cained | 👻🎈🤡🥧

Hmmm well...
I’d love if your expertise was a little more
Hands on
Now that I’ve had a taste of it

[ she could mean the sexy way but she might also still mean hunting. the crash course she’d asked for. could be both. ]

hands on huh i'm sure that can be arranged but i think i'd like to hear you say it exactly what you want

( guess who's calling... 😏 )

[ She barely even has a second to read the texts that pop up on her screen before his name comes up. Holy shit. The apartment was chilly pre-ghost and now she's feeling a little... warm. ]

Dean, [ she answers, definitely breathless and only half of it is because she's laughing. There's no one around but she still feels like she has to be secretive about this. ] What're you doing?

( the self-satisfied grin on his face is practically audible. it's been a long, weird few days, and, honestly, he's just glad to hear bev's voice. he's glad to be home and hearing her voice, his name coming out as a laugh in his ear that ripples down his spine. )

What? I thought you said you wanted more hands on expertise. This is as close as it's gonna get, babe.

( at least until they can see each other again. and he has a feeling that won't be anytime soon. )

[ She doesn't even know that he noped out of their world for a couple of days, only that he was somewhere without service — which could mean anything. And they've gone longer than that without speaking, but after her little tangle with the supernatural, she's missing him a little more than usual. Hearing his voice does settle the vibrating under her skin somewhat.

(Somewhat. It also supercharges it.) Beverly sighs into her phone, slouching back against the kitchen counter. ]

God, I wish you were closer. [ Heartfelt, with an edge of something else under her voice. ] It's dumb but after the ghost disappeared, it felt like you were just gonna — [ She hums, amused, warm. ] — walk in from the next room.

[ Like she'd just beat him to the punch. ]

( he'll tell her about the bad place eventually, but now doesn't feel like the right time. she's coming down from a ghost hunt, frayed nerves evening out — he doesn't want her worrying unnecessarily about something that's already been resolved, for the most part. that, and he's pretty sure bringing up being trapped in an alternate universe that wanted to kill them would probably kill the mood.

something warm curls in his chest at her confession, the smile on his face softening. he's not sure what he was expecting her to say, but — wow. that wasn't it. it throws him off for a moment, the gentle honesty of it catching him off guard. he lets out a soft breath, the ghost of a laugh. god, he wishes he could have been there. he wishes he could be there now, show her how proud he is. )

Yeah? I still could, if you close your eyes. Walk right in, tell you how good you did.

[ There's always something else to talk about outside of their time together. But they try their best not to let it drag down the moment, as far and few between as they are when their lives pick up speed. That's how they've made it work so far; the balance, the support when and where it's needed. And right now, whatever else that brought them to this phonecall can fade into the background for a while. Why not? She meant what she'd said earlier: It's been a while.

Doesn't mean there isn't room for sentimentality. She smiles at the crackle of air on the line, can so clearly picture his expression that accompanies it, soft and probably a little surprised. Her eyes fall closed a half second before he suggests it, if only because she wants to focus on his voice. ]

And you'd have that look. [ She smiles and it colours her voice; she can picture that expression too, focused, proud. A little hungry. ] Same one you had after I fired my first bullseye at the range. Swear to god it made my heart literally skip a beat. [ Pause. Then, with a curl of satisfaction: ] I did do good, huh?

( he's got that look now, even if she can't see it. he thinks she can probably hear it, though, in the cadence of his voice, the easy drawl of something like awe. not everyone makes that kind of impression on dean; more often than not, there's a casual disdain for folks who bite off more than they can chew in terms of hunting the supernatural, but mostly that comes from a deeply ingrained worry that they're going to get themselves killed and that somehow that's on him. bev may still be, technically, an amateur, but he's more confident that she knows what she's doing, that she's smart enough to get out the fucking kitchen if it gets too hot. )

Did real good, Bev. Couldn't have done it better myself. ( he's only seen her in action in the safety of the bunker, but he can imagine her in a tank, the power of her shoulders when she holds a weapon, the determined pinch of her brow, the focus in her eyes. knowing what she can do when she sets her mind to it sends a thrill down his spine, pools low in his abdomen. ) Bet you looked fucking incredible swinging that cast iron skillet around. God, I wish I could kiss you — wish I could feel the race of your heart under my hands. Tell you how gorgeous you look coming down from that hunter's high.

