In the Fields We Lie: ii
Warnings: Physical altercation. Mentions of relationship abuse (physical and verbal), nothing extremely graphic. Angst? Longing?
Word count: 1.6k
—
England
18 December 1915
Saturday
It was early in the morning when Dean was woken up by someone knocking too aggressively on a neighbors door. The sun was already taking over almost every visible surface of his home, he grabbed his glasses and peered at his clock that was sitting on the dining table: 07:13. Dean groaned at what time it was and immediately slammed his head back onto his pillow, but with his luck, was met with arguing not long after he had closed his eyes. If the voices didn’t sound so close and so familiar, he wouldn’t be concerned; with Fran coming home last night in distress, Dean needed to make sure everything was okay. He bolted out of bed and pressed his ear to his door.
“Francine you don’t know what you saw, please listen to me–”
“My name, Richard, is Franny. And I know exactly what I saw.” She was enraged, “You were whispering to Myrna all night, you think I didn’t notice…”
“Of course I knew that you caught on to that,” Richard said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “I was only being secretive while talking with her because I was asking her what type of ring you’d like...”
Dean knew that he was lying, Fran never has anything nice to say when it comes to Myrna, especially because–
“Really!? Really…you’re going to stand here and lie to me straight to my face? If you really knew me you’d actually listen when I tell you that she goes after every guy any of her friends are interested in! That’s why I didn’t want you talking to her!” Fran yells. Breathing heavily–her voice breaks when she says, “It makes me uncomfortable. We’re not friends. She wouldn’t know the first thing about me.”
“You’d be surprised at what she knows about you, Francine.” With every response Richard gives Franny, his self-righteousness comes out in bigger waves than the last.
“I bet she knows you exceptionally well then, considering your face was between her legs last ni–”
There was a brief pause before Dean heard quick footsteps and a thud. Then faintly heard, “Listen here you bitch.”
He was up and running before he knew it. The door to the flat was open when he reached his friend. Richard had her by the throat. Pinned up against the wall. It broke Dean’s heart to see Fran so frightened. She was pulling at Richard’s hand, unable to get a good breath in. Rage overtook Dean at the sight of what Richard was doing. No one had time to say a word before Dean ripped him off of Franny, and proceeded to do the same thing to him that he did to the woman before them. Giving him a taste of his own medicine.
Dean snarled quietly forcing Richard against the wall, “No. You listen to me, Dick. If you ever touch her again, I will kill you. If you even step foot near Fran again and I know about it–you will regret it. Get the fuck out.” With that, he throws Richard out of her flat by his throat and closes the door.
He turns to Fran, examines her throat, and asks her if she’s okay. Fran has tears that are threatening to escape her eyes but she only nods up and down. Dean knows not to ask any more questions. Instead he offers his time and his flat whenever she needs it. All she can do is nod, her throat is slowly closing up from holding in her anger, her fear. He gives her a squeeze on her shoulder and heads towards the door.
“Thank you, Dean.”
It’s the faintest he’s ever heard her voice.
He turns around and gives her a small, warm smile. “Of course.” I’d do anything for you.
—
England
23 December 1915
Thursday
Dean hasn’t seen or heard from her in almost a week and he can’t help but to worry. Richard hasn’t come by again, at least that Dean knows of. There’s been no commotion on their floor since the argument. Maybe she’s staying with family?
It’s been a quiet week at work as well. Mimi lost her grandson on the Western Front. She won’t talk about it. Won’t talk at all actually. She hasn’t been able to look Dean in the eye, which is understandable. Rena, who is happiest in the silence, finds it to be excruciating. The grief is palpable. Everyone has lost something at this point.
He walks into work in a fog. There’s been talk about a conscription being introduced too. There’s simply not enough men volunteering to keep the armies going, so they’re going to start forcing people into the war if they’re healthy. Dean fits the description, and so does his little brother.
Sammy.
Dean could not imagine losing him. Could barely stand being away from him now, but after their mother died a few years ago–John couldn’t cope with seeing Dean everyday and had kicked him out for simply resembling Mary. Sam manages to sneak away to see him every other week. He turns eighteen in six months and graduates soon after that. It’s been eating Dean alive. If he couldn’t protect him…
“You alright there, love?”
