Lisa Braedon always considered herself a little badass. Not, like Buffy the vampire-slayer badass, or even Angelina Jolie on steroids badass, but still. . .she was at least as badass as it was possible to be, with hippy flowerchildren as parents. Sure, she'd never made it through college, smoked her fair share of joints, and ended up teaching yoga. . .it was legacy. And sure, she believed in peace over warfare and plenty of free love (wasn't Ben proof of that), but that didn't mean she couldn't kick ass.
After all, with no help from her parents or her deadbeat lover, she'd managed to raise Ben. And he wasn't a pansy. She'd managed not to totally freak out during the Changling Event of 2007 (and wasn't that a little badass?). She hadn't screamed when Dean Fucking Winchester reappeared on her doorstep three years later, looking like he'd come off the bad side of a bender and spouting suicide signs at her (though she had called his brother). She'd handled the attempted mugging two months after that. And, most badass of all, when Dean Fucking Winchester had reappeared again, still looking hot as hell despite bags under his eyes and nearly omnipresent tears, she'd made him sleep on the couch.
Yeah, that's right. She, Lisa Braedon, made Dean Fucking Winchester, Sex God Eternal and Savior of Mankind, sleep on the couch. Show who's boss, sister!
She had a gun hidden in the bureau next to her bed, and she'd supplemented her yoga class income with new lessons in self-defense. So, yeah, for a girl who'd grown up in a fluffy pink room with peace signs, she figured she'd ended up pretty badass.
Which was why, when she heard the front door open (even though she was sure she'd locked it, and Ben and Dean shouldn't be back for hours), she figured she could handle it. Just took the phone off the hook (thank God for suburbs. . .fifteen minutes of the phone off the hook and the cops would be at the front door) and lifted a frying pan.
Two seconds later she saw a shadow against the far wall. She hefted the frying pan a little higher. Two seconds after that, a foot appeared. Weird, she thought. It was a loafer, in dress slacks. Not what she was expecting. Another second, and another step. Was that the bottom of a trenchcoat that she saw? Another step and
WHAMO!
"Thank that, pervert!" Lisa said, triumphantly brandishing her frying pan. Her triumph was short-lived, however, as the man she had so recently brained merely turned to look at her. He seemed completely unfazed.
"Oh. . .fuck. . ." Lisa dropped the frying pan, wishing she'd just called the police instead of moving the phone. The strange man cocked his head, knit his eyebrows together, and reached out one hand toward her forehead. Lisa took a step back.
"Don't touch me, sicko," she said. "My boyfriend will be back any second, and he'll fucking kill you if you touch me."
"I find that. . .doubtful," the man said. Something seemed to catch his attention, however, and he suddenly looked over Lisa's shoulder.
"Your phone is not correctly connected," he said, and with a calm, fluid movement, placed the phone back in the cradle.
This was the point when Lisa decided to admit that she wasn't really badass at all.