[ They've only met once, months ago, when the Winchesters turned up in New York on a case that she happened to be on the fringes of. It was weird as hell, something tugged at the edge of her memory at the mention of monsters but Beverly never did get the full story. Tom shouldered his way into what appeared to be a routine interview and turned Dean and his brother away before she could. (Tom never did like her talking to other men. Never liked how they looked at her; or, worse, how she looked at them, which is how she looked at anyone else. Normal.) They weren't real FBI agents — though in hindsight maybe the badges are what spooked her husband then — but the number on the business card had been real enough.
Call us if you think of anything else. Or if you need help, the subtext seemed to say. (She was always looking for help, those days.) She never called, but she kept the number saved to her phone as a nail salon after. Just in case. But the night she leaves Tom and hides out at Kay's for a few hours, she scrolls to the number and texts it. She doesn't know why. Maybe just to tell someone, anyone, outside her circle that she did it. Make it real.
Hi, this is Beverly Rogan Marsh. It's 2 months late but I just wanted to apologize for my shitty husband and also I left him and I'm going home.
And then she went back to Derry. And when her husband began blowing up her phone with angry calls and Pennywise began blowing up their lives in general, she switched it off and forgot about it for three days while she and the Losers took care of business. And now it's the middle of the night, they're grimy and exhausted and hunkered down at the hospital with Eddie in surgery, and Beverly digs her phone out of her backpack and switches it back on. Dozens of missed calls from Tom. She blocks him, feeling nothing. And a few messages from —
Oh. Dean.
Hey, sorry, she replies, was busy killing a monster which would be a joke to anyone else but she knows, now, that what the Winchesters were doing in New York was very real. As real as what they'd just done. And she doesn't know how to talk about it, it's so fucking insane she feels like one of her nightmares came true and in a lot of ways, they did, but it's all real and maybe this is literally the only guy who could possibly understand and before she realises it, she's sitting on the floor of an empty corridor, sticky with dried blood, her phone pressed to her ear, and it rings only twice before — ]
Oh, [ she says faintly, surprised, like he'd called her instead of the other way around. Then she laughs, breathless and brittle with exhaustion. ] Hi, um... How are you?
( despite the hundreds of people they've met on cases over the years, dean rarely forgets a name. maybe because that's how john raised him, always mindful to catalog his surroundings, including the people in them (their names, what they're wearing, what they look like, just in case). or maybe it's because when he puts on the suit he puts on a different version of himself, the one with a flashy badge that repeats your name to memorize it in case it's important for a followup, not because he actually cares about the person behind the name.
it had been slightly different with beverly. dean's gotten better at professionalism, for the most part, but he'd taken one look at beverly marsh and most of professional restraint had flown straight out the window. (never mind the fact that he knew she was married, or the bitchy looks sam kept throwing at him sidelong.) sometimes, a man can't help himself from finding a beautiful woman attractive. it was only natural that he up the charm to eleven, though any attempts at flirtation had been rudely interrupted by beverly's insidious husband whom dean had been two seconds away from clocking before sam dragged his ass out of their extremely fancy new york home.
that was months ago, which feels more like two years ago with everything that's been going on. he honestly hadn't expected to hear back from her, not with a husband like tom.
but then the text comes, and she says she's leaving him and then ... going home, wherever that is. he shoots back:
you've got nothing to apologize for, beverly and for what it's worth, good riddance you okay?
he tries not to let it bother him when he doesn't hear back. it doesn't mean anything, they're practically strangers, right? but he's seen the kind of man tom is, the kind of power he has. another day passes and dean starts to worry. sam has to convince him they don't have enough time to just drive to maine on a feeling (it wasn't hard to figure out beverly marsh's hometown), that maybe her phone died or the reception in derry is shitty. dean relents, but only because the cases keep coming, and sam is probably right.
a few days later, his phone lights up with her name and he feels a brief release of tension in his shoulders. he can't help but laugh at her excuse, because, well — in his book, it's a pretty damn good one. and then he realizes she's calling and he has to fumble with the volume on his stereo before — )
Hey, long time. ( he sounds about as surprised as she does, but there's a certain quality of giddiness to his voice that's been present in his demeanor ever since their last case. which — ) It's gonna sound crazy, but I'm good. I killed Hitler.
( which almost sounds like a joke, except that dean would never joke about killing hitler. because that's totally a thing he did and he's never going to stop bragging about it, even to someone he met once two months ago and hasn't spoken to since. )
[ Even in just a couple days, Beverly's felt her bravery come rushing back. And maybe she isn't ready to admit everything about her life after Derry, not even to the other Losers, but she is ready to start reaching out to people again. Especially the ones who showed her some fleeting kindness or warmth, who seemed to see her for who she was and her marriage for what it wasn't. She feels she owes it to herself to reconnect, build something out of the lifelines offered to her, even from strangers. Yeah, Dean had flirted with her and she'd been too paralysed to offer anything but her help on their case in return. But the Winchesters listened to her and genuinely took her faltering words to heart. (How they died, it wasn't an accident; I don't know how I know, it's just a feeling, I guess, or a dream?) There must be a reason. Even if that reason is more Pennywises going bump in the night.
This chat is her tentative first step as a woman more whole than the one they'd met before. And that woman, this new-old Beverly Marsh, needs help making sense of the past few days — no, years.
If she had stayed with Tom, trapped in his crushing fist, Dean might have never heard from her again and she never would have looked up and seen the world for what it was. Beverly's always kept her head down, never drew attention for fear of punishment, and if anyone tried to intervene in her marriage out of concern, she'd brush off all attempts. Their public facade was important — but in a few short weeks, it's going to be blown wide open and she's going to take control of her life again.
Only right now, she is so goddamn tired. That goal seems so far away. Her mind feels fuzzy with the swirl of returning memories, sick with grief over Stan and worry for Eddie. So when Dean tells her about Hitler, voice warm and buoyant even at ass o'clock in the morning, she can't help it: She laughs. ]
Yeah? [ Beverly doesn't know if it's a joke. But borderline delirious amusement bubbles under her hushed voice all the same. ] So that's where our taxpayer dollars are going. Good work, Agent... Rose.
[ (Fake) FBI putting out hits on Hitler, ordinary people taking down a killer clown. Sure, just a normal week. She squeezes her eyes shut and rests her forehead on her knees; every breath tastes metallic with old blood. ]
I'm sorry, [ she starts again, quiet and strained. ] I don't know why I called. I just — it's, it's been, um... [ Her exhale is shaky, her world narrows to the voice on the other end of the line, so far removed from the circle of the Losers Club. ] A long day. And I thought...
[ A beat, then she changes tack and tries again with a bit more levity. ]
How'd you kill Hitler? Time travel?
[ She's humouring him. She doesn't know if this is a joke. But he probably thought her killing a monster was a joke, so she'll keep it going if he wants. Maybe it'll be a nice distraction. ]
( he almost forgets which alias he'd used until she calls him agent rose — and, really, at this point, he should correct her. she brought up monsters first, after all. and there are a thousand things he wants to ask about that, like what kind and why the hell it hadn't ended up on their radar, except that would be walking right into a can of worms he's not sure he should open yet (even if she might already have her suspicions about what he and his brother do for a living). he could still tell her his name, but that might be just as complicated (his "reputation" doesn't often precede him outside of fringe circles or true crime enthusiasts, but always better to be safe than sorry).
still, he can't help but laugh at taxpayer dollars. maybe it's easier to let her think this is some kind of x-files bullshit for now. it might be slightly more palatable to think the government has a secret branch of the fbi that deals in the paranormal rather than just a couple of dudes in flannel who have taken it upon themselves to kill what goes bump in the night (with a dash of preordained bullshit from heaven and hell).
he opens his mouth to say as much, but then she's apologizing and dean's not really sure what to do with that. she sounds like she's really been through the ringer (fighting monsters tends to do that, especially if it's baby's first hunt). there's concern that curls inside his chest, automatic, instinctual, a flare of something fiercely protective. )
Hey, listen, you don't gotta — ( apologize, he means to say, but she cuts him off, switching gears back to hitler. and as much as dean hasn't shut the fuck up about it, he finds he almost doesn't want to talk about it right now. but if it helps her work through whatever she's going through or gives her enough of a distraction to cope, he wouldn't deny her that. he knows a thing or five about using distractions to cope with all the shit he's seen (experienced, done). ) Uh. No. ( a huff of a laugh. ) No, you're definitely not gonna believe me, but — two words: Nazi Necromancers.
[ Is it easier to believe the FBI kills monsters rather than a couple of regular guys flashing fake badges? She doesn't know. Maybe the latter is actually more comforting to grasp because the thought of her being unable to tell real law enforcement about her husband while they were right in front of her feels — shameful. But then again, why else would she keep this number for weeks, if not mustering the strength to call for help someday? (Maybe she was preparing to leave Tom long before Mike called her home.) Because even with all their strange questions about the supernatural and Beverly confessing to some unsettling dreams they seemed to take seriously, surely she didn't think she'd ever call about... monsters. But — here they are. Monsters are real. There are people who fight them, have made a life fighting them, she feels sure of that guess somehow. Whether or not she knows their real names along with that truth is up to them. She knows his name is Dean, that's enough for right now. Someone on the outside but in the know.
But how crazy would Losers Club Amateur Hour sound to a couple of pros? She doesn't even know how to explain. She wants to, though, if only to get her thoughts straight, but she's so hollowed out from the aftermath that her words are running away from her, no linear path, and poor Dean's left to try and follow. Beverly can hear the end of that unfinished sentence (you don't gotta apologise, when she's done it all her life; when was the last time she's heard something so kind?) and barrels forward anyway, thoughts and words tumbling over each other, no real sense of what's right side up.
Is Hitler seriously the best distraction she can latch onto right now? Guess so. Why the fuck not. They just defeated a cosmic eldritch horror in a sewer! Dean's talking about Nazi Necromancers. Oh God, she's laughing, it bubbles out of her aching chest before she can stop it.
It's not funny. She feels like crying. But — ]
No, I — you're right, I would've called bullshit two days ago, [ she manages, scrubbing at her gritty eyes with the heel of her palm, hushed and choked through with a chuckle. Something like a chuckle. Like Mrs Kersh said: Nobody who dies in Derry ever really dies. Jesus fucking Christ. ] But now I'm... I'm not so sure. I mean, why not. The Nazis were pretty messed up. Makes sense.
