👻🎈🤡🥧

[cained]

family don't end with blood —

CLUB FREE WILL MASTERPOST

— welcome to the losers club, asshole!

STARRING

SQUIRREL

MOOSE

FEATHERS

LUCIFER JR.

BABY

MARSH

TRASHMOUTH

SPAGHETTI

BIG BILL

MIKEY

HAYSTACK

STAN THE MAN

CODING BY TESSISAMESS

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𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙰𝙳 𝚂𝙾 𝙵𝙰𝚁...

[cained]

CARRY ON MY WAYWARD SON

0	FULL TIMELINE & SOUNDTRACK
1	BEV & DEAN BAKERSTREET		05/19/20
2	DEAN & RICHIE OPEN POST		05/20/20
3	BEV & DEAN OPEN POST		05/20/20
4	BEV & DEAN BAKERSTREET		06/01/20

© mistojen

𝙳𝙴𝙰𝙽 𝚆𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙷𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁

[cained]

[retraverse]

[ It's one of those rare nights where Beverly actually went to bed at a decent hour because she's been dead on her feet all week, caught up in the flurry of prep for an event just barely a month away. Whether or not her sleep is going to be restful is anyone's guess; the nightmares have eased since they killed the clown, but whatever the deadlights burned into her as a child is a curse that will never fully fade. So she's not sure what jolts her awake a few scant hours later: the cry ringing in her ears and caught in her throat, or the buzzing on her nightstand, too loud in the relative silence of her bedroom. It takes a few ragged breaths for her to get her bearings, dragging herself to the present from wherever she was, shadowy in the world of the dream. (In Manhattan, it's never truly dark, so it was somewhere else. Rural. Trees? It's already slipping away.) Her heart's still racing as she fumbles for her phone, half-awake and trying to ignore the phantom bite of — something, claws, a blade? — on her prickling skin, squinting at the name on her glowing screen: Dean Winchester.

Shit. He knows how nights are for her, he wouldn't wake her unless — What's wrong?

It's a goddamn miracle she manages to get an Uber in the middle of the night, let alone one willing to take her across the river into Jersey, but this is the city that never sleeps and cash is king (and a dozen other cliches that ring true) so it all falls into place somehow with a little coaxing on her part. The town she's headed to is barely an hour's drive away when the sun is up; now, at 2 AM, Beverly's hoping they can shave some time off that ETA. She'd already wasted a whirlwind 15 minutes at Duane Reade stocking up on medical supplies her rudimentary first-aid kit didn't carry. Dean had sounded... Well, not fine, but alive on the phone. Not bad enough to go to a hospital. And lucid enough to be a pain in the ass about asking her to haul hers into the next state for a favour he didn't even have to ask of her. She knows how the job goes, knows this was a hunt that should have been simple (so no back-up, no Sam) but obviously wasn't; and she knows she was his nearest and only option for help.

Because whether they've actually talked about it or not, she knows Dean wouldn't have called her if he had any other choice. Well, she never hesitated the first, second, third time she walked into Neibolt House and she's made it perfectly clear she'd do it again, too. Any haunted house. No one's taken her up on the offer yet, but it still stands. So swooping in after the monster is dead? That's nothing. Easy. But she can't stop checking her phone or tapping her fingers on the carton of cigarettes in the front pocket of her backpack. God, she's dying for a smoke. She's trying to quit but it's been a stressful week and her nerves are fraying like silk; she tries not to put too much stock in her nightmares, knowing a lot of them are just noise and memory, but sometimes — sometimes there's truth to them, even now. Especially when she recognises the faces staring back at her for help.

Jesus fuck, she really wants a cigarette.

The GPS inches closer to her destination: some motel near West Milford, nestled in a dense patch of forest. She texts Dean that she's almost there, then scrolls through Twitter and the local news for any clues as to what he was working on. That's a new habit she's picked up, browsing for the Winchester kind of weird. At 2:37 AM she's thanking the driver with a generous tip as they pull up to the motel and she slings her backpack over one shoulder as she steps into the parking lot — deserted save for one mercifully intact, if haphazardly parked, Impala — and scans the numbers on the doors.

There. That one. ]

Hey, it's me, [ she calls between knocking and opening the unlocked door. And then, as she catches sight of him across the way, loaded backpack dropping from her shoulder into the crook of her elbow with the same weight that drops in her stomach: ] What the fuck happened?

