ficlet: contusio varians, 2 -- SPN
I decided that I am going to focus on these little Dean at the Braedens ficlets, since I really love that time period and wish there was so much more fic out there. Guess this is going to be a series of sorts. This one is a bit short, but tomorrow's is shaping up to be longer because I intended to just finish it off and have ended up adding 700 words so far!
contusio varians: a bruise which waxes and wanes according to an unknown cycle
-2-
The first night, after dinner, Lisa led Dean stumbling to the guest bedroom, exhaustion written in every line of him. He slumped onto the mattress and he let her slip off his boots and strip him to his tee shirt but he stopped her after that. Wouldn't let her take his jeans. Curled on his side in a ball and she pulled the comforter and the sheets out from under him and covered him up and his eyes were already closed. He didn't so much fall asleep as switch off.
She left him alone while prodding Ben through his nightly ritual, a shower and brushing his teeth and she didn't tuck him in because he was eleven and didn't want her to any more, but she kissed the top of his head and gripped him tight before she shut off the light and shut the door.
Downstairs, Dean had left a half-full glass of scotch on the dining room table. Lisa drained it, wincing at the burn. Left the dinner dishes for the morning and went back up to the guest room where Dean hadn't moved at all.
She settled into the stuffed armchair in the corner of the room and watched him breathe until sleep took her too.
He was still out when she woke up at dawn, stiff and wrinkled from spending most of the night in the chair. So she went downstairs and cleaned up their dishes and made herself some coffee and waited until it was time to wake Ben up for school.
When she poked her head into the guest room after rousing Ben, Dean had unwound a little, turned onto his stomach, his face half-buried against the pillows.
He slept eighteen hours the first day. She wasn't sure how long he'd been awake when she caught him out of the corner of her eye as she passed the open door of the guest bedroom that afternoon. He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, hair flattened and eyes puffy. Just sitting there, his hands loose in his lap and his feet planted on the carpet. He didn't look up when she ventured into the doorway.
"Hi," she said quietly.
Dean blinked. Turned his head. His gaze was blank, blank for so long it started to unnerve her a little, then he blinked again and confusion seeped in, like he didn't remember where he was or why she was there.
"Lisa," he said finally, shaking his head. Like he was reminding himself.
"Yeah," she said. "You sleep okay?"
He squinted at the bedside clock and raised an eyebrow. "Guess so. Uh," he let out a raspy cough, almost nervous. "Don't remember the last time I slept that long."
"Must have needed it." Jesus, she usually better at small talk than this, but what were you supposed to say to a guy who'd shown up on your doorstep a week after you figured he'd offed himself? "When Sam stopped by looking for you he was so worried. I thought--"
"Sam's dead," Dean said. Then he stood up and disappeared into the guest bathroom, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
-3-
*title from Inventory/A taxonomy of bruises (Dominic Pettman, Cabinet no. 39)
contusio varians: a bruise which waxes and wanes according to an unknown cycle
-2-
The first night, after dinner, Lisa led Dean stumbling to the guest bedroom, exhaustion written in every line of him. He slumped onto the mattress and he let her slip off his boots and strip him to his tee shirt but he stopped her after that. Wouldn't let her take his jeans. Curled on his side in a ball and she pulled the comforter and the sheets out from under him and covered him up and his eyes were already closed. He didn't so much fall asleep as switch off.
She left him alone while prodding Ben through his nightly ritual, a shower and brushing his teeth and she didn't tuck him in because he was eleven and didn't want her to any more, but she kissed the top of his head and gripped him tight before she shut off the light and shut the door.
Downstairs, Dean had left a half-full glass of scotch on the dining room table. Lisa drained it, wincing at the burn. Left the dinner dishes for the morning and went back up to the guest room where Dean hadn't moved at all.
She settled into the stuffed armchair in the corner of the room and watched him breathe until sleep took her too.
He was still out when she woke up at dawn, stiff and wrinkled from spending most of the night in the chair. So she went downstairs and cleaned up their dishes and made herself some coffee and waited until it was time to wake Ben up for school.
When she poked her head into the guest room after rousing Ben, Dean had unwound a little, turned onto his stomach, his face half-buried against the pillows.
He slept eighteen hours the first day. She wasn't sure how long he'd been awake when she caught him out of the corner of her eye as she passed the open door of the guest bedroom that afternoon. He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, hair flattened and eyes puffy. Just sitting there, his hands loose in his lap and his feet planted on the carpet. He didn't look up when she ventured into the doorway.
"Hi," she said quietly.
Dean blinked. Turned his head. His gaze was blank, blank for so long it started to unnerve her a little, then he blinked again and confusion seeped in, like he didn't remember where he was or why she was there.
"Lisa," he said finally, shaking his head. Like he was reminding himself.
"Yeah," she said. "You sleep okay?"
He squinted at the bedside clock and raised an eyebrow. "Guess so. Uh," he let out a raspy cough, almost nervous. "Don't remember the last time I slept that long."
"Must have needed it." Jesus, she usually better at small talk than this, but what were you supposed to say to a guy who'd shown up on your doorstep a week after you figured he'd offed himself? "When Sam stopped by looking for you he was so worried. I thought--"
"Sam's dead," Dean said. Then he stood up and disappeared into the guest bathroom, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
-3-
*title from Inventory/A taxonomy of bruises (Dominic Pettman, Cabinet no. 39)