[ It doesn't. None of this makes any goddamn sense! Ben thinks he saw Hocksetter driving Bowers' getaway car, and the guy had died when they were kids. Mrs Kersh was definitely dead. Beverly's only just remembered hearing the voices of all the dead kids whispering out of her bathroom sink when she was a girl. Yeah, no, this is easier. She hunches up against the wall, lowers her voice even more despite the empty hallway. ]
So you, uh, stopped the second coming of... zombie Hitler? Do I say congrats or thank you?
[so we're not sure how exactly they joined forces or what it is exactly that they're fighting against, but we here fam. are they zombies? is it the clickers?? could it be some weird hybrid of both??? (though if we're being completely honest joel is hoping that it's not that.) who knows! all that he does know is that whatever it is was dead and should have stayed dead.
though, thankfully they have come across a nice lull killing whatever the fuck it is they're killing. it's a shame joel isn't used to teaming up with someone who doesn't actively want to kill him either. (whether it be for his clothes/looting purposes/or the fact that he killed someone he shouldn't have) but if we're being honest, we're not sure why he hasn't gotten the fuck out of dodge. but he is leveling you a long stare, dean.]
[ She's leaning up against a rental parked outside the bunker when the boys come back from a hunt, down two cigarettes (judging by the butts stamped out on the hard-packed earth) and halfway through a third; anxious or simply passing the time — hard to tell at first. Beverly showing up unannounced is unusual especially since she keeps in regular contact with Dean, but she's impulsive when the mood strikes right and in the 24 hours since they last spoke, he put down a tulpa and she packed a bag and flew outta New York to Kansas.
She tells them, over takeout and drinks, that she just needed a break. Her ugly and very public divorce was finalised after months and the media circus surrounding it hasn't died down. So she asks if she can just camp out for a week or two, just to breathe — because if the bunker can withstand monsters then she definitely can hide out from the press with no one figuring it out. (The Losers are covering for her if anyone asks.) And it's gonna be nice being out in the middle of nowhere, a drive away from a small town where no one could give a damn about some designer from New York much less recognise her at the grocery. It'll be nice not having a schedule. And it's especially nice seeing Dean.
It's usually weeks between each little rendezvous and often for no longer than a day or two. So it's really no surprise that even though she's been given her pick of the guest rooms, she winds up slipping into his late in the evening, studying the space with an idle interest while he's in the shower. They've always been together at her place; he's intimately familiar by now with her bedroom, her kitchen, the nooks and crannies where he's warded it against anything that goes bump in the night. This is her first time here and it feels deeply personal, which is why she looks but doesn't touch. Not without invitation. (That's something they've understood about each other since the first time they slept together.)
She's sitting on the edge of his bed when he comes in, comfortable in sweats and a tank top, red hair loose and a little longer than it was when they saw each other last. ]
Hey, [ she says at first, soft and fond and not even remotely sheepish. Her gaze flickers over him, taking in the bathrobe, towel around his shoulders, damp hair. Her lips press into a smile. ] I let myself in. Hope you don't mind.
[ In the moments between her words and whatever he answers with, she's crossed the space between them, walking him back against the door until there's nowhere else to go, hands curling into the front of his robe as she leans up for a kiss. She'd wanted to do it the second she saw him outside, but she was being polite. Had kept it to a hug, a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. This, behind closed doors, is hungrier; needier. Fuelled by a long day and an even longer stretch of weeks before it. This one says it's been a long time and I want you. Tall and broad as he is, she pins him neatly with her body, one hand releasing fabric to skate higher, cupping his jaw as she deepens the kiss, just a touch, before she breaks away.
( when dean sees bev outside the bunker from the window of the impala, his first instinct is mild panic. if she was coming to visit, wouldn't she have texted? what the hell happened that she drove all the way out here without saying anything? he assumes something must be wrong, that it must be something bad — and it is, sort of. but not as bad as dean was imagined it to be. the only monster in this story is bev's shitty ex-husband, and after an even nastier divorce, dean's more than willing to let her camp out in the bunker for a while. as long as she needs. it'll be nice to have her around, to not have to drive two hundred miles just to see her. and this way sam can't complain about dean going out of their way for a girl. the way dean sees it, this will finally give sam and bev ample opportunity to bond or whatever.
of course, he can't promise they'll be at the bunker with her the whole time — cases crop up and sometimes they have to go, but he does at least make an effort to contact hunters who might be in the area to take the job if the case is more than a couple states over so they won't have to bail and leave her alone for the few days they'd be gone (sometimes sam takes a case on his own when he needs to get out, or when he feels like he needs to give them their privacy, as if they aren't all adults who can keep it in their pants long enough to make it to the bedroom). he's sure she'd be fine on her own, but he'd feel more comfortable staying at the bunker with her when he can, showing her around what little lebanon has to offer. he even takes her into lawrence one afternoon, gives her the grand tour of his hometown, drives her past his old house, tells her stories about his brief childhood there, treats her to dinner and a movie. if he thought about it long enough, he might even consider it a date.
it's already late when he and sam get back from taking care of a haunting out in, ironically, winchester, about a three hour drive from lebanon, and all he really wants to do is hit the shower, scrub the dirt and ectoplasm out of his hair, rinse off the sweat of gravedigging. he checks in with bev before he goes, just to let her know they're back and if he doesn't see her before he's out to have a good night.
he doesn't expect to find her in his room when he gets back. or, well — maybe part of him had hoped that he would. still, she catches him a little off guard, still scrubbing the towel at his damp hair. he lets it drop when she smiles, feels the corners of his mouth twitching upward at the sight of her. )
Hey. ( honestly, it's always a nice surprise to see a woman waiting for him. his mouth curves all the way into a self-satisfied smile, and he's on his way to saying something sarcastically charming, but she's already on her way to him, closing the distance, pushing him against the door, her mouth against his before he the words have time to form. he doesn't mind, of course, smiles against her lips as he leans into her, his hands sliding over her hips to grab at her ass, two seconds away from hauling her up against him and depositing her on his bed. he's still thinking about it when she pulls away, her breath warm between them. i missed you.
god. he's missed her too. it hasn't even been that long. still. ) I could say the same. ( he kisses her again, softer, almost sweetly, betraying the hunger coiling in his belly, though neither is less true because of it. it's only been a few months since they started this ... whatever it is — dean hesitates to call it a relationship because he's never been very good at those, and, frankly, being in a relationship only makes things more complicated — but he can't deny he feels something for bev, something beyond basic attraction, something that keeps him coming back and not just for the sex. she understands him in a way no woman ever has, which, in his line of work, is pretty damn rare for someone not in the business of hunting monsters. trauma does that to people.
it makes him think about cassie every now and then — the first woman he was ever in love with, the first person he told about being a hunter — and then he remembers how that ended, with a promise he could never make good on. (sometimes, he still thinks about going to see her again, but it's been too long and they've both moved on. it's for the better not to dig up old graves.) he tries not to think about lisa — a year away from the life, a year without sam, a year of playing house and pretending to be someone he's not, living a life that was never supposed to be his — and how badly that ended, because it was the only way to keep her and ben safe. it's the last thing he ever wants to happen again.
but bev has been through it, and not because the winchesters brought the monsters to her doorstep. she may not be a hunter, but she knows what's out there now and she's kicked its ass. would he go all in if she asked him to? probably. there's a possibility they could make this work, but dean's been around the block enough times to know there's a better chance he'd fuck it up if it got more serious than it is now. and right now he just wants to enjoy this. enjoy her.
his voice drops, sultry, almost a whisper. ) You know, you didn't have to wait for me. I would've liked the company. ( which sounds as much like an invitation for next time as any. his mouth wanders toward her ear, a kiss pressed along her neck just below the lobe. ) Ain't exactly what I imagined you seducing me in, but I ain't complaining.
[ It's a pleasant surprise, the natural rhythm they fall into within days of her arrival, and she's infinitely grateful for it — the space they allow her, the way they've welcomed her into theirs, how Sam is warm and easy to talk to, how Dean is protective without being overbearing (in the way that would set her teeth on edge; it's so unlike the way other men in her life watched her every move). Because yeah, it's only been a few months of this between them and it should scare her with how easy it's been to slide into it, but between the chaos are the stretches of the completely mundane and it's like the tension in her chest just melts away with it: trips into town, long drives, quaint mom and pop diners, a hometown tour. (She liked that afternoon the best, knowing not everyone had someplace as shitty as Derry as the backdrop to their childhood.) Hell, they even stopped by a secondhand shop so she could pick up a sewing machine, fixed it right up while Dean sat across and cleaned his gun. It's almost surreal if she lets herself think on it too long, the balance they've struck despite the vast differences in their lives. Dean carries a lot of weight and she can see it — like recognises like, even if her past doesn't bear the same load — and if her being here eases it for the both of them, well. She's glad.
Beverly wouldn't go as far as saying she's letting herself play pretend here, she knows a respite from her own life doesn't mean one for the Winchesters, but she does appreciate slowing down in her own way. And she can't stay idle for too long, anyway, even with the work she makes for herself; she finds herself jumping into the research (it's fascinating as hell, she can't wait to tell Mike), sometimes getting looped into the occasional fraudulent phone call. (Her FBI supervisor voice is very good.) She's asked to learn how to shoot, too. Ever since Tom and the clown, she'd taken up self-defense classes in New York. And the bunker has a range, so why not step it up? Really, she likes the feeling of finally having control — of her own life, of situations she finds herself in.
Like this one right now, wrapped up in Dean's arms with his breath warm over the shell of her ear. It's enough to send a thrilling shiver down her spine even as she laughs, equal parts delighted and amused and entirely into it, wow. ]
Yeah? [ To the first part and the second. Her chin lifts a fraction, as much part of her quip as it is to bare her throat to his wandering lips. The hand on his chest releases his robe to slide under it, cool palm to warm skin and steady heartbeat. Her tone flutters with teasing. ] Sweatpants not doing it for you? Guess I left the good stuff back in New York.