[ No, this doesn't make her queasy. She's half-drowned in blood. Twice. But that doesn't stop the worry or the sickening lurch of deja-vu when her visions and reality intersect. More than anything, she sounds almost angry. ]

No, don't, [ she's already saying — either don't tell me or don't get up. Beverly shuts and locks the door behind her, crosses the room, and deposits her bag on the floor as she kneels in front of him, brows knit and face pale. Her hand rests on his thigh without thought, her next words riding on an exhale both exasperated and strained. ] Jesus, Dean.

[cained]

( it should have been an in-and-out case. one vamp should have been a no brainer, something dean could hunt in his sleep. only — well, it's not a fucking vamp, for one. similar, but nothing like dean's ever seen before, and there's almost nothing he hasn't seen. on one hand, he kind of enjoys the surprise, a little added spice to an otherwise routine case; on the other, he's not exactly thrilled at the fact that he just got his ass kicked by something he still doesn't know how to kill.

he texts bev because she's the closest — both spatially in terms of distance and where her name happens to be in his phone (on speed dial; before jody, after mom) — and because he doesn't really have any other choice. the closest hunter wouldn't get here until after sunrise at the earliest and he's a little desperate at the moment. it'd be great if he didn't bleed out all over a shitty motel floor that probably hasn't been steam cleaned in a decade (or ever). despite the bitching he knows sam will give him, he knows bev is more than capable of sewing him up in a pinch.

he's on a speaker call with sam when bev knocks; sam sounds frantic, while dean sounds not frantic enough considering the shape he's in. if anything, he sounds pissed off and annoyed rather than anything close to terrified. (but he is, a little bit. terrified. it's been a while since he had a scrape this close to the veil that wasn't on purpose. he's sure there's a book in billie's library somewhere where this could have gone real different and he's not keen on playing that out.)

it's not a fucking vamp, sammy, thing damn near ripped my shoulder off. oh, and it ain't got any legs. but it sure can fly.

dean, seriously, i need a little more to go on than — wait. is that beverly? you called bev? you nearly die trying to kill, what, half-batman? and you called bev?

it's an emergency, sam. look into it. call me back. i'll be fine.

he hangs up before sam can throw a bigger fit at him, but he can imagine the annoyed line of sam's mouth on the other end of the line. he's too tired to deal with sam's exasperation, even if it's warranted in this particular situation. and he knows sam will look into it, annoyed or not. dean had to spend ten minutes convincing him not to jump on a red eye to new jersey so they could handle this together. dean's got this, once he knows what the fuck this is. he drags a hand over his face, straining to turn his head toward bev dropping to his side. the cocky smile he shoots her is unconvincing at best, patronizing at worst. )

You should see the other guy. ( and he knows it's almost definitely the wrong thing to say, but this is how he copes. he's folded against the end of the bed, his shirt in shreds, blood slowly leaking from a deep diagonal claw-like gash between his shoulder blades. if the cut had reached any further than the ridge of his shoulder, he might not be alive enough to tell the tale. honestly, it's a goddamn miracle his spine isn't fucked, that he even managed to drive the impala back to the motel at all. he doesn't wanna think about the blood stains all over the leather seats he's gonna have to deep clean later, but it's almost a consolation knowing baby's been through worse and bloodier.

his face softens when her hand falls onto his thigh, something more genuine crossing his face when he looks at her, equal parts apologetic, guilty, and a little dash of something else. a four letter word he refuses to let take shape. he's just delirious, that's all. ) Think you got enough thread to stitch me back together, Doc?

👻

[retraverse]

[ IMG: the charred and salted remains of what was probably an expensive wristwatch on a stovetop. It's sent to his phone with absolutely zero context. Then — ]

Baby's first ghost: busted 💪🏼
I think

[cained]

( at first, he assumes it must be one of tom's old watches she found somewhere and is about to roast the guy, but — )

whoa whoa whoa
you think???

( never mind the fact that she went on a ghost hunt alone for a sec. he's more concerned with the fact that there's any room for doubt. )

gimme the skinny who was this freak

✈️

[retraverse]

[ It's been nearly a year since Dean and Beverly first crossed paths as strangers. It's been three months since they kissed — and then some — in New York, a whirlwind all on its own. It's been two months since she last heard from him, some vague text about taking on something big that he couldn't tell her more about, but it was gonna be "fine." She hadn't worried too much then, familiar as she was with the job, and caught up in the flurry of the festive season besides: intimate celebrations with the Losers, mostly (their first holiday since the reunion, their first reunion since Derry and her divorce being finalised). But after a stretch of weeks with hearing nothing, she tried one of Dean's backup phones and got Castiel on the other end saying the Winchesters had gone off-the-grid. "Undercover." Something about work. (If that's what you call being held prisoner at a government black site.) Well, she wasn't sure if she bought that, but it made more sense than Dean ghosting her after six months of... friendship, flirting, and all in between.

