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fannishlisstitle: "His Very Absence"
author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fannishliss
genre, characters: Gen -- Lisa meets Kat
spoilers/setting: s6/ early s7 timeline
rating: g
words: 2000
Summary: Kat calls Lisa, trying to get in touch with someone she insists Lisa should know.
Author's Note:This story is for![[info]](../../img/userinfo.gif?v=88.3)
desertport, who requested something about Kat from Asylum 1.10, with the phrase "I dote on his very absence" (Merchant of Venice I.ii). The story of how she became a Hunter can be found in my Women of SPN story, Kat and the Case of the Cursed Campground, but you don't need to have read that to understand this.
===
Lisa caught the phone on the fourth ring, hands still slightly damp. She hated calls when she was cooking.
The caller ID said "Katherine Powers" and gave a 540 area code. It seemed slightly familiar. Maybe an old yoga student?
She picked up. "Hello?"
"Hi, this is Kat. Is Dean there?"
The no-nonsense voice on the other end of the phone did sound familiar, but Lisa frowned.
"Sorry, wrong number," she said.
"Lisa?" the voice said, quickly.
"Yes?" she answered, confused.
"I'm sorry… it's just that my other numbers for Dean aren't working, and I really need to get in touch with him."
Lisa felt a churning ache set into her stomach, and tried to release a few calming breaths.
"I'm sorry, but I don't understand," Lisa said. "This is Lisa -- but I don't know any Dean. You must've made a mistake?"
"Lisa Braeden?" the voice said, clearly, but Lisa could hear the stress behind it.
"Yes, but…" Lisa said.
"Lisa, if, if he's moved on, at least just tell me the last number you have for him. Please."
The woman was clearly desperate. Lisa could almost envision the woman's frown, her clenched brows and cold hands tight on the phone.
"Why are you looking for him?" Lisa said. Paternity thing? Child support? Men were such bums. She'd never tried to contact Ben's father for a reason, and this was it. They couldn't be counted on.
"Hunter thing," Kat said. "Haha. Life or death you know." Her attempt at humor fell flat. She was deadly serious, Lisa could tell.
"Kath, I'm sorry, but I don't know any Dean. I'd help you if I could," Lisa said. "Really."
"You really -- hold on. Wait. Are you saying you don't know a Dean Winchester?"
"No, sorry," Lisa said. God, what a headache she had coming on.
"So, it's a pretty fair bet you don't remember me?"
"No, Kath, I'm sorry-- are you a yoga student? I've moved a couple of times in the past year or so, I'm sorry if I've lost track --"
"No. No, Lisa. Listen, this is bad. Really bad. At least -- is Ben okay?" The woman's voice was shaking now.
"Yes -- he's fine -- but how do you know Ben," Lisa said. Her temper was rising up. "Seriously."
"Uh…. I gotta think. I'll call you back."
Lisa stared at the phone in consternation as the line went dead. She shook her head. These vegetables weren't going to dice themselves, and she needed them in the oven pronto if they were going to be ready by suppertime. She turned her mind to beets and sweet potatoes; her headache faded and with it the memory of the mysterious call.
It was two days later when Lisa got home from the studio and about five minutes after she'd walked in when a loud knock came at the door. Lisa peered out the peephole. She hadn't always been this vigilant, but you never knew, did you?
It was a woman, a little older than a typical college student, with long blonde hair, thin, attractive -- fairly nondescript. No clipboard, so she wasn't looking for donations.
Lisa opened the door.
"Hello?"
"Lisa!" the woman smiled -- but just as soon as relief and recognition appeared in her warm brown eyes, it faded again.
"Can I help you?" Lisa asked.
"Can I help you, is the question," the woman muttered. "Hi. I'm Kat-- I called a couple days ago."
"Oh!" Lisa said. "I don't understand -- you're looking for some guy?"
Kat's eyes flashed as though Lisa had said something offensive. "I'm looking for Dean Winchester."
"I don't know…" Lisa said, annoyed by the woman's tone.
"Yes, you do. May I please come in?" the woman asked.
Lisa stared, her instincts at war. She felt a strong aversion to letting the woman in -- it felt like trouble. At the same time, she sensed that the trouble was something vitally important -- something she herself would care deeply about once she understood it. Lisa Braeden didn't run from trouble -- she'd long since learned to walk toward the cannons.