[ She turns her head to press a kiss to whatever bit she can reach: temple, the sharp angle of cheekbone, lips curving into a smile against him. Her voice lowers. ]
Tell me what you imagined during your solo shower and I might make it up to you.
( it's definitely not the first time they've done this since bev showed up practically on their doorstep — and it most certainly won't be the last — but every time with her feels unique, like every time he learns something new about her (maybe even learns something new about himself, too). not just the way her body feels, reacts, responds to his touch, but the array of different laughs she has; the way his name comes out hoarse around the edges when she's close; the way she looks at him with that fierce confidence in her eyes when she rides him into the mattress because she's never had that much control before; the way his chest swells when he looks at her smile in the afterglow.
his hands travel up her back, pushing under the hem of her shirt, following the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist. he bites at the soft skin just above her collarbone, sucking at it until it blooms under his mouth, soothes it over with his tongue. )
You're telling me you, Beverly Marsh, fashion designer extraordinaire, came all this way to see me and conveniently forgot to pack any lingerie? ( he finds that hard to believe. still, his mouth meets hers again, tongue slipping past her lips, one hand brushing over the plane of her torso and further down still, beyond the waistband of her sweatpants. maybe he is a little disappointed to find something other than satin or lace, but it's a fleeting thought that's easily overtaken by the warmth of her under his palm as he presses against her.
he pulls back from her lips just barely, enough to look her in the eyes when he tells her exactly what he imagined during that shower, the air hot between them. ) I was thinking...
( he's already half hard under the robe, desperate for contact, friction, anything. but tonight feels slow, lazy, and as much as it'll drive him wild, he won't regret it for a moment. )
About you, those hands of yours, wishing it was you touching me, working out all that tension, how good it feels, how good you make me feel, Bev. How good I could make you feel, on my knees, lapping you up until you tremble, breathless, barely able to say my name.
[ He's absolutely right: Beverly Marsh, fashion designer extraordinaire, did no such thing. Just because her decision to book a last minute flight out of New York was impulsive doesn't mean it wasn't well-thought out. (Be rude to show up without a host's gift, huh.) There are a few choice pieces tucked in the drawers of her guest room, simple and delicate designs that sit better under a cocktail dress than borrowed flannel and jeans — maybe that's the point. Maybe she's just waiting for the right bit of downtime to get a little dressed up with nowhere to go. As a treat. If she wasn't so goddamn distracted by what his mouth is doing, she'd tell him that; tell him about plunging, curving lines in deep emerald lace and how he'd have to be so damn careful peeling them off her one by one. To go slow, to feel her watching him do it. She knows the strength in his hands; she loves when they're tempered by gentleness.
Like now. Fuck. Her eyes flutter closed with a soft exhale, savouring the press of his lips to her throat, the glide of callused fingertips down her spine, ticklish when they dip to her lower back; she arches reflexively into him with a quick inhale, whatever quip she had lost in the heat of his mouth when they kiss again. God, this isn't the first time they've done this but the rush is always just like it; he still manages to make her feel lightheaded and even if she's got him pinned, he's the one holding her steady in his arms. There's no place better.
When the kiss breaks, her eyes drift open to half-mast, blown with arousal and barely ringing bright blue. Their noses brush, she can count every freckle when they're this close, her breath as quick as her heartbeat as she listens to him. Not sure if it's the words or the low rumble of his voice that makes heat curl low in her belly.
(It's both. Her thoughts go spinning off to the shower, bodies slick, skin to bare skin. The hand on his chest slides lower, skating over broad planes of muscle, curving over his bare hip. How tightly tied is that robe, Dean Winchester?) ]
Yeah, you love that. Doing that to me. [ She brushes her lips over his, teasing for another kiss, voice a bare whisper. ] I think about it when you're gone. Riding your mouth, my hands in your hair. You're so good at it, and you look... God. [ She breathes in, her hand drifting lower, squeezing his ass. ] So good doing it. That what you were doing in there? Working out all that — tension — without me?
[ Her gaze flickers over him, searching, the corners of her mouth curving into a smile. The hand caressing his face shifts, her thumb tracing over the swell of his bottom lip. ]
( how tightly is that robe tied? not very tight at all, it seems; the belt loosens as her hand passes under the plush fabric, pushing it open further when she reaches his hip. he really can't be blamed for not tying it any tighter. how could he have known she'd be feeling him up once he got back to his room? if he had known, he might not have bothered with the robe at all, would've waltzed back in wearing nothing but a towel.
he draws her in closer, his hand traveling upward again, brushing against her skin under the fabric of her shirt, palming her breast, kneading it gently under his hand. with nothing left between their hips, he wants her to feel how hard he is already, pressing into her thigh, the thrill of her words pooling hot and low in his abdomen. he laughs breathily, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk. )
Please, I'm just getting started. We've got all night for you to tire me out.
( which sounds a lot like a challenge, and maybe it is. he hasn't had this much physical contact with anyone in two months and he's starved for it; he'd let her do anything to him at this point, whatever she wants, just to feel her doing it. not that he wouldn't have before, but there's something more intense, more intimate about it now that she's touching him like this for the first time since they last saw each other in november. (as much as it would have passed the time, he hadn't exactly been doing a lot of jacking off in government solitary. he's all about putting on a show for the camera, but considering his fantasies usually involve bev these days, he definitely hadn't wanted to give them anything they could have potentially used against him. bev wouldn't have been a lot to go on, but it's better not to underestimate the power of the secret service.)
so to call the last two months a dry spell is a little bit of an understatement; it was practically the fucking sahara of getting none and he's been desperate for it ever since he laid eyes on her bundled up outside the bunker. the fact that they've even made it out of his room long enough to do anything but find new ways of moaning each other's names is a fucking miracle in itself. he almost feels bad about subjecting to sam to his perpetual sex hair and afterglow attitude, but sam's a big boy who can deal with his older brother having an active and healthy love life. after the shit they've been through recently, dean fucking deserves the amount he's getting laid — and if sam really wanted to, he's just as capable of putting on his own night moves (not that there are a lot of options in lebanon, unless sam is suddenly into gilfs).
dean leans into her hand, chasing her thumb to catch it between his lips, sucking at it with the flat of his tongue. he gazes down at her through long eyelashes, his green eyes bright with adoration and want. )
Plenty of tension left to work out, too. ( he leans in to meet her mouth, gently nudging them away from the wall as he kisses her. ) What're you feeling? Whatever you want, babe, you got it.
[ That dry spell went both ways. Of course the memories of their handful of sunlit days spent together in November sustained her through the holidays — she's not sure she stopped blushing for days after he left at just the thought of what they got up to together, tangled in each others' arms and in her bed. (God, it had been a difficult necessity, washing her sheets after he'd gone; she loved turning her face into her pillows, breathing in the last traces of him as her hand drifted between her thighs.) But the heat of it faded the longer they went without speaking, the more her worry and maybe even a flash of hurt began to replace the warm glow in her chest. But that spark, well, it never faded — hell, it's been rekindled in the days since their reunion, brought to roaring life by the way their hands and mouths trail fire and friction and desire in their wake. He kisses her thumb and her stomach swoops seeing his lips wrap around it, giving her ideas. Fuck.
God, yeah, she's missed him. Body and soul. His laugh, the fondness in his gaze, the reverent way he caresses and kisses her. Even now, cupping her breast in his callused palm and holding her flush to his broad form as they cross the room as their lips meet, she feels just like she did in her bedroom all those months ago: electric, moving too fast and too slow, that buzzing urge under her skin to get under his. He's asking her what she wants and fuck, she adores him for that, but as the backs of her knees hit the headboard, she's thinking back to working out that tension, thinking of the hot press of his desire against her belly, thinking how touch-starved they've both been but him especially.
Tonight does feel slow, languid. Indulgent. She didn't ambush him in his bedroom in the wake of a hunt just to have him do all the work. She's a polite, generous houseguest. ]
I want you... [ she murmurs, tipping her head to press an open-mouthed kiss to the fluttering pulse in his throat as her hand slides from his ass to between them, gliding down his stomach, ] to relax. [ Her lips begin to wander over his collarbone just as her hand wraps around his cock; she plants a kiss to his tattoo as she gives him a slow, deliberate stroke, waiting for the groan she knows will follow. ] Been a long night, huh?
[ She lifts her head just enough to look up at him through her lashes, eyes sparking with teasing and arousal. It's a check-in, nothing more, because then she leans back up to kiss him with a sweep of tongue just as she swipes the pad of her thumb — the same one he kissed — over the head of his cock before giving it another slick stroke. ]
( the groan rolls through him just as she expected it, and for a moment dean has to brace himself on the edge of the bed, one knee bent into the mattress, his face pressed into her hair. he meets her eyes when she turns to look at him, his heart beating wildly in the wake of the kiss pressed to the tattoo on his chest and the stroke of her hand. )
Yeah. Better now. ( he says, a little rough around the edges — and it's confirmation of something else, too, something closer to yeah, i want you. i want this. if his voice breaks in the back of his throat from the brush of her thumb over his cock, it gets swallowed by her kiss, searing through him, slowly fraying every nerve. she's barely even touched him and already his knees feel like they might give. maybe it's just the exhaustion of a rigorous hunt, or maybe that's just what she does to him. christ.
a low, breathy sound passes his lips, a huff of a laugh spreading through the thin air between them. it's hard to tell if he's laughing at himself or the fact that bev is surprising him all over again. ) Hold on a sec, huh? ( not to ruin the mood, but if he doesn't sit down they're gonna end up crashing into the bed when she makes his legs tremble — and he firmly has no doubt she's fully capable of making him weak at the knees. he leans in to steal another kiss, his hands drifting to her waist as he turns them in place, backing himself onto the edge of his mattress; it creaks faintly under his weight. in the shift, his robe has come undone, spread open, leaving him on full display, the waist belt hanging loosely at his sides. he should feel exposed, vulnerable, but he's never felt shame about sharing his body, especially not with someone he cares about, someone he knows understands him in a way no one else could. after all, his body is the one thing he's always had control over, even when everything around him felt impossibly out of control — and why the mark terrified him as much as it did.
he reaches out for her hand, the one she'd touched him with only moments ago, brushes his thumb over the back of it. )
You know you don't have to. ( which isn't the same as i don't want you to. hadn't she told him the same thing the first time they did this? you don't have to — or, i don't want you to feel obligated. he'd be more than happy to pull her in, let her sit on his lap, straddle him all the way, let her ride him until she unraveled; happy just to watch her take her pleasure of him, knowing he could give that to her. but the look in her eyes has a different intent, something dean has rarely experienced in all his years of one night stands and failed romances: it seems to say let me do this for you because i want to — and who would he be to deny her? he knows intimately the pride that comes with making someone else feel good, so of course he wants her to feel the same, wants her to be able to view this not as an obligation but a gift, something they can both share. something they can both enjoy. ) Ain't nothing wrong with missionary if you change your mind.
