fic: tonight no poetry will serve
Title: tonight no poetry will serve
Author: breebree16
Rating R
Pairing: Dean/Lisa
Summary: It's almost a whole month before Dean comes to Lisa's bed.
Saw you walking barefoot
taking a long look
at the new moon's eyelid
later spread
sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair
asleep but not oblivious
of the unslept unsleeping
elsewhere
- tonight no poetry will serve, by Adrienne Rich
It's almost a whole month before Dean comes to Lisa's bed. He's been living in the guest room, quiet, like a mouse. Coming out for dinner, which for him consisted of primarily half a sandwich and a fifth of whiskey. She has listened at the door, in the middle of the night, her hand on the door knob, her ear pressed to the cooling wood.
She heard crying, crying that he tried to stifle with a pillow. He broke two glasses that he thinks she doesn't know about, but during the day, when he sat on the back porch drinking beer, she took out the trash from the room and heard the shards clinking around.
Lisa has slept with her door open a crack since Ben was born. Sometimes she lies awake, long after she's gone to bed, after Ben has finally turned off his video games and snuggled into his own mattress, she listened. For his breathing, gasps, thrashing or coughing. It's two am and Lisa is lying on her side, staring out into the hallway. She hears the guest bedroom door open and close. Dean carries himself surprisingly light.
She clutches the sheets under the pillow and watches as his figure comes into view, painted light blue from the moon outside. She loves the way the light pours through the window at the end of the hall, the dancing shadows of tree branches outside.
"Hey," he says. He leans against the door frame, his head pointing down. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt, no socks.
"Hey." She sits up, her hair falling around her shoulders. She swings her legs out of bed to press her feet to the floor. "Want to come in?" She offers with a slight smile.
His lip twitches and he comes in, pressing the door closed behind him. Her heart flutters in her throat, her breath catches. He kneels in front of her, pressing his hands to her legs. He's drunk, she knows he is, she can smell it on him, his shallow exhales. "Hey," she says again, touching his chin and making him look at her. His eyes glisten, whiskey soft, salty red.
He's so broken, she can see it, feel it. Shattered pieces of a vase that she's trying to glue back together, but the pieces don't fit. Not yet anyway, she doesn't have all of them.
"Lisa," he says, pained. Like she is some sort of cure, that saying her name will some how fix what's been laid out in front of him.
She can't imagine it. Loosing her sister like Dean has lost his brother. She's unclear of the circumstances, he hasn't told her much. But she knows, that if Melanie was gone, she'd be broken too, unsure of how to live in a world where she was alive, and her kid sister wasn't.
"It's okay, Dean," Lisa tells him. He shies at the mention of his own name. He lifts up and kisses her, warm and true. His tongue is soft and she's flooded with that lost weekend twelve years ago. Where he laid her out and spent the entire night learning her body, like she was a goddess. Her legs bent, draping over his shoulders, his hands EVERY WHERE. God, she never came like that before.
He tries to maunuver them, sitting up to push her back. His hands drag her sleeping shorts down, and his fingers go right for gold, slipping past her underwear. He shudders, groans as his fingers dip into the hot pulse of her center.
"Dean," she groans, arching to his hand. He kisses down her neck. "Dean." She presses into his chest. He pulls back, stares at her with the same glistening. "Here."
"Lisa." But he can't seem to say anything else.
And she suddenly knows what he needs. He's floundering, doesn't know what is up or down, certainly doesn't know how to ask for help. She gets him to sit on the edge of the bed and starts to rub his shoulders. He's knotted, all the weight there, and in his back, it's a wonder he doesn't have spine problems. "Doesn't that feel good?" she asks, close to his ear.
He nods, clears his throat.
"Here." She tugs on the bottom of his shirt and tugs it off, crumpling it with the sheets. Her nails trail over his shoulders, down his back and goosebumps raise all over his skin. Scars that she had once marveled at seem to have moved, and he has a bizzare burnmark on his shoulder that feels like a handprint, but it can't be.
His breathing evens, and he groans as she kneads down his back, then wraps her hands around his waist. "Still good?" She kisses his neck.
"Yeah." He exhales.
Lisa slides off the bed and comes around the front. Dean raises his hands to grab her ass, slipping his hands under her panties, squeezing.
"Do you want me, Dean?" she asks.
He nods.
"Say it," she commands lightly.
"I want you."
And she's on her knees, undoing his belt. He lifts off the bed enough for her to drag down the jeans, his boxers. His cock leans flushed and heavy against his belly and he still can't look directly at her. She wraps her hand around the shaft, moves up to the head and back down. He moans and leans back a bit.
