( 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. )
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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. )