[ She absolutely can hear it; on its own, the warmth and low purr of his voice would be enough to make her stomach swoop. But the words he shapes with it are what really make her feel a little lightheaded — it's not fucking fair, she's this close to almost laughing it off but she can't because of course he's made her breathless instead. I almost took out a cabinet with that skillet, she thinks faintly, but it doesn't even matter because Christ, her heart's already picking up speed.

Beverly rubs the tips of her fingers between her brows, feeling her ears go warm, her eyes squeezing shut. Gorgeous, huh? She's sweaty and her clothes are covered in salt. But he's looked worse coming back from a hunt and she'd still tugged him in by his grimy flannel and kissed him blind. ]

Yeah, I'm — I don't know, I'm like... buzzing? My skin's fucking tingling, babe, [ she murmurs, somewhere between timid and incredulous. There's a rush of air, like she means to laugh, but can't quite catch her breath to do it. ] I think I'd go crazy if you kissed me right now. Remember the last time we did, [ in a hotel room, on the heels of an argument-turned-confession, ] how your hands felt on my hips, the way you pulled me in?

[ She didn't want him to go. God, she misses him. ]

I don't even care that this isn't my apartment. I'd do that to you right now.

Edited 2020-08-03 15:35 (UTC)

( god, he remembers last time like it was yesterday (hell, he's replayed last time so many times in his head just to feel like she's still there, to make the lonely nights less lonely), the heat of i love you searing through any thoughts dean had of letting her go, the crash of their lips, their hands, their hips as dean careened into her in the wake of his own confession, those three words leaving his throat raw like they'd clawed their way out of his chest, buried so deep under so much shit he never thought he'd let them see the light of day again. there's a reason some things stay buried, but bev's convinced him some things are worth being unearthed. (he's a fucking idiot for thinking he could live without this, without her.)

he sucks in a breath (i'd do that to you right now), his unoccupied hand reaching down to unfasten his jeans, his palm pushing past the waistband of his boxers. he'd do more than kiss her if he were there, pull her in until there wasn't any space left between them, just skin against skin, breathing each other's air. )

Yeah? ( he says, and it comes out rough, practically a groan. he starts out slow, his strokes deliberately languid. he doesn't wanna jump the gun here. ) You're already doin' it to me, babe. Wouldn't even make it to the bedroom. I'd set you up on the kitchen counter, slide in right between your thighs — whisper how much I fucking missed this, missed you, my mouth pressed against your neck just to taste you, salt and perfume lingering on my tongue when I kiss you something fierce. Don't even have to imagine all the pretty little sounds you'd make.

( because he's fairly certain she's going to be making them pretty soon, if she's not already. )

[ Last time is something she can't even put into words. It's a feeling, some frenetic tempo that rushes through her body and lights up ner nerves with just a flash of memory — and she wonders, briefly, if the crystal clarity of her recollections are because of the years she'd lost and regained in a night. Because last time really is as vivid as yesterday: the heat of their skin pressed flush, Dean's grip sure and steady as he'd hoisted her up into him, gasping, grasping, stumbling backwards until they hit the mattress. Clearer still are their declarations: his ragged with honesty, hers unwavering but fragile with the realisation she'd gone barrelling over a line without knowing if he'd crossed it with her. Then the way her stomach had swooped when she looked up — and saw that he had.

Beverly still feels dizzy when she remembers it. She feels like that now, shivery with arousal and something much deeper when she hears the faint zip, the rustling of fabric, the sandpaper grit of his voice. Oh. She tips her head back against the kitchen cabinets, heartbeat in her throat, free hand curling into the edge of the countertop like she's thinking about hopping right on top of it like he describes, or like she's trying not to let it drift off to wander over her body. Remembering last time turned this call up to eleven in seconds. ]

Fuck, Dean, [ riding a shaky exhale, not quite a whine, heat rushing right between her thighs as soon as he says the word. God, she can imagine him: half-hard, hungry, the tickle of his breath against her bare skin, the warm, wet press of his mouth. ] Yeah. Yeah, God, I miss you too — how good you feel pressed up to me, even the way your stubble scratches my skin, fuck, it drives me crazy. I wanna touch you, get my hands under your shirt, feel how hot your skin is.

