( dean's always running headfirst into something stupid with full faith there will be someone on the other end to drag his ass out of the metaphorical fire (hell, even a literal fire every now and then) — and, truthfully, it's the only real faith dean's ever had in anything: faith in the people he cares about, faith in his family. even then, it's been a long and bumpy road to get him to where he is now; he never lost his faith in sam, not really, but there were times when it wavered so close to the edge he thought they might not come back from it — ruby, demon blood, the book of the damned, releasing the darkness. all of that feels like a fucking lifetime ago, like old familiar scars, reminders of what they've been through, what's made them stronger. they heal and move on, move past the hurt and the anger, because they have to.
he believes in sam, just like he believes in cas, in jack. in bev. that kind of trust — that kind of faith — is what keeps people alive in this business. it's never come from god or any other higher power (cas dragging dean's ass out of hell might have been preordained, but he still ain't about to give chuck credit for it). and, frankly, if dean hadn't had the opportunity to look the almighty directly in the eyes on more than a few occasions, he wouldn't have put stock in any god. hell, he still doesn't. chuck has never been there for any of them (human or angelkind) when it really counted and he sure as hell ain't around for them now.
so he knows bev can handle this. she may not be out there fighting monsters 24/7, but she's seen her (un)fair share of blood and gore; not exactly something to put on your resume, but there's something morbidly reassuring about this not being the most fucked up thing she's ever seen (disturbingly relieved that he isn't going to have to talk her down from having some kind of panic attack, fully aware of how awful a thought it is to think that a perfectly normal minor mental breakdown would be inconvenient). he realizes, as soon as she says it, that she's been through this before, on her own side of things. you don't drag your half-dead friend out of a sewer and not expect a few questions. he almost shoots back you're supposed to say get it? got it. good. but even as hazy as his mind feels, he's conscious enough not to be a smart ass when he can see she's seconds away from fraying at the edges. )
You got it, babe. ( which is meant to mean i understand but comes out more like you're doing good. his face brightens at the bottle of whiskey, his mouth sloping at bev as if to say i knew i could count on you. he reaches for the bottle, wincing at the effort it takes to unscrew the cap. once he manages it — ) Oh, yeah. Come to papa. ( he takes a long swig as bev busies herself readying her supplies. the burn of the whiskey is a helpful distraction from the searing pain in his shoulder, enough that when bev returns to help him up, he's much less keen to protest. ) Yes ma'am, up'n at 'em.
( he grunts uncomfortably when he has to move for bev to tuck herself against him, arm around his waist, his less fucked up arm around her shoulders, but his legs do work just fine and they manage it well enough to the bathroom without too much complaint from dean. he drapes himself over the back of toilet, bottle of whiskey still in hand. this many stitches ain't gonna be fun. )
Like a regular operating room in here. ( an idle comment, not meant to be snarky or sarcastic, just something to keep him present. then, a beat, a drink, a moment of hesitation before he says: ) I appreciate you coming, Bev, really.
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he believes in sam, just like he believes in cas, in jack. in bev. that kind of trust — that kind of faith — is what keeps people alive in this business. it's never come from god or any other higher power (cas dragging dean's ass out of hell might have been preordained, but he still ain't about to give chuck credit for it). and, frankly, if dean hadn't had the opportunity to look the almighty directly in the eyes on more than a few occasions, he wouldn't have put stock in any god. hell, he still doesn't. chuck has never been there for any of them (human or angelkind) when it really counted and he sure as hell ain't around for them now.
so he knows bev can handle this. she may not be out there fighting monsters 24/7, but she's seen her (un)fair share of blood and gore; not exactly something to put on your resume, but there's something morbidly reassuring about this not being the most fucked up thing she's ever seen (disturbingly relieved that he isn't going to have to talk her down from having some kind of panic attack, fully aware of how awful a thought it is to think that a perfectly normal minor mental breakdown would be inconvenient). he realizes, as soon as she says it, that she's been through this before, on her own side of things. you don't drag your half-dead friend out of a sewer and not expect a few questions. he almost shoots back you're supposed to say get it? got it. good. but even as hazy as his mind feels, he's conscious enough not to be a smart ass when he can see she's seconds away from fraying at the edges. )
You got it, babe. ( which is meant to mean i understand but comes out more like you're doing good. his face brightens at the bottle of whiskey, his mouth sloping at bev as if to say i knew i could count on you. he reaches for the bottle, wincing at the effort it takes to unscrew the cap. once he manages it — ) Oh, yeah. Come to papa. ( he takes a long swig as bev busies herself readying her supplies. the burn of the whiskey is a helpful distraction from the searing pain in his shoulder, enough that when bev returns to help him up, he's much less keen to protest. ) Yes ma'am, up'n at 'em.
( he grunts uncomfortably when he has to move for bev to tuck herself against him, arm around his waist, his less fucked up arm around her shoulders, but his legs do work just fine and they manage it well enough to the bathroom without too much complaint from dean. he drapes himself over the back of toilet, bottle of whiskey still in hand. this many stitches ain't gonna be fun. )
Like a regular operating room in here. ( an idle comment, not meant to be snarky or sarcastic, just something to keep him present. then, a beat, a drink, a moment of hesitation before he says: ) I appreciate you coming, Bev, really.