Disclaimer: No fowl, no harm, right?
When he shows up at her door it's 2 am on a Monday night and she is probably the only one still awake in the entire neighborhood. He's bleeding from his split lip and his left eye is completely swollen shut.
What is there to say? She steps aside and motions him in and he's smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
She drags him into the kitchen and has him sit down at the breakfast bar. She doesn't ask him if he needs anything. Instead, she walks over to the sink, soaks one of her oldest dish towels in cold water and hands it to him.
"Thanks."
She glares at him for a second, then turns around and heads for the fridge. She doesn't ask him if he's hungry, instead she pulls out the bread, cheese, ham and bologna. Her hand reaches for the lettuce, but she shakes her head and grabs mayo and mustard instead.
He watches her make the sandwich as she watches him dab at his mouth and eye with the wet towel. She doesn't know what happened this time and she doesn't even want to ask. It makes no difference, really. She's figured out enough of his life to know that.
"Listen, I'm sorry. I just didn't know where else to go."
He never knows where else to go when he's within a hundred mile radius of her place. She's done pointing out the fact that he makes do just fine when he's anywhere else in the country. Instead, she turns her back on him again and gets two beers out of the fridge.
"So, you're not going to talk to me? Giving me the silent treatment, is that it?"
His hand traps hers around the bottle and she glares him down. She tries to pull her hand away, but he holds on tight. She tugs again and her lips curl in disgust at the sensation of his warm, rough palm against her fingers because it feels good.
"Come on, you know you can't keep it up."
His crooked smile is infuriating and if they hadn't been down this road so many times she would have caved. Instead, she silently pries his fingers away from her hand and sets the bottle down just a little bit harder than strictly necessary. She flips the cap off her own bottle and takes a deep draft.
They both know he's not really here to talk. Nobody shows up at their ex's doorstep at 2 am in the morning, bleeding and bruised, to have a conversation.
"Lisa."
The way he says her name makes her skin crawl. Not because of the way it sounds, but because she knows what's going to happen next. And she is disgusted with herself because she knows she won't stop it. She won't tell him 'no'. She never does.
She sets down her bottle and takes a deep breath, then looks him straight in the eye.
"Dean."
The chair makes a scraping sound on the tile when he pulls back. He spreads his legs and holds out one arm in invitation.
She shakes her head but steps around the bar and moves into his arms anyway. She can feel his hot breath through her cotton nightshirt when he buries his face in her chest. It used to be one of his shirts.
He takes a shaky breath and his arms tighten around her. The seat of the chair is digging into her pelvis and he's probably smearing blood all over her nightshirt. But she doesn't step away. She does what she always does. She wraps her arms around his broad shoulders and squeezes back.
After a long minute, he pulls his face out of her chest and tilts his head back to look at her.
She leans down and presses her lips against his mouth. He flinches in pain, but she doesn't pull back. Instead, she straddles his legs and sits down on his lap, kissing him more firmly. She places one hand on his cheek, just so she can feel him wince when she nips at his bottom lip.
Then one of his hands tangles up in her hair and just like that, she loses control of the kiss. She finds herself swept up in the feeling of his tongue in her mouth and the pressure of his growing erection between her legs. She curses herself for being so weak.
She feels him move to get up and clings desperately to his shoulders, unwilling to break the contact. She moans into the kiss when his hands find her ass and squeeze, giving her just enough support to wrap her legs quickly around his hips.
He carries her through the open archway out of the kitchen and into the dining room. He shoves the chair out of the way with one heavy-handed swipe and drops her on the hard surface of the table.
She curses, but it's garbled between their lips because once they start kissing they have a hard time stopping. The sensation of his palms sliding roughly under her shirt makes her shiver.
He pulls off the shirt and flings it across the room, leaving her naked safe for a pair of flimsy cotton panties.
She repays him in kind and attacks his shirt, ripping it over his head and flinging it in the opposite direction of where hers went. Skin on skin, she feels the heat of his body soak into her. Her eyes slip closed in self-loathing because she welcomes the touch.
She forces herself to stop kissing him long enough to let her eyes roam over his body. She can't pretend it's just to enjoy the view. They both know she's looking for injuries, checking to make sure there aren't any broken ribs she needs to consider.
Her eyes narrow reflexively at the sight of the tattoo on his chest. She grazes her fingertips over the black lines above his heart. It makes her sick. Her stomach churns at the reminder of what he does and why he can't be with them. Her nails dig into the strong muscle, itching to claw the mark off his skin.
His whole body stiffens at the touch and she looks up at his face. The guilt and remorse written all over his battered face make her sick.
She slaps him hard and his expression instantly changes to stunned surprise, breaking the spell.