[ She swallows hard, shifting where she stands, legs squeezing together like any bit of pressure will take the edge off. (It doesn't.) Her hand releases the counter, skims over the seam of her jeans, presses; her breath releases in a faint oh. He's right; he doesn't have to imagine anything. Each word comes out slow and husky. ] Then I'd sit right on the edge, wrap my legs around you so all you can do is kiss me, grind up against me. Slow, [ just like you're doing, ] 'til we're both aching for it.

( he could easily get off on bev saying his name for the next two minutes and he'd be just as satisfied, but there's something deeply thrilling about hearing the waver of her voice, the breathless little noises he knows he's responsible for (the surge of satisfaction in knowing he's driving her just as wild as he feels right now). hell, he can practically feel the flush of her skin under his palm — which isn't exactly the best substitute, nothing compared to the slick heat of her — can imagine with precise clarity the way her freckles light up like stardust splashed across her cheeks, her shoulders, her back, a galaxy unto themselves.

he tucks his phone against his shoulder, ear pressed hard against the screen while he shifts to shove his jeans down, the bedframe creaking faintly under his weight. )

I'm fucking burning for you, babe. ( which is true now and in this fantasy they're constructing together. a husky breath gusts out of him, halfway to a moan. his dick twitches in his hand at the soft oh from the other end of the line and he pulls hard once with a twist of his wrist, his voice rough when he finally says, ) Fuck. Can barely keep my hands off you, every fucking part of you. Your breast under my palm, my fingers dragging through your hair, drifting all the way down, pressing into you just to hear you gasp.

( his thumb drags over the head of his cock with just enough pressure to make him bite his lip, a groan escaping into his shoulder. ) God, I wish I was inside you, Bev — wish I could feel you. Just wanna make you feel good, so fucking good.

[ Her focus narrows to his voice on the other end of the line, every little hitch to his breath, the edge to his words. If she were in her own bed at home, it would be so easy: put him on speaker, close her eyes, and let both hands roam over her body exactly how he describes. Cup her breasts just as he says he would, her own hands softer than his callused palms, fingers dragging down her belly, over the insides of her thighs, hooking the waistband of her underwear and — oh. Oh, fuck, she didn't even realise she was already doing it, here and now, in the middle of someone else's empty apartment, caught up in the fantasy. The creak of his bedframe instantly transports her to the bunker, the nights spent in his cramped bed, tangled together, bare skin and breathless kisses. She pins her phone between cheek and shoulder, jeans undone, hand disappearing between her legs, curling into that wet heat — he's right, she does gasp, right before she bites down on her lip; but that doesn't stop the low groan at the back of her throat.

God, she wants him. It's not the same, it's not enough, but she still finds herself nodding at what he says, lips parting for panted breath. Surely he can hear her. The phone slips; one hand flies up to catch it, press it harder to her ear like she doesn't want to miss a syllable, while the other strokes two slick fingers over her clit. He groans and she feels a shiver shoot down her spine and right between her thighs. Fuck. ]

You are, honey, you're right here with me, [ she whispers, eyes squeezed shut against the reality of where she's standing now. ] Feels so good; you hear how good you're making me feel? [ She actually laughs, but it's breathless, somehow fond and a little dizzy. ] I can't fucking breathe just thinking about — [ She breaks off with a soft moan, sliding one finger into herself; a thin whine rides on her exhale. ] The way your hands feel on me, in me, fucking me with your fingers nice and slow, God, d'you know how wet you make me?

Edited 2020-08-08 18:41 (UTC)

( there are traces of her scattered across the bunker — a toothbrush on his sink, her sewing machine left in the study, a change of clothes tucked away in one of his drawers, an earring lost under his bed, her preferred brand of coffee in the kitchen. it's been months since bev was here last (too fucking long, but it can't be helped; raising the devil's kid isn't exactly a fucking walk in the park, especially when he decides to have his run away from home phase at two years old) and still when dean presses his cheek into his pillow he can almost smell her, the lingering scent of her perfume, can feel where she would fit right next to him, pressed close against his side, her nose tucked into his shoulder.

god, he fucking misses her. misses having her in his bed, not just for this but everything after, too: waking up to her in his arms, lazy morning kisses, sharing coffee and breakfast, finally dragging her into the shower sometime half past noon. if his phone would survive the water, he'd be in the shower now, scrubbing off three days of grime, imagining her hands working out the tension in his shoulders, kneading through his hair, but he'll have to save that particular fantasy for later.