"Come on in," she said. "Can I get you some tea or anything?"
"Gosh, yes," the woman said, "and please call me Kat."
"Okay, Kat," Lisa smiled and in a few minutes they were seated at Lisa's kitchen counter, Lisa drinking rooibos and Kat with Earl Grey, and some oatmeal cookies that Lisa had just made the day before.
"Your cookies are fantastic," Kat said, nibbling, "I made the ginger molasses…your recipe…" She broke off, frowning.
Lisa frowned, too, rubbing at her forehead. That headache was coming back. Liz had persuaded her to go for an MRI, but they hadn't found anything. She told herself it was something to do with the collision -- whiplash -- something her chiropractor hadn't been able to work through, yet.
"Just spill it, whatever it is," Lisa said, rubbing her temple, eyes closed against the light.
"Dean Winchester," Kat whispered.
There was a flash of whiteness in Lisa's mind -- a noise like the roar of an old car, a whiff of leather, the calloused touch of a man's strong hand holding hers -- terror, sorrow -- then whiteness, nothing.
"Lisa?" Kat said.
"What? I'm sorry, I must've been … thinking of something else. You were saying?" Lisa said.
"Cristo," Kat said clearly.
"I know, right? The way he physically transforms the environment into a work of art -- mimicking industrialization and sprawl, but with an artistic vision…"
"Yeah, exactly," Kat said, vaguely, still frowning.
"I'm sorry, this headache… " Lisa mumbled.
"Lisa, do you ever feel like -- something's missing?" Kat said.
Lisa stared. "How do you mean?"
Kat twined her hands together on the counter. They were strong hands, plain, hardworking. Lisa liked Kat even though she made no sense.
"You know a man, Dean Winchester. He lived with you for over a year, in Cicero."
Cicero. The headaches had started then…. the year was blur… it seemed to have flown by -- a mixture of work and routine and nothing else.
Lisa smiled grimly at Kat, shaking her head. "I think if I'd lived with someone for a year I'd remember it."
Kat pursed her lips, frustrated. "He's in trouble, Lisa. You loved him, once, I know you did. You still would -- but something's happened. Don't you even care?"
Lisa took a deep breath. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Okay," Kat said, with a deep sigh. "Brace yourself."
Lisa gave Kat a bemused look, but obligingly gripped the counter.
Kat took out her phone and started flipping through the photos. "Okay, this is from summer 2010, when I came to get his help on a case --"
"What kind of case?" Lisa said. Headcase, most likely, she thought to herself.
"Just look --" Kat said, and passed the phone to Lisa.
Lisa couldn't process what she was seeing. It was her own kitchen table, the same old sturdy wooden table that she'd lugged through move after move, ever since her mom had downsized and passed it on to her. The tabletop was littered with papers, heavy old books, a laptop, beer bottles, and there was her favorite melamine serving platter full of her signature ginger molasses cookies. It was Kat -- she was sitting at Lisa's own table. Beside her sat --- someone-- toasting the camera, a thick silver ring glinting on his finger --
"Who is that?" Lisa whispered, that old pain ringing in her forehead, her gut, her heart.
"Oh Lisa," Kat said, her voice full of sorrow. "I want to help you. I'm gonna figure this out, I swear."
Lisa stared at the picture on the phone, noticing the way --her eyes jumped from detail to detail -- the bottles of El Sol, the cookies, the tired but determined smile on Kat's face, the glint of the silver ring -- but Lisa couldn't look at the man's face. She physically couldn't. It was like staring into the sun-- the only thing there was whiteness.
"Why can't I see -- " she whispered. "What's wrong with me?" The ache rattled Lisa. She couldn't breathe through it. It hurt.
"Your memories have been tampered with," Kat said. "Very thoroughly. You can't even see him, can you?"
Lisa shook her head.
"You have any photos from that last year in Cicero?" Kat asked.
"No, they were on the computer -- it crashed…"
"Wow," Kat said.
"You have an attic?" Kat said suddenly.
"Yes," Lisa said.
"You mind if I poke around?"
"I guess not," Lisa said. The sick feeling subsided if no one mentioned, whoever it was they weren't talking about any more.
Lisa led Kat upstairs and pulled down the attic stairs. The attic was cold but there wasn't much up there -- holiday decorations, boxes of books, and clothes that were out of season.
