Fic: While You Were Sleeping (PG)
May. 17th, 2010 07:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apocalypsosI'm clearly a terrible person. Heeeee.
Title: While You Were Sleeping
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
apocalypsos
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Lisa
Spoilers: 5.22
Summary: Lisa's not that innocent, for heaven's sake.
While You Were Sleeping
At first, Dean doesn't think anything of it. Lisa doesn't teach yoga anymore but she still takes classes in that and a few other things. She claims it's because scheduling some form of exercise every day gives her a regular healthy outlet for her energy.
Dean suspects, at first, that there's got to be a hot yoga teacher involved. Hell, it'd be the only thing to get him to go to yoga classes.
Except that it's not yoga. Or not just yoga, anyway. It's kung fu and krav maga. Half of her week is spent learning how to throw a punch.
“Should I be worried?” Dean jokes one day, rolling himself out from under the Impala as she emerges from her blasphemous SUV.
She beams at him as she bounds past into the house, her exercise clothes clinging to her lean muscles. “Only if you keep forgetting to rinse the dishes before you put them in the dishwasher,” she calls over her shoulder.
*
Dean refuses to bring any weapons whatsoever into the house, not with Ben just down the hall. With kids, you never know, right?
So when he finds the handgun in the back of Lisa's closet while digging around for a spare pillow, he glances over his shoulder with one eyebrow cocked in a silent question.
Lisa shrugs from her side of the bed. “I'm a woman living alone with a child,” she says. “I mean, really.”
She doesn't need to elaborate. Dean's lips twist in a confused grimace as he puts the gun back.
*
Lisa's friends drag them out to this dive bar on the rough side of town for Lisa's birthday, cracking jokes about handsome barbacks and elbowing Dean with accompanying winks and nudges for the first half-hour or so, at least until it got tiresome. Dean lets it slide. Once you get past the talk of home improvements and weight loss tips, Lisa's suburban coffee clatch is actually a good group of folks.
Dean spends most of the night with one arm wrapped around Lisa's midsection, his hand rubbing gently over the smooth skin peeking out under the hem of her T-shirt. He nurses a few bottles of ice-cold beer, not more than anybody else in the place. It's Lisa's birthday and he plans on behaving.
Or at least, he does until Lisa's neighbor Betsy suggests a round of darts.
Lisa agrees with a thread of amusement in her voice that makes Dean pause, but the beer's starting to sink in and he lets it slide. He doesn't even think much about the odd enthusiasm in her voice, not until she trounces the hell out of every single one of her friends.
He watches the darts slam home in deliberate strikes, hitting exactly the points she needs to hit to win.
When she turns around again after lighting up the board, she ignores the curious look on his face. “Anybody up for a game of pool?”
*
The monster breaks into the house on a Sunday night.
Dean has to work at the garage the next day, but instead of crawling into bed he's fallen asleep on the couch in the living room to the low boom-boom-boom of a war movie from a few years back. He must have missed seeing it when it first came out because he was too busy fighting a war of his own. Apparently he didn't miss much.
He's fast asleep when the thing leans over him, so when he jerks awake his entire field of vision is swamped by something black and scaly and reeking of fish. He tries to rear away, scramble backwards out of its hissing world, but there's nowhere for him to go. It's blocking his pa--
The gunshot shatters the terrifying tableau, crushing the thing's head and spraying it in juicy bits all over the couch, the carpet and Dean's poor innocent face before he can even start contemplating what it is and how he can kill it.
He wipes the muck from his face with the throw pillow under his head, then opens his eyes just as Lisa shoves the wet disgusting body off him, the handgun placed for the moment on the coffee table next to a book of photos of the ocean from below.
The bright orange clownfish on the cover stares blankly at the gun pointed directly at it.
Dean stares at Lisa, gaping, jaw working. He feels a lot like the damn clownfish.
She rolls her eyes and picks the handgun back up again. “You showed up once to kill a monster that looked like my son, then came back again to tell me I might not be safe just because you like me and my kid,” she says. “Honestly, Dean, what did you think I was going to do while you were gone, knit gun cozies?”
She shoots him a grin just the same, then stalks towards the door to the utility closet in her sleek pink nightie, muttering something under her breath about getting inhuman slime, blood and brains out of the carpet again.
