never going to replace Sam. This is yet another that-year-with-Lisa fic.
Warnings/Spoilers: Through season 6. Permanently injured!Dean. High angst. Dean/Lisa. Het: roughly one sentence of sex.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.
Note: This started out as a draft of that other Dean/Lisa fic I wrote for a prompt at the hoodie_time meme IN JULY. It’s kind of woefully irrelevant now, but imma finish what I can finish, you know what I mean? THANK YOU clex_monkie89for the beta!
Every Fucking Saturday
by wave obscura
Every fucking Thursday Heather would come over with whoever she was boning at the time--one day a sultry-voiced black girl who didn’t look at day over 20, another day a twig of a white guy with obnoxious Buddy Holly glasses whose every sentence began with “when I was in Beijing...”
They -- Dean, Lisa, Heather and whoever she was fucking -- would drink two beers each in the living room, in front of the fireplace. Unless it was stupid-hot outside, Dean would build a fire and poke and prod at it incessantly so he wouldn’t have to speak. There was never much conversation anyway, usually it was Heather yacking and Lisa saying “uh huh, uh huh, uh huh, no way, uh huh uh huh...”
Eventually Dean would excuse himself to the kitchen to get dinner together. Unless his leg was hurting he’d make something elaborate, anything to take up time. Then they’d sit down at the dinner table and eat. Dean would relish in the silence.
Then they’d see Heather and whoever she was fucking to the front door. Normal people took so fucking long to say goodbye to each other. Just when Dean thought they were finally done, they’d start talking again, Heather with one foot on the stoop, Lisa’s hand on the door knob, Dean standing behind her trying to rub the ache out of his hip.
Then Dean and Lisa would have sex. Unless. Unless Lisa was on her period, unless Dean’s leg was hurting too badly, unless something somebody said at dinner reminded him of Sam.
Then Lisa would fall asleep. Dean would get up and drink whatever beer was left in the fridge, wash it down with whiskey. He’d fall asleep in the easy chair in front of the TV, like his dad used to do before the fire. He’d think about Sam, sometimes cry, sometimes dig his fingers into the ruined muscles in his leg until it hurt so bad he wanted to scream.
Then he’d feel like an ass for feeling sorry for himself. He was like a bad Nine Inch Nails video.
Around 1 a.m. Lisa would get up to pee and discover him in the chair in the living room, too drunk or in too much pain to move.
“‘m sorry Lis,” he’d mutter, because he was a good-for-nothing shithead cocksucker for staying here, just like Sam was a good-for-nothing shithead cocksucker for asking him to stay here. Dean would try to say this out loud, but it was a mouthful and he was often too drunk.
Lisa’d bring his wheelchair. He’d walk to bed, if he was able, just to avoid sitting in it. He hated sitting in it because when he did, the voices of a thousand demons and a handful of angels would taunt him: look at what Sammy died for. This is all that’s left. Dean Winchester, this is your life.
Every fucking Thursday.
***
Every fucking Saturday:
The neighborhood barbecue. Dean resented a rotating barbecue schedule, so he drank to numbness and used his leg as an excuse to sit in the corner of the yard with Alan Richard, proud and long-winded retired security guard (he had wanted to be a cop, he often said, but he had weak ear drums). Alan had moved into the neighborhood before it was desirable and before it cost a fortune. He frequently smelled like 211 and was one of the few neighbors who wasn’t uncomfortable or put off by Dean’s severe limp and haunted demeanor.
He was the only neighbor Dean even remotely liked.
This particular Saturday Dean lugged a 20-pound bag of briquettes from the garage to the barbecue, limping extravagantly, making all the guest uncomfortable, smiling at this fact before he drug his shit leg to the corner of the yard and sat down with Alan.
“What the hell are you tryin’ to do, get the goddamn thing amputated?” Alan said.