her voice sears through him, heat pooling low in his abdomen; his cock twitches in his hand, throbbing at the sound of her moaning, the faint slip of a finger. his face cracks open with a breathless laugh; he knew she couldn't resist long. )

Fuck, yeah, you're always so ready for me, don't know how I haven't lost my damn mind. ( fluid leaks from the tip of his cock, slicking his hand with precome. his hips rise from the mattress, fucking into his palm, a ragged grunt on his lips. ) God, just wanna get you out of those jeans, Bev, drag those nice panties down to your knees, want you to taste yourself on my fingers while I push all the way inside you until you're filled up. ( he digs his head into the back of his pillow, teeth dragging over his bottom lip. ) Gonna ride it out together, baby, slow and steady.

[ God, she wishes she could see him, if he looks halfway as wrecked as his voice sounds. If she looks the same, flushed, sweat clinging to her brow from taking out a fucking ghost not fifteen minutes ago, pressed up against the cabinets because they're the only damn thing keeping her up when all she wants is his arms wound around her, doing exactly that. There's nothing here that reminds her of him, not like her own home, where she could wrap herself up in his flannel and breathe him in with each ragged gasp. All she has is his voice purring in her ear and the memory of his body pressed flush to hers; his laugh gives her goosebumps, makes her smile, even as she slips another finger in, fucking herself on them in steady rhythm to the creaks of his mattress.

Easy to place herself right there with him, the memory as sharp as yesterday. She hums her pleasure, low in the back of her throat, mind racing ahead: Yeah, shove her jeans down, yeah, feel the slip of his cock over her, rocking up into her — ]

Shit, [ she exhales sharply, drawing her fingers away, only to circle her clit. ] Yeah, sweetheart, yeah, that's — ah, that's it, just like that. Couldn't wait to fuck me into this counter, could you? Just like the last time. [ Amusement warms her voice, crackling with the memory of the bunker's kitchen. She lets that hang between them, the silence punctuated with their gasps. God, her fingers are slippery, working quick; she could get off with that alone at this rate. Then: ] You feel so fucking good, babe, you're so good — [ Voice trembling, almost breaking on a moan. ] God, Dean, I want you, want your mouth on mine — wish I could kiss you right now.

( he appreciates the bunker for a number of reasons (having a place to come back to, a home, plus having all the men of letters resources at their fingertips), but mainly he appreciates the privacy of having his own room — there's so way in hell they'd be doing this if he was stuck in a motel room with his brother right now; he knows how thin those bathroom walls are, and he has enough respect for sam not to make him listen to his more intimate phone calls with bev. it doesn't matter where sam is now; their rooms are far enough apart he doesn't feel like he needs to keep it down (not like the time they visited his mother and she practically herded them into the bedroom with a knowing look in her eyes; maybe they did get off on having to be quiet about it). he wants her to hear him, what she does to him, the way his breath hitches and drags out of his chest in needy groans. )

God, I love it when you talk dirty to me.

( couldn't wait to fuck me into this counter. jesus, yeah. his toes are practically curling at the thought of that last time, bev in his kitchen, the faint scent of flour and sweet apple cinnamon wafting over him, the taste of it on her lips. he couldn't get enough of her then (had to make it fast, floured handprints on his shirt and jeans the only evidence of any funny business, easily explained away), can barely get enough of her now. the tremble of her voice, the throaty little moans, the praise — he's close, getting desperate. )

You want it, you got it, babe. Gonna kiss you fucking senseless, fuck you so sweet, just like you like it — can barely stand when you're not here. ( god, he can barely think, lost in the sounds of what he knows she's doing a thousand of miles away from him, fucking herself on fingers he know just as intimately. ) God, I'm so close, baby — fuck, this is what you do to me.

[ If she wasn't already flushed with colour from her cheeks to her collar, she definitely would be by what he says. If this is what she does to him, then fuck, this is what he does to her. She's never really enjoyed sex before, never really had a lover who was as generous or attentive as Dean, who coaxed her into chasing after what she wanted and encouraged what she liked; she didn't know it could be like this, feel like this, and she sure as hell never thought she'd be comfortable enough to say what she does between breathless moans. But now?

