cained | 👻🎈🤡🥧

( it's been weeks since the rift closed, since he came out the other side empty handed and down a man, since he lost the one (possibly only) chance he might have had at rescuing his mother, rescuing jack. he's been in a haze of grief and rage, hunting nonstop, back to back, killing every evil son of a bitch he can find because it's the only thing keeping him going. gabriel's still in the fucking wind, they're no closer to opening another rift than they were weeks ago, and dean's nearly at the end of his rope; if he frays any more he'll fucking snap and no one wants to be around him when he does. cas' blind faith and sam's platitudes are worthless; dean's anger can't be salved with misplaced optimism and puppy dog eyes, so he grabs his keys and his duffel and gets the fuck out of dodge.

he doesn't tell either of them where he's going — doesn't even have a particular destination in mind when he tears out of the garage except away — just slams the car door shut, guns the ignition, and drives. it's not until he makes out the familiar lights of new york city glittering against the distant night sky that he realizes he knew where he was going all along: his home away from home, speeding halfway across the country to the only person he can bear to see right now. maybe just because she's so far removed from all of it, all this shit they've been dealt and still been expected not to fold — but he thinks it's more to do with the way he always feels less angry around her. one look at her is like a soothing balm to his ragged heart, his raw and tortured soul. bev's gotten him through so much, healed him in ways he could have never expected — it isn't a simple want to see her, like some people want rain on a too sunny day; he needs to see her, needs to be near her on an intimately desperate level or he thinks he might drown.

against the backdrop of bev's immaculate apartment building, he looks like he just dragged his ass out of purgatory for the second time (only this time he hasn't bothered to shave): bloodstains on his jacket, streaks of it on his face, in his hair. all vamps are created equal — and east coast vamps die just as gory as midwest vamps. sure, they call themselves bluebloods, like to think they're better than all the rest with their fancy parties (cocktails served fresh from the tap of innocent civilians), but they bleed just as red. money don't make a damn difference, not when dean has a machete in his hands and untempered fury in his chest. he doesn't bother to clean himself up after the slaughter (a whole damn nest ripe for the slaying); by then he's only a few hours out and the thought of bev's shower and his very own robe is more than convincing enough to leave the grime.

he barely registers the stiffly polite mr. winchester as he heads for the elevator, barely registers much of anything except the noise in his own head until he's standing in front of bev's door like he's only just now realized where he is despite how deliberate the drive over had been. he raises his hand to knock, stares a moment at his swollen, bloody knuckles (there's a fist-shaped dent in a gas station bathroom a couple hundred miles west; he must have taken out that nest left-handed). god, he's tired. he raps on the door with his good hand. )

Bev, it's me. ( he sounds like hell, his voice rough like sandpaper. he should have texted, called, he knows, but that would mean turning on his phone and dealing with sam. which, right now, he can't. he just needs her. )

Edited 2020-08-14 06:01 (UTC)

[ Just because they're apart more than they're together doesn't mean they're in the dark about what's happening in each other's lives. They've managed this long, made it this far — farther than either of them could have expected when they fell together like they did — on keeping in touch on the regular. Even when Dean's life demands the most from him, he fills her in whenever he can; and no matter how unbelievable, Beverly listens. Lately, the downs have outweighed the ups (even though they've only grown closer because of them, weathering each storm by holding fast rather than letting go — no matter how he'd tried to convince himself to); it's been a long, hard road since the spring, since losing Mary Winchester to another world and then Jack soon after. Which is why, when Dean had called to say he was bringing them back home, Beverly had been more relieved than anything else. Finally, a big win. Or so she'd thought.

When she hadn't heard back right away, she'd texted and received a curt reply in return. Rather than be stung or deterred by it, she chased after Sam and then Cas. Between the three of them, Beverly got the full story — or, rather, confirmation of the sinking dread in her stomach and the hazy nightmares of a greyed-out world: Dean's alive and so are Jack and Mary, but the rescue had fallen apart. She knows him well enough to know how he's taking it, doesn't need Castiel's input ("not well") to understand. So she gives him space, lets him know she's got more than enough of it for him when he's ready, and lets it be. And be. And be.