“Amputation don’t sound like a bad option today,” Dean answered, rubbing at his leg. He’d grown used to discussing his pain with Alan, who had a long list of his own complaints. It was a point of bonding.
“Yeah, well.” Alan shrugged, spitting into the grass and lighting an unfiltered Lucky Strike. He smoked on one side of his mouth and chewed a toothpick on the other. All the mothers in the neighborhood, they got pissed at him smoking in the yard with all the kids, but he did it anyway.
Dean bullshitted with Alan for a while. When his beer was finished, he hauled himself up to get another one. Heather came skipping up at the same time, her new fuck behind her, this time some plain looking guy with an ironic mustache and two sleeves of lame tattoos.
Dean could tell even before they were introduced that the guy (Heather introduced him: Brad) was going to clap him on the back hard enough that he’d have to step forward to avoid losing his balance, which would draw attention to his bad leg. And he knew the guy would say (and here’s what he said):
“Oh shit, dude. What happened to you?”
Because that’s the other thing about normal people. Not just normal people but halfway affluent people. They were fucking nosy. Having never experienced real pain or suffering, they had no problem asking people to drudge up things that should never be mentioned again, to ask about things no one should ever have to repeat, especially in the middle of fucking neighborhood barbecue.
The conversation would go something like this:
Brad: How’d you get hurt?
Dean: In the war.
Brad: Oh yeah? Where were you stationed?
Dean: Uh... Iraq.
Brad: Oh yeah? Where in Iraq?
Dean: Uh... Fallujah.
Brad: How’d it happen?
And so on.
So long ago, Dean had settled on something more mundane. “Car accident,” he told Brad.
Here Brad’s eyes would glaze over. Because if you offered information that wasn’t asked for, well, then the normal affluent people got bored or uncomfortable. Especially since he’d inevitably already heard some version of the whole gruesome tale, complete with melodramatic embellishments, from Heather.
Lisa could always sense when Dean was getting tense. She appeared from nowhere, squeezing him around the waist in a way that looked cutesy and flirting but also relieved some of the pressure building up in his lower back from standing too long on the bum leg. “Babe,” she said, “I need you to reach something in the closet for me.”
Right. He followed her across the yard. His leg was stiff and painful; his hip didn’t want to move much at all. The barbecue guests stared. Not directly, never directly, but out of their corners of their eyes. They stared with their ears and with their silence. They talked of nothing when he walked by. But after he’d passed, the whispers began in wave. He used to try to listen, catch what they were saying. Now he doesn’t care.
In their bedroom, Lisa took off her panties and hopped up onto the bureau so Dean could fuck her and have something to lean against at the same time. His dick stayed soft for several minutes. She teased it to erection and then he came too quickly, her legs over his shoulders.
“Thanks anyway,” he said, and she snorted a laugh into the crook of his neck.
“Just another hour or two, babe. Then I’ll send everyone home.” She started to hop down from the bureau but Dean held her in place.
“No, give it a minute. I don’t want the whole neighborhood to know I’m a premature ejaculator.”
She laughed heartily at that one, even throwing her head back. “Let’s move to the bed, at least. My ass is cold.”
He pulled up his pants and limped over to the bed, where they laid together, staring at the ceiling.
“Is this what you wanted?” He said morosely.
Lisa tried one last time to keep the mood light. She smacked his face with a pillow.
“Well,” she said. “Nobody likes a premature ejaculator, but I cope.”
He meets her smile with a frown. “That’s not what I mean.”
Lisa sighed. “I know that’s not what you mean, Dean. Come on. Do we have to have this conversation like every fucking day?”
She was right, though. How many different ways could they discuss it? Dean realized a long time ago what he really wanted. For Lisa to decide he was a loser. To toss him out. For his righteous indignation to drive him back to road.
She sighed again, a huff, really, and got up and started putting her clothes on. “You wanna hate yourself, you find your own fucking reason,” she said. “Don’t fucking look at me.”
