( 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.
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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.