Now she's basking in the warm glow of that praise, the wash of satisfaction and arousal when she hears the broken edge to his voice, the unsteadiness of his breath, and every goddamn groan that tumbles out of his mouth goes right between her thighs, holy shit. She can remember what it feels like to crush their lips together, swallow those needy little sounds between them as they rock together, and this isn't the same but it's the closest they've got and it's pretty fucking good. Helps to have a goldmine of memories to call back on, too. Consider this one added to the repertoire. ]

Yeah? God, love how good you are to me, for me. [ Airy, almost lost to her heartbeat pounding in her ears. God, he does know just how she likes it — slow, deep. Beverly hums, shifts against the counter, tips her hips for a slightly better angle as she slides her fingers back into herself, grinding the heel of her palm over her clit. She's close too, but she wants to hold out, wants — ] Tell me, babe, tell me how good it feels. Let go for me, I wanna hear you, come on.

( dean's always been good at sex; most of his education came from low budget porn, but he learned pretty fast what women actually want and that it serves you a lot better if you treat them with respect. a lot has changed since he was playing high school casanova or picking up chicks in local bars and diners, and for the most part he doesn't feel like he's been left behind in some relic of the past — but this, this is still a little new to him. he's always been a strictly physical kind of guy, so to feel this connected to bev even with so much distance between them ... it really does speak to the nature of their relationship, how deeply his feelings go even if he rarely states them out loud. and, well, he's willing to try anything once. this particular experiment he'd say has been a rousing success. )

Jesus fuck, Bev, ain't never felt this good. You drive me fucking wild. Your mouth on mine, your hands in my hair — and, God, you're so fucking tight — nngh — I can't take much more of this, I swear, I need you so fucking bad.

( he feels like he's going to explode. fuck, he's gonna get it all over his shirt, but he can't even be bothered to care that much because all he can register is that mounting edge of pure fucking bliss and bev's heady voice in his ear.

let go for me.

well, she asked for it. his laugh is breathless, almost a moan. he's left the fantasy behind, now fully immersed in where he is right now, hips rocking into his hand, his strokes coming more frantically but not quite enough. he knows he can't draw it out much longer but he wants her to know exactly what he's thinking: )

You know, when I'm alone like this all I do is think about you — can't ever stop thinking about you, what I'd do to you if you were here. Sometimes I imagine going down on you, get off on all those pretty little whimpers and moans I have memorized, the way you say my name when you're close. Wish to God I could taste you right now, push me right over that edge with your clit between my teeth, right under my tongue. God, you must be soaking through your panties, huh, all over your fingers, fucking yourself so good, wishing it was me —

( and it's that image alone finally conjured at the forefront of his mind that really does it for him; a gutteral groan rolls through his chest, followed by several short gasps and contented whines as he rides through his orgasm, his belly twitching with each wave of it. he manages to contain most of his spill, but he's still a fucking mess by the end of it and he's definitely going to have to wash this shirt (tomorrow's wednesday; sam doesn't have to know why). he slumps back on his mattress, his breathing heavy when he finally manages to speak again. )

Fuck, talk to me, baby. You close?

[ It's crazy how good being wanted makes her feel (she knows there's a magazine rack full of issues to unpack behind that, but that doesn't make it any less true). Even thousands of miles away and just a rough voice on the other end of the line, Beverly can feel that longing, hear the craving strung through every syllable, the way his lips shape her name and wrap around it, urgent and desperate and familiar. Being wanted by him, because it goes hand-in-hand with being cherished somehow, makes her feel golden, warm and syrupy, like the afterglow they're chasing together. Even now, hearing him laugh in the middle of the filthiest fucking phone call she's had, makes her knees go weak. (Oh, honey, that's not just desire.)

She's doing this to him. Her! Just the thought of her! The memory of her touch so vivid that he's getting off on that and her voice alone. That golden feeling spreads, a tight knot of heat low in her core pulling taut and ready to snap; and as he talks, picks up the pace, her hand does the same; wrist aching just a little from the angle, but not enough to stop or slow down. He paints such a picture for her, her gasp high and stuttering at the idea of his mouth on her, right where her fingers are now, frantically circling her throbbing clit, wishing it was his lips brushing, sucking — ]