[ She feels him tremble against her and she feels pleased to elicit such a response, laughing with him — never at — into the kiss. She murmurs something like mmhmm when he tells her to wait, tipping her head to kiss at his jawline before he captures her lips again as they turn, savouring the softness of it and the way he smells like soap. Woodsy, a little, even if she knows he's showered off the gravesmoke. Fucking intoxicating — or maybe that's just Dean and her being so into him. When he breaks the kiss, she can't help chasing after it on his way down and she thinks hey, that's my move but then it clicks that they're slowing down for a reason and she blinks her way back to focus.
Granted, it's hard to focus when he's sitting there like that and looking up at her, so at ease with himself and with sharing his space with her, and God, his eyes. Beverly smiles as he reaches for her hand, skin tingling where he brushes the pad of his thumb over it. It's such a little thing but so painfully tender, it tempers the heat a little. And then — ]
I know. [ Soft, sweet. She lifts his hand to her lips, kissing his knuckles, murmuring against them. ] I want to, though. If that's okay.
[ She thinks a lot about that first time. Not just the way they burned for each other but the care in each brush of their hands and lips — is this okay; if it gets too much, we don't have to — and it's present here too, of course it is, it always is. It's only been a few months since their relationship turned intimate, physical, and even with most nights spent wrapped in each others' arms they're still learning how to read the moments in between the pounding heartbeats. Yes, she came to him in his room; yes, he kissed her back, whispered desires into her ear, but if the hunt left him more tired than he realised, Beverly wouldn't mind putting the brakes on this until morning. Until whenever. No shame, no awkwardness, no misgivings. The understanding is why they work and why she trusts him more than she has any man in her bed; she only wants to give him as much as he gives her.
Beverly leans down and kisses him again: forehead, cheekbone, the shell of his ear where she whispers, ] Just tell me what you like.
[ Because it's been a while and this is one of the first times she's actually wanted to do this. Like, really, really wants to do this. She slides the towel from around his neck and drops it to the floor; the robe's next, pushed back just enough to bare his shoulders to her wandering mouth — already trailing down the side of his throat, the slope where it meets the rise of his deltoid, his tattoo again until she can't bend over any more and has to kneel (on the towel, good thinking, Bev).
She doesn't touch him yet. Wants to draw this out. Her hands rest on his thighs instead, brushing back and forth as she tips her chin up to kiss him again, searing and slow with a slip of tongue; sometimes she trails her nails lightly up his sides, back down, ghosting his inner thighs, kissing him all the while. There's a thrill in making him feel good, making him unravel, and she's discovered the little things that earn his gasps. She wants to find more, explore him as he's explored her, helped her relearn her own body and enjoy it. He deserves that too. ]
[ Nothing is quite the same after the Flood. They lose a lot of buildings. People, too. It's as if Beacon gets torn asunder.
Little remains when all is said and done. Mostly the cabins in the old village, the church, the museum. Sam and Dean are still there, and for that Castiel is endlessly grateful. He doesn't wish this place on them, but... he knows what awaits him if he returns to his own universe. And he knows that as he is now, he will never meet them as they are now, either. Even if his own future runs the course they've been on rather than diverting. He might have Sam and Dean and home - but they would not be this Sam and Dean.
So... in a twisted, selfish way... he is glad for their continued existence.
In the aftermath, there is no sign of Dr. Solis. The lanterns remain, though now no one knows what death might bring. The bonfire is dim, and the world feels...smaller. Darker. More opressive. They soon realize it's become more dangerous, too. The benevolent spirits are gone. The ferry arrives, still, ominously silent and listing sideways in the dark water. It doesn't bring any new arrivals anymore, just supplies - necessities. Bare minimum food, the occasional weapon.
The forest has grown darker. The light has grown dimmer. In the dark sky, it feels like something is watching.
They make due, the three of them and what allies they have. They set up more rigid patrols along the forest, they shrink the hub of civilization down to keep people safe more easily. They hunt at the edges of the forest, making sure nothing can get too far in.
Stometimes, something gets too far in.
The church is dark and silent. The candles on the altar are incredibly dim. The trap door is silent. Castiel sits on a church pew next to Dean's body, a hand on his chest. Every now and then, he sends a small spark of grace through his palm - he can't heal Dean, but he doesn't know what else to do - they don't know if people come back without Dr. Solis. He's had to put Sam to sleep - they're both too worried, too exhausted.
Castiel keeps his vigil. Wills Dean to wake up, to live again. There are few lights left in the dark.
( the deaths of dean winchester have not always been kind; rarely so, in fact, because it simply isn't his lot to die without tragedy or pain or regret. he tells himself he's willing to die, to lay down his life for others, but if given a choice? if there were ever another way, would he still choose to die? there's so much work he has yet to do, so much life he has yet to live. the truth of the matter is: he never wants to die. but it's always been easier to lay down his own life if it means saving another's; his greatest value has always been his willingness to sacrifice, to go out in that blaze of glory. what better legacy is there?
dean winchester gave it all up for one man.
it hurts like hell this time — hurts like getting dragged to hell all over again, except, somehow, worse. it feels like being on the rack, being ripped apart bit by bloody bit, until there's nothing left but bits of bone, unrecognizable pieces of flesh. he screams until his throat is raw, until that too is torn from his body, claws desperately at the thing biting into him, but it's no use. the pain is everywhere, sharp as a thousand knives, like taking a dive into molten lava. and just before it all ends — the agony, the suffering, his will to fight seeping out of him like all the blood he's lost — he wonders if he deserves this.
he comes to with a ragged gasp. this part is familiar, too. only he isn't buried six feet under, doesn't have to claw his way out of the ground. there's just the church and the pews and the candles (less of them now, less than there have been in months) flickering dimly on the altar. the altar where everything went wrong, where he might have broken things irrevocably (because he wasn't ready, because he was scared, because faith is synonymous with love).
and then there's cas.
cas, who raised him from perdition, who fell for him, who has died for him, who he can't bear to live without — who he never should have pushed away.
he blinks wearily as his eyes focus in the dim light, but even blind he would know cas' presence, the weight of his hand, the warmth of his grace. )
Cas? ( hoarse, strained. he tries to sit up, but he only manages to reach out weakly, grabbing hold of cas' forearm. ) We gotta stop meeting like this.
[ Something old and rusted over moves in his chest, like a long abandoned machine reawakened, and even though Castiel does not need to breathe, he finds that he can breathe again.
Dean is back.
Dean is alive.
Castiel reaches out, makes it easier for Dean to hold onto his forearm. His fingers twitch momentarily, then curl inwards, a gentle glow and flow of warmth down into that chest, down to where he pulse meets the gentle push of Castiel's grace again. Alive. And all Castiel wants is to hold, to cherish.
The candle burns, still. That precious, fragile light holds, and Castiel wants and needs nothing more than to cup his hands around it, shelter it from the raging storm their existence has become. ]
[ It appears one day, without the warning. The strange rift in their wall, right by the wartable. It wasn't there, and then they return from a hunt and it's just... there.
It pulsates. It emanates a weird glow, and drifting particles like spore. It looks... somewhere between plant matter and flesh.
To call it weird would be an understatement.
And it happens fast, then. Before they can even think to call Cas or begin research, the strange tear in their wall pulses, glows. Strange sounds emerge, like faraway screams, and then pressure erupts outwards, like a blast wave, scattering papers and tossing chairs, before immediately being sucked inwards.
When it's all over, Sam who was standing closer to the rift, is no where to be seen, and the wall is smooth.
But standing right there is a child of perhaps 12 years, a little girl in a dirty, bloodied pink dress with a blue, much too large jacket. Her nose is bleeding heavily, so are her ears, and her wide brown eyes are wet with tears. Her hair is shorn short.
And then her eyes roll back and she folds in on herself, crumples like a puppet whose strings were cut, out like a light. ]
[ the night after the world faded away, the library's no more quiet that it usually is, the sound of sam's fingers tapping against his laptop, the glass clinking of dean's whiskey bottle touching down on the table (or the floor), and rustling of pages being turned in old tomes. yet, it feels more empty, like the air is lighter, like something's just missing. because it is - they all feel it. castiel is gone.
for a long while, dean's binge drinking is a spectator sport, sam mostly trying to ignore it, but jack keeps watch on him, glancing over now and again, perhaps to make sure he's still breathing and doesn't need to be rolled onto his side, once he's sprawled onto the floor. at some point, sam leaves, either to try getting some shut eye, or grabbing some food to inhale, and jack slips from his seat at the table, pacing over to one of the lounge chairs to pick up a blanket flung over the chair back. kneeling next to the intoxicated, groaning pile of hunter on the library floor, jack spreads the blanket out to cover him and sets a glass of water from the table down next to the empty whiskey bottle (now knocked over on its side). a gentle hand on dean's shoulder shakes him lightly, jack murmuring where he's knelt down next to him. ]
Dean.
[ please hydrate, dad. please take care of yourself, dad. or at least let jack take care of you, seeing as sam's preoccupied, and dean's other typical guardian - castiel - is, well. 'gone'. that was it, 'gone'. dean said he'd summoned the empty, but jack has a creeping feeling he knows how. the deal - the question is, what happened between cas and dean that finally made castiel allow himself to be truly happy?
he has an inkling. maybe it's that intuition castiel always told him he'd had, maybe it's some part of his powers and what he's becoming, or maybe he's just been watching these men circle around each other, drawn into one another's orbit, long enough that it isn't that difficult to guess. maybe he just knows his father. whatever it was, it left dean wrecked in a way jack's never seen him before, and something in his chest aches for the both of them. ]
Can I ask you something? [ legs folded under him, head bowed down nearly to dean's level, the kid's almost lying on the floor with him, his voice quiet and careful. ] About... Cas?