Nearly three weeks pass. Quickly, on her end, because of the holiday rush at work. She doesn't chase after Dean, her concern a soft thrumming at the back of her mind as they hurtle towards Christmas. She decorates a little, finalises New Year's Eve plans with the Losers. But then she wakes up one frosty morning to a text from Sam — Have you heard from Dean? — and the concern rushes to the forefront. Even though the grief must be hitting him just as hard, he'd been keeping an eye on his brother while they hunted for monsters and more solutions; but it sounds like the older Winchester had had enough and fucked off. Shit.

Beverly tries calling. She tries to remember any of her dreams, but it figures that when she needs a fucking clue, she gets a good night's rest instead. (The reassurance there is that he isn't in danger. No news is good news and all that.) When she gets home from work that evening, she tells her doorman to let Mr Winchester right up if he shows; it's a thin hope — the country is huge and Dean knows every route and highway like the back of his hand, he could be anywhere — but between the two places he calls home, there's always a chance he could end up at hers.

Turns out she knows him like the back of her hand, too, because much later that night, there he is. Bev, it's me. His voice is like a gunshot, making her heart catch in her throat — she scrambles off her couch, laptop forgotten, and rushes on bare feet to haul open her door and — God, fuck, thank fucking fuck. Bloody, bruised, bearded, exhaustion and the winter air rolling off him in waves, but he's whole and he's here. Whatever admonishment that might have sprung to her lips (how worried they've been, how they've been trying to reach him) — dies. He doesn't need to hear that. He's reckless but he isn't oblivious, as a man so aware of actions and their consequences. He already knows. Hell, he can probably read it in her face: surprise, relief, concern so overwhelming it almost bleeds into a fierceness of her own.

Love, too. God, so much of it, softening every edge, reeling back her own frenetic emotions. Beverly feels breathless, standing there in her pyjamas and staring at him for a heartbeat too long before everything else drains away to a kind of aching tenderness. Jesus, look at him. ]

Oh, honey, [ she says softly. He hasn't looked this wrecked since Chicago. She lifts a hand, grazing her fingertips over his grimy cheek before cupping it gently; a caress, heedless of the blood. She's been covered in more, and worse. So has he. ] You look — [ awful ] — tired.

Edited 2020-08-14 14:32 (UTC)

( the guilt twists in his gut as soon as he sees her (she must have been worried; if she were anyone else, he'd be expecting a slap to the face), but the relief that follows sets it at ease (never gone, just tucked away). bev's hand reaches to brush his cheek and everything else melts away — the grief, the rage, the helplessness. his eyes fall closed, squeezed shut against the outside world, and he leans into her touch as if it's his only lifeline, his face creased with the last lines of defense against the emotion rushing up his throat, stinging his eyes. the only thing keeping him from crumbling is that hand against his cheek, the warmth of bev's voice, the tender caress of both. he swallows a sob, his throat tight from his unwillingness to let himself cry.

you look tired. all it's ever taken is three simple words. (how many times have they said i love you without saying it? how many more?)

his chest heaves, bent over to bury his face in bev's shoulder, a broken sob escaping his throat. he knows he should say something like i'm sorry but all he can manage is wordless sobs, desperately clinging to her pajamas, pulling her into his chest as they stand in the doorway for what feels like an eternity stretching out into the night. it's not the first time she's seen him like this (certainly won't be the last, either), but it may be one of the worst, one of the few times he's ever let go, fully and completely. (bev is safe, always has been.)

eventually, once the sobs give way to shaky breaths, he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to hers, his eyes still shut and squeezing back any remaining tears. he manages a weak laugh, his voice still rough when he finally wills himself to speak. )

I should get cleaned up. Been a long night.