So she rode out the holidays and hit the new year running, dead set on rebuilding her life and career, and feeling that new weight settle on her shoulders just weeks after being rid of the old. (It's different, she tries to tell herself.) She puts her head down and tries to ignore the buzzing press around the split of Rogan&Marsh, the removal of her name from the brand, the handful of loyal designers who walked out when she did, the fresh eyes on a divorce she'd done her best to keep quiet. She tries not to let herself spiral into self-doubt, wondering if fashion is really her calling, if she's even good at it, or if she just let herself believe it all because people (Tom) needed her to. She tries to ignore the weeks ticking down to her birthday and the rush of new-old memories that brings (the parents she'd forgotten until last summer, the father who blamed her for his wife's death). She tries to ignore Valentine's and the way the city is bursting with reminders of how she'd been forced to spend past ones. She tries not to feel like she's fucking drowning when her life has objectively never looked better, she tries not to pull away from the Losers or lean on them too much even though they encourage her to. They've all gone through so much, it's not fair of her to add to it. She tries to find balance.

But she can't, she can't, she feels like she's one bad day away from snapping. And then — Dean calls. He's fine (he sounds stressed actually, but), he's sorry for the radio silence, he'll explain later. And she should be pissed, she is (and struggles with feeling any right to be), but she knows the frustration is misplaced when she's missing all the pieces and when she's barely holding on to her own. What surprises her more than the hot flash of her temper, though, is how that vibrating chord of tension inside her seems to settle at the sound of his voice, gruff and exhausted as it is. Yeah, she's missed him, but... Huh.

A day and a half later, she clears her schedule and boards a plane for the midwest.

She should text, or call, or say something. She shouldn't just drop by unannounced, not without knowing what the Winchesters have come from and especially not with the vague directions Dean had armed her with "in case of emergency" all those months ago when they were just friends. She should warn them, but she's not thinking when she drops everything and leaves New York. Running towards something, not away. Well, hell. She was a kid when she thought that way. She's allowed to fucking run away when she feels like she's about to explode — and where better than a bunker in the middle of nowhere? Right? It'll be fine. (And by the time she comes to her senses, feels the first tendrils of self-consciousness, she's already landing in Nebraska, so no turning back now.)

Beverly rents a car and drives under two hours to Lebanon the next state over in Kansas. The flat stretch of nothing is unlike anywhere she's ever been; and instead of feeling dwarfed by it, she feels free, like she can breathe again. No skyscrapers pressing in, no crowds, no honking traffic, no requests for interviews or statements on what's next for Beverly Marsh? Just her behind the wheel and a straight shot to a secret underground bunker. It takes a bit of work to find it, using landmarks instead of the GPS on her phone. (That's the point of a secret bunker.) But once she does, she bangs on the reinforced steel door, restless on the threshold from nerves and the bitter February cold, and waits. ... And waits.

Fuck. No one's home. Of course. She could almost laugh, it's that fucking ridiculous — or cry. But it's freezing, so better the former. Best case scenario, they're on a supply run nearby. Worst case, a hunt. But they just got back from one (or so she thinks) so she doubts they'd have fucked off so soon. Right? God, she's an idiot. She should've said something. What good's a surprise when everything goes to hell at the last minute?

Beverly doesn't know how long she's waiting outside. She idles in her car with the heater for a stretch, but she feels so goddamn jittery that she has to roll the window down for a smoke, and running the heat pointless. She gets out, leans against the side sheltered somewhat from the biting wind, and pulls out her cigarettes. Even with the sun, it's barely above freezing out here, but she remembers growing up in Maine now so she should be able to bear it. (Nah, it still sucks. A lot.) With numb fingers, she texts Dean something innocuous: What are you up to? Depending on the reply, she'll head into town and find a place to crash. It's as funny as it is mortifying at this point. What was that about being one bad day away from a total meltdown?

She's halfway through her third cigarette, cheeks almost as red as her hair from the cold, when she hears the familiar purr of the Impala's engine coming up the dirt road. And just like that, her heart lifts a little, traitorous as it is. The car's barely rolled to a stop when Dean gets out of the driver's side, and she can't quite make out his expression — worried? Upset? Confused as fuck? — because her eyes are watering from the wind (it's totally the wind).

She drops her cigarette, grinding it into the gravel with her boot, and grins behind the thick scarf wound around her neck. ]

Hi. [ Breathless, shivery, anticipatory. ] Um... surprise?