Yeah, yeah, God, I miss your beautiful fucking mouth, [ she whispers, breaking off with exactly one of those little moans he loves so much. Whatever follows is a rush of gasped encouragements, expletives, driving herself closer and closer to the edge just as he does, stomach fluttering with arousal at every sound he makes. ] Come on, babe, I got you, that's good, you're so good for me — [ through his climax, a thrill shooting down her spine as she hears him ride through it, and she's so close behind, she's — ] Y-yeah, [ on a whimper to his question, slipping sideways to brace her shoulder against the fridge, eyes screwed shut. God, she loves it when he calls her baby. ] So close, I'm so — oh, oh, fuck — Dean —

[ Her voice breaks off into silence, hanging on the precipice as she works herself to that sweet breaking point; and then she comes with a ragged moan, that golden feeling turning white-hot and racing along her nerves, head dropping back against the cabinets as she shakes through it, knees locking to stay upright, that moan fragmenting into pieces until all that's left are hiccuping, tremulous breaths. Jesus fucking Christ. Give her a second to hear anything other than her pounding heart. ]

Yeah, that's it, baby. That's it.

( his breathing has started to even out, but just listening to her touch herself on the other end of the line, whimpering into his ear, makes his breath catch. god, he fucking loves her. he could listen to her like this all day, truly, shamelessly enjoying herself. there's a certain pride he takes in hearing her pleasure, the way her voice pitches higher, gets a little airier, floating on the waves of her moans. it's like sweet music, the best kind there is. )

God, you're so fucking beautiful like this, Bev — wish I could see you.

( he can imagine, has seen her in the throes of passion enough times to know exactly what her face looks like when she's this close, when she's needy and wanting — but the picture in his head never really compares to the real thing. it's almost like looking through a lens that's slightly out of focus; all the details are there, but they're fuzzy, never as crisp as they are when they're together. still, he can see the shape of her open mouth, the pinch of her brows, the slope of her neck as it falls back.

and then her voice cracks — dean (god, he loves the way she drags it out, the way it sounds almost like a prayer) — and his chest swells, his face flushed with warm satisfaction. a smile widens his lips as he listens to her come down, her breath shaking as much as her legs must be. he lets out a soft huff of a laugh. )

Really hope that was as good for you as it was for me.

( just a little tease to ease them back into normal conversation; he knows it was, he could hear it, but he wants to hear her say it, too. )

[ The low murmur of his voice is like a balm, soothed over the parts of her that feel a little raw and oversensitive in the aftermath, breath hitching on baby, on beautiful. Her skin feels hot and tingling even now, glowing with the praise and that delicious rush of endorphins, but mostly it's the way he caresses her through it over the phone. She wishes she could feel his arms wrapping around her, sure and steady; she wishes she could feel the flutter of his kisses over her cheek as she comes down, just like always. Fuck, she misses him.

She manages to catch her breath, wet her lips before speaking — but he beats her to it with a quip, and her next exhale comes as a burst of laughter, bright and incredulous and delighted. She draws her hand out of her jeans, fingers still slick as they trail over her skin, and she presses the back of her wrist to her eye as her shoulders shake with it. ]

Baby, [ she says right back, her voice sweet and effervescent, ] it was amazing. [ Her hand shifts lower on her face, pressing the back of it to her heated cheeks now, flushed and still a little gritty with salt flecks. ] I can't believe we fucking did that. [ But she sounds so pleased. Grinning. ] Can't believe you can still make my knees shake from Kansas. God, I miss you.

( her laughter spurs his on, bursting from his chest with a wheeze and a low rumbling bubble of pure delight. it's not that he doubted what she would say, but there is almost some relief in hearing the confirmation that it was amazing. god, yeah. it was fucking awesome. )

Yeah, ( he manages in the wake of a barely contained chuckle. ) Feeling's mutual, babe. Honestly, almost didn't think you were gonna be into it. That would've been embarrassing. ( he's mostly joking; he's fairly confident by this point that she's into basically everything he does and vice versa. ) You think you might can get away sometime soon? This whole Jack and Mom situation is running us down pretty hard.

( they found jack only to lose him again and mary is still trapped in fucking apocalypse world, in pain, in danger (she can handle herself, but for how long? dean doesn't want to waste time finding out). so things haven't exactly been peachy keen, but they're doing their damn best.

he rolls off his bed with his phone tucked against his shoulder, jeans rustling as he puts himself back together, then he heads to the sink to wash his hands, setting his phone on the flat top of the basin and turning her on speaker. )

Lord knows I could do with a break. And you know I'd love to make your knees shake in Kansas. Hell, to Kansas. ( he can hear the mellow drumbeat in his head, the gentle guitar riff of one of his favorite, more obscure songs. he can't help but give her a little taste of what it would sound like, belting his best steve walsh. ) Hold on, baby, hold oooon.