Rena had placed her hand on his shoulder and he barely felt it. He looked up at her, worry had replaced her usual scowl. This was the first time there was a maternal spark in the older woman's eyes. He nodded, giving Rena a pat on her hand that still rested on him. On a day like today, it was an unspoken rule, that if nothing was said, there would be no further questions.
The day was slow. Every minute felt like hours. Every thought blended together into an anxiety-ridden mess. What would happen next? Who would get pulled into war first, Sam or Dean? Would he have enough money saved up for Sam by the time he’s of age? What was it like on the fronts? Would he ever see Franny again if he was sent away?
Dean didn’t want to die for nothing. More importantly, he didn’t want to die with nothing.
—
England
25 December 1915
Saturday
The dress that he had been working on for Franny was almost complete. It’s been in the works for months and it’s a relief that all he had left to do was get the precise measurements for the bust, waist, and hips. He was about to put the dress in a nicely decorated box that Mimi gifted him, when there was a knock on his door.
His heart was pounding so fiercely against his ribcage, he thought they might actually break. The sudden adrenaline rush made him feel lightheaded. There was no time to conceal the garment before she walked through the door. Dean had gone still.
“Is that for one of your clients, Winchester?”
His words got stuck in his throat. There, on her neck, where Richard had choked her–were faint purple and yellow bruises. Her eyes drooped with defeat when she realized that Dean had seen the mess that was made.
If only he knew about everything else. Franny kept the thought to herself, she didn’t want anyone dying today.
“My god, Fran. I–I didn’t realize he had grabbed you that hard.”
They both walked slowly towards each other, stopping once their feet were only inches apart. Tears stained her flushed cheeks. Her under eyes, the color of the night sky. Her hair disheveled, and she tried to fix it while Dean was taking in her appearance. The insides of her palms had been scabbed over from where her nails had dung in. He had only seen this one other time, seen her like this one other time…
Has he hurt you before?
The question was clear in Dean's eyes.
Yes.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to worry about me. I didn’t want you to go after him. He said that he wouldn’t do it again…”
He was past the point of boiling over with anger. It wouldn’t help anything. Wouldn’t help her. So Dean did what he could to calm her down. He took her hands in his, rotated them so her palms face upward, and planted tender kisses to each indentation. All while looking into her eyes.
This is what a man is supposed to do. This is how a man is supposed to touch you. Dean was pleading with his unwavering stare.
It may have worked. Franny slowly pulled her hands free and wrapped them around Dean’s waist. She breathed him in and rubbed his back in a soft circular motion.
“Thank you.”
“Anything for you, my darling. Lets run you a bath, yeah?”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“Afterwards I’ll tailor your Christmas present.” He points towards the dress hanging on the mannequin that’s in the corner of the room.
He swears he saw the light brighten in her eyes. There's more purpose in her steps towards the tub like she wanted to get it over with already.
I can’t believe he made that for me.
—
The measurements were almost perfect. The bust was a tad too big for her but it fit like a dream.
“Were you secretly taking my dresses while I showered, Dean? It’s bloody accurate, this.” Gesturing to her new piece of clothing.
“You forget, I do this for a living. I’m good at guessing people's sizes.” Dean says with a needle between his teeth, winking cheekily at her.
Only a few more needles to place, and then she was free to take the dress off. But as Dean was feeding one through, it pricked Franny’s breast.
“Ow!”
“Shit, I’m sorry. You okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know, sweetheart? What can I do–“
Franny brushed a strand of Dean’s thick blonde hair out of his face. Shock had kicked in, his face going pale at her gentleness.
“Kiss it better, like you did my hands?”
“Fuck.”
—
A/N: If I need to fix my warnings at all, please message me. Keep in mind this is an au!dean, he's a sweet boy. He still has his humor and trauma from is dad, so some things are staying the same!
tags! @aylacavebear @daylighted (again, I hope it's okay that I tagged you guys <3)