[cained]

( the closest city with a major grocery store and a decent fucking liquor store is an hour north in nebraska — which is almost laughable after the fact; if he'd known bev was about to show up on his doorstep, he could have just picked her at the airport and saved her the trouble of renting a car and driving out to the middle of bumfuck nowhere on his very specific yet not specific enough directions on how to get to the bunker (which he realizes later are a little hard to follow for someone without an internal gps). the real irony of the whole situation is she must have left the airport around the time they left the bunker, leaving her to wait around for at least a couple of hours — dean insisted while they were in hastings they were getting greasy, meat-loaded pizza at godfather's as a fucking treat (sam still only had a slice of alfredo and a salad, like a heathen) which must have added another half an hour or so on top of their normal in-and-out supply run. though, of course, this trip wasn't so in-and-out considering everything in their fridge had expired while they were being held captive by government operatives.

he gets her text while they're checking out at the liquor store (he can't really blame cas for going through most of their stockpile while they were in government isolation for two fucking months, but it would've been nice if he'd left the good stuff) and, despite the overall innocuousness of it, he can't help the prickling feeling of something being not quite right. they don't usually text like this — unless, of course, this is supposed to be the lead in to some kind of sexting, in which case ... well, that's new, but not unwelcome. he shoots back:

supply run sorry to disappoint
gimme half an hour and i can be doing something much more interesting 😏

it's practically a damn record how fast he makes it back to lebanon, anticipation gunning the accelerator, his heart racing almost as fast as the impala. he hasn't seen or spoken to bev since december — he'd called yesterday as soon as he could, couldn't explain everything, not yet, but he needed to let her know he was alive, at least — and, frankly, he's not entirely sure where they stand right now; this particular conversation could go one of two ways and so could his nerves. it's either gong to be a conversation he'll enjoy or it's not and he might be more anxious about it going south than in whatever direction they haven't explored yet. sam's learned by now not to question dean's driving habits or his speeding, but even he has to wonder what the hell has dean making such good time when they're just going back to the bunker. dean assures him it's not an emergency, just that he wants to keep his word to bev, as a personal victory.

so it's no wonder when he pulls up to the bunker and bev is just standing there, leaning against some rental car smoking a cigarette, he's never shifted gears faster, the impala lurching to a stop as he leaps out the door without bothering to shut it behind him. his heart is hammering wildly as he half jogs to where she is, laughing in disbelief, his breath coming out in bursts and clouding in the cold kansas air. what the hell is she doing here? he can't decide if he should be worried or pissed or confused or just ... happy. why didn't you tell me? i would have driven faster. he's sure he could have made it in under half an hour if he really put his mind to it, if he'd known what — who would be waiting for him when he got back. )

Holy shit, Bev. ( he reaches out to hold her face in his hands, press his forehead to hers, maybe just to convince himself that she's really here. ) Sure do know how to give a guy a heart attack. ( but he's laughing, delighted, and then he pulls her in, his arms wrapping tightly around her shoulders, his nose buried in her hair. god, he's missed this: her, physical intimacy, everything. he knows sam is watching, or at least standing awkwardly by the impala and trying politely to pretend he's not watching, so he presses a kiss to her head discreetly, lowering his voice just for her. ) It's so fucking good to see you, babe.

( which sounds a lot like i'll explain everything once we're not freezing our asses off. he pulls back just enough to brush her hair out of her face and look her in the eyes again, as if assessing her for damage, physical and mental. )

You're not in trouble? No warrants for your arrest I should be aware of?

( he's joking, for the most part, but there's a genuine concern laced into it, too. he just wants to make sure she's okay. there are probably more bad reasons why she came all the way out here than there are good ones — and the good one he's pretty sure is standing right in front of her. )

📞

[retraverse]

[ It's been three months since Derry. Since the Losers Club (barely) survived their second showdown with It in the cistern, since they dragged themselves out of the muck and ruin of Neibolt, since they weathered Eddie's damn near-miraculous recovery and Stanley's literally miraculous resurrection. Three months since they turned their backs on the town that never knew the price they paid to save it, three months since they tried to return to their lives, three months since Beverly took control of hers. Three months since she called Dean from that hospital corridor, still covered in blood, and talked about monsters. Three months full of more phone calls and texts just like that one, less and less about monsters and more and more about the mundane. (Stories, music, the things they like, don't like; dumb pictures, funny pictures, the burger they had for lunch, the leftovers for dinner. Anything. Everything.) It's been three months since they became friends.

But that doesn't make the monsters are any less real.