He's never found her hotter.
Title: While You Were Sleeping
Author:
apocalypsosFandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Lisa
Spoilers: 5.22
Summary: Lisa's not that innocent, for heaven's sake.
At first, Dean doesn't think anything of it. Lisa doesn't teach yoga anymore but she still takes classes in that and a few other things. She claims it's because scheduling some form of exercise every day gives her a regular healthy outlet for her energy.
Dean suspects, at first, that there's got to be a hot yoga teacher involved. Hell, it'd be the only thing to get him to go to yoga classes.
Except that it's not yoga. Or not just yoga, anyway. It's kung fu and krav maga. Half of her week is spent learning how to throw a punch.
“Should I be worried?” Dean jokes one day, rolling himself out from under the Impala as she emerges from her blasphemous SUV.
She beams at him as she bounds past into the house, her exercise clothes clinging to her lean muscles. “Only if you keep forgetting to rinse the dishes before you put them in the dishwasher,” she calls over her shoulder.
Dean refuses to bring any weapons whatsoever into the house, not with Ben just down the hall. With kids, you never know, right?
So when he finds the handgun in the back of Lisa's closet while digging around for a spare pillow, he glances over his shoulder with one eyebrow cocked in a silent question.
Lisa shrugs from her side of the bed. “I'm a woman living alone with a child,” she says. “I mean, really.”
She doesn't need to elaborate. Dean's lips twist in a confused grimace as he puts the gun back.
Lisa's friends drag them out to this dive bar on the rough side of town for Lisa's birthday, cracking jokes about handsome barbacks and elbowing Dean with accompanying winks and nudges for the first half-hour or so, at least until it got tiresome. Dean lets it slide. Once you get past the talk of home improvements and weight loss tips, Lisa's suburban coffee clatch is actually a good group of folks.
Dean spends most of the night with one arm wrapped around Lisa's midsection, his hand rubbing gently over the smooth skin peeking out under the hem of her T-shirt. He nurses a few bottles of ice-cold beer, not more than anybody else in the place. It's Lisa's birthday and he plans on behaving.
Or at least, he does until Lisa's neighbor Betsy suggests a round of darts.
Lisa agrees with a thread of amusement in her voice that makes Dean pause, but the beer's starting to sink in and he lets it slide. He doesn't even think much about the odd enthusiasm in her voice, not until she trounces the hell out of every single one of her friends.
He watches the darts slam home in deliberate strikes, hitting exactly the points she needs to hit to win.
When she turns around again after lighting up the board, she ignores the curious look on his face. “Anybody up for a game of pool?”
The monster breaks into the house on a Sunday night.
Dean has to work at the garage the next day, but instead of crawling into bed he's fallen asleep on the couch in the living room to the low boom-boom-boom of a war movie from a few years back. He must have missed seeing it when it first came out because he was too busy fighting a war of his own. Apparently he didn't miss much.
He's fast asleep when the thing leans over him, so when he jerks awake his entire field of vision is swamped by something black and scaly and reeking of fish. He tries to rear away, scramble backwards out of its hissing world, but there's nowhere for him to go. It's blocking his pa--
The gunshot shatters the terrifying tableau, crushing the thing's head and spraying it in juicy bits all over the couch, the carpet and Dean's poor innocent face before he can even start contemplating what it is and how he can kill it.
He wipes the muck from his face with the throw pillow under his head, then opens his eyes just as Lisa shoves the wet disgusting body off him, the handgun placed for the moment on the coffee table next to a book of photos of the ocean from below.
The bright orange clownfish on the cover stares blankly at the gun pointed directly at it.
Dean stares at Lisa, gaping, jaw working. He feels a lot like the damn clownfish.
She rolls her eyes and picks the handgun back up again. “You showed up once to kill a monster that looked like my son, then came back again to tell me I might not be safe just because you like me and my kid,” she says. “Honestly, Dean, what did you think I was going to do while you were gone, knit gun cozies?”
She shoots him a grin just the same, then stalks towards the door to the utility closet in her sleek pink nightie, muttering something under her breath about getting inhuman slime, blood and brains out of the carpet again.
He's never found her hotter.