They went back out to the yard, together so it wouldn’t look weird. The guest smiled knowingly, and it made Dean want to shoot holes through each and every one of their skulls.
He sat down at the picnic table next to Alan, who held his beer aloft, toasting at nothing. Dean nodded and drug his bad leg back up over the bench, groaning indulgently.
“Killing me today,” he said, mostly to keep Alan from saying something awkward about his disappearance with Lisa. They were all listening with one ear, the guests, probably even Heather, though she was in the corner telling Brad a needlessly loud story.
Alan talked about how he’d sprained his knee once, or something. Dean didn’t listen.
He indulged this stupid image in his head sometimes, of Sam in hell. He saw the ground like an ant farm, like someone sliced the world in half, and down a long long long dark hole (you’d pass a sign with an arrow reading China) there was Sam and Michael and Lucifer in a rectangular holding cell in the middle of the earth.
He didn’t think of what they did down there. Instead he made them Claymation, like the Dinosaurs on Pee-Wee’s Playhouse. Or Dogs Playing Poker. It made him stupidly happy to think of it that way, to be so unabashedly delusional. Sam and Adam and Michael and Lucifer dancing in circle. Playing ring-around-the-rosy.
Dean realized he was about to cry. He choked a little on the sensation, tried to blink it back.
“Hey,” Alan said sternly. He urgently bit the filter of his cigarette, leaned into the smoke. “Not now, boy. What would your brother think of you cryin’ like a baby in front of all these people?”
This made Dean laugh. He washed the rest of his grief down with a swallow of beer. “He’d love it. Sam fucking loved it when I shared my feelings.”
Sometimes he wanted to say it out loud, scream it, to all of them: you’re never going to replace Sam.
Not because it was true but because in a lot of ways, it wasn’t true at all.
He stared at the grass, thought of a hole opening up there, a mouth to hell.
He wondered which would be better-- to pull Sam out, or to jump right in?
::::
The end.
Author: wave_obscura
Rating: R (for sex kinda)
Word Count: ~2000
Summary: Sometimes he wanted to say it out loud, scream it, to all of them: you’re never going to replace Sam. This is yet another that-year-with-Lisa fic.
Warnings/Spoilers: Through season 6. Permanently injured!Dean. High angst. Dean/Lisa. Het: roughly one sentence of sex.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.
Note: This started out as a draft of that other Dean/Lisa fic I wrote for a prompt at the hoodie_time meme IN JULY. It’s kind of woefully irrelevant now, but imma finish what I can finish, you know what I mean? THANK YOU clex_monkie89for the beta!
Every Fucking Saturday
by wave obscura
Every fucking Thursday Heather would come over with whoever she was boning at the time--one day a sultry-voiced black girl who didn’t look at day over 20, another day a twig of a white guy with obnoxious Buddy Holly glasses whose every sentence began with “when I was in Beijing...”
They -- Dean, Lisa, Heather and whoever she was fucking -- would drink two beers each in the living room, in front of the fireplace. Unless it was stupid-hot outside, Dean would build a fire and poke and prod at it incessantly so he wouldn’t have to speak. There was never much conversation anyway, usually it was Heather yacking and Lisa saying “uh huh, uh huh, uh huh, no way, uh huh uh huh...”
Eventually Dean would excuse himself to the kitchen to get dinner together. Unless his leg was hurting he’d make something elaborate, anything to take up time. Then they’d sit down at the dinner table and eat. Dean would relish in the silence.
Then they’d see Heather and whoever she was fucking to the front door. Normal people took so fucking long to say goodbye to each other. Just when Dean thought they were finally done, they’d start talking again, Heather with one foot on the stoop, Lisa’s hand on the door knob, Dean standing behind her trying to rub the ache out of his hip.
Then Dean and Lisa would have sex. Unless. Unless Lisa was on her period, unless Dean’s leg was hurting too badly, unless something somebody said at dinner reminded him of Sam.