"Dean," she starts, in a firm voice. Caring, but in control. "Dean."
He finally looks down at her. He cups her cheek, moves his hands back to her hair. "Are you listening to me?"
"Yes."
"Good." She smiles and and scoots closer, licks the underside of his dick and he tugs at her hair a little. She kisses along his belly, biting at the soft skin. "I want you to fuck my mouth."
"Lis." He leans back again, trying to get out of her grasp. "Don't, I don't wanna--"
"I know, baby," she says, one hand on his thigh, one hand around his cock. She keeps their eye contanct, serious, unrelenting. "Fuck. My mouth."
He growls as she wraps her lips around him, sinking down. He does like she said, fucking into her mouth. She keeps her saw loose, relaxes her throat letting him go. Her cheeks hallow out as she sucks harder. His hands tangle in her hair, tugging, holding her head in place, directing her mouth.
He comes abundant and hot down her throat and she swallows it all, groaning, arching up on her knees a bit. She keeps him in her mouth a minute, until he's spent, until his hips stop bucking. He loosens his grip on her, his hand falling away.
The room his humid, filled with the sound of his heavy breathing. She stands and sits next to him, runs her hand down the length of his spine. "Better?"
"Yeah." He clears his throat.
"Lisa." He faces her. His cheeks are pink, his lips are dry. But the shine in his eyes has lessened.
She smiles and kisses him, tender on the mouth. "Are you ready to go to sleep?"
He nods, pulls up his boxers. She pulls the sheets back and they both get into his bed. "Do you want to sleep in here from now on?" She asks, wrapping an arm around his waist, her lips pressing against the nape of his neck.
"Yeah." His voice is a little lighter.
It's not long until he's sleeping, his breathing a steady and slow beat of his heart. She licks his skin, at the top bone of his spine. Lisa lies down and listens to him. For any sign of trouble, a cough, a stuttering breath.
The moon moves across the sky, the light from the hallway to her room. Their room.
The next day he showers in her shower, and by the end of the week she's cleared out her bottom two drawers for his stuff. Jeans that are close to falling a part, shirts with bands scrawled across the chest. She doesn't say anything about the jar of holy water and pistol that appear under the bed.
At night she holds him; he doesn't ask except with the open range of his arm across the pillow. His mouth along her temple, his hands in her hair. He sighs contently and never lets her roll too far away.
end.
Author: breebree16
Rating R
Pairing: Dean/Lisa
Summary: It's almost a whole month before Dean comes to Lisa's bed.
Saw you walking barefoot
taking a long look
at the new moon's eyelid
later spread
sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair
asleep but not oblivious
of the unslept unsleeping
elsewhere
- tonight no poetry will serve, by Adrienne Rich
It's almost a whole month before Dean comes to Lisa's bed. He's been living in the guest room, quiet, like a mouse. Coming out for dinner, which for him consisted of primarily half a sandwich and a fifth of whiskey. She has listened at the door, in the middle of the night, her hand on the door knob, her ear pressed to the cooling wood.
She heard crying, crying that he tried to stifle with a pillow. He broke two glasses that he thinks she doesn't know about, but during the day, when he sat on the back porch drinking beer, she took out the trash from the room and heard the shards clinking around.
Lisa has slept with her door open a crack since Ben was born. Sometimes she lies awake, long after she's gone to bed, after Ben has finally turned off his video games and snuggled into his own mattress, she listened. For his breathing, gasps, thrashing or coughing. It's two am and Lisa is lying on her side, staring out into the hallway. She hears the guest bedroom door open and close. Dean carries himself surprisingly light.
She clutches the sheets under the pillow and watches as his figure comes into view, painted light blue from the moon outside. She loves the way the light pours through the window at the end of the hall, the dancing shadows of tree branches outside.
"Hey," he says. He leans against the door frame, his head pointing down. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt, no socks.
"Hey." She sits up, her hair falling around her shoulders. She swings her legs out of bed to press her feet to the floor. "Want to come in?" She offers with a slight smile.
His lip twitches and he comes in, pressing the door closed behind him. Her heart flutters in her throat, her breath catches. He kneels in front of her, pressing his hands to her legs. He's drunk, she knows he is, she can smell it on him, his shallow exhales. "Hey," she says again, touching his chin and making him look at her. His eyes glisten, whiskey soft, salty red.
He's so broken, she can see it, feel it. Shattered pieces of a vase that she's trying to glue back together, but the pieces don't fit. Not yet anyway, she doesn't have all of them.
"Lisa," he says, pained. Like she is some sort of cure, that saying her name will some how fix what's been laid out in front of him.