"I have a hunch, okay?"
"Sure," Lisa said vaguely.
Kat went up the steps and Lisa went to her bedroom. She got out her zafu and sat, thinking of little but the breath, sending blessings to her family, envisioning her mom and sister bathed in golden light.
"Are you sending metta?" Kat asked softly. She had something folded over her arm.
"How did you guess?" Lisa said, smiling. She felt a lot better.
"That's why you took that picture. I was on a case and you wanted a picture to help focus metta, you said."
"I took that picture?" Lisa said, shaking her head.
"Yeah, and then you sent me the copy," Kat said. "The metta worked, by the way. No one else died."
"No one else died? Is that what you said?" Lisa asked, aghast.
Kat nodded.
"Just what is it that you do?" Lisa asked.
"I stop things. Bad things," Kat said, utterly sincere.
Lisa had a flash of her son, from way back when they'd lived in the big house in Cicero, holding him tight, crying with joy that he was safe, that -- someone-- had stopped the bad things.
"I believe you," she said, softly, wondering what the memory was, what it meant, why it made her feel so grateful and furious and sad all at once.
"What did you find?" Lisa asked.
Kat didn't answer, she just took the thing off her arm and spread it out on the bed. It was a man's driving jacket, dark brown leather, old and worn. For some reason it made Lisa smile.
Kat was watching her closely. "Don't think too hard about it. Don't try to remember. Just touch the jacket and try to feel."
Lisa sat down on the bed and picked up the jacket. It was soft, but heavy and little stiff because the leather was so thick. She closed her eyes and let the peace of sitting and breathing wash through her. The coat felt right. It felt safe. She was so grateful. She loved him so much. Dean.
"Oh!" Lisa said, in shock.
"What?" Kat said.
Tears sprang into her eyes. "Dean! Oh god, how… how could I …" The ache swelled up inside but the smell of the coat filled her nostrils, the feel of it under her fingers, wouldn't let her mind slip away.
"I still … can't remember," she whispered to Kat, agonized.
There was a hole in her life, and it was massive, and she was just beginning to be able to feel the edges of it.
"We'll figure this out," Kat promised.
"Thank you," Lisa said, and when she closed her eyes, she could almost see the man she was missing.
author:
fannishlissgenre, characters: Gen -- Lisa meets Kat
spoilers/setting: s6/ early s7 timeline
rating: g
words: 2000
Summary: Kat calls Lisa, trying to get in touch with someone she insists Lisa should know.
Author's Note:This story is for
desertport, who requested something about Kat from Asylum 1.10, with the phrase "I dote on his very absence" (Merchant of Venice I.ii). The story of how she became a Hunter can be found in my Women of SPN story, Kat and the Case of the Cursed Campground, but you don't need to have read that to understand this.===
Lisa caught the phone on the fourth ring, hands still slightly damp. She hated calls when she was cooking.
The caller ID said "Katherine Powers" and gave a 540 area code. It seemed slightly familiar. Maybe an old yoga student?
She picked up. "Hello?"
"Hi, this is Kat. Is Dean there?"
The no-nonsense voice on the other end of the phone did sound familiar, but Lisa frowned.
"Sorry, wrong number," she said.
"Lisa?" the voice said, quickly.
"Yes?" she answered, confused.
"I'm sorry… it's just that my other numbers for Dean aren't working, and I really need to get in touch with him."
Lisa felt a churning ache set into her stomach, and tried to release a few calming breaths.
"I'm sorry, but I don't understand," Lisa said. "This is Lisa -- but I don't know any Dean. You must've made a mistake?"
"Lisa Braeden?" the voice said, clearly, but Lisa could hear the stress behind it.
"Yes, but…" Lisa said.
"Lisa, if, if he's moved on, at least just tell me the last number you have for him. Please."
The woman was clearly desperate. Lisa could almost envision the woman's frown, her clenched brows and cold hands tight on the phone.
"Why are you looking for him?" Lisa said. Paternity thing? Child support? Men were such bums. She'd never tried to contact Ben's father for a reason, and this was it. They couldn't be counted on.
"Hunter thing," Kat said. "Haha. Life or death you know." Her attempt at humor fell flat. She was deadly serious, Lisa could tell.
"Kath, I'm sorry, but I don't know any Dean. I'd help you if I could," Lisa said. "Really."