Then Lisa would fall asleep. Dean would get up and drink whatever beer was left in the fridge, wash it down with whiskey. He’d fall asleep in the easy chair in front of the TV, like his dad used to do before the fire. He’d think about Sam, sometimes cry, sometimes dig his fingers into the ruined muscles in his leg until it hurt so bad he wanted to scream.
Then he’d feel like an ass for feeling sorry for himself. He was like a bad Nine Inch Nails video.
Around 1 a.m. Lisa would get up to pee and discover him in the chair in the living room, too drunk or in too much pain to move.
“‘m sorry Lis,” he’d mutter, because he was a good-for-nothing shithead cocksucker for staying here, just like Sam was a good-for-nothing shithead cocksucker for asking him to stay here. Dean would try to say this out loud, but it was a mouthful and he was often too drunk.
Lisa’d bring his wheelchair. He’d walk to bed, if he was able, just to avoid sitting in it. He hated sitting in it because when he did, the voices of a thousand demons and a handful of angels would taunt him: look at what Sammy died for. This is all that’s left. Dean Winchester, this is your life.
Every fucking Thursday.
***
Every fucking Saturday:
The neighborhood barbecue. Dean resented a rotating barbecue schedule, so he drank to numbness and used his leg as an excuse to sit in the corner of the yard with Alan Richard, proud and long-winded retired security guard (he had wanted to be a cop, he often said, but he had weak ear drums). Alan had moved into the neighborhood before it was desirable and before it cost a fortune. He frequently smelled like 211 and was one of the few neighbors who wasn’t uncomfortable or put off by Dean’s severe limp and haunted demeanor.
He was the only neighbor Dean even remotely liked.
This particular Saturday Dean lugged a 20-pound bag of briquettes from the garage to the barbecue, limping extravagantly, making all the guest uncomfortable, smiling at this fact before he drug his shit leg to the corner of the yard and sat down with Alan.
“What the hell are you tryin’ to do, get the goddamn thing amputated?” Alan said.
“Amputation don’t sound like a bad option today,” Dean answered, rubbing at his leg. He’d grown used to discussing his pain with Alan, who had a long list of his own complaints. It was a point of bonding.
“Yeah, well.” Alan shrugged, spitting into the grass and lighting an unfiltered Lucky Strike. He smoked on one side of his mouth and chewed a toothpick on the other. All the mothers in the neighborhood, they got pissed at him smoking in the yard with all the kids, but he did it anyway.
Dean bullshitted with Alan for a while. When his beer was finished, he hauled himself up to get another one. Heather came skipping up at the same time, her new fuck behind her, this time some plain looking guy with an ironic mustache and two sleeves of lame tattoos.
Dean could tell even before they were introduced that the guy (Heather introduced him: Brad) was going to clap him on the back hard enough that he’d have to step forward to avoid losing his balance, which would draw attention to his bad leg. And he knew the guy would say (and here’s what he said):
“Oh shit, dude. What happened to you?”
Because that’s the other thing about normal people. Not just normal people but halfway affluent people. They were fucking nosy. Having never experienced real pain or suffering, they had no problem asking people to drudge up things that should never be mentioned again, to ask about things no one should ever have to repeat, especially in the middle of fucking neighborhood barbecue.
The conversation would go something like this:
Brad: How’d you get hurt?
Dean: In the war.
Brad: Oh yeah? Where were you stationed?
Dean: Uh... Iraq.
Brad: Oh yeah? Where in Iraq?
Dean: Uh... Fallujah.
Brad: How’d it happen?
And so on.
So long ago, Dean had settled on something more mundane. “Car accident,” he told Brad.
Here Brad’s eyes would glaze over. Because if you offered information that wasn’t asked for, well, then the normal affluent people got bored or uncomfortable. Especially since he’d inevitably already heard some version of the whole gruesome tale, complete with melodramatic embellishments, from Heather.