( cas is gone. cas saved him. (again. again. how many fucking times is it now? why can't dean ever save anyone when it's actually important?)
goodbye, dean echoes in his mind, the last thing cas said to him on an infinite and torturous loop. drinking helps dull that familiar voice, the one he wishes he could call back from the place of no return. (he almost believes it, too, because maybe knowing cas is really gone this time is easier to swallow than the hope that he might come back, that dean might be able to save him.) but they're out of options at the moment — stuck on an empty planet with nothing but dusty books and a bunker full of tennessee whiskey he's intent on imbibing until he can't feel a damn thing.
because that's always been his problem, hasn't it? he feels too damn much, all the time. good or bad. (you're the most caring man on earth.) and right now the depths of his despair are unknowable, even to him. cas may as well have dragged him into the empty with him, because that's exactly how he feels — only, he thinks, if he'd gone with cas, at least they'd be together. at least they could have sorted this out side by side, like they always have. but cas saved him, again, and some deeply ironic part of him wants to laugh and cry at the same time: it's not unlike purgatory, when cas shoved him through that portal, sacrificed himself so dean could live (something else he learned from dean, always ready and willing to take one for the team). and maybe that was all just a test, some fucked up lesson trying to convince him to let cas go. but he's never been very good at letting anything go, easier to push it all down and swallow it with another shot of jack.
he's long past shots — long past any sensible person's tolerance and still going. he doesn't want to think anymore, doesn't want to see cas' face in his head, the tears in his blue eyes like ripples on a lake. he can't fucking stand it, can't stand himself most of all. (cas wouldn't want him to, but he should have fucking known dean would blame himself. when has he ever not? if cas hadn't loved him, he'd still be here. if cas hadn't loved him, maybe the space in his chest reserved for cas and cas alone wouldn't feel so damn cold. so damn empty.)
the warmth of a blanket barely registers, his name as distant and foggy as his mind feels. he blinks sluggishly, groaning as he shifts to face jack — jack, who knew about the deal and never said anything, because cas didn't want him to. there's a bubbling resentment in his chest but he pushes it down just like he pushes down everything else. his eyes finally focus on the water jack set out for him and he mumbles something incoherent that might have been thanks before it got garbled from the intoxication. he reaches out to clap a lifeless hand on whichever part of jack is closest, a gesture that loosely translates to i know you're concerned, but i'm fine. he brings the glass of water to his lips as if to say, see? totally fine.
he's still floating in the in between of consciousness and blackout drunk when he realizes jack is asking him something. his eyes are glazed, having trouble focusing, but his blood turns cold at the sound of cas' name. it's sobering, uncomfortably so. his face creases hard, and at first it almost seems like he hadn't heard, or that maybe he just won't respond. but, eventually, he considers what cas meant to jack (what cas ultimately sacrificed for him, too). cas loved them both. he wouldn't have made the deal or sealed it otherwise. )
He's gone, Jack. What more is there to know? ( maybe he's stalling. or maybe he just can't bear to say it out loud. )
[ if any of that was supposed to reassure jack that dad #3 is fine, dean's missing the mark by a long stretch. intuitive as jack's always been, most of the time, dean's a mystery to him, but sometimes, like now, it's painfully clear.
jack isn't family still rings, bright and stinging and crippling, in the back of his mind, but he's come to see dean through castiel's eyes over the short years of his life. melded with cas once, before he was born, the love there was bright, like a beacon, a lighthouse on a battered coast. cas loved dean down to the individual atoms and molecules that he'd carefully pieced back together from hell. whether or not dean felt the same, jack could never tell - deciphering dean winchester has always been a difficult puzzle for him, but he tries.
careful, his hand covers dean's on the shoulder it landed on, and jack brings the other to pillow under his head where he's lying parallel to him on the cool library floor, a clock ticking away on a distant wall, the bunker otherwise silent. ]
Castiel, he said— [ saying his name hurts, a rawness in his throat, and jack misses him more than he can say. so much of what he knows about the universe, about life and free will and family and love he learned from castiel, and from sam and dean, but cas he knew before he was even truly alive. he was his first father, his guardian, his safe place, his home. what he meant to dean, jack will never completely know, but he knows the miserable ache and emptiness that's left behind, sees it clearly in attempts dean's making to look totally fine. if castiel can't be here to help dean keep his head above water, jack will do the best he can. ] He said he's still far from happy, that he didn't think it'd happen any time soon.
[ 'it', whatever 'it' was, that happened in a room with dean, cas, and death. whatever made cas so happy, so fulfilled, whatever castiel gave himself permission to finally do, to feel... jack thinks he knows, but dean has to say it. whisky won't drown it out of his head, he has to get it out. jack's voice goes soft, a whisper between them, the empty whisky bottle, and the library floor. it sounds almost like an apology. ]
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→ ring ring
Call us if you think of anything else. Or if you need help, the subtext seemed to say. (She was always looking for help, those days.) She never called, but she kept the number saved to her phone as a nail salon after. Just in case. But the night she leaves Tom and hides out at Kay's for a few hours, she scrolls to the number and texts it. She doesn't know why. Maybe just to tell someone, anyone, outside her circle that she did it. Make it real.
Hi, this is Beverly
RoganMarsh. It's 2 months late but I just wanted to apologize for my shitty husband and also I left him and I'm going home.And then she went back to Derry. And when her husband began blowing up her phone with angry calls and Pennywise began blowing up their lives in general, she switched it off and forgot about it for three days while she and the Losers took care of business. And now it's the middle of the night, they're grimy and exhausted and hunkered down at the hospital with Eddie in surgery, and Beverly digs her phone out of her backpack and switches it back on. Dozens of missed calls from Tom. She blocks him, feeling nothing. And a few messages from —
Oh. Dean.
Hey, sorry, she replies, was busy killing a monster which would be a joke to anyone else but she knows, now, that what the Winchesters were doing in New York was very real. As real as what they'd just done. And she doesn't know how to talk about it, it's so fucking insane she feels like one of her nightmares came true and in a lot of ways, they did, but it's all real and maybe this is literally the only guy who could possibly understand and before she realises it, she's sitting on the floor of an empty corridor, sticky with dried blood, her phone pressed to her ear, and it rings only twice before — ]
Oh, [ she says faintly, surprised, like he'd called her instead of the other way around. Then she laughs, breathless and brittle with exhaustion. ] Hi, um... How are you?
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it had been slightly different with beverly. dean's gotten better at professionalism, for the most part, but he'd taken one look at beverly marsh and most of professional restraint had flown straight out the window. (never mind the fact that he knew she was married, or the bitchy looks sam kept throwing at him sidelong.) sometimes, a man can't help himself from finding a beautiful woman attractive. it was only natural that he up the charm to eleven, though any attempts at flirtation had been rudely interrupted by beverly's insidious husband whom dean had been two seconds away from clocking before sam dragged his ass out of their extremely fancy new york home.
that was months ago, which feels more like two years ago with everything that's been going on. he honestly hadn't expected to hear back from her, not with a husband like tom.
but then the text comes, and she says she's leaving him and then ... going home, wherever that is. he shoots back:
you've got nothing to apologize for, beverly
and for what it's worth, good riddance
you okay?
he tries not to let it bother him when he doesn't hear back. it doesn't mean anything, they're practically strangers, right? but he's seen the kind of man tom is, the kind of power he has. another day passes and dean starts to worry. sam has to convince him they don't have enough time to just drive to maine on a feeling (it wasn't hard to figure out beverly marsh's hometown), that maybe her phone died or the reception in derry is shitty. dean relents, but only because the cases keep coming, and sam is probably right.
a few days later, his phone lights up with her name and he feels a brief release of tension in his shoulders. he can't help but laugh at her excuse, because, well — in his book, it's a pretty damn good one. and then he realizes she's calling and he has to fumble with the volume on his stereo before — )
Hey, long time. ( he sounds about as surprised as she does, but there's a certain quality of giddiness to his voice that's been present in his demeanor ever since their last case. which — ) It's gonna sound crazy, but I'm good. I killed Hitler.
( which almost sounds like a joke, except that dean would never joke about killing hitler. because that's totally a thing he did and he's never going to stop bragging about it, even to someone he met once two months ago and hasn't spoken to since. )
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This chat is her tentative first step as a woman more whole than the one they'd met before. And that woman, this new-old Beverly Marsh, needs help making sense of the past few days — no, years.
If she had stayed with Tom, trapped in his crushing fist, Dean might have never heard from her again and she never would have looked up and seen the world for what it was. Beverly's always kept her head down, never drew attention for fear of punishment, and if anyone tried to intervene in her marriage out of concern, she'd brush off all attempts. Their public facade was important — but in a few short weeks, it's going to be blown wide open and she's going to take control of her life again.
Only right now, she is so goddamn tired. That goal seems so far away. Her mind feels fuzzy with the swirl of returning memories, sick with grief over Stan and worry for Eddie. So when Dean tells her about Hitler, voice warm and buoyant even at ass o'clock in the morning, she can't help it: She laughs. ]
Yeah? [ Beverly doesn't know if it's a joke. But borderline delirious amusement bubbles under her hushed voice all the same. ] So that's where our taxpayer dollars are going. Good work, Agent... Rose.
[ (Fake) FBI putting out hits on Hitler, ordinary people taking down a killer clown. Sure, just a normal week. She squeezes her eyes shut and rests her forehead on her knees; every breath tastes metallic with old blood. ]
I'm sorry, [ she starts again, quiet and strained. ] I don't know why I called. I just — it's, it's been, um... [ Her exhale is shaky, her world narrows to the voice on the other end of the line, so far removed from the circle of the Losers Club. ] A long day. And I thought...
[ A beat, then she changes tack and tries again with a bit more levity. ]
How'd you kill Hitler? Time travel?