"You really -- hold on. Wait. Are you saying you don't know a Dean Winchester?"
"No, sorry," Lisa said. God, what a headache she had coming on.
"So, it's a pretty fair bet you don't remember me?"
"No, Kath, I'm sorry-- are you a yoga student? I've moved a couple of times in the past year or so, I'm sorry if I've lost track --"
"No. No, Lisa. Listen, this is bad. Really bad. At least -- is Ben okay?" The woman's voice was shaking now.
"Yes -- he's fine -- but how do you know Ben," Lisa said. Her temper was rising up. "Seriously."
"Uh…. I gotta think. I'll call you back."
Lisa stared at the phone in consternation as the line went dead. She shook her head. These vegetables weren't going to dice themselves, and she needed them in the oven pronto if they were going to be ready by suppertime. She turned her mind to beets and sweet potatoes; her headache faded and with it the memory of the mysterious call.
It was two days later when Lisa got home from the studio and about five minutes after she'd walked in when a loud knock came at the door. Lisa peered out the peephole. She hadn't always been this vigilant, but you never knew, did you?
It was a woman, a little older than a typical college student, with long blonde hair, thin, attractive -- fairly nondescript. No clipboard, so she wasn't looking for donations.
Lisa opened the door.
"Hello?"
"Lisa!" the woman smiled -- but just as soon as relief and recognition appeared in her warm brown eyes, it faded again.
"Can I help you?" Lisa asked.
"Can I help you, is the question," the woman muttered. "Hi. I'm Kat-- I called a couple days ago."
"Oh!" Lisa said. "I don't understand -- you're looking for some guy?"
Kat's eyes flashed as though Lisa had said something offensive. "I'm looking for Dean Winchester."
"I don't know…" Lisa said, annoyed by the woman's tone.
"Yes, you do. May I please come in?" the woman asked.
Lisa stared, her instincts at war. She felt a strong aversion to letting the woman in -- it felt like trouble. At the same time, she sensed that the trouble was something vitally important -- something she herself would care deeply about once she understood it. Lisa Braeden didn't run from trouble -- she'd long since learned to walk toward the cannons.
"Come on in," she said. "Can I get you some tea or anything?"
"Gosh, yes," the woman said, "and please call me Kat."
"Okay, Kat," Lisa smiled and in a few minutes they were seated at Lisa's kitchen counter, Lisa drinking rooibos and Kat with Earl Grey, and some oatmeal cookies that Lisa had just made the day before.
"Your cookies are fantastic," Kat said, nibbling, "I made the ginger molasses…your recipe…" She broke off, frowning.
Lisa frowned, too, rubbing at her forehead. That headache was coming back. Liz had persuaded her to go for an MRI, but they hadn't found anything. She told herself it was something to do with the collision -- whiplash -- something her chiropractor hadn't been able to work through, yet.
"Just spill it, whatever it is," Lisa said, rubbing her temple, eyes closed against the light.
"Dean Winchester," Kat whispered.
There was a flash of whiteness in Lisa's mind -- a noise like the roar of an old car, a whiff of leather, the calloused touch of a man's strong hand holding hers -- terror, sorrow -- then whiteness, nothing.
"Lisa?" Kat said.
"What? I'm sorry, I must've been … thinking of something else. You were saying?" Lisa said.
"Cristo," Kat said clearly.
"I know, right? The way he physically transforms the environment into a work of art -- mimicking industrialization and sprawl, but with an artistic vision…"
"Yeah, exactly," Kat said, vaguely, still frowning.
"I'm sorry, this headache… " Lisa mumbled.
"Lisa, do you ever feel like -- something's missing?" Kat said.
Lisa stared. "How do you mean?"
Kat twined her hands together on the counter. They were strong hands, plain, hardworking. Lisa liked Kat even though she made no sense.
"You know a man, Dean Winchester. He lived with you for over a year, in Cicero."
Cicero. The headaches had started then…. the year was blur… it seemed to have flown by -- a mixture of work and routine and nothing else.
Lisa smiled grimly at Kat, shaking her head. "I think if I'd lived with someone for a year I'd remember it."
Kat pursed her lips, frustrated. "He's in trouble, Lisa. You loved him, once, I know you did. You still would -- but something's happened. Don't you even care?"
Lisa took a deep breath. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Okay," Kat said, with a deep sigh. "Brace yourself."