Lisa could always sense when Dean was getting tense. She appeared from nowhere, squeezing him around the waist in a way that looked cutesy and flirting but also relieved some of the pressure building up in his lower back from standing too long on the bum leg. “Babe,” she said, “I need you to reach something in the closet for me.”
Right. He followed her across the yard. His leg was stiff and painful; his hip didn’t want to move much at all. The barbecue guests stared. Not directly, never directly, but out of their corners of their eyes. They stared with their ears and with their silence. They talked of nothing when he walked by. But after he’d passed, the whispers began in wave. He used to try to listen, catch what they were saying. Now he doesn’t care.
In their bedroom, Lisa took off her panties and hopped up onto the bureau so Dean could fuck her and have something to lean against at the same time. His dick stayed soft for several minutes. She teased it to erection and then he came too quickly, her legs over his shoulders.
“Thanks anyway,” he said, and she snorted a laugh into the crook of his neck.
“Just another hour or two, babe. Then I’ll send everyone home.” She started to hop down from the bureau but Dean held her in place.
“No, give it a minute. I don’t want the whole neighborhood to know I’m a premature ejaculator.”
She laughed heartily at that one, even throwing her head back. “Let’s move to the bed, at least. My ass is cold.”
He pulled up his pants and limped over to the bed, where they laid together, staring at the ceiling.
“Is this what you wanted?” He said morosely.
Lisa tried one last time to keep the mood light. She smacked his face with a pillow.
“Well,” she said. “Nobody likes a premature ejaculator, but I cope.”
He meets her smile with a frown. “That’s not what I mean.”
Lisa sighed. “I know that’s not what you mean, Dean. Come on. Do we have to have this conversation like every fucking day?”
She was right, though. How many different ways could they discuss it? Dean realized a long time ago what he really wanted. For Lisa to decide he was a loser. To toss him out. For his righteous indignation to drive him back to road.
She sighed again, a huff, really, and got up and started putting her clothes on. “You wanna hate yourself, you find your own fucking reason,” she said. “Don’t fucking look at me.”
They went back out to the yard, together so it wouldn’t look weird. The guest smiled knowingly, and it made Dean want to shoot holes through each and every one of their skulls.
He sat down at the picnic table next to Alan, who held his beer aloft, toasting at nothing. Dean nodded and drug his bad leg back up over the bench, groaning indulgently.
“Killing me today,” he said, mostly to keep Alan from saying something awkward about his disappearance with Lisa. They were all listening with one ear, the guests, probably even Heather, though she was in the corner telling Brad a needlessly loud story.
Alan talked about how he’d sprained his knee once, or something. Dean didn’t listen.
He indulged this stupid image in his head sometimes, of Sam in hell. He saw the ground like an ant farm, like someone sliced the world in half, and down a long long long dark hole (you’d pass a sign with an arrow reading China) there was Sam and Michael and Lucifer in a rectangular holding cell in the middle of the earth.
He didn’t think of what they did down there. Instead he made them Claymation, like the Dinosaurs on Pee-Wee’s Playhouse. Or Dogs Playing Poker. It made him stupidly happy to think of it that way, to be so unabashedly delusional. Sam and Adam and Michael and Lucifer dancing in circle. Playing ring-around-the-rosy.
Dean realized he was about to cry. He choked a little on the sensation, tried to blink it back.
“Hey,” Alan said sternly. He urgently bit the filter of his cigarette, leaned into the smoke. “Not now, boy. What would your brother think of you cryin’ like a baby in front of all these people?”
This made Dean laugh. He washed the rest of his grief down with a swallow of beer. “He’d love it. Sam fucking loved it when I shared my feelings.”
Sometimes he wanted to say it out loud, scream it, to all of them: you’re never going to replace Sam.
Not because it was true but because in a lot of ways, it wasn’t true at all.
He stared at the grass, thought of a hole opening up there, a mouth to hell.
He wondered which would be better-- to pull Sam out, or to jump right in?
::::
The end.