It's been three months since Derry but the nightmares haven't stopped. They all have them now, not just Beverly. She and Richie talk the most, sharing the shitty honour of being caught in the deadlights, but they don't have the monopoly on good old fashioned trauma and the Losers chat is full of late night texts. They don't say why they're up at 4 AM sharing corgi compilation videos or a running commentary of Guy Fieri's Triple D marathon; they don't have to. But somewhere down the line, Beverly felt a little — guilty — for weighing the others down with something she's grappled with for 27 years. Somewhere down the line, she started texting Dean the same stuff. Somewhere down the line he, unlike her friends, pointed out the timestamps. Somewhere down the line, he told her, Call me anytime and Bev, thinking back to that shaky hospital phone call, doesn't feel ashamed when she accepts the offer. Usually, they talk like they do during the day (or he talks and she listens until her heartbeat settles). But sometimes, when she can't catch her breath enough to manage even that, Dean plays music over the line, soft strumming guitar and bluesy 70s cassettes — and it helps.

Tonight is one of those exceptionally bad nights. The kind where Beverly fumbles for her phone in the dark and taps on Dean's name before she's even fully awake, fully out of whatever murky, cold place she'd believed herself to be; she can still feel the icy grip of fingers on her throat when the call connects, voice ragged with memory and sleep and tears. ]

Dean? [ Normally she'd text first. Maybe she'd meant to. But she's running on instinct (fighting the instinct to run — or maybe she is running — towards or away, can't tell). ] You there?

☕️

[retraverse]

[ they've been texting pretty frequently since beverly called him from the hospital over a week ago. there's something comforting about talking to someone on the outside of this whole mess, someone who's never been to derry or experienced its particularly strange sleepiness — although now it's slowly waking up from the clown's curse.

but today has nothing to do with the clown. today is a late morning text of two subsequent photos: IMG_8222.jpg IMG_8223.jpg. and then — ]

As promised: proof of one non-hospital cafeteria meal
Though I don't know how I'm gonna finish all this by myself
God I can't believe this place is still here

𝚁𝙸𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙴 𝚃𝙾𝚉𝙸𝙴𝚁

[groaners]

[cained]

care to explain yourself

( oh, he might sound calm at first, but he is livid on the other end of the line. dean's giving richie one chance to talk his way out of this before he goes fully off. )

[retraverse]

[ hello from new york, it's sunday morning and she's got a winchester crashing at her place — in her bed — which is kinda becoming a thing every couple of weeks. this is also probably not the first text she's sent richie about it. but the oh no he's hot of it all still blindsides her. ]

Richie he's making me breakfast
I can literally smell it
What the fuck

𝚂𝙰𝙼 𝚆𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙷𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁

[helled]

literally no rush ever but 👀

[retraverse]

[ so bev and dean have had this thing for a couple months now, usually only when the winchesters are in the general vicinity of new york city where she lives, but it's been peppered with late night chats and texts in the time between visits, so it's — well, serious is a big word, but it's definitely more than casual. serious enough that when bev needs a break from the press surrounding her very public divorce, she had the address to the bunker in her back pocket (for emergencies, said dean) and shows up unannounced, just to lay low for a week or two.

they've only really met in passing, her and sam — the first time was them interviewing her as a witness to a case, which is how their odd lives had intersected before the clown. and he's probably heard a bit about her from dean since. (or google.) but she does have his number, and she does want to get to know him better because she cares about his brother, so when she's out grocery shopping in the next town over, she fires off a quick message: ]

Hey, it's Beverly :)
Noticed you guys literally have zero fresh fruit and veg in the bunker and I found this farmer's market
You want anything?

𝙱𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙻𝚈 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚂𝙷

[retraverse]

[cained]

( there are certain chapters of dean's life that he's never properly put to rest, left buried for years, always on the verge of having them come back to haunt him. (others will haunt him until the day he dies; torturing souls in hell isn't something you just get over, though it's certainly gotten easier to compartmentalize as the years have passed.) he's made more mistakes than he can count, has mountains full of regrets, carries all that baggage with him every day. so it seems inevitable that the ghosts of his past will one day need salt and burning like everything else — and when it comes to his past relationships, well. he's burned those bridges, but never the memories. he's never let himself forget, or forgive, because it serves as a reminder that he isn't built for being a couple. he scarcely ever thinks he deserves happiness at all, in whatever form it might take.