[ His laugh makes her feel fucking tingly all over, makes the longing to be near him even stronger; it's almost bittersweet, but not enough to wipe the smile from her face or cool the blush warming her face. Her answering scoff is far from derisive or disbelieving; her, not into it? This? Him? Months ago she said she was all in and she meant every word. She's always gonna be into him and Jesus, that was hot.

She'd tell him as much, too, only he all but asks her to visit on the heels of his teasing and the warmth in her chest does a funny little twist. Oh. Dean misses her. She knows, they said it over and over in the heat of the moment, but to hear it in so many words — on top of what's been going on with them — God, yeah, of course it's been a hell of a time. ]

Yeah? [ There's no helping the gentle note of concern that colours her voice. As he starts to get cleaned up, so does she; Bev straightens against the counter (oof, her lower back is gonna be sore from how it was digging into the edge) and switches him to speaker, setting the phone down as she washes up in the kitchen sink. ] Actually, I — [ The singing cuts her off and she laughs again, a bright burst of sound. ] If you start singing while you're going down on me, Winchester, I swear.

[ ... actually, that might feel pretty good? Maybe? If she wasn't laughing too hard. Wait, no. Focus. She shuts off the tap. ]

Seriously, though, [ she continues, looking down at her phone like she can see him, ] I was thinking I'm pretty overdue for a visit. Can't keep making you do all the legwork, huh? [ She chuckles, then taps through to her calendar. ] I'm gonna be pretty swamped in August with Fashion Week prep... but you know, I could duck out for a couple days before it gets crazy. I think that'd do us both some good. [ Calm before the storm for her. A breather for him. ] I know October's on the schedule but I don't want to wait that long.

[ A beat. She bites down on asking too much? and instead offers: ]

What d'you think?

( don't you go putting those kind of thoughts into his head, beverly, he might just experiment with singing cunnilingus next time they see each other and he will not be taking the full blame for it. it's a ridiculous idea (he's laughing purely at the logistics of it), but he's never been known to knock something before he tries it. not that they need any spicing up in the bedroom — if this phone call has been any indication, anyway, they can turn just about any mundane activity up to eleven in a heartbeat.

hands dried, he picks up his phone again, turning to leaning back against the sink. he's prepared to make another joke, but she turns the corner before he can, following up on his casual invitation. he'd expected to hear something like sorry, no can do, babe, so when she lays out a potential weekend getaway, his heart practically gallops out of his chest.

get it together, winchester. )

I think you'd better book it now. Airbnb ain't got nothin' on this secret piece of history.

[ So much of making this work is stealing what moments they can together. Her life is about to get turned upside down in a very terrifying, hectic way in a few short weeks as she prepares to (re)launch her brand as a solo venture — if she thinks about it too much, she might pull a Richie Tozier and anxiety barf. A long summer weekend in the middle of nowhere with her favourite guy sounds exactly like what she needs to brace herself for the whirlwind. And with everything on his plate and how she knows he deals with it, she thinks he needs it too, to keep going.

She can hear him trying to play it cool on the other end of the line, but it's almost like she can feel the spark of energy as it shifts between them. Maybe because it thrums through her too, pleased and anticipatory and excited. ]

I mean, it's probably got bigger beds, [ she teases on a laugh. Those vintage bedframes are charming and cramped for their... needs... ] Believe it or not, I do miss the bunker. The city just feels — I don't know, too loud? When I'm stressed out. [ Which is probably why she channeled that nervous energy into busting a fucking ghost. And then some hot and heavy phone sex. ] Be nice to drive around town when it isn't freezing, too.

[ She wets her lips, already thinking. She can nail down her designs in the next month with her team, get a jump start on sourcing fabric, work ahead of schedule so she can buy a few days' time with Dean. The mood board's halfway done as it is, the product of her insomnia.

She nods to herself. ]

Yeah, [ after a beat, hushed and happy. ] Yeah, okay, I'll book it the second I get home. [ Which reminds her — ] Ugh, [ she starts laughing again, ] shit. I'm never gonna look at this kitchen the same way again, am I?

Edited (better idea) 2020-08-16 11:57 (UTC)

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