Hey, everyone! I haven't been able to write much recently, because I've been writing insane amounts of essays for my AP English class, so I thought I'd upload a few of the drabbles on my phone for y'all to read while you're waiting for a "Five Phone Calls" update, or just if you'd like to read some more of my stuff :) I wrote these a while back, so enjoy 'em!
NOTICE: This story may continue, but is currently not being added onto. I just thought I would share it with all of you, because I'm pretty proud of how it turned out. There is a good possibility of me adding onto it in the future, but I wouldn't expect any more any time soon.
It's been a week since Dean showed up at Lisa and Ben's front door, broken beyond full repair. He hasn't left the house, other than to sit on her back porch, alone, for hours on end, every night.
She watches him from the window while she cooks dinner, checking to make sure he's still there, that he hasn't done something dangerous or gotten into any kind of trouble. Normal people wouldn't be able to find much trouble in a suburban backyard, but Dean Winchester was not a normal person.
Dean's been living dangerously since Sam died, but not in the way one would think if they knew him. Dean slept half of the day. Not sleeping, really, but he would lay in Lisa's bed, plagued by night terrors and dreams laced with fear and unending pain. Even when he wasn't asleep, he would stay in bed, staring blankly at the wall across the room.
Lisa hasn't bothered to mention doing something to Dean. She doesn't understand what Dean is going through, and she never will, and to pretend that she could even imagine would be an insult to Dean and the little brother he grieved for day and night.
Dean also drinks. There isn't a minute that passes that he doesn't have a glass of some sort of hard liquor next to him. And his glass is refilled by weak, shaking hands frequently. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, his words slur together and are indecipherable to Ben. But not to Lisa. Her motherly instinct kicks in, and she knows exactly what he's asking, saying. Dean doesn't have to say anything if he doesn't want to. Lisa always understands exactly what he needs.
One night, he made a broken attempt to apologize to her for his drunkenness and depression. Lisa ran her fingers through his hair and wiped a tear from his cheek, assuring him that he deserved time to mourn. Ben might not understand, but she does. As long as Ben feels safe, which he does, she's okay with Dean staying at their house and sleeping in her bed. She was glad, in fact, that he had. She can't imagine where else he could have gone to where he wouldn't be at too great a risk of hurting himself severely.
Lisa tries to pretend that his crying out in the middle of the night and broken sobs that he chokes on as he dreams don't bother her, but they do. Not in the way that she's become deprived of the sleep she needs or relaxation she usually found in her bed, but in the way that every time a sob escapes his lips or he calls out his kid brother's name, her heart shatters into even smaller pieces for him. There's a literal ache that's taken root in her chest.
Once, Dean had wrapped his arms tightly around Lisa after waking from a nightmare. He was shaking, tears rolling down his cheeks, and begged her to make the horrible dreams go away. "I just want 'em to stop," he'd sobbed, pressing his face into her hair.
Lisa had cried, too. She'd wrapped her arms around his neck and stroked her fingers through his hair. She couldn't say that it was going to be okay. She knew it wouldn't be. It would never be. And she wasn't going to lie to an already broken man. "I'm so sorry," she had sniffed. "Shh."
He was barely able to get out of bed to eat, but he managed to always come down for dinner. Dean spent most of his time in bed, but after a while, he'd get up, refill his glass, and shower. He'd walk down the stairs quietly and sit on the couch with the TV turned on, but he never paid it much attention. His eyes were fixed on it, but his mind was elsewhere, and he didn't process the words he heard vaguely or the images in front of him.
Ben would come home and peek into the living room every afternoon. He'd smile at Dean hopefully and say hi, and Dean would nod back to him. Ben didn't take it personally. He'd play football outside with friends and they'd ride their bikes until the sun began to set, and when he got home, Dean would have moved to the back porch. Ben would wash his hands and get his homework and sit at the kitchen table, where he could speak to his mother as she cooked and ask her questions about his new, difficult math problems.
Dean would stare at the sky. The bright colors that painted across the horizon reminded him of when he'd drive cross country with Sam next to him, watching the sun set night after night from behind the wheel of his precious Impala. After the sun was gone, he'd watch the stars, just like he used to in a big open field with his brother when they felt like it. They glimmered and reminded Dean of how much he hated himself for not being able to say that his brother was up there. Because his brother was in a different place entirely, and Dean couldn't save him, because he'd promised he wouldn't.
Lisa would finish cooking and put dinner on the table before sliding open the sliding glass door and approaching Dean. She'd touch just above his ear and stroke her fingers gently, comfortingly, and tell him that dinner was ready. He would stand and take her hand, and she'd stretch up on her toes and kiss his lips. It was rare for him to kiss back, but Lisa knew it wasn't her. She'd guide him inside and he'd sit at the table. His glass would be refilled and he'd serve himself a plate of food and pick at it, eating only a small amount. Dean would always listen to what Ben said about his day and his teachers and friends, but Lisa wasn't sure if it was processing. The effort was nice, though, and appreciated.
After dinner was finished, Ben always raced upstairs before he was asked to clean off his dishes, and Dean would help Lisa carry them into the kitchen. He'd lean against the counter casually, one hand in his pocket and the other around that ever-present alcohol. The thing that helped him numb his pain and distance himself. Lisa talked about more adult things now that Ben was gone. Not necessarily inappropriate things, but things that her son wouldn't be interested in hearing about, like politics and bills and the economy and the neighborhood women's gossip. Dean always nodded and watched her, and Lisa always noticed how he seemed to be trying even harder to pay attention and be interested. His eyes followed her as she moved, something they rarely did with anything else, and she could see the slight touches of the appropriate reactions to her words on his features when she glanced at him.
Lisa always found herself holding Dean tight and close after she finished cleaning up. She'd be ready to go upstairs and go to sleep, but she'd always end up wrapping her arms around his neck, stretched up on her toes, stroking the back of his neck lightly with her thumb.
Dean would set down his glass and wrap his arms around her so tight that she couldn't take deep breaths. He'd press his mouth against her shoulder and lock his arms around her. Sometimes she'd hear his breathing grow irregular, and sometimes she'd hear him start to cry, and she'd just kiss his neck and tell him he was safe.
Then the cycle would repeat. The nightmares and tears and sleeping through half the day and silence. And Lisa would be there with him the whole time.
And she wished for nothing more than to tell him it would be okay and mean it.