that, and healthy communication has never been one of dean's strong suits, so to find himself having a conversation about his exes with bev is ... new. it's not like talking with sam, who knows him better than he knows himself, but dean has to admit she's just as good at calling him out on his bullshit. she can tell almost as well as his brother when he's holding something back, when something's bothering him — when there's something he doesn't want to talk about without a little gentle nudging. because, sometimes, he needs to talk about things, but he's always been too proud to have those conversations. with sam, they usually turn into arguments, dean always playing the big brother card and sam inevitably relenting until they blow up at each other. (admittedly, they've gotten better at talking to each other, being more honest, but there's still a decade or so of baggage they've never even touched because neither of them wants to dig up old trauma if they can avoid it.)

but bev hasn't been there for most of his life, is coming into it at a relatively good time. she's an outsider, so of course he feels like he owes her at least a little bit of context. he can be mad at sam all he likes for opening this particular can of worms, but, in a way, it's a little like ripping off a bandaid. he was gonna have to air this out eventually — he's heard the horror stories of bev's marriage; she deserves to hear about the only other serious relationship he's ever had in his life, deserves to know why this, them, might not work. why it's gonna be hard work if they really want to try. but he thinks he might be willing to if, after everything, she's still all in.

they're sharing drinks in one of the library's nooks late one evening, sam having retired to his own room for the night. he's not even sure how they got to this particular subject — how three words (who was she?) have unearthed the bones of something he buried a long time ago — just that there's no real backing out of it now. he considers saying none of your business, but it doesn't quite feel right. he respects her enough to tell her the truth. )

Lisa. ( he hasn't said her name since he threatened to break sam's nose if he ever mentioned her or ben again. hasn't said it since the last time he last saw her, lying in that hospital bed, ben scared and confused at her side. he remembers asking cas for a favor, how much it ate him up inside to know he had to let her go, and that was the only way to do it. he had to keep her safe, and that meant cutting himself out of her life entirely. out of her memory. i'm dean. i'm the guy who hit you. sometimes he wonders if their life did get back to normal after that. sometimes he wonders how they're doing. but he can't afford to let himself dwell too long on it, or go chasing after what could have been. ) Her name was Lisa. We were together for about a year. It wasn't ... a good time for me.

( he takes a sip of whiskey. he hasn't even told mary most of this story. even as he tells it, he's staring mostly at the whiskey in his glass, and there's a vulnerability to his voice that might come as a surprise. )

Sam was in Hell, trapped with Michael and Lucifer. Every night I'd have nightmares, wake up screaming, must've drank myself half to death a dozen times at the beginning, but she stuck with me through all of it and I did my best to keep her safe. Her and her boy, Ben. ( something nostalgic, melancholy, settles into the curve of his mouth. ) I loved that kid. Taught him everything I could. Got a job working construction, tried to — be normal. For a while, it was like living a Dolly Parton song. I found some kinda balance. I might've even been happy for a stretch. ( he huffs dryly. ) As happy as a guy can get when he knows his brother's being tortured in the Pit the whole time. ( he takes a breath, exhales slowly. ) But I made a promise to Sam I'd quit the life, that I'd get out if I could. That whole year I kept that promise and it was almost good. The thing is, the life never really lets you quit for long. Eventually, it caught up to us.

( he finally glances over to bev, trying to gauge her reaction. there's clearly more to the story by the way he looks at her, eyes heavy with sorrow, but he's leaving it up to her if she wants to hear the rest. winchesters don't get happy endings. )

( •̀ .̫ •́ )✧

[cained]

( IMG_4354.JPG )

long story but it's been a good night
weird but good

[cained]

( it's been weeks since the rift closed, since he came out the other side empty handed and down a man, since he lost the one (possibly only) chance he might have had at rescuing his mother, rescuing jack. he's been in a haze of grief and rage, hunting nonstop, back to back, killing every evil son of a bitch he can find because it's the only thing keeping him going. gabriel's still in the fucking wind, they're no closer to opening another rift than they were weeks ago, and dean's nearly at the end of his rope; if he frays any more he'll fucking snap and no one wants to be around him when he does. cas' blind faith and sam's platitudes are worthless; dean's anger can't be salved with misplaced optimism and puppy dog eyes, so he grabs his keys and his duffel and gets the fuck out of dodge.

he doesn't tell either of them where he's going — doesn't even have a particular destination in mind when he tears out of the garage except away — just slams the car door shut, guns the ignition, and drives. it's not until he makes out the familiar lights of new york city glittering against the distant night sky that he realizes he knew where he was going all along: his home away from home, speeding halfway across the country to the only person he can bear to see right now. maybe just because she's so far removed from all of it, all this shit they've been dealt and still been expected not to fold — but he thinks it's more to do with the way he always feels less angry around her. one look at her is like a soothing balm to his ragged heart, his raw and tortured soul. bev's gotten him through so much, healed him in ways he could have never expected — it isn't a simple want to see her, like some people want rain on a too sunny day; he needs to see her, needs to be near her on an intimately desperate level or he thinks he might drown.