( she knows him well enough to know he's never been good at talking about anything heavy right away; they've always had to ease into it, and this time is no exception. but he didn't drive all this way just to cry and take a shower — he assumes in his absence sam filled her in on what happened, and she knows just as well as anyone else how well he deals with blows that feel like defeat, that leave him hopeless and with the feeling that he's responsible for everything going horribly wrong. he's always shouldered it all so no one else has to, but with bev he can leave that weight at her door (and pick it back up on the way out). )

[ Where have you been? When was the last time you slept, ate, showered?The questions rise up in her throat and stay there, caught in the tight squeeze of emotion when she watches him struggle with the same tidal wave — bigger than hers, threatening to swallow him whole. And as the cracks begin to show, she feels her heart fracture in the same way; Beverly's been here before, knows him with her eyes closed, can read the signs and adjust in an instant — when he folds, she's there to catch him as he's always done for her in her worst moments, arms wrapping tightly around his shuddering frame and hands finding their familiar resting spots in his hair, between his shoulder blades, holding fast even as her own eyes sting with tears. God, even though she's grateful he trusts her enough to see him like this, she still hates to see it.

She doesn't say it's okay because it so clearly isn't — but as he buries his face into her shoulder, she turns hers into the crook of his neck and whispers something else: I got you. Another set of three that conveys their particular kind of love, soft and assured and anchored with promise. He's so much bigger and broader than her but she can bear his weight (the weight) when he can't, because there's no world in which she wouldn't. For him, for the Losers. She's always been stronger than she looks and this is no exception. The questions can wait, the explanations can wait. This feels vital, cathartic, and even if she didn't know the full story from Sam, she still wouldn't press until morning — this is more important.

She holds him as long as he needs and not a second less. Beverly can feel the tension bleed away and when he draws back, she's only a breath away. The hand in his hair slips around to swipe the pad of her thumb under his eye, skin smudged with tears and grime, and she nods softly against him. Her voice is as soft as his is rough, careful not to rattle this tenuous peace they've found together. ]

I know. Shower's all yours. [ And his robe is hanging right where it always is. The corners of her lips twitch like she's trying for a reassuring smile, and she leans up to kiss him, fleeting but tender. ] Take your time, okay?

[ While she gets cleaned up herself, and gets some kind of late dinner on the table. ]

( it nearly breaks him all over again to hear her whisper i got you, an echo of what he's always told her — in a way it's a mantra for them, a declaration of their love, a promise of their dedication to each other, now and always. when all else fails, she's got him. even when he's been to the end of the earth and back, looking like hell had its way with him, she's still got him. he lets her hold him, shoulders shaking, cheeks burning, her hands in his hair and at his back grounding him to this moment, to her. and, eventually, the air between them shifts, rights itself almost back to center. )

Thanks. ( it's weighted with everything he can't say yet, with the gratefulness he feels for her hospitality and her love — and there's an unspoken understanding between them that they've nurtured over the past year: she knows him just as well as he knows himself, if not better; more than that, she knows what he needs, sometimes even before he does. the tenderness of her touch lingers in the warmth of his cheeks, the soft press of her kiss dousing the red-hot embers in his chest to a dull gray ash. when he lets out a steadying breath, the ashes seem to scatter, leaving him feeling lighter than he has in days (weeks).

he draws her hand to his mouth — pressing a kiss to her palm to express what words can't — before he slips past her with a more characteristic tug of his lips. ) Always welcome to join me.

( an open invitation he doesn't necessarily expect her to take him up on, but he'd never turn down her company, especially not now, when her company is what he needs most. still, he knows he'd shown up unexpectedly, so if she was in the middle of something, he won't hold it against her for finishing up while he makes himself more presentable.

once he makes it to her bathroom, he strips out of his week-old clothes — stained and torn from cross-country monster hunting — and dumps them in her hamper for the next load of laundry (though they'll need special care to get all the blood out, but he knows she's well aware of the best tricks to remