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family don't end with blood —
CLUB FREE WILL MASTERPOST
— welcome to the losers club, asshole!
STARRING
BABY
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Might be fishing line in the duffel if you ain't got thread.
( which he mentions far too casually, like this is just something that happens often enough that he needs to carry fishing line around with him in case anyone needs to get sewn up. it's — well, not too far from the truth. you never know when someone might need stitches. part of the life is always being prepared for the worst, though he might have severely underestimated the worst in this particular case. still, this is a bag he almost never unpacks, only adds to. if bev doesn't have what he needs, he more than likely has something stashed away, either in his duffel or in the trunk of the impala.
honestly, he'd expected her to be freaking out way more than she is, so when stitching him up is the apparent least of her worries, it sends something almost like pride coursing up his spine, settling in the warm curve of his mouth. he reaches for one of her hands; his are dirty and caked in dried blood, but the sentiment remains the same: you can do this. more than that: )
I need you to, Bev. ( his stare hardens, though it's mostly out of desperation. ) Believe me, you do not wanna walk me into a hospital like this. Too many questions. Someone could recognize you, things could get complicated. I can't afford more complicated. ( he doesn't want her lying for him, anyway. it's bad enough he's dragged her into this mess as it is. his gaze drifts to the bag she brought with her and he nods at it. ) Hope you brought booze. ( he huffs a laugh, dryly. ) For disinfectant, but you know I ain't gonna pass up a drink.
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But of course it isn't that simple. Her eyes close briefly when he talks about fishing line like she'd asked for a snack and he's got Oreos stashed away. Jesus fucking Christ. She knows, rationally, that this is part of the job. The life, as the boys call it. She knows he's probably had much worse than this and handled it with less help. Doesn't mean it doesn't suck. Her eyes flutter open when he takes her hand, lips pressed into a tight line when their eyes meet. There's an unwavering faith in his grip, voice, gaze and it warms her to be on the receiving end of it, especially when the nerves have made her go a little cold all over. I need you to. That's — a lot, but it grounds her, too. She knows he trusts her but she hadn't realised the depth of it until now; maybe later it'll really hit her. What it means. Right now she's listening to him and shaking her head, resolute. ]
I can handle too many questions at the hospital, [ she tells him quietly, voice just as firm. A lifetime of bad boyfriends and bad "accidents" build that kind of skill; it helped the Losers avoid too many complications when they carried Eddie into the emergency room months ago. As far as injuries go, this one would be easy. Camping, an animal attack. And she highly doubts anyone would recognise her either. But this isn't about her, it's about Dean, and he's been at this a lot longer than she has. So if he says it's complicated, likely for reasons beyond her knowledge, then she'll listen for now and do her best to patch him up. But — ] And I will handle them if it turns out I can't handle this. Got it?
[ AKA she will do as he asks but if it goes south, they're driving out of here, no arguments. She lets that ultimatum sit for a stretch, then she exhales and releases him, reaching for her backpack. The first thing she pulls out is half a bottle of whiskey from her kitchen, brows raised at Dean like, Who do you think I am? as she sets it in front of him. If this were an action movie, she'd take a swig of the bottle before passing it over, say something cool and funny like for the nerves. But she's not cool like that and she wants her hands steady, her mind clear; she can have that drink after everything is said and done because by then, well — hopefully she's done a good enough job that she deserves it. (A drink and a cigarette. Fuck.) ]
Hang on. [ Beverly gets up to dig through that duffel. But as she passes the bathroom, she gets a better idea, doubles back to grab her backpack of supplies and unloads it in there. It's practically half the first-aid section of the drugstore (bottles of saline, dressings, antiseptic, lidocaine, gloves) plus the kit from under her bathroom sink and a pair of fabric scissors from her studio. Then she's back out and looking through his stuff, searching for that goddamn fishing line and coming up with something even better: an actual suture kit, presumably thanks to Sam Winchester. Small mercies.
Despite her fluttering anxiety, she moves with efficiency, a woman used to high-pressure situations, heavy expectations, and tight deadlines. Bathroom prepped, she's back at Dean's side, helping him up. He's taller, broader, heavier than her but she's sure his legs work just fine; still, with a grunt of effort: ] Alright, up up up, c'mon. Let's go.
[ And once they're through the door, she eases him onto the closed toilet and goes back to peeling off that flannel. She's gonna have to cut off the shirt underneath, too. Because if she's doing this, then she's gonna do it right. ]
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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.
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The shirt falls open. Beverly has to gingerly peel away the section clinging to his shoulder, sticky with blood, and her lips press together when she finally sees the gash in his skin. In an instant, she's flashing back to wherever she was in her dream, flickering between this bright bathroom and the dark woods, the rush of wings overhead, and then — the slash of claws, biting into her back, just like — no. She blinks the memory away, like so many of the others that blindsided her in Derry and in the months after, and she tries to ignore the cold prickle of sweat at the nape of her neck. Holy shit. Let's not go crazy here, Bev.
It's Dean's comment about operating rooms that brings her focus back, warms her cheeks with the surprising honesty behind the words; she huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh, and sets her fabric scissors down so she can crack open the bottle of saline. ]
Really says something about your standards, [ she tosses back, voice lighter than she feels. But then he tacks on the next thing, and God, she wishes she could look him in the eye when it lands, easing some tension from her shoulders. His sincerity doesn't go unnoticed. Far from it. Because even if she hasn't done anything yet, apparently coming here could have been enough.
Beverly rests her free hand on his good shoulder, steady and reassuring. ] Any time, [ she says, and she means it. She almost laughs, just for a release of tension. ] I mean, I wish you'd let me drag your ass to Urgent Care, but getting you into this bathroom was enough of a struggle, so... [ She exhales slowly, shaking her head. Then the grip on his shoulder shifts, becomes more bracing. ] Incoming.
[ An idle warning, right before she pours the bottle of wound wash over his shoulder, flushing it out. It's messy, saline and blood trickling down his back and onto the tile floor. But as angry and deep as it looks, the gash is a cleaner line than she anticipated, which makes her job a little easier. That done, she goes to scrub her hands in the sink, dry them off on a clean towel, then pull on some gloves.
She feels dumb. Like she's playing dress-up. She read a few frantic how-to's on the drive over, watched some videos just in case, and she remembers that one time her friend Emily busted up her chin after a bad fall and she watched her get stitched up. As a seamstress, she'd been fascinated by the process. Asked questions. But that was a couple years ago. ]
You're gonna have to walk me through this, Dean. [ She's got the kit, staring at the components. ] I mean, I – I've got the basics, obviously. [ And binge-watching Grey's. Not a reassuring thing to say, probably. ] But if you've got any tips, now's the time. Or we could call your brother?
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the hand she sets on his shoulder is warm, reminds him of lazy mornings in the bunker not too long ago, the casual touches before either of them even made it out of bed (the smooth brush of hands from thighs to hips, over the curve of a waist, settling against a cheek), in the kitchen while dean made breakfast, on drives out of town. it's comfortable, familiar in a way he hasn't let himself allow with anyone other than family for a long time. there are reasons (good reasons) why he shouldn't let himself get this close to those elusive concepts hunters seem incapable of attaining (happiness, stability, love) but this thing with bev almost has him convinced he's full of shit. whatever this thing is, it's working, isn't it?
you know what? i'm a realist. i don't see much hope for us, dean.
how badly had he wanted it to work with cassie? thinking back on it now, he knows it never would have. they hadn't even found dad, hadn't even gotten close to azazel or scratched the surface of the brewing apocalypse. dean went to hell, for fuck's sake. even without all the trauma, that one's probably a pretty big dealbreaker for most women. cassie was about as close to normal as anyone can get in a world that includes ghost-possessed racist trucks, anyway. maybe they could have tried, but he has no doubt now it would have blown up in their faces, ended worse than it did the first time.
i'll see ya, cassie. i will.
he almost has to laugh at how naive he was. or maybe he really was convinced he'd come back one day.
a cold wash of liquid drags him out of his thoughts and without another beat he hisses: )
Son of a bitch. ( the pain isn't unbearable, but that doesn't mean it isn't there. his grip tightens around the neck of the whiskey in his hand. he grunts, wincing as his shoulder flares hot and piercing. ) Fuckin' hell. ( he pulls the bottle to his lips, whiskey sloshing into his mouth. the burn down his throat takes some of the burn in his shoulder. he takes a few deep breaths to steady himself, or maybe to steady bev as if to say see? i'm fine, i can handle this, ain't no thing. he realizes this whole thing might be easier said than done, but — )
We ain't callin' Sammy. ( the gruff way he says it makes it sound final, not up for discussion. it might be more convenient to call sam, but as far as dean's concerned: ) He's got his own job to do. ( namely, figuring out what the fuck they're dealing with here. and dean's not about to interrupt sam's research groove for an ask jeeve's session. besides, dean hung up on him pretty unceremoniously, so it's best to let the air clear before they talk again. sam will call back when he has information and dean should be patched up by then which means he won't be nearly as grumpy — and because he doesn't really do apologies, he'll make up for being a dick by telling sam he did a good job and that'll be that. they'll be good. )
Good thing he left that kit in there or your job'd be a hell of a lot harder. ( maybe not reassuring, so, uh, moving on. down to business. ) Start a fourth of a inch down, 90 degrees from the edge of the wound. Needle should go about another fourth of an inch in before you pull it out the other side. Gonna have to pull it almost all the way through first, tie it off with a couple overhand knots. Then you're just gonna keep sewing. Tie it off again at the end when you're done. ( there's an ease to the way he says it that might be calming, in realizing that he knows exactly what he's talking about, but he's also fully aware that stitching a person up is not the same as stitching a shirt, so he adds, a little softer: ) You're gonna do fine. Don't rush it.
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[ If Beverly had started seeing Dean without the faintest idea what he did behind the fake FBI badge, tonight would feel a lot like being thrown into the deep end. (And in the grand scope of his hunter's life, it's barely even a splash; close calls like this are part of the job description.) In a way it is, if only because she's half-winging it when it comes to patching him back up for another round in the ring, but she knows more than she did a year ago — about him, about what lurks in the shadows of this world. A year ago, she'd been a witness on the fringes of a case they'd worked, blissfully unaware; a year ago, she didn't remember Pennywise or the horrors she'd survived as a child. A lot's changed since then. She's changed, steel sewn back into her veins by memories both old and new. A large part of it is because of Derry and the other Losers; another part of it is Dean looping her in, showing her the ropes when she asks. Just like now.
The time she spent in the bunker a few weeks ago taught her more about the life the Winchesters lead than the stories Dean's told her over late night chats and their infrequent rendezvous in the city. Seeing — helping, sometimes — them gear up for a new case, being there when they came rolling back in after. Listening, learning, diving into research in between the quiet moments stolen with Dean in corners of the library, kitchen, bedroom. The latter often outweighed the former, the pair of them determined to make the most of the time they had together. But as Dean's thinking of those days, so is she, and she's realising this is just the next step of him letting her into his life because he believes she can handle it. Because he knows she's already faced the worst this world's got to offer and come out on the other side.
Her focus narrows to the instructions he dictates, mentally reframing the tear in his shoulder to a rip in a jacket. It's a crude comparison, and she sure as shit won't tell him she's thinking it because this is not the same thing, but it's what she's working with. She abandons the kit for a moment to soak a pad of gauze with more saline, mopping up around the injury, daubing carefully at the edges of the gash until she's sure it's clean. It helps her study it too, marrying her internet crash course in first-aid with what he tells her. The lidocaine is next, applied with a light hand, because if she's gonna be poking around with a needle then at least he won't feel her doing it.
This isn't about pulling her off the sidelines. She was never there to begin with, not since she was thirteen. Not really. You're gonna do fine, he tells her, and her slow exhale comes a little steadier. She feels a little steadier. Yeah, this is fine. If she doesn't totally fuck this up or lose her head, then it won't be the last time she'll be called on to help make it 'fine.' ]
Believe me, I've got zero interest in rushing any of this, [ she murmurs. She leans in close, hand resting gently on his ribs and voice warm against the shell of his ear. ] But thanks for the vote of confidence. [ It sounds like she's smiling; Beverly drops a quick kiss to his grimy temple then straightens, picking up the curved needle and unwinding the thread. ] Better get comfortable, babe. And save some of that whiskey for me.
[ After she's sure the skin's gone numb, she takes a deep breath — a fourth of an inch, ninety degrees — and just goes for it. All things considered, it's not too different from her literally trying to hold Eddie's cheek together, blood spilling down his face and over her fingers. She feels more in control here, anyway, without the looming threat of Bowers or Pennywise over her shoulder. Needle in, thread pulled through, a little fumbling as she knots it once, twice, thrice with gloves, unused to working without her sense of touch to guide her. Snip. Moving on.
The quiet settles as she works, concentrates. It isn't until she starts on her third suture, feeling like she's got some kind of rhythm, that she speaks again. ]
So... you want to tell me what happened?
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the plan had been more along the lines of showing up outside her apartment building the next morning and texting her to look out the window, waving up at her from the bathe of the the new york sun below, central park stretching out behind him like in some kind of fucking romcom. sure, he doesn't have a boombox, but he has a vintage muscle car and a box full of vintage cassettes. it's close enough.
her having to stick a needle through his skin and sew it up at three o'clock in the fucking morning is so far from the plan it's almost laughable. of course this shit would happen just to thwart any possible romance from happening. it's just his luck, huh? still, there's something ... not quite romantic but intimate about the way she sets a hand on his side, a hint of a smile against his ear, the kiss to his temple. his stomach twists in a way that's something more akin to arousal than anxiety, a faint smile of his own tugging at his lips, surprised by what even a gesture as small as a touch and a kiss can do to him. (if it wouldn't hurt like hell, he'd be chasing her lips, tipping his head back to thank her, slow and lingering, before the show really gets on the road.) maybe it's just the casualness of it all that surprises him, the comfortable way in which they occupy each other's space like they've been doing this for years. )
Aye aye, Captain. ( he takes one last swig from the bottle, then sets it on the head of the toilet. ) She's all yours.
( it takes him a moment to realize his skin's gone completely numb, the whiskey dulling most of his senses already; it's not really until he hears the snip of thread that it dawns on him. lidocaine, huh? smart girl, his bev. he's had worse injuries patched up on less, but he appreciates the extra trouble she went to just to make him feel comfortable. it's definitely better than suffering through needle and thread sewing his damn skin back together, at least.
a comfortable silence drapes over them while she works, at least for a while, dean not wanting to interrupt her focus. he's damn tired, anyway, and he's almost at the point of being too exhausted to keep his eyes open when he hears bev's voice behind him, asking him what the hell happened. he rubs a hand over his face, thumb and forefinger dragging over his eyes. he doesn't really want to tell her, but he does feel like he owes her some kind of explanation, especially now that he's dragged her into the aftermath of his fuck up. )
Thought I knew what I was up against. Seemed like a routine vamp job. Shoulda been able to get it done no problem — gone up against whole fucking nests before, this shouldn't've been no thing — but turns out this motherfucker ain't like no vamp I've ever seen before. Hell, never even seen anything with wings that wasn't a dragon, angel, or a fucking fairie. And, believe me, this wasn't either. Tracked it down to the next vics, but the fucker got the jump on me when I interrupted its meal. ( which he says which as much distaste as he can muster, because that meal happened to be an innocent newlywed couple. ) Got fucking slapped across the room by an honest to God bat wing. By that point, it was pretty fucking clear I wasn't dealing with any kind of vamp, so I pulled my gun and shot it full of silver — which didn't do a damn thing except piss it off more.
Meanwhile, the couple it was trying to snack on is screaming their fucking heads off, I'm trying to wrestle the damn thing away from them, grab my machete, anything — finally managed to pull my knife on it, which it surprisingly did not like, like it was almost afraid of it, but not before it clawed up my fucking shoulder and threw me out the damn window. Then it just — flew off in a screeching rage. Tried to calm the Ryans down before I dragged my ass back here, but that went about as well as one can expect from a couple who just woke up to a fucking monster trying to eat them. Honestly, still don't even know how the thing got in the house. No signs of forced entry. ( he takes a deep breath, heaves a heavy sigh. ) But here we are.
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Halfway to totally fucked and still finding that spare second to just breathe together. Funny how that happens. Guess this thing they've built together can stand a little pressure after all. Somehow that's the real comfort in all of this, and one that won't hit her until later. For now, she's got a gash to stitch up and a story to piece together.
It's the middle of the night but she's sharp-eyed and wide awake, the opposite of the exhausted slump to Dean's shoulders. She's almost sorry to jostle him out of what she's sure was halfway to dozing off, but she has to know what they're dealing with here, especially if there's a chance it can come back to finish the job. (Yeah, they. She's in it now.) And there's still this feeling, an itch at the back of her mind she can't scratch.
She's heard his stories before and she's seen her fair share of horror movie crap. But she's still grimacing when he recounts his evening, pausing mid-stitch when he says he emptied a clip into the thing and it kept coming. ]
Holy shit, [ she exhales, still listening. She goes back to work, slower now as she processes what he's telling her, the pit in her stomach cold and leaden. Unease weighing out the fear. It being unknown is what's worrying. But there's a curl of admiration and pride, too; he might not have killed it (yet) but he saved two people. Beverly shakes her head, knotting off another stitch before moving on. The wing detail snags at her, enough that she rolls her shoulders back like they're twinging in sympathy for Dean's, having already forgotten she woke up with it searing. Forgotten a lot about that dream, it seems.
Then it just — ]
Flew off screeching, yeah, [ she murmurs in tandem with him, brows knit, focus pulled by his story and shoulder rather than her own racing thoughts. The words are out of her mouth before she realises she'd finished his sentence. ] Guess it went back to the woods. [ Matter-of-fact, like he'd told her as much. She pauses to dab at the blood trickling down his back as finishes speaking, sighing with him. ] Yeah. God, I don't blame them. I mean — waking up to a... a batwoman chopped off from the waist down? That's fucked up.
[ Did he say it was missing its legs? That it looked like a woman? Guess so. (He hadn't. Neither had she overheard that part of his phone call with Sam. But she can so clearly picture what he's talking about, like she'd seen it in a movie.) She starts in on a new suture. ]
They're okay, though, right?
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it's not that all psychics freak him out, either, it's just that pamela, missouri, fred jones, even patience — they were born with their particular gifts; it wasn't thrust upon them by some ancient evil being. so he can't help but feel a chill about the way bev knows things about this hunt, things she definitely shouldn't, and he can't shake the feeling she knows even more than she's letting on. it's bad enough when she's finishing his sentences, but then she mentions particular details he'd purposefully omitted from his story and he sits up a little straighter, turns his head over his shoulder as much as he can, his brow pinched. )
Yeah, they're okay. ( he says, but it sounds distant, like he's not fully committed to the answer. a batwoman chopped off from the waist down echoes in his head. if bev were anyone else, alarm bells would be going off inside his head — hell, they still are, but he knows he can trust her. he's not even sure she realizes what she's said yet, the way she continues on with the stitches like she hasn't practically read his damn mind.
he can't quite meet her eyes at this angle, wishes he could gauge her expression before he starts in on the how did you know conversation. he keeps his voice as even as he can, trying to tamp down the sinking feeling in his chest, the slowly creeping unease. )
But I never said anything about it being a horrific flying torso. ( a beat, almost as if he doesn't want to say it. but he needs to know. they need to talk about this. ) You have a dream about this?
( it isn't an accusation; there's worry laced into his voice, overlaying the edge of fear caught in his throat. )
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Bill had guessed her nightmares were visions granted by the deadlights and Mike, the resident expert on the preternatural origins of It, seemed to agree. She had foreseen their standoff with the clown in the cistern as a girl. Only flashes (we were older) plucked from the vast swirling sea of nothing when she hung in the air, and quickly fading even as she recounted it to the others. She doesn't know why the deadlights didn't kill her then; she'd wondered if it was because It preyed on their fear and she wouldn't give the monster the satisfaction of her own. Maybe having her lost in their sway for eternity or until she went mad was the goal. Maybe that's what would have happened if the Losers hadn't saved her. Maybe what she glimpsed — beyond — left a mark on her, too deep, too ancient, too cosmic to be understood or erased like the scar on her palm; another gash, through which she could see... something. Everything.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
No, she doesn't understand how it works. She doesn't even realise it's still "working." Because Dean's right: the clown is dead and It, or its fucking essence, made her this way. No reason her nightmares would be anything special now that it's over. They went through some shit last summer, it's to be expected. They all have them, don't they? Normal, horrible, PTSD-flavoured nightmares. That would suck, but it would make sense.
But Dean's got more experience with the stuff that doesn't make sense. He's making connections when she's just trying to sew up his shoulder. ]
Dean, [ she snaps, exasperated, when he moves mid-stitch. Her eyes lift to look at him, lips pressed in an admonishing line. He can't completely twist around to meet her gaze but she hopes he can feel the weight of her irritation all the same. He feels like he's gearing up to say more, presumably about the case, so she hurries to finish up this suture before he moves again. She frowns when he speaks up, tying off her first knot. Never said anything about... ? Yes he did. She shakes her head, like she's trying to grope through her memories for the proof that isn't there. ] What? No, I — you told me, didn't you?
[ But even as the question leaves her lips, it sounds uncertain. She almost wants to demand what her dreams have to do with any of this, but her throat tightens around the reflex. He's been there for her dreams since before they were together, a soothing voice on the other end of the line while she tried to catch her breath through silent sobs. And once, at the bunker. Her dreams aren't visions, not anymore. They're just memories. Fears.
Aren't they? ]
No, [ she says again on a rush of breath like a laugh, dismissive. She ties off the second knot. Third. (Why's her heart beating so fast?) ] I mean, I — I don't know. I was dreaming when you called, but I don't...
[ Remember. Don't you, Bev? ]
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Okay, okay. It's okay. ( he says, more to himself, then, for her: ) You're okay. ( he takes a deep breath to steady himself. he wishes he could reach over his shoulder and touch her, set a reassuring hand on on top of hers, but he doesn't want to disrupt her work. she's just as scared as he is, he can tell from the waver of her voice. still, they aren't going to get anywhere if he doesn't ask. ) Did you ... see something? Just now? When I told you what happened. Or did you just know?
( he's less worried about his shoulder now and more worried about what's going on with bev, because pain he understands. this? this is above his pay grade. how he wishes missouri or pamela were still here to consult, to figure out what the hell is going on with these dreams but not dreams that might be full on visions. but they'll just have to figure it out together, like they've figured out how to make this work, whatever this is. he might be able to call in some favors, friends of friends, maybe an old contact of bobby's if he digs deep enough. there has to be someone who can make sense of this. otherwise, they're just two blind bats flapping around in the dark hoping things will just make sense with time.
when she doesn't answer immediately, he adds with a gentler edge to his voice: )
You know you can tell me, Bev.
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It's not over. That's what they're getting at, right? Whatever she could do before It, because of It, hadn't died with It. She can feel the dread rise in her throat like bile, and it's a damn good thing she finished that stitch because she can't trust her hands to keep steady. Beverly's suddenly grateful Dean can't see her; whatever composure she had feels like it's fraying and she will not let herself unravel because of this. Definitely not when they both need her to keep her cool. (Fuck, she wants a goddamn cigarette.)
Breathe, Bev. It's okay, you're okay. He asks her a question and it feels like her reply sticks to the roof of her mouth, she has to swallow hard to work through it. Focus on the job. She's in it now. When Dean coaxes her to answer, the gentle encouragement in his voice reminds her of the inn again: Tell me, Ben had pleaded, whatever it is you're afraid to tell me right now. Yeah, she's in it now.
Maybe because she never really left. ]
I knew. I — I remembered, from my dream. I just didn't know I knew until you said... That's how it was before. It didn't click until I heard or I saw whatever it was right in front of me, my friends' faces, Stan's wife on the phone, like... like deja-vu. [ She closes her eyes, presses her lips together. Breathe in, breathe out. Her voice steadies when she speaks again. ] I don't know what woke me first. I thought it was your call, but my shoulder was on fire, just for a second, but I was half-awake, I didn't think it meant anything, I — [ She shakes her head. What the fuck, what the fuck. She goes slower as she tries to piece her memory together, but like remembering any dream, it's like trying to cup water in her hands. ] I just remember flashes. None of them really make sense, like I can hear it flying, but it's mostly dark, hazy, so I can't make out...
I'm sorry, [ she mumbles after a stretch of silence, after trying to dig for more detail and coming up empty. She needs something to jog the memory and she doesn't have anything beyond what's laid in front of them now. Beverly looks down, hands full, wishing she could touch him. ] I don't — that's all I've got. [ Until Sam calls them. But she doesn't know that. She doesn't know shit. She's quiet again and then, faintly, ] Why's this happening again?
[ God, she needs a cigarette. ]
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my shoulder was on fire. how many times has she dreamt of him and never knew it? there's a strange sense of guilt that twists his stomach into a knot at the thought that he might be accidentally responsible for any of her grief, that his life might have so much bearing on hers without meaning to. he's never wanted to drag anyone into this life, but he gets the feeling she's been in it for much longer than he ever realized. )
I don't know. ( it's almost startling honest. but, for once, he doesn't have an answer for her. he wishes he did, but he's just as in the dark about this as she is right now. still, he reaches behind him, sets his hand against the back of her knee, his thumb brushing gentle circles against her skin, just to touch her, to let her know he's here, that he's in it for her just like she's in it for him. it's not always about dean's shit (he just happens to have significantly more of it most of the time). ) But we'll figure it out, okay? You and me.
( which sounds a lot like a promise, a dedication. )
Right now, how 'bout we focus on one thing at a time, yeah? Gonna need that shoulder sewn up before I get back out there to finish this thing.
( easing her back to the task at hand. the visions are something to worry about, just not right now, and he's got her back on that, but he needs her to have his back on this, literally, before they can attempt to tackle the psychic thing. )
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But that's not on her and it sure as hell isn't on Dean, either. She'd tell him as much if she knew what he was thinking. It's the clown and only the clown. He's right, there's no telling how many of her nightmares over the years had his face or his brother's woven into them; she only ever saw flashes of people, nameless and indistinct save for their pain. (Did she see him get dragged to hell by invisible claws? The hundreds of ways the Winchesters narrowly escaped death, the untold what-if endings that went south? Were her visions tied only to the Losers or was it people she knew, or was meant to know, past, present, and future? Maybe time means nothing in the cosmic space she's an unwitting witness to.)
One thing is certain: they're here for each other, their lives entwined, maybe even before either of them realised it. That reassurance and reminder come in the form of his gentle touch, the most he can offer in the way they're standing, but it brings her back to him all the same. ]
You and me, [ she repeats softly, breath easing out of her and taking some tension with it. He mentions his shoulder and she shakes her head as though to clear it, then nods. ] Okay. [ The Beverly of last year might have apologised for her lapse; but tonight, steady on her feet and in her place at his side (and back, she's always got his back), she bends down to kiss the crown of his head, lingering despite the scent of sweat. This is real, this is Dean. Softer, against him: ] Yeah, okay, you're right.
[ And she resumes the task at hand, with his at her knee a focal point for her nerves and racing thoughts. She takes a breath and threads the needle through the gash again, each pass more certain than the last, her knots efficient and tidy. Snip. On to the next, and the next, in a silence that was almost strained at first but settles into something more comfortable with each minute. Snip. It's almost soothing, meditative, stitching him up. Taking care of him, after months of him doing the same for her over the phone. It feels good to return the favour. To be the one he called in a pinch. To be trusted to help. Snip. ]
There. [ She sets aside the instruments on the counter and grabs a fresh pad of gauze to clean up the trickle of blood down his back, mopping up around the wound one more time. ] It isn't pretty, but it's better than it was. [ She peers around his shoulder at him, brows knitting. ] How're you feeling? I've got some protein bars in my bag if —
[ A phone rings back in the room. Not her ringtone but Dean's. She looks through the door then back at Dean, brows raising as if to say I got it before leaving to do just that, stripping one glove from her hand before answering. ]
Sam? It's Beverly. [ A beat as she glances back at Dean from the bed, lips quirked. ] Yeah, no, he's fine. I'm no doctor but I got a couple stitches in him; he'll live. [ She sandwiches the phone between ear and shoulder as she pulls off her other glove now, tossing them in the trash before rummaging in her backpack for those protein bars. ] Of course. Yeah, hang on. [ As she comes back into the bathroom, passing a bar to Dean with a whispered, eat up, then: ] He's got something. Hey, Sam, you're on speaker.
[ The boys can chat while she returns to dressing that gash. ]
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(he thought, for a long time, he could never separate himself from the life enough to have someone, to come home to someone at the end of the day. but all soldiers are allowed leave, aren't they? he's starting to realize maybe bev is every teary-eyed airport reunion, every passionate kiss shared between two people who thought they might never see each other again, every whispered you come back to me.)
he imagines it's similar for her, this burden of a power she never asked for and doesn't understand. he wishes that all his experience, all his years in the life, could lend her more answers. but some things just aren't fair. some things don't come with an explanation or a user's manual. some things are just terrible and beyond their control. (if he listened to his own advice, that guilt would feel so much lighter, wouldn't it?) but he's here for her, regardless, always. you and me. they're a team now. they're stronger like this, he thinks. )
Atta girl. ( he says softly, his mouth curved upward, a twinge of warmth still washing over him from the kiss she pressed to his head. god, he wishes he could turn around and take her face in his hands, look her right in the eyes and tell her it's okay, kiss her with so much confidence it washes her doubts away. but he can't, not yet, not until she finishes with the stitches. silence settles between them instead and dean closes his eyes for just a moment, just to rest them —
they flutter open when he hears her voice again. he sits up a little straighter, attempting to roll his shoulder to test out how well the stitches will hold. it still hurts like a son of a bitch, but he'll live. his face pinches unflatteringly. ) Honestly? Like Marmaduke's damn chew toy. But —
( the sound of his phone going off cuts him short; he's already moving to push off the seat, but bev beats him to it, shooting him a look he takes to mean something like stay put. he does his best not to grumble about it. he can't imagine it's anyone other than sam calling back — and maybe it's better that bev answered, considering how dean ended their last conversation. when she returns with a protein bar, his hand lingers on hers as she passes it to him, a light touch just to tide him over. he tears the packaging open, his mouth full when he finally addresses sam. the pinnacle of manners. )
Alright, Sammy, talk to me. Wha'd'you got?
So, you were right. Definitely not a vampire. More like a distant vampire cousin. Says here the manananggal — or "one who separates itself" — is a creature that takes the appearance of a beautiful woman by day and and preys on newlyweds or couples in love by night, using its elongated tongue to drain the blood of its victims. And, get this: while the severed torso is flying around sucking people dry, its lower half is left vulnerable, usually somewhere secluded.
Okay, so, find the legs. Then what?
Well, according to the lore, the manananggal can only be killed with a pointed bamboo spear.
Only? Please tell me you're joking. This is Jersey, Sam, where the fuck am I gonna find bamboo anything?
I don't know! Look, it — ( frustrated page-flipping from the other end of the line. ) Okay, according to some accounts, dousing the lower half with salt will kill it.
Great. Plenty of salt. Let's go with that. Watch this bitch shrivel up like a snail.
Right. Garlic and holy water should deter it, too, if you run into the Flying Torso Girl again. But, Dean, you've only got until sunrise before it rejoins itself and takes off. So, what, a couple hours? Are you sure you're in shape to be taking this thing on?
Well, if it's just legs, I think I'll be fine, Sam. ( sam sighs, but there's really no arguing with dean when he's like this. ) Don't worry. I got this. ( a beat. he clears his throat. ) Listen, nice work, Sammy. You really came through for me on this one.
Yeah. Sure. Just — watch out for yourself, Dean, okay?
Always do. Call you when I'm headed back.
( the call ends and dean drags a hand over his face. sounds simple enough, except for the fact that he has no fucking clue where to look for this thing. it could be anywhere and he doesn't exactly have time to search the whole fucking town. unless... )
Bev, you got anything?
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Beverly's friends have all returned to relatively normal lives since Derry (as normal as one can be after surviving the trauma they did) — but she's still got one foot in each world. Part of it isn't her choice, especially now that she and Dean have realised that her dreams are more than just dreams (that they never were just dreams). But the rest of it: being with Dean despite the massive weight of weird that hangs over him and his brother, running headlong into an unsolved case, learning how to shoot at the bunker and how to stitch up a gash in a backwoods motel... Those are her choices, and ones she's made freely. So she's listening. She's paying close attention as she bandages Dean's shoulder. When Sam mentions the lower half (which, holy shit), she feels that itch of deja vu again, frowning as she tries to pinpoint it. It's frustrating, slippery, each flashing image like a word on the tip of her tongue, caught on a feeling rather than anything useful she can articulate. Somewhere secluded. Dark but like twilight, not midnight; trees pressed close, lights in the distance, the rush of wings overhead, screeching —
She snaps back to the brightly lit bathroom at the sound of her name, the hairs at the nape of her neck prickling again. (That screech had sounded so faraway in her head, but why does she feel like it's closer, ringing in the air too?) She blinks down at Dean's back, bandage neatly stretched over his injury, and she smooths over the adhesive one more time with her fingertips. Get your shit together, Marsh. ]
I don't know. Maybe. [ She sounds frustrated. ] I think —
[ She steps back, job done, and rinses off her hands one more time in the sink. (What the fuck were those lights? A car? A signboard?) She glances sideways at Dean as she dries her hands, still frowning, mind whirring as she digs through her hazy dream and tries to pick apart the plan moving forward. Mostly the fact that there isn't really one. ]
Look, we don't even know if what I dreamt is enough to go on. [ Not true, they have more proof than they'd like, but she noticed Dean didn't mention that particular detail to Sam, so. ] Sunrise doesn't give us a lot of time to waste on a hunch, especially if batwoman's out there and pissed off. And when the odds are "find one half before the other finds you" — Sam's right, how d'you you plan to do that with a fucked up shoulder? You're basically fighting on two fronts here.
[ Two monsters for the price of one! He probably knows what she's getting at now. ]
And before you say you're fine, try lifting that arm and see how far you get, babe.
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as soon as he starts to open his mouth to say so, she calls him out on it and he presses his lips together in a thin line. (the fact that she knows him well enough to call him out like that at all doesn't go unnoticed; she's probably the only person in his life he's rarely said i'm fine to, if only because their relationship was built on working through one of them being well beyond fine. she's always been honest with him; he owes her the same honesty.) he's obviously not enthused with how this is going, starting to feel like he's backed into a corner here with zero leads and a ticking clock counting down to game over. he leans forward, elbows pressed to his thighs, one hand coming to his face to drag thumb and forefinger over his eyes. he doesn't need to try lifting his arm to know exactly how out of commission he is. he would've fought through it like he always does, but when she's giving him that look, he feels more inclined to relent the subject. )
So what exactly are you suggesting? ( as if he doesn't already know, he just doesn't want to say it, because saying it would make it a reality, and he's not exactly prepared for the reality of letting bev go off and do his damn job for him. he didn't call her here to fucking enlist her into hunting with a crash course in monster-killing 101. ) You come with me? ( and before she suggests otherwise: ) I'm not letting you go out there alone, Bev. Don't even fuckin' think about it.
( and yet he knows she's already thinking about it. he knows her just as well as she knows him. )
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Some people are dragged kicking and screaming into a life like this. She knows that. Dean's never sugarcoated it. But as Beverly listened to the boys discuss the horrific flying vampire woman that she had visions about, or thinks about what to do about her now, she doesn't feel that kneejerk reaction to kick, scream, or run in the opposite direction. She came, patched up Dean's torn up shoulder, and thinks that it's right that she's here. She'd hate to be anywhere else or kept in the dark. Fuck being on the outside of any of it. She's through being a bystander — and after getting her childhood memories back, she knows now that she was never meant to be one in the first place. Not when it comes to people she cares about or doing the right thing. ]
That's not — don't give me that look. I'm just saying we don't have a lot of options and I know I don't have to tell you that. I'm just doing the math. And I know enough about monsters to know they don't like loose ends so like hell you're going out there the way you are now.
[ The Losers were one big loose end Pennywise dearly wanted to tie up. She glances out the bathroom door towards the lone window of the suite like she can hear something. Nothing, of course, just her imagination — or her memory, playing tricks like it's always done since Derry. God, thinking about her dream is like trying to focus on a blurry photograph. She exhales, brows knitting as her eyes drift closed. Screeching, flapping wings, but there was another sound underneath. Rhythmic. And those lights in the distance. ]
God, and I know I saw it, if I could just — [ What? She's just gotta wander around town in the dark until something triggers that sense of deja vu again? There weren't any landmarks as she drove in, just endless forest dotted with houses, and — she straightens up suddenly, eyes snapping open. ] Holy shit.
[ Holy shit. She thinks she knows. It's not definite, whatever's going on in her head isn't an exact science and it lowkey makes her want to stress-hurl like Richie, but it's something. Nothing definite, nothing she can explain, but she's already moving into the main room to grab her phone, knowing he'll be hot on her heels rather than risk her rushing out the door; she spins around to give him an answer before he can even ask. ]
I might have something. Might. It's just a feeling, but — [ Beverly tucks her hair behind her ear as she looks over at Dean, a nervous tell to anyone who knows her, but she barrels ahead anyway. ] Look, if we're together when it comes knocking, then neither of us stand a chance. Right now it doesn't even know I'm here.
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Whoa, whoa, whoa. Bev, wait. ( he has to at least try to stop her, even though he gets the feeling there's no stopping her now. they don't have the luxury of time to fight about this, which only adds to the discomfort he feels about all of this, the twist in his stomach as she whirls around to tell him she might have something. ) Might? C'mon, babe, we're gonna need to do a little better than might.
( we, because apparently there's no i in team anymore. he steps forward, reaches for the hand she used to tuck her hair behind her ear. it's not shaking, but he can tell by the look in her eyes that she's nervous. she should be. he sure as fuck is, having to let her do this. what the fuck is he supposed to do if she doesn't come back? but he can't let that show, not now, not when she's about to go out there and do his damn job for him. he squeezes her hand, a silent vote of confidence. does he want her to do this? hell no. does he believe she can? well — he has to, doesn't he? because as much as he hates to admit it, he knows she's right. they're both dead meat if that thing catches up to them together. )
Okay. ( defeated, almost; tired, but with an edge of determination. he's never been a fan of sending people he cares about into the front lines for him, but if she's going to do this, she needs to be prepared. sure, she's taken out an evil cosmic clown, but she had six friends with her to finish it off. strength in numbers. now it's down to her and the monster of the week while dean sits back and waits. fuck. ) Listen to me.
( he fishes his keys out of his pocket, squeezing them as if to imbue them with luck or strength or just pure fucking faith before he carefully hands them over, pressing them into her palm. he doesn't give up his car to just anyone, but she isn't just anyone and this isn't just a milk run. ) There's salt and flashlights and a whole arsenal in the trunk. Take whatever you need to get 'er done. I'll hold the fort here — got plenty of salt and holy water in my duffel — but I need you to be safe out there, Bev. Call me, keep me on speaker as long as you can. ( he presses his forehead to hers, a hand rising to brush her cheek, squeezing his eyes shut briefly as if to steady himself. his voice drops to a heavy whisper. ) And come back to me, you hear?
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Whatever it is, she's never felt more in sync with Dean. (And she'll wonder what that means later, when there's time to think beyond a ticking clock.) They know what needs to be done, that this has to be a we, that there's no other way this could have gone. He manages to still her with a single word, bring her racing thoughts to a halt with a steady listen to me. Because even if she's tagging in for him this time, he's still the expert, and whatever advice he's got, she's all ears. What she doesn't expect is for him to hand over the keys to the Impala. It shouldn't surprise her — how else was she gonna get to where she needs to go? — but it speaks volumes about his faith in her, and that makes her heart do a funny little backflip that has nothing to do with nerves.
Beverly looks from their joined hands, keenly aware of keys pressed between them, to meet his gaze. She finds comfort in his steadiness, even if there's something else thrumming beneath it. No doubt it'd be easier for him to stop her than to let her walk out that door. He doesn't want her to go and God, she doesn't want to leave him here, either. There's no reason for the monster to go after her, it's the only reason this plan has a chance of working. But that also means he's a sitting duck, drawing fire while she does the easier thing, and she hates that, even if he's technically safer in here than out there. (Just like she's safer out there than in here. Jesus Christ.) ]
Okay, [ she's saying as he relays his instructions, nodding at each point. Salt, flashlights, weapons, phone call. Fuck, they're really doing this. She's really doing this. She's about to pull away when he stops her again with a touch; what he says next knocks her breathless, halts the countdown, narrows the world to each point they're touching. Her eyes fall closed as she breathes him in, relishes the warmth of his palm at her cheek. Come back to me. Softly, ] Course I will. [ Then she tips her chin up, just a fraction, to kiss him. Tender but too fleeting for their first of the night. ] Where else would I go?
[ All roads lead right back to him, as sure as the sunrise they're racing. She knows he's more worried than he's letting on, that gentle request couldn't make it any more obvious; but it tells her how much he cares about her too and that makes her stand a little taller somehow. Her eyes flutter open to look at him. ]
Dean. [ Beverly reaches up to rest a hand over his heart, fingers resting on the familiar lines of his tattoo. ] I'll be fine. [ Maybe if she says it with as much confidence as she's got, they'll both believe it. But she knows it too, if her dreams are true at all. They both survive this. They've both faced worse. Her lips quirk in a tiny smile then, whispering into the space between them: ] And like you said — it's just legs. I got this.
[ I got you. ]
You gonna be okay here?
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where else would i go? (he wishes his first thought wasn't run as fast as you can, i've already dragged you into too much. after everything, he should know better. after this, maybe he'll finally learn.)
his name grounds him, and so does her hand, a familiar weight against his chest that evens out the racing of his heart beneath her palm. he takes another steadying breath. okay. they've got work to do. his mouth pulls slightly, almost a laugh, almost a smirk. )
I'll be fine. ( an echo of her own statement, which, for once, isn't a total lie (he says it to convince himself as much as he says it for her). he's as prepared as he can be for whatever comes his way while she's gone and he's definitely faced down worse than a flying torso on his own. hell, he's almost looking forward to a rematch, now that he knows what can hurt it — he deserves a little payback for getting his shoulder torn up, deserves to blast a few rounds of rock salt into torso girl if it comes to that. he can't deny it would be satisfying, even if he shouldn't be thinking about recklessly tearing bev's stitches after she came all the way out here to play nurse — and he respects her handiwork, knows how pissed she'd be if she came back and had to sew him up again, which, at the moment, is the only thing keeping him from doing anything monumentally stupid while she's gone.
he leans down to steal another kiss, lingering just long enough to convince himself to let her go, to steel the nerves buzzing under his skin. he pulls back, presses a final quick kiss to her forehead, then nods to the door, pushing her gently toward it with a flash of a smile, apprehensive but determined all the same. ) Go on, Scully. Do me proud — and bring my baby back in one piece.
( maybe not the most appropriate joke to be making considering what they're dealing with, but — well, he doesn't just mean his car. )
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Beverly can taste fear and faith both in the press of their lips, the clutch of their hands, and she feels like she should say something more. (There are words this moment calls for but it's too early for them. Too soon. And she doesn't even know they're there. Not consciously.) Instead, she nods again, throat tightening unexpectedly with emotion at the way he kisses her forehead — they're always affectionate with each other, but it's a sentimental gesture that doesn't go unnoticed — and chokes out a startled laugh at the nickname, the wordplay.
My baby, huh? ]
We'll be back before you know it. [ Car and Bev both. She peers through the peephole before easing the door open and stepping out. Just before she closes it, softer: ] Be careful.
[ She knows she doesn't need to say it, but it makes her feel better. She only lingers long enough to hear the door lock behind her before she heads for the Impala; she slides into the leather seat (sticky along the back with Dean's smeared blood), adjusts it and the mirror, and starts the engine with a familiar and comforting rumble. If Dean's watching her through the motel room window, she catches his eye through the windshield, smiling briefly, lips pressed into a tense line. Enough stalling, Bev. Okay, sweetheart, she tells the car as she peels out of the parking lot, let's go find a monster.
Dean made her swear to call him but she doesn't do it right away. Finding the hazy location from her nightmare isn't an exact science; she's driving through this town by feel which makes her uneasy given the time limit, the stakes, and her massive inexperience in being — what? Psychic? (Jesus Christ.) She's gotta focus. Beverly scans the road as she drives along, trying to pinpoint what she saw (and heard) in her sleep: Lights, distant mechanical banging. The patch of woods she's looking for has gotta be behind the construction site she saw on the way in. It takes a precious 15 minutes to locate, taking the Impala off the paved road onto gravel, right up to the darkened treeline. She parks and gets out to squint at the skyline, inky blue already tinted with twilight; the angle's right. The deja vu feels right. Fuck, it's freezing out here.
She calls Dean as she makes her way around to the back of the car, putting him on speaker and her cell in the breast pocket of her jacket while she unlocks the trunk, lifts the false bottom to expose the arsenal. ]
Hey, [ she says when he picks up, voice hushed. She grabs a flashlight first, shining it over the overwhelming array of weapons. (Luckily her stay at the bunker a couple months ago got her familiar with most of them.) ] I found the spot. At least, I think so — it feels like the spot, anyway. [ She finds the canister of salt next, shoving it into a side pocket; it's large, sticks out a little, but it stays put. Good. ] It's pretty quiet, though. [ What'd he say? It was afraid of his dagger? Well, she can't find that in this jumble but the machete will have to do. She pulls it out of its sheath, thinking, What the fuck am I doing? and saying: ] How about you? All quiet?