[ She's humouring him. She doesn't know if this is a joke. But he probably thought her killing a monster was a joke, so she'll keep it going if he wants. Maybe it'll be a nice distraction. ]
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still, he can't help but laugh at taxpayer dollars. maybe it's easier to let her think this is some kind of x-files bullshit for now. it might be slightly more palatable to think the government has a secret branch of the fbi that deals in the paranormal rather than just a couple of dudes in flannel who have taken it upon themselves to kill what goes bump in the night (with a dash of preordained bullshit from heaven and hell).
he opens his mouth to say as much, but then she's apologizing and dean's not really sure what to do with that. she sounds like she's really been through the ringer (fighting monsters tends to do that, especially if it's baby's first hunt). there's concern that curls inside his chest, automatic, instinctual, a flare of something fiercely protective. )
Hey, listen, you don't gotta — ( apologize, he means to say, but she cuts him off, switching gears back to hitler. and as much as dean hasn't shut the fuck up about it, he finds he almost doesn't want to talk about it right now. but if it helps her work through whatever she's going through or gives her enough of a distraction to cope, he wouldn't deny her that. he knows a thing or five about using distractions to cope with all the shit he's seen (experienced, done). ) Uh. No. ( a huff of a laugh. ) No, you're definitely not gonna believe me, but — two words: Nazi Necromancers.
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But how crazy would Losers Club Amateur Hour sound to a couple of pros? She doesn't even know how to explain. She wants to, though, if only to get her thoughts straight, but she's so hollowed out from the aftermath that her words are running away from her, no linear path, and poor Dean's left to try and follow. Beverly can hear the end of that unfinished sentence (you don't gotta apologise, when she's done it all her life; when was the last time she's heard something so kind?) and barrels forward anyway, thoughts and words tumbling over each other, no real sense of what's right side up.
Is Hitler seriously the best distraction she can latch onto right now? Guess so. Why the fuck not. They just defeated a cosmic eldritch horror in a sewer! Dean's talking about Nazi Necromancers. Oh God, she's laughing, it bubbles out of her aching chest before she can stop it.
It's not funny. She feels like crying. But — ]
No, I — you're right, I would've called bullshit two days ago, [ she manages, scrubbing at her gritty eyes with the heel of her palm, hushed and choked through with a chuckle. Something like a chuckle. Like Mrs Kersh said: Nobody who dies in Derry ever really dies. Jesus fucking Christ. ] But now I'm... I'm not so sure. I mean, why not. The Nazis were pretty messed up. Makes sense.
[ It doesn't. None of this makes any goddamn sense! Ben thinks he saw Hocksetter driving Bowers' getaway car, and the guy had died when they were kids. Mrs Kersh was definitely dead. Beverly's only just remembered hearing the voices of all the dead kids whispering out of her bathroom sink when she was a girl. Yeah, no, this is easier. She hunches up against the wall, lowers her voice even more despite the empty hallway. ]
So you, uh, stopped the second coming of... zombie Hitler? Do I say congrats or thank you?
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though, thankfully they have come across a nice lull killing whatever the fuck it is they're killing. it's a shame joel isn't used to teaming up with someone who doesn't actively want to kill him either. (whether it be for his clothes/looting purposes/or the fact that he killed someone he shouldn't have) but if we're being honest, we're not sure why he hasn't gotten the fuck out of dodge. but he is leveling you a long stare, dean.]
🔥
She tells them, over takeout and drinks, that she just needed a break. Her ugly and very public divorce was finalised after months and the media circus surrounding it hasn't died down. So she asks if she can just camp out for a week or two, just to breathe — because if the bunker can withstand monsters then she definitely can hide out from the press with no one figuring it out. (The Losers are covering for her if anyone asks.) And it's gonna be nice being out in the middle of nowhere, a drive away from a small town where no one could give a damn about some designer from New York much less recognise her at the grocery. It'll be nice not having a schedule. And it's especially nice seeing Dean.
It's usually weeks between each little rendezvous and often for no longer than a day or two. So it's really no surprise that even though she's been given her pick of the guest rooms, she winds up slipping into his late in the evening, studying the space with an idle interest while he's in the shower. They've always been together at her place; he's intimately familiar by now with her bedroom, her kitchen, the nooks and crannies where he's warded it against anything that goes bump in the night. This is her first time here and it feels deeply personal, which is why she looks but doesn't touch. Not without invitation. (That's something they've understood about each other since the first time they slept together.)
She's sitting on the edge of his bed when he comes in, comfortable in sweats and a tank top, red hair loose and a little longer than it was when they saw each other last. ]
Hey, [ she says at first, soft and fond and not even remotely sheepish. Her gaze flickers over him, taking in the bathrobe, towel around his shoulders, damp hair. Her lips press into a smile. ] I let myself in. Hope you don't mind.
[ In the moments between her words and whatever he answers with, she's crossed the space between them, walking him back against the door until there's nowhere else to go, hands curling into the front of his robe as she leans up for a kiss. She'd wanted to do it the second she saw him outside, but she was being polite. Had kept it to a hug, a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. This, behind closed doors, is hungrier; needier. Fuelled by a long day and an even longer stretch of weeks before it. This one says it's been a long time and I want you. Tall and broad as he is, she pins him neatly with her body, one hand releasing fabric to skate higher, cupping his jaw as she deepens the kiss, just a touch, before she breaks away.
Softer still, ] I missed you.
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of course, he can't promise they'll be at the bunker with her the whole time — cases crop up and sometimes they have to go, but he does at least make an effort to contact hunters who might be in the area to take the job if the case is more than a couple states over so they won't have to bail and leave her alone for the few days they'd be gone (sometimes sam takes a case on his own when he needs to get out, or when he feels like he needs to give them their privacy, as if they aren't all adults who can keep it in their pants long enough to make it to the bedroom). he's sure she'd be fine on her own, but he'd feel more comfortable staying at the bunker with her when he can, showing her around what little lebanon has to offer. he even takes her into lawrence one afternoon, gives her the grand tour of his hometown, drives her past his old house, tells her stories about his brief childhood there, treats her to dinner and a movie. if he thought about it long enough, he might even consider it a date.
it's already late when he and sam get back from taking care of a haunting out in, ironically, winchester, about a three hour drive from lebanon, and all he really wants to do is hit the shower, scrub the dirt and ectoplasm out of his hair, rinse off the sweat of gravedigging. he checks in with bev before he goes, just to let her know they're back and if he doesn't see her before he's out to have a good night.
he doesn't expect to find her in his room when he gets back. or, well — maybe part of him had hoped that he would. still, she catches him a little off guard, still scrubbing the towel at his damp hair. he lets it drop when she smiles, feels the corners of his mouth twitching upward at the sight of her. )
Hey. ( honestly, it's always a nice surprise to see a woman waiting for him. his mouth curves all the way into a self-satisfied smile, and he's on his way to saying something sarcastically charming, but she's already on her way to him, closing the distance, pushing him against the door, her mouth against his before he the words have time to form. he doesn't mind, of course, smiles against her lips as he leans into her, his hands sliding over her hips to grab at her ass, two seconds away from hauling her up against him and depositing her on his bed. he's still thinking about it when she pulls away, her breath warm between them. i missed you.
god. he's missed her too. it hasn't even been that long. still. ) I could say the same. ( he kisses her again, softer, almost sweetly, betraying the hunger coiling in his belly, though neither is less true because of it. it's only been a few months since they started this ... whatever it is — dean hesitates to call it a relationship because he's never been very good at those, and, frankly, being in a relationship only makes things more complicated — but he can't deny he feels something for bev, something beyond basic attraction, something that keeps him coming back and not just for the sex. she understands him in a way no woman ever has, which, in his line of work, is pretty damn rare for someone not in the business of hunting monsters. trauma does that to people.
it makes him think about cassie every now and then — the first woman he was ever in love with, the first person he told about being a hunter — and then he remembers how that ended, with a promise he could never make good on. (sometimes, he still thinks about going to see her again, but it's been too long and they've both moved on. it's for the better not to dig up old graves.) he tries not to think about lisa — a year away from the life, a year without sam, a year of playing house and pretending to be someone he's not, living a life that was never supposed to be his — and how badly that ended, because it was the only way to keep her and ben safe. it's the last thing he ever wants to happen again.
but bev has been through it, and not because the winchesters brought the monsters to her doorstep. she may not be a hunter, but she knows what's out there now and she's kicked its ass. would he go all in if she asked him to? probably. there's a possibility they could make this work, but dean's been around the block enough times to know there's a better chance he'd fuck it up if it got more serious than it is now. and right now he just wants to enjoy this. enjoy her.
his voice drops, sultry, almost a whisper. ) You know, you didn't have to wait for me. I would've liked the company. ( which sounds as much like an invitation for next time as any. his mouth wanders toward her ear, a kiss pressed along her neck just below the lobe. ) Ain't exactly what I imagined you seducing me in, but I ain't complaining.
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Beverly wouldn't go as far as saying she's letting herself play pretend here, she knows a respite from her own life doesn't mean one for the Winchesters, but she does appreciate slowing down in her own way. And she can't stay idle for too long, anyway, even with the work she makes for herself; she finds herself jumping into the research (it's fascinating as hell, she can't wait to tell Mike), sometimes getting looped into the occasional fraudulent phone call. (Her FBI supervisor voice is very good.) She's asked to learn how to shoot, too. Ever since Tom and the clown, she'd taken up self-defense classes in New York. And the bunker has a range, so why not step it up? Really, she likes the feeling of finally having control — of her own life, of situations she finds herself in.
Like this one right now, wrapped up in Dean's arms with his breath warm over the shell of her ear. It's enough to send a thrilling shiver down her spine even as she laughs, equal parts delighted and amused and entirely into it, wow. ]
Yeah? [ To the first part and the second. Her chin lifts a fraction, as much part of her quip as it is to bare her throat to his wandering lips. The hand on his chest releases his robe to slide under it, cool palm to warm skin and steady heartbeat. Her tone flutters with teasing. ] Sweatpants not doing it for you? Guess I left the good stuff back in New York.
[ She turns her head to press a kiss to whatever bit she can reach: temple, the sharp angle of cheekbone, lips curving into a smile against him. Her voice lowers. ]
Tell me what you imagined during your solo shower and I might make it up to you.
