[ 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.
🔥
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.