( 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?
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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?