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his hands travel up her back, pushing under the hem of her shirt, following the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist. he bites at the soft skin just above her collarbone, sucking at it until it blooms under his mouth, soothes it over with his tongue. )
You're telling me you, Beverly Marsh, fashion designer extraordinaire, came all this way to see me and conveniently forgot to pack any lingerie? ( he finds that hard to believe. still, his mouth meets hers again, tongue slipping past her lips, one hand brushing over the plane of her torso and further down still, beyond the waistband of her sweatpants. maybe he is a little disappointed to find something other than satin or lace, but it's a fleeting thought that's easily overtaken by the warmth of her under his palm as he presses against her.
he pulls back from her lips just barely, enough to look her in the eyes when he tells her exactly what he imagined during that shower, the air hot between them. ) I was thinking...
( he's already half hard under the robe, desperate for contact, friction, anything. but tonight feels slow, lazy, and as much as it'll drive him wild, he won't regret it for a moment. )
About you, those hands of yours, wishing it was you touching me, working out all that tension, how good it feels, how good you make me feel, Bev. How good I could make you feel, on my knees, lapping you up until you tremble, breathless, barely able to say my name.
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Like now. Fuck. Her eyes flutter closed with a soft exhale, savouring the press of his lips to her throat, the glide of callused fingertips down her spine, ticklish when they dip to her lower back; she arches reflexively into him with a quick inhale, whatever quip she had lost in the heat of his mouth when they kiss again. God, this isn't the first time they've done this but the rush is always just like it; he still manages to make her feel lightheaded and even if she's got him pinned, he's the one holding her steady in his arms. There's no place better.
When the kiss breaks, her eyes drift open to half-mast, blown with arousal and barely ringing bright blue. Their noses brush, she can count every freckle when they're this close, her breath as quick as her heartbeat as she listens to him. Not sure if it's the words or the low rumble of his voice that makes heat curl low in her belly.
(It's both. Her thoughts go spinning off to the shower, bodies slick, skin to bare skin. The hand on his chest slides lower, skating over broad planes of muscle, curving over his bare hip. How tightly tied is that robe, Dean Winchester?) ]
Yeah, you love that. Doing that to me. [ She brushes her lips over his, teasing for another kiss, voice a bare whisper. ] I think about it when you're gone. Riding your mouth, my hands in your hair. You're so good at it, and you look... God. [ She breathes in, her hand drifting lower, squeezing his ass. ] So good doing it. That what you were doing in there? Working out all that — tension — without me?
[ Her gaze flickers over him, searching, the corners of her mouth curving into a smile. The hand caressing his face shifts, her thumb tracing over the swell of his bottom lip. ]
Hope you didn't tire yourself out, babe.
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he draws her in closer, his hand traveling upward again, brushing against her skin under the fabric of her shirt, palming her breast, kneading it gently under his hand. with nothing left between their hips, he wants her to feel how hard he is already, pressing into her thigh, the thrill of her words pooling hot and low in his abdomen. he laughs breathily, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk. )
Please, I'm just getting started. We've got all night for you to tire me out.
( which sounds a lot like a challenge, and maybe it is. he hasn't had this much physical contact with anyone in two months and he's starved for it; he'd let her do anything to him at this point, whatever she wants, just to feel her doing it. not that he wouldn't have before, but there's something more intense, more intimate about it now that she's touching him like this for the first time since they last saw each other in november. (as much as it would have passed the time, he hadn't exactly been doing a lot of jacking off in government solitary. he's all about putting on a show for the camera, but considering his fantasies usually involve bev these days, he definitely hadn't wanted to give them anything they could have potentially used against him. bev wouldn't have been a lot to go on, but it's better not to underestimate the power of the secret service.)
so to call the last two months a dry spell is a little bit of an understatement; it was practically the fucking sahara of getting none and he's been desperate for it ever since he laid eyes on her bundled up outside the bunker. the fact that they've even made it out of his room long enough to do anything but find new ways of moaning each other's names is a fucking miracle in itself. he almost feels bad about subjecting to sam to his perpetual sex hair and afterglow attitude, but sam's a big boy who can deal with his older brother having an active and healthy love life. after the shit they've been through recently, dean fucking deserves the amount he's getting laid — and if sam really wanted to, he's just as capable of putting on his own night moves (not that there are a lot of options in lebanon, unless sam is suddenly into gilfs).
dean leans into her hand, chasing her thumb to catch it between his lips, sucking at it with the flat of his tongue. he gazes down at her through long eyelashes, his green eyes bright with adoration and want. )
Plenty of tension left to work out, too. ( he leans in to meet her mouth, gently nudging them away from the wall as he kisses her. ) What're you feeling? Whatever you want, babe, you got it.
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God, yeah, she's missed him. Body and soul. His laugh, the fondness in his gaze, the reverent way he caresses and kisses her. Even now, cupping her breast in his callused palm and holding her flush to his broad form as they cross the room as their lips meet, she feels just like she did in her bedroom all those months ago: electric, moving too fast and too slow, that buzzing urge under her skin to get under his. He's asking her what she wants and fuck, she adores him for that, but as the backs of her knees hit the headboard, she's thinking back to working out that tension, thinking of the hot press of his desire against her belly, thinking how touch-starved they've both been but him especially.
Tonight does feel slow, languid. Indulgent. She didn't ambush him in his bedroom in the wake of a hunt just to have him do all the work. She's a polite, generous houseguest. ]
I want you... [ she murmurs, tipping her head to press an open-mouthed kiss to the fluttering pulse in his throat as her hand slides from his ass to between them, gliding down his stomach, ] to relax. [ Her lips begin to wander over his collarbone just as her hand wraps around his cock; she plants a kiss to his tattoo as she gives him a slow, deliberate stroke, waiting for the groan she knows will follow. ] Been a long night, huh?
[ She lifts her head just enough to look up at him through her lashes, eyes sparking with teasing and arousal. It's a check-in, nothing more, because then she leans back up to kiss him with a sweep of tongue just as she swipes the pad of her thumb — the same one he kissed — over the head of his cock before giving it another slick stroke. ]
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Yeah. Better now. ( he says, a little rough around the edges — and it's confirmation of something else, too, something closer to yeah, i want you. i want this. if his voice breaks in the back of his throat from the brush of her thumb over his cock, it gets swallowed by her kiss, searing through him, slowly fraying every nerve. she's barely even touched him and already his knees feel like they might give. maybe it's just the exhaustion of a rigorous hunt, or maybe that's just what she does to him. christ.
a low, breathy sound passes his lips, a huff of a laugh spreading through the thin air between them. it's hard to tell if he's laughing at himself or the fact that bev is surprising him all over again. ) Hold on a sec, huh? ( not to ruin the mood, but if he doesn't sit down they're gonna end up crashing into the bed when she makes his legs tremble — and he firmly has no doubt she's fully capable of making him weak at the knees. he leans in to steal another kiss, his hands drifting to her waist as he turns them in place, backing himself onto the edge of his mattress; it creaks faintly under his weight. in the shift, his robe has come undone, spread open, leaving him on full display, the waist belt hanging loosely at his sides. he should feel exposed, vulnerable, but he's never felt shame about sharing his body, especially not with someone he cares about, someone he knows understands him in a way no one else could. after all, his body is the one thing he's always had control over, even when everything around him felt impossibly out of control — and why the mark terrified him as much as it did.
he reaches out for her hand, the one she'd touched him with only moments ago, brushes his thumb over the back of it. )
You know you don't have to. ( which isn't the same as i don't want you to. hadn't she told him the same thing the first time they did this? you don't have to — or, i don't want you to feel obligated. he'd be more than happy to pull her in, let her sit on his lap, straddle him all the way, let her ride him until she unraveled; happy just to watch her take her pleasure of him, knowing he could give that to her. but the look in her eyes has a different intent, something dean has rarely experienced in all his years of one night stands and failed romances: it seems to say let me do this for you because i want to — and who would he be to deny her? he knows intimately the pride that comes with making someone else feel good, so of course he wants her to feel the same, wants her to be able to view this not as an obligation but a gift, something they can both share. something they can both enjoy. ) Ain't nothing wrong with missionary if you change your mind.
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Granted, it's hard to focus when he's sitting there like that and looking up at her, so at ease with himself and with sharing his space with her, and God, his eyes. Beverly smiles as he reaches for her hand, skin tingling where he brushes the pad of his thumb over it. It's such a little thing but so painfully tender, it tempers the heat a little. And then — ]
I know. [ Soft, sweet. She lifts his hand to her lips, kissing his knuckles, murmuring against them. ] I want to, though. If that's okay.
[ She thinks a lot about that first time. Not just the way they burned for each other but the care in each brush of their hands and lips — is this okay; if it gets too much, we don't have to — and it's present here too, of course it is, it always is. It's only been a few months since their relationship turned intimate, physical, and even with most nights spent wrapped in each others' arms they're still learning how to read the moments in between the pounding heartbeats. Yes, she came to him in his room; yes, he kissed her back, whispered desires into her ear, but if the hunt left him more tired than he realised, Beverly wouldn't mind putting the brakes on this until morning. Until whenever. No shame, no awkwardness, no misgivings. The understanding is why they work and why she trusts him more than she has any man in her bed; she only wants to give him as much as he gives her.
Beverly leans down and kisses him again: forehead, cheekbone, the shell of his ear where she whispers, ] Just tell me what you like.
[ Because it's been a while and this is one of the first times she's actually wanted to do this. Like, really, really wants to do this. She slides the towel from around his neck and drops it to the floor; the robe's next, pushed back just enough to bare his shoulders to her wandering mouth — already trailing down the side of his throat, the slope where it meets the rise of his deltoid, his tattoo again until she can't bend over any more and has to kneel (on the towel, good thinking, Bev).
She doesn't touch him yet. Wants to draw this out. Her hands rest on his thighs instead, brushing back and forth as she tips her chin up to kiss him again, searing and slow with a slip of tongue; sometimes she trails her nails lightly up his sides, back down, ghosting his inner thighs, kissing him all the while. There's a thrill in making him feel good, making him unravel, and she's discovered the little things that earn his gasps. She wants to find more, explore him as he's explored her, helped her relearn her own body and enjoy it. He deserves that too. ]
ITN Verse
Little remains when all is said and done. Mostly the cabins in the old village, the church, the museum. Sam and Dean are still there, and for that Castiel is endlessly grateful. He doesn't wish this place on them, but... he knows what awaits him if he returns to his own universe. And he knows that as he is now, he will never meet them as they are now, either. Even if his own future runs the course they've been on rather than diverting. He might have Sam and Dean and home - but they would not be this Sam and Dean.
