Lisa drops the box of brand new dress shoes on Dean's lap. It earns her a raised eyebrow.
"Try them on."
"I tried them on," Dean says, putting the box on the seat beside him, "in the store. They're fine."
Of course, Dean and his fine. The shoes were fine in the store and will still be fine on Saturday even if his feet are bleeding.
Lisa's own new shoes are pretty damn comfortable—or as comfortable as heels this high can be. She's still going to bring her old, trusty pair of flats, just in case; she's only been waltzing around the house in them for twenty minutes or so, and there are hours of dancing awaiting her. She's not going to get stuck at the table because of strain nor blisters—hers or anyone else's, for that matter.
"You had them on for a second. You don't know how they'll feel after the whole evening of dancing."
And she plans to leave it at that, hoping Dean's not going to be too stubborn for his own health. She's still got things to prepare before Julie's wedding, phone calls to make, and she's just about to walk out of the living room, when three words—the three words—stop her in her tracks.
"I don't dance."
Lisa twirls around on her heel. The glare she sends Dean must be just short of murderous, judging by the sudden terror on his face. He knows he made a big mistake, right there.
"What do you mean 'you don't dance'?" She crosses her arms as Dean's mouth opens and closes. She might as well let him sweat a little. "So what—you just plan to eat and drink through the whole reception?"
"Sounds good to me?" Dean tries, sheepishly. "I'm sure you'll have lots of people asking you to dance."
She drops her arms to her sides and bites her tongue. She'd rather not blurt out the words that are bubbling up inside her. Yes, there'll be drunk uncles dragging her to the dancefloor, and Martin's groomsmen not so secretly hoping for something more than a dance. Not to sound like an ass, but that's not her idea of a good time.
If that's Dean's plan, she might as well go alone.
But Lisa doesn't want to go alone. And she doesn't want to pick up a fight. She lets out a sigh and takes a few steps toward Dean, tips her head to the side.
"And what if I only wanna dance with you?" she asks, a gentle smile playing on her lips.
Dean's mouth opens but no sound comes out. His eyes soften. He knows he's lost, but he doesn't seem to mind so much.
Lisa points to the shoebox, with the other hand pulling her phone out of her pocket.
"Put the shoes on."
Without further protests, Dean does.
"See?" He lifts his feet up and wiggles them around. The black leather shines in the dimmed light of the living room. "Still fine." He shoots her a smile that falls slightly as he watches her grip the edge of the coffee table. "Wait, what are you—?"
The coffee table is light and easily drags across the carpet, toward the wall. It doesn't free up that much space, but should be enough to swing side to side.
"Let's test that out," she chirps as the high tone coming from the phone speaker is joined by the steady patter of drums. Lisa reaches out her hand for Dean to grasp. "Come on."
"Foreigner?" Dean blurts out like it's a bad thing. He eyes Lisa's palm with hesitation.
Lisa shrugs. It is a good song. Good for dancing, as well. Not too slow, not fast either. It's just right to let them sway together without losing the rhythm.
"Well"—she tips her head to the side with the sweetest smile—"you had been waiting for a girl like me, right?"
Dean lets out a chuckle and, though still reluctantly, he takes Lisa's hand to let her pull him off the couch.
"My whole life," he says theatrically and lays a kiss on her knuckles.
As she guides his right hand to rest on her waist, she pulls in closer, lips hovering by his ear.
"That was cheesier than any Foreigner song could ever be," she whispers.
Just as she expected, Dean dons an 'I would never…' kind of face that dissolves into a shy smile. And in this moment, it's so hard to see Dean as anything other than the sweet boy who charmed his way into her heart with a silly pick-up line in a bar, all those years ago, and stayed in it long past that weekend.
Almost like a change of topic, Dean finds her free hand and lifts it loosely to form something resembling a frame. As a new verse begins, he slides them right into the beat. Two to her right, then two to the left, in steady half steps, they sway to the upbeat tempo. His lead is firm, his movements decided. He knows his music, after all, his body follows.
Still, he remains stubborn in his "I don't dance" schtick: his eyes are halfway through an eye-roll and his lips are pressed into a line so tight his dimples show by their corners. Like she's making him do the last thing he wants to do; like he's about to prove her how awful truly he is at dancing.
Except, he's not. And as he fully gets into it, as he gets the awareness of both of their bodies, even the tiny movements of his hands begin to betray him. The bouncing of their joined arms that predicts their every step, his fingers on her waist that guide her. So that, though unexpected, when Dean breaks their sway, pushes her away, she follows effortlessly and spins without stumbling. A soft pull and she returns into her place, in his firm hold.
He seems like a natural. But then, he is a fighter. And fighting's not that far off from dancing. The coordination, the muscle control, the back and forth between him and the other person.
Lisa lets out a soft laugh, not trying to hide how impressed she is. "Not so bad, Winchester."
"Hey," Dean says, looking almost offended. "I said that I don't dance, not that I can't."
"I can see that now."
Perhaps she was a little presumptuous. After all, she doesn't know Dean all that well. Though he's been a small part of her life for years, they've only been together for a few months. She knows the broad strokes of his life, and a tiny percent of the messed up stuff he's been through. She knows he changed schools often and that his family have always been just his father and Sam; no wedding parties, no proms.
"So how did you learn?" she asks, as they rock side to side. "Someone taught you or—?"
"Yeah, had the best teacher." A wide grin blooms on Dean's face. "Swayze," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
A salve of laughter slips out of Lisa's mouth, makes her skip a step, lose the rhythm, though only for a moment, as Dean's lead sets her right back up.
Of course, it was Swayze. She can almost see a younger, lighter version of Dean in front of the tv, mimicking Swayze's steps, every now and then casting his eyes back at the door to make sure no one comes in and catches him red-handed. Maybe even hoping, one day, those suave moves would help him get the girl.
And then she looks up at his face, at the wrinkle in his brow as he half-heartedly chides her for laughing at him (though she isn't), at the ease and the joy she can rarely see in Dean. His body's more loose now, there's more bounce in his steps, more sway in his shoulders.
He lets himself be more playful as the song goes on. They dance around the little free space Lisa made for them. Dean spins her around and holds her tight, then purses his lips while showing off his Swayze moves. He doesn't mind her laughing out loud, this time.
It's not just the dance. Turns out, Dean knows every word and he sings his heart out. His voice, pitched way up in the chorus to match the singer's, drowns out the music. And every time she catches his eyes, there's so much softness in them.
Lisa never planned it but she's so glad she got him to dance with her. Right here, when no one's watching. Even if at the wedding his steps remain more reluctant, or if he decides not to dance, after all, she'll be fine with it.
Because at least she's got this now. She's got Dean relaxed and happy, for the first time since he got here. And right in this moment, making Dean happy feels like the only thing that matters in the world.
"So, how are those shoes feeling now?" Lisa asks, when the last notes resound and another song starts to play.
They're standing, a little awkwardly, in the middle of the living room, in the wake of their dance. Lisa's fingers locked behind Dean's neck, Dean's palms have found their way a little lower than they had been.
"Like I told you, they're good."
"Are you sure though?" Lisa bites down a smirk. "Shouldn't we test them for a little bit longer?"
Dean's eyes narrow as he considers. "Maybe a little bit longer," he says, poorly hiding a smile, as his hips begin swaying to the rhythm. "Just to be absolutely sure."