She doesn't give him the chance to recover.
She lunges for his mouth, biting and licking at his lips until he starts to reciprocate. She blindly goes for his belt, managing to free it from the buckle before she starts to fumble at the button and fly. Their fingers mesh when he moves to help get his pants out of the way without having to break their lip-lock.
When he starts to bear down on her, she yields easily until her back hits the cold table. She hisses and arcs away from the chill into the heat of his chest. Goosebumps crawl up her body as his fingers hook into her panties at the crease of her leg and pull them down. She bucks her hips to help.
She tries to ignore it, but it's impossible not to see him stuff the flimsy thing into his back pocket. The implication behind the thoughtless gesture yanks at a raw nerve.
He buries his face in her chest, kissing and licking at her breasts, her belly, her hips, her thighs.
When he reaches her core, she grabs his hair and bucks her hips, shoving herself into his face. Her eyes roll back and she forgets everything she ever thought because she's coming apart. She sucks in air to scream until a rough hand slides clumsily between her lips. She bites down hard on the fleshy side of his palm, tasting copper on her tongue.
He pries his hand away and crushes his lips to hers. She can taste herself on his tongue when it delves deep into her mouth. A deep moan vibrates through both of them and she shoves her hips up to meet his thrusts. Both her legs are bent at the knee and pressed up against her sides. Her arms wrap around his back and she holds on for dear life, her nails tearing at the smooth skin.
His hand in her hair, his thumb stroking over her cheek, he buries his face in her neck, licking and sucking, sending shivers down her spine. The table creaks beneath them with every powerful thrust that hits her deep inside and grinds against her sensitive flesh. She holds on tighter and chokes down the tears that start to build behind her eyes.
This is when it happens, and it's always the same. She falls out of reality, suspended in eternity. She wants to hold on to the moment, hit the pause button, stop time and keep him here to stay. Pretend that she's not going to lose him to the monsters waiting out there. Forever like this.
He shudders above her and it's all over. A moment later he pulls away to get up. His hands linger on her skin, but she already feels cold and empty.
Self-loathing returns with a vengeance and she rolls off the table without looking at him. She doesn't want to see the look on his face. She doesn't want to hear anything he has to say. Tears burn behind her eyes and she grabs her shirt and makes a break for it.
She gets to the bathroom before he can catch up with her. The sound of the lock clicking in place makes her feel safer. She knows he's not going to kick down the door to get to her. And she's not going to let herself unlock it to get to him. It's okay to lean back against the door and bang her head quietly, just a couple of times, to knock some sense back into her brain.
"Lisa?"
His voice is plaintive, and very close. She imagines him standing on the other side of the door, one hand on the knob, the other on the frame, his forehead resting against the wood. She's willing to bet he didn't even zip his pants up yet.
A couple of soft thuds against the wood from his side are enough to make her tears start falling. Her stomach flips as she suppresses a sob and she quickly falls forward to turn on the shower. The rush of water covers her pathetic sniffling before he can hear it.
No, Dean. Go away. Don't come back. The sound of the running shower has to speak for her, because she's too pathetic to say it herself. She's never going to tell him no, or go away, or don't come back. She tried that once, but she didn't mean it, so there's no point in saying it again.
It feels like hours go by before she finally hears the front door shut loud enough to be heard over the running water.
She crumples to the floor, imagining the black Impala tearing out of her driveway and down the road. There's no guarantee when or even if he'll be back again. But she knows that when he does come back, he'll be bleeding and bruised and she will let him in. And they will go through the same damn thing they always do because neither of them knows where else to go.
The sun is not even fully over the horizon when Ben staggers sleepily down the stairs into the kitchen. This has become a regular thing for him. Sometimes, he misses being able to sleep in. Now that he knows what goes bump in the night, he rarely gets more than four or five hours.
His mom is still asleep upstairs. He knows she didn't get to bed until around 3. He heard the front door close.
He's not surprised when he finds two bottles of beer, a damp towel, and a forgotten sandwich on the breakfast bar. One of the bottles is half-empty, the other one is almost full, and the towel is smeared with blood.
Ben shakes his head and empties the bottles in the sink before sticking them in the co-mingled, then dumps the sandwich and the towel in the trash.
He knows what this means. It happens every few months. When his mom gets up she'll look at him all guilty and act spazzy for the rest of the day. A couple days after that, she's going to break up with her latest boyfriend and she won't even know why. Then she's going to get angry and depressed and won't even look at him for a few weeks because Ben looks 'just like him' and acts like it, too.
Ben clenches his fists on the sink and stares angrily out into the backyard. Dean had better figure out how to shut the gates of hell forever, and soon. Because this fucking sucks and they need him to come home.