against the backdrop of bev's immaculate apartment building, he looks like he just dragged his ass out of purgatory for the second time (only this time he hasn't bothered to shave): bloodstains on his jacket, streaks of it on his face, in his hair. all vamps are created equal — and east coast vamps die just as gory as midwest vamps. sure, they call themselves bluebloods, like to think they're better than all the rest with their fancy parties (cocktails served fresh from the tap of innocent civilians), but they bleed just as red. money don't make a damn difference, not when dean has a machete in his hands and untempered fury in his chest. he doesn't bother to clean himself up after the slaughter (a whole damn nest ripe for the slaying); by then he's only a few hours out and the thought of bev's shower and his very own robe is more than convincing enough to leave the grime.

he barely registers the stiffly polite mr. winchester as he heads for the elevator, barely registers much of anything except the noise in his own head until he's standing in front of bev's door like he's only just now realized where he is despite how deliberate the drive over had been. he raises his hand to knock, stares a moment at his swollen, bloody knuckles (there's a fist-shaped dent in a gas station bathroom a couple hundred miles west; he must have taken out that nest left-handed). god, he's tired. he raps on the door with his good hand. )

Bev, it's me. ( he sounds like hell, his voice rough like sandpaper. he should have texted, called, he knows, but that would mean turning on his phone and dealing with sam. which, right now, he can't. he just needs her. )

[cained]

【𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙐𝙀𝘿 𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈 𝙃𝙀𝙍𝙀...】

( it surprises him, too, how easy it is to say yes to bev. maybe because for the first time in a long time, he feels like he can. he's never made a habit of sticking around any town too long, and especially not for a girl (there have been exceptions, obviously — cassie, lisa — but they feel like lifetimes ago now, distant memories just out of his reach, boarded up behind years of responsibility and trauma, DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT smeared in blood as a warning to his future self) and yet ...

why the fuck not?

it's only a couple days. and there's something about bev, something that feels like he's been ever slowly drawn toward her, pulled in by her gravity. they've been orbiting each other for months now, talking for hours on end, texting longer than that; it finally feels like something is aligning — a convergence of some kind, the type you only see every handful of decades or centuries. he'd be an idiot to let this chance pass him by, even as much as it scares him, just a little, his skin flushed with anticipation as she lists an itinerary of activities, his heart beating hard behind his ribs.

god, he can't remember the last time he went on a date. (isn't that what this is?) he'd been teasing, mostly, but now that it's out there — a whole day's worth of sightseeing, a whole day's worth of bev, doing the things, what, couples do? the idea of it makes him bark a laugh, a warm rumble low in his chest. he's not laughing at her, of course, or the things she has planned — it's a defense mechanism, really, because if he doesn't laugh he thinks he might cry. is this what being seen feels like? they way her itinerary caters exactly to his interests, the way she tries to play it off as if she hadn't been thinking about this for weeks, thinking about him for weeks.

oh. something in his chest pangs and his eyes crease around the corners, his face softening.

(truthfully, he hasn't stopped thinking about her, either. doesn't think he could ever get her off his mind.)

he leans forward against the table, arms crossed in front of him, his knee bumping against hers, his mouth curved with that charming smugness of his. )

With all that on the itinerary, you'd think you were trying to seduce me. ( he's teasing, mostly, but it occurs to him with the sudden skip of his heartbeat that it wouldn't even take that much. sure, he's always been a little easy, but he's always been more of a romantic underneath it all; he's never been wooed before and yet here bev is doing exactly that with all her talk of gangster museums and vintage record shops. maybe that's what's most exciting about all of this — they're taking their time with whatever this is, letting it grow naturally, which isn't something dean has usually had the privilege of. ) And not that I don't want you to, but all this time with yours truly ain't gonna fuck up that divorce of yours, is it?

