Six bottles of beer on the wall

Summary: "If it's not too late, I think I'd like to take you up on that beer." Lisa on Ben and Dean up to "Swan Song."

AN: *sigh* Why is it that I'm finding it increasingly difficult to include alcohol in my stories? I mean, these are supposed to be centered around it, right? Oh yeah, must be because I've never had any. *rolls eyes* Liquor does make a sort of cameo appearance in this one though…

And the Kid

She's been jittery for weeks. Weeks. Ever since he'd knocked on her door and dropped that bomb on her.

"I wanted you to know, that when I do picture myself happy, it's with you."

That hadn't surprised her…much. After the initial shock of Dean Winchester actually standing there in front of her had settled in, that is.

But when he'd added, "And the kid," that about tore her walls completely down.

See, Dean Winchester doesn't look anything like how you'd imagine a family man looking. He looks like he enjoys sex (a lot), liquor, and gambling. He matches his sleek black classic of a car, the badass leather jacket is his second skin. He is all that, but he isn't shallow either.

Lisa had gotten an inkling of what Dean Winchester was really like when he'd shared a few things about his brother all those years ago. He hadn't waxed poetic about him, obviously, since they were in between rounds of ohsogreat sex, but what he'd said, the way he'd said it, and his affectionate-proud-loving expression as he'd said it—that was enough to make her pause and maybe actually fall in love with the guy.

Or maybe it was just the mind-blowing sex that made him memorable.

Still, whatever it was, Dean Winchester simply did not scream family man, or even loves kids for that matter. That hadn't mattered way back then, when they'd had that weekend of wild and crazy sex, but in the years of being a mother to the best kid in the world, that had been the main selling point for her when looking for a guy.

There had been guys who'd asked her out because they thought she was hot, because they thought she was funny, or nice, or just wanted a piece of her ass. Most of them had backed off when they'd found out she had a kid. Those that hadn't, well, Ben hadn't taken to them. At all.

Lisa shudders to remember the furious temper tantrums her son had thrown whenever she'd brought a man (two total over the years) home to see how he'd get along with the little guy in her life. But Ben was the final test, and if whatever guy she was dating at the time didn't pass, then oh well, she had a good time, and thanks, but bu-bye.

No one had ever passed the Ben-test. Obviously.

Until Dean. Dean, who'd been all but forgotten except for as a really, really good sexual fantasy for nights spent alone (unless Ben wanted to sleep with Mommy). He'd wheedled his way into her house (and her life) after nine years of radio silence and had charmed her Ben like the Pied Piper himself.

All year round, day in and day out, she'd heard about "cool Dean" and his "awesome" taste in music," his "bitchin' car" and how he (and his brother) had "whom-pow! burned the monster right up just like a superhero!" It would have gotten old, if it hadn't been a constant reminder of how much she owed Dean for her son's life. For her baby, for Ben.

He'd cared, anyone could see that. It wasn't that he loved kids, he loved her kid, and fully appreciated how cool and sweet and wonderful Ben could be. He'd seen it in only the few days he'd been here, and had even asked if Ben was his. Seeing how disappointed he'd been when she told him that she'd had a blood test done and that he wasn't the father (even though there was no test and she honestly didn't know)…well, suffice it to say that most guys in his situation would have been glad for dodging the bullet of responsibility that parenthood brings.

It had startled her so much that it had broken through the fortified wall she'd built around herself and her son. She'd offered Dean something she'd never offered any man before: she asked him to stay. And she'd felt an odd twinge in her heart when he'd reluctantly refused.

"I got a lot of work to do," he'd said, wistfully glancing over her shoulder at her life.

His work apparently wasn't done when he'd come knocking again. He'd wanted to know how Ben was. Almost three years later and he hadn't forgotten them. He'd looked like shit, though, with his eyes red from lack of sleep and stress, and it seemed like he was at the end of his rope, literally a step from ending it all. The things he'd said…He'd talked like he was dying, like he was about to sacrifice himself or something.

"I wanted you to know, that when I do picture myself happy, it's with you," he'd said with some difficulty, as if around a choked throat. "And the kid."

She should have been flattered, she should have blushed or smiled or something. She would have, if he hadn't scared her, the way he'd looked that day.

She knew that she had to get him inside, whatever she could to get him inside and explain. You don't just tell someone that they're "The One" and leave to do whatever suicidal thing Dean was obviously thinking of doing. And then, he'd said that things were going to get really bad and he was going to make "arrangements" for her and Ben—what was she supposed to think? She only knew that she had to get him inside to keep him from killing himself or…whatever scary and crazy thing was he was going to do.

"Come inside and let me get you a beer. We can talk," she'd said, desperate, trying to coax him in like a jumpy stray. "Just...just come inside."

She'd resorted to begging: "Please. And whatever you're thinking of doing, don't do it."

Then she'd used her son to try to get Dean to come inside and talk to her, "Just stay an hour. At least say bye to Ben."

He'd paused, he had, but in the end, he'd left her with a soft kiss and longing in his tired eyes.

And now, five jittery and anxious weeks later, he was back, looking…broken.

"If it's not too late, I think I'd like to take you up on that beer," he said, voice cracking and face crumbling. She gathered him up in her arms, and he fell into the embrace as if whatever last strength had been holding him upright had failed.

This sobbing, broken man, so different from the bright-eyed twenty-one year-old she'd spent that wonderful weekend with, had been through so much that was more terrible than there were words to describe it. After he'd cried himself dry, he sat there on her couch, staring down at the beer bottle he said he'd come back for, not drinking it, just staring. Lisa sat there with him, her hand comfortingly on his knee, waiting, waiting for the explanation that might never come.

Then he said, "How's Ben?" in that ragged, shattered voice, and her heart broke some more.