Lisa gave Kat a bemused look, but obligingly gripped the counter.
Kat took out her phone and started flipping through the photos. "Okay, this is from summer 2010, when I came to get his help on a case --"
"What kind of case?" Lisa said. Headcase, most likely, she thought to herself.
"Just look --" Kat said, and passed the phone to Lisa.
Lisa couldn't process what she was seeing. It was her own kitchen table, the same old sturdy wooden table that she'd lugged through move after move, ever since her mom had downsized and passed it on to her. The tabletop was littered with papers, heavy old books, a laptop, beer bottles, and there was her favorite melamine serving platter full of her signature ginger molasses cookies. It was Kat -- she was sitting at Lisa's own table. Beside her sat --- someone-- toasting the camera, a thick silver ring glinting on his finger --
"Who is that?" Lisa whispered, that old pain ringing in her forehead, her gut, her heart.
"Oh Lisa," Kat said, her voice full of sorrow. "I want to help you. I'm gonna figure this out, I swear."
Lisa stared at the picture on the phone, noticing the way --her eyes jumped from detail to detail -- the bottles of El Sol, the cookies, the tired but determined smile on Kat's face, the glint of the silver ring -- but Lisa couldn't look at the man's face. She physically couldn't. It was like staring into the sun-- the only thing there was whiteness.
"Why can't I see -- " she whispered. "What's wrong with me?" The ache rattled Lisa. She couldn't breathe through it. It hurt.
"Your memories have been tampered with," Kat said. "Very thoroughly. You can't even see him, can you?"
Lisa shook her head.
"You have any photos from that last year in Cicero?" Kat asked.
"No, they were on the computer -- it crashed…"
"Wow," Kat said.
"You have an attic?" Kat said suddenly.
"Yes," Lisa said.
"You mind if I poke around?"
"I guess not," Lisa said. The sick feeling subsided if no one mentioned, whoever it was they weren't talking about any more.
Lisa led Kat upstairs and pulled down the attic stairs. The attic was cold but there wasn't much up there -- holiday decorations, boxes of books, and clothes that were out of season.
"I have a hunch, okay?"
"Sure," Lisa said vaguely.
Kat went up the steps and Lisa went to her bedroom. She got out her zafu and sat, thinking of little but the breath, sending blessings to her family, envisioning her mom and sister bathed in golden light.
"Are you sending metta?" Kat asked softly. She had something folded over her arm.
"How did you guess?" Lisa said, smiling. She felt a lot better.
"That's why you took that picture. I was on a case and you wanted a picture to help focus metta, you said."
"I took that picture?" Lisa said, shaking her head.
"Yeah, and then you sent me the copy," Kat said. "The metta worked, by the way. No one else died."
"No one else died? Is that what you said?" Lisa asked, aghast.
Kat nodded.
"Just what is it that you do?" Lisa asked.
"I stop things. Bad things," Kat said, utterly sincere.
Lisa had a flash of her son, from way back when they'd lived in the big house in Cicero, holding him tight, crying with joy that he was safe, that -- someone-- had stopped the bad things.
"I believe you," she said, softly, wondering what the memory was, what it meant, why it made her feel so grateful and furious and sad all at once.
"What did you find?" Lisa asked.
Kat didn't answer, she just took the thing off her arm and spread it out on the bed. It was a man's driving jacket, dark brown leather, old and worn. For some reason it made Lisa smile.
Kat was watching her closely. "Don't think too hard about it. Don't try to remember. Just touch the jacket and try to feel."
Lisa sat down on the bed and picked up the jacket. It was soft, but heavy and little stiff because the leather was so thick. She closed her eyes and let the peace of sitting and breathing wash through her. The coat felt right. It felt safe. She was so grateful. She loved him so much. Dean.
"Oh!" Lisa said, in shock.
"What?" Kat said.
Tears sprang into her eyes. "Dean! Oh god, how… how could I …" The ache swelled up inside but the smell of the coat filled her nostrils, the feel of it under her fingers, wouldn't let her mind slip away.
"I still … can't remember," she whispered to Kat, agonized.
There was a hole in her life, and it was massive, and she was just beginning to be able to feel the edges of it.
"We'll figure this out," Kat promised.
"Thank you," Lisa said, and when she closed her eyes, she could almost see the man she was missing.