( last he heard, it was close to being finalized and he definitely does not want to ruin it for her just by sticking around. he knows it's been hell, before and during. the least he can do is make sure the after ain't gonna be hell, too. )

[cained]

( it's evening by the time they make it back to the bunker from eureka springs and dean's been itching to call bev since they left. he could have called her from the road, but he wouldn't have wanted to interrupt her at work and, more to the point, this isn't the type of conversation he wants to have with sam eavesdropping next to him.

you looked happy.

he scrubs a hand over his face, takes a swig of beer. seven hours ago, he couldn't remember who bev was, couldn't even remember his own damn name. seven hours ago, he was wandering around as a shell of a person; all he knew about himself was what other people told him. most of that time is hazy, like looking back on a fog, but he remembers the feeling more than anything — the lost, afraid pangs in his chest when more things would slip away, like reaching out for a hand in the dark only to have it disappear before you could grasp it. he tried to hold onto bev as long as he could, but even she faded eventually — first her name, then her face, then the warm thing that's taken a permanent residency in his heart, all replaced with a cold unawareness.

that's what being happy looks like? i think i'll pass.

he sets his beer on the countertop of his makeshift bar in the aptly named dean cave; a boston record plays softly on the jukebox. he's working on a burger when he finally calls bev, putting her on speaker while the call connects.

then he hears his name and he lets out a soft chuckle, relief washing over him in waves. he remembered her as soon as he got unhexed, of course, but hearing her voice conjures everything else to the forefront of his mind: her easy smile, the splash of freckles on her cheeks, the way her mouth feels against his. it wasn't even that long ago that she was here. it's almost like she still is. )

God, you've got no idea how good it is to hear your voice. Last few days've been a fucking doozy.

𝙴𝙳𝙳𝙸𝙴 𝙺𝙰𝚂𝙿𝙱𝚁𝙰𝙺

[salbutamol]

😎

[cained]

( he's already given richie The Talk re: demons, but he figures he should probably make the rounds to the other losers too (and eddie especially now that he's living with richie out in demon-infested los angeles). so it's without really any preamble that dean sends the same selfie of his pec he sent richie. )

hey
this goes for you too
anti-possession tattoo
think about it
you do not want demons possessing you

𝙱𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝙳𝙴𝙽𝙱𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷

[anticlimaxes]

[retraverse]

[ It's been the best holiday season Beverly's ever had. Winter is always magical in New York City, all the movies say so, but like Macy's famous window displays, that feeling always felt trapped behind glass to her. She's always been a bystander, like the whirlwind romance and charm was never meant for someone like her. She knows it's because of the curse Pennywise put on her and the other Losers (and that her awful luck with men was part of that too, without the memories of standing up to her father to help her steer clear), which is why it's so important to them to take the wins where they can and celebrate them as hard as they can. Last year, their first milestone holiday since Derry and their reunion, was good, especially in the wake of her divorce — but it still carried a weight from the summer. The relief — disbelief — to have made it that far gave their gathering an edge, palpable through the laughter and perhaps a little too much drinking. Like they were still waiting for the other shoe to drop, even though their lives were finally back on track, as fragile as they were.

It's been another year since and Beverly has never felt steadier with the course of her life or more at peace. And although her reunions with the Losers are always special, as are her rendezvous with Dean, the past two weeks have been the most memorable to date. She feels like she's been glowing for days, surrounded by the people she loves and who love her between the Winchesters crashing at her place just in time for Christmas and the Losers flying into town to ring in the New Year together. It's the longest stretch of time Beverly and Dean have had together since they started this whole thing between them last November — and the New Year's Eve party at Ben's was the first time her two worlds came together under one roof. (She'd been anxious as fuck about it, but it couldn't have gone better. Even if they opted to keep a few things, like Bev's dabbling in casual hunts, private. One bombshell at a time, okay.)

It's been a few days since that night and only a few hours since she said goodbye to Sam and Dean, back on the road and back to work. But with some of the Losers still hanging around, Beverly doesn't have time to feel too lonely. She's grateful for it, honestly, having their company instead of heading straight to the drawing board. (Fashion Week is next month. Fuck.) Her Christmas tree is still up! It's still vacation time! So after seeing off the Winchesters and getting a little work done, Bev met up with Bill for a late lunch in the Village and now they're back at her apartment for coffee. Because — ]

Fuck, [ she laughs as she ushers Bill into her foyer, shutting and locking the door behind her, ] it's cold. [ She pulls off her gloves, stuffing them in the pockets of her coat before shrugging out of it. ] Good thing we didn't stick around the restaurant, looks like we just beat the snow — geez, [ she says, grimacing at the clouds outside her broad windows. ] Hope the boys don't run into it on the road.

[ Yeah, she's already pulling out her phone to text Dean. ]

Have a seat anywhere! [ Bev hangs up her scarf, wandering over to her kitchen to get the coffee going. There are two abandoned mugs on the breakfast counter, evidence of her houseguests, and she grabs them one-handed. ] Sorry about the mess. Was kind of a crazy morning.