She can't imagine it. Loosing her sister like Dean has lost his brother. She's unclear of the circumstances, he hasn't told her much. But she knows, that if Melanie was gone, she'd be broken too, unsure of how to live in a world where she was alive, and her kid sister wasn't.
"It's okay, Dean," Lisa tells him. He shies at the mention of his own name. He lifts up and kisses her, warm and true. His tongue is soft and she's flooded with that lost weekend twelve years ago. Where he laid her out and spent the entire night learning her body, like she was a goddess. Her legs bent, draping over his shoulders, his hands EVERY WHERE. God, she never came like that before.
He tries to maunuver them, sitting up to push her back. His hands drag her sleeping shorts down, and his fingers go right for gold, slipping past her underwear. He shudders, groans as his fingers dip into the hot pulse of her center.
"Dean," she groans, arching to his hand. He kisses down her neck. "Dean." She presses into his chest. He pulls back, stares at her with the same glistening. "Here."
"Lisa." But he can't seem to say anything else.
And she suddenly knows what he needs. He's floundering, doesn't know what is up or down, certainly doesn't know how to ask for help. She gets him to sit on the edge of the bed and starts to rub his shoulders. He's knotted, all the weight there, and in his back, it's a wonder he doesn't have spine problems. "Doesn't that feel good?" she asks, close to his ear.
He nods, clears his throat.
"Here." She tugs on the bottom of his shirt and tugs it off, crumpling it with the sheets. Her nails trail over his shoulders, down his back and goosebumps raise all over his skin. Scars that she had once marveled at seem to have moved, and he has a bizzare burnmark on his shoulder that feels like a handprint, but it can't be.
His breathing evens, and he groans as she kneads down his back, then wraps her hands around his waist. "Still good?" She kisses his neck.
"Yeah." He exhales.
Lisa slides off the bed and comes around the front. Dean raises his hands to grab her ass, slipping his hands under her panties, squeezing.
"Do you want me, Dean?" she asks.
He nods.
"Say it," she commands lightly.
"I want you."
And she's on her knees, undoing his belt. He lifts off the bed enough for her to drag down the jeans, his boxers. His cock leans flushed and heavy against his belly and he still can't look directly at her. She wraps her hand around the shaft, moves up to the head and back down. He moans and leans back a bit.
"Dean," she starts, in a firm voice. Caring, but in control. "Dean."
He finally looks down at her. He cups her cheek, moves his hands back to her hair. "Are you listening to me?"
"Yes."
"Good." She smiles and and scoots closer, licks the underside of his dick and he tugs at her hair a little. She kisses along his belly, biting at the soft skin. "I want you to fuck my mouth."
"Lis." He leans back again, trying to get out of her grasp. "Don't, I don't wanna--"
"I know, baby," she says, one hand on his thigh, one hand around his cock. She keeps their eye contanct, serious, unrelenting. "Fuck. My mouth."
He growls as she wraps her lips around him, sinking down. He does like she said, fucking into her mouth. She keeps her saw loose, relaxes her throat letting him go. Her cheeks hallow out as she sucks harder. His hands tangle in her hair, tugging, holding her head in place, directing her mouth.
He comes abundant and hot down her throat and she swallows it all, groaning, arching up on her knees a bit. She keeps him in her mouth a minute, until he's spent, until his hips stop bucking. He loosens his grip on her, his hand falling away.
The room his humid, filled with the sound of his heavy breathing. She stands and sits next to him, runs her hand down the length of his spine. "Better?"
"Yeah." He clears his throat.
"Lisa." He faces her. His cheeks are pink, his lips are dry. But the shine in his eyes has lessened.
She smiles and kisses him, tender on the mouth. "Are you ready to go to sleep?"
He nods, pulls up his boxers. She pulls the sheets back and they both get into his bed. "Do you want to sleep in here from now on?" She asks, wrapping an arm around his waist, her lips pressing against the nape of his neck.
"Yeah." His voice is a little lighter.
It's not long until he's sleeping, his breathing a steady and slow beat of his heart. She licks his skin, at the top bone of his spine. Lisa lies down and listens to him. For any sign of trouble, a cough, a stuttering breath.
The moon moves across the sky, the light from the hallway to her room. Their room.
The next day he showers in her shower, and by the end of the week she's cleared out her bottom two drawers for his stuff. Jeans that are close to falling a part, shirts with bands scrawled across the chest. She doesn't say anything about the jar of holy water and pistol that appear under the bed.
At night she holds him; he doesn't ask except with the open range of his arm across the pillow. His mouth along her temple, his hands in her hair. He sighs contently and never lets her roll too far away.
end.