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Dean wakes softly from a dream. He doesn’t remember it, but he tastes ash in his mouth, feels dew on his feet even though the bed and sheets are dry. He yawns and rolls over to check the clock. 5:00am. Not nearly early enough to be awake, especially since he just dragged his ass into bed at about one, after hours of research. He gets out of bed and feels his way to the bathroom; his hip moving along the edge of the bed, his hand touching the nightstand, then the wall, pressing his palm along the surface until finding the open door.
He turns on the light and squints back at the brightness. Fucking eco-friendly shit. Once his vision clears he stares at himself in their mirror. Sleep-tousled hair and red eyes. He scratches along his bare chest, nails over the tattoo. He keeps an ear out to the just cracked door; the house shifts, still settling. Wind knocks branches against the bedroom window. On the porch the chimes dangle together. Storm’s coming.
The house is humid, sticky. Air conditioner’s been on the fritz the last week and he still hasn’t found the right parts. He’ll probably have to call a guy to come out. Shit. He takes a piss and washes his hands, flicks off the light and moves back into the bedroom. He lets his eyes adjust to the soft moonlight coming from the window and panic rises in his throat when he finds the bed empty. Nothing is out of place, except for the sheets that only Dean has been using, but Lisa has been kicking off the bed. He grabs the pistol from under the bed and pulls on yesterday’s jeans.
As he goes down the hall he checks the bed rooms; Sam snores loud and fitful. Dean pushes open the door, his brother sprawled on the bed, clutching a pillow. But he stays asleep. He walks by Ben’s room, the door is cracked and Dean peeks his head in. Ben is asleep in bed, but his DS is still on, laying open on is chest. Dean goes in and takes it, flips off the obnoxious game and sets it on the desk on his way out.
The stairs creak under his weight and he knows he has to fix them. He walks through the small den which is cluttered with old books and mythology texts. The laptop closed, pens uncapped and rolled onto the floor. The window is cracked down here, letting in the humid air and Dean thinks that he should open the one in the bedroom, he’s surprised that Lisa didn’t.
He finds her in the kitchen, the only light coming from above the stove. Windows open down here too. She sits at the table in the middle of the room, eating pie out of the dish. Fork scraping against the bottom.
Dean untenses, now that he sees that she’s here, sitting in front of him. She looks up, raised brows, a mouth full of pie. “What?” she asks.
He shakes his head; she’s kind of adorable right now. “What are you doing up?”
She shrugs and takes another bite. “Couldn’t sleep. Hungry.”
He sits on the other side of her and reaches for her fork. She jerks back a second and he takes her wrist, bringing it to him, kisses the soft skin of her delicate tendons before she relents and lets him have the fork. He made the pie yesterday, when she was lounging on the couch complaining about wanting something sweet, but she didn’t feel like going anywhere.
So he cracked open Dad’s journal and found in the back pages were some index cards of Mom’s pie recipes. And he made Lisa an apple pie. It was lopsided, and kind of gooey, but she ate it with vigor, touched his nose with whipped cream.
“Need your rest,” he states, taking a bite.
“I know,” she sighs and leans back. Normally she had some witty quip when he told her things like that. Maybe it’s the heat, or the rain. She keeps her dark hair pulled up in a messy bun and he loves it. The haphazard try, but her face still glows, her smile always pink. “But I was dreaming about this pie, so.”
They laugh; he’s dreamed about food too. She feeds him bites of the dripping pie, and it lands on his chin. She giggles and stands up to come around the table. He pushes back to give her room and she sits on his lap. He groans a bit and she frowns. “You do think I’m getting fat.”
He leans back so he can see her face. The little frown, the drooped eyes. “No,” he says, gripping onto her hips. He palms the hard swell of his stomach, leans in to press his forehead against her chin. Yeah, she’s gotten heavier, but he doesn’t care, he loves it. The new padding against her hips, the heavy weight of her breasts. He lifts her shirt to spread his hands over her skin. She’s warm, seems to radiate heat these days. It’s no wonder she’s always kicking off sheets, why she stays as far away as she can from him in bed. “She keepin’ you up?” He asks. He licks the skin across her collar bone.
She runs her nails over his short cut hair, down to his neck. “Not even born yet, and she has your appetite, what do you think?”
He chuckles and leans back again to see her face. Her eyes are laden with fatigue. She kisses him, and licks the pie off his chin. “Sam sleeping?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
“We’re probably gonna head out in a few days. See what Bobby has lined up.” His voice drops when he speaks. He feels like such a dick for leaving her; but she never complains. Except that one time when things had gone bad at work, and Ben was being a pain and slamming doors, and she called him up crying, begging him to come home. But he was in Nebraska, knee-deep in rugaru guts.
“Alright,” she says. She sighs again and shifts, strains her face.
“Everything okay?”
She nods and moves his hand, higher up, over her navel. “Feel that?” she always says in awe, like she’s more amazed at the life she’s creating than he is, that she’s never experienced it before. His eyes light up and his lids flutter. A good strong kick, yeah, that’s a good Winchester kick. He grins and nestles down her neck, licking the vein there, tasting her pulse, the sweat.
About another month now. He’ll stay home for a while. A good while after. Sam can handle it himself for a while, and Bobby. Cas too. ‘Bout time he got used to his new-found human legs.
Lisa yawns and stretches. Her bones crack as she leans back. “Ready for bed, stud?”
“Yeah.”
She puts away the pie and drops the fork in the sink. Lightning shines outside and thunder shakes the house. Dean checks on Sam one last time. Still sleeping on his stomach, snoring, but twitching.
In the bedroom, Lisa is stripping off her shorts, her shirt. The fan is all ready going, the windows have been open. “Damn air conditioner,” she mutters, redoing her hair. She leans back to catch the air of the spinning fan and his mouth waters at the sight. Lisa in her underwear and nothing else; her round belly, her heavy breasts.
“I’ll call someone in the morning.” He looses his jeans and sits on the bed, laying on top of the sheets. She yawns and stretches, rolls on her side. Her fingers trace over his tattoo, his scars. She knows them all, the spray of his freckles over his face, his shoulders. “I’m I gonna get lucky?” He rises an eyebrow.
Hot air passes between them as she laughs, leaning forward to kiss him soft on the mouth, runs her fingers through his hair. The sensation lulls him back towards sleep. “Get me in the morning,” she purrs into his ear and kisses the lobe.
Her body is hot to the touch as he embraces her, holds her close until she starts to complain about the heat and how he’s a jerk. She goes to her side faced away to watch the storm outside. Dean puts the gun back, settles into bed. The rain smells fresh and cool, maybe it will finally bring a break in the weather.
Lisa is snoring in no time and a breeze passes through, rustling her hair. He kisses the back of her neck and inhales the scent of her shampoo and conditioner, the sweet citrus of body wash and thinks of the drive in the next few days and being away.
Dean stares at that stupid branch outside the window and the way it moves to tap on the glass and tries to remember that he has to cut it down with the hedges. And to call the electrician, and then Bobby. As he dozes, he also makes a list for the store. Peaches, and a box of nails, salt and some more ammo. He’ll be gone a week, two tops, he promises himself, wants to promise it to her too, but the rain and the pattern of her breathing soothes him, rocks him back to sleep where he still dreams about fire and fresh morning dew on grass.