So... in a twisted, selfish way... he is glad for their continued existence.
In the aftermath, there is no sign of Dr. Solis. The lanterns remain, though now no one knows what death might bring. The bonfire is dim, and the world feels...smaller. Darker. More opressive. They soon realize it's become more dangerous, too. The benevolent spirits are gone. The ferry arrives, still, ominously silent and listing sideways in the dark water. It doesn't bring any new arrivals anymore, just supplies - necessities. Bare minimum food, the occasional weapon.
The forest has grown darker. The light has grown dimmer. In the dark sky, it feels like something is watching.
They make due, the three of them and what allies they have. They set up more rigid patrols along the forest, they shrink the hub of civilization down to keep people safe more easily. They hunt at the edges of the forest, making sure nothing can get too far in.
Stometimes, something gets too far in.
The church is dark and silent. The candles on the altar are incredibly dim. The trap door is silent. Castiel sits on a church pew next to Dean's body, a hand on his chest. Every now and then, he sends a small spark of grace through his palm - he can't heal Dean, but he doesn't know what else to do - they don't know if people come back without Dr. Solis. He's had to put Sam to sleep - they're both too worried, too exhausted.
Castiel keeps his vigil. Wills Dean to wake up, to live again. There are few lights left in the dark.
Castiel can't lose this one. ]
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dean winchester gave it all up for one man.
it hurts like hell this time — hurts like getting dragged to hell all over again, except, somehow, worse. it feels like being on the rack, being ripped apart bit by bloody bit, until there's nothing left but bits of bone, unrecognizable pieces of flesh. he screams until his throat is raw, until that too is torn from his body, claws desperately at the thing biting into him, but it's no use. the pain is everywhere, sharp as a thousand knives, like taking a dive into molten lava. and just before it all ends — the agony, the suffering, his will to fight seeping out of him like all the blood he's lost — he wonders if he deserves this.
he comes to with a ragged gasp. this part is familiar, too. only he isn't buried six feet under, doesn't have to claw his way out of the ground. there's just the church and the pews and the candles (less of them now, less than there have been in months) flickering dimly on the altar. the altar where everything went wrong, where he might have broken things irrevocably (because he wasn't ready, because he was scared, because faith is synonymous with love).
and then there's cas.
cas, who raised him from perdition, who fell for him, who has died for him, who he can't bear to live without — who he never should have pushed away.
he blinks wearily as his eyes focus in the dim light, but even blind he would know cas' presence, the weight of his hand, the warmth of his grace. )
Cas? ( hoarse, strained. he tries to sit up, but he only manages to reach out weakly, grabbing hold of cas' forearm. ) We gotta stop meeting like this.
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Dean is back.
Dean is alive.
Castiel reaches out, makes it easier for Dean to hold onto his forearm. His fingers twitch momentarily, then curl inwards, a gentle glow and flow of warmth down into that chest, down to where he pulse meets the gentle push of Castiel's grace again. Alive. And all Castiel wants is to hold, to cherish.
The candle burns, still. That precious, fragile light holds, and Castiel wants and needs nothing more than to cup his hands around it, shelter it from the raging storm their existence has become. ]
Hello, Dean.
Strangernatural Crossover
It pulsates. It emanates a weird glow, and drifting particles like spore. It looks... somewhere between plant matter and flesh.
To call it weird would be an understatement.
And it happens fast, then. Before they can even think to call Cas or begin research, the strange tear in their wall pulses, glows. Strange sounds emerge, like faraway screams, and then pressure erupts outwards, like a blast wave, scattering papers and tossing chairs, before immediately being sucked inwards.
When it's all over, Sam who was standing closer to the rift, is no where to be seen, and the wall is smooth.
But standing right there is a child of perhaps 12 years, a little girl in a dirty, bloodied pink dress with a blue, much too large jacket. Her nose is bleeding heavily, so are her ears, and her wide brown eyes are wet with tears. Her hair is shorn short.
And then her eyes roll back and she folds in on herself, crumples like a puppet whose strings were cut, out like a light. ]
fixing 15x19!!!
for a long while, dean's binge drinking is a spectator sport, sam mostly trying to ignore it, but jack keeps watch on him, glancing over now and again, perhaps to make sure he's still breathing and doesn't need to be rolled onto his side, once he's sprawled onto the floor. at some point, sam leaves, either to try getting some shut eye, or grabbing some food to inhale, and jack slips from his seat at the table, pacing over to one of the lounge chairs to pick up a blanket flung over the chair back. kneeling next to the intoxicated, groaning pile of hunter on the library floor, jack spreads the blanket out to cover him and sets a glass of water from the table down next to the empty whiskey bottle (now knocked over on its side). a gentle hand on dean's shoulder shakes him lightly, jack murmuring where he's knelt down next to him. ]
Dean.
[ please hydrate, dad. please take care of yourself, dad. or at least let jack take care of you, seeing as sam's preoccupied, and dean's other typical guardian - castiel - is, well. 'gone'. that was it, 'gone'. dean said he'd summoned the empty, but jack has a creeping feeling he knows how. the deal - the question is, what happened between cas and dean that finally made castiel allow himself to be truly happy?
he has an inkling. maybe it's that intuition castiel always told him he'd had, maybe it's some part of his powers and what he's becoming, or maybe he's just been watching these men circle around each other, drawn into one another's orbit, long enough that it isn't that difficult to guess. maybe he just knows his father. whatever it was, it left dean wrecked in a way jack's never seen him before, and something in his chest aches for the both of them. ]
Can I ask you something? [ legs folded under him, head bowed down nearly to dean's level, the kid's almost lying on the floor with him, his voice quiet and careful. ] About... Cas?
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goodbye, dean echoes in his mind, the last thing cas said to him on an infinite and torturous loop. drinking helps dull that familiar voice, the one he wishes he could call back from the place of no return. (he almost believes it, too, because maybe knowing cas is really gone this time is easier to swallow than the hope that he might come back, that dean might be able to save him.) but they're out of options at the moment — stuck on an empty planet with nothing but dusty books and a bunker full of tennessee whiskey he's intent on imbibing until he can't feel a damn thing.
because that's always been his problem, hasn't it? he feels too damn much, all the time. good or bad. (you're the most caring man on earth.) and right now the depths of his despair are unknowable, even to him. cas may as well have dragged him into the empty with him, because that's exactly how he feels — only, he thinks, if he'd gone with cas, at least they'd be together. at least they could have sorted this out side by side, like they always have. but cas saved him, again, and some deeply ironic part of him wants to laugh and cry at the same time: it's not unlike purgatory, when cas shoved him through that portal, sacrificed himself so dean could live (something else he learned from dean, always ready and willing to take one for the team). and maybe that was all just a test, some fucked up lesson trying to convince him to let cas go. but he's never been very good at letting anything go, easier to push it all down and swallow it with another shot of jack.
he's long past shots — long past any sensible person's tolerance and still going. he doesn't want to think anymore, doesn't want to see cas' face in his head, the tears in his blue eyes like ripples on a lake. he can't fucking stand it, can't stand himself most of all. (cas wouldn't want him to, but he should have fucking known dean would blame himself. when has he ever not? if cas hadn't loved him, he'd still be here. if cas hadn't loved him, maybe the space in his chest reserved for cas and cas alone wouldn't feel so damn cold. so damn empty.)
the warmth of a blanket barely registers, his name as distant and foggy as his mind feels. he blinks sluggishly, groaning as he shifts to face jack — jack, who knew about the deal and never said anything, because cas didn't want him to. there's a bubbling resentment in his chest but he pushes it down just like he pushes down everything else. his eyes finally focus on the water jack set out for him and he mumbles something incoherent that might have been thanks before it got garbled from the intoxication. he reaches out to clap a lifeless hand on whichever part of jack is closest, a gesture that loosely translates to i know you're concerned, but i'm fine. he brings the glass of water to his lips as if to say, see? totally fine.
he's still floating in the in between of consciousness and blackout drunk when he realizes jack is asking him something. his eyes are glazed, having trouble focusing, but his blood turns cold at the sound of cas' name. it's sobering, uncomfortably so. his face creases hard, and at first it almost seems like he hadn't heard, or that maybe he just won't respond. but, eventually, he considers what cas meant to jack (what cas ultimately sacrificed for him, too). cas loved them both. he wouldn't have made the deal or sealed it otherwise. )
He's gone, Jack. What more is there to know? ( maybe he's stalling. or maybe he just can't bear to say it out loud. )
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jack isn't family still rings, bright and stinging and crippling, in the back of his mind, but he's come to see dean through castiel's eyes over the short years of his life. melded with cas once, before he was born, the love there was bright, like a beacon, a lighthouse on a battered coast. cas loved dean down to the individual atoms and molecules that he'd carefully pieced back together from hell. whether or not dean felt the same, jack could never tell - deciphering dean winchester has always been a difficult puzzle for him, but he tries.
careful, his hand covers dean's on the shoulder it landed on, and jack brings the other to pillow under his head where he's lying parallel to him on the cool library floor, a clock ticking away on a distant wall, the bunker otherwise silent. ]
Castiel, he said— [ saying his name hurts, a rawness in his throat, and jack misses him more than he can say. so much of what he knows about the universe, about life and free will and family and love he learned from castiel, and from sam and dean, but cas he knew before he was even truly alive. he was his first father, his guardian, his safe place, his home. what he meant to dean, jack will never completely know, but he knows the miserable ache and emptiness that's left behind, sees it clearly in attempts dean's making to look totally fine. if castiel can't be here to help dean keep his head above water, jack will do the best he can. ] He said he's still far from happy, that he didn't think it'd happen any time soon.
[ 'it', whatever 'it' was, that happened in a room with dean, cas, and death. whatever made cas so happy, so fulfilled, whatever castiel gave himself permission to finally do, to feel... jack thinks he knows, but dean has to say it. whisky won't drown it out of his head, he has to get it out. jack's voice goes soft, a whisper between them, the empty whisky bottle, and the library floor. it sounds almost like an apology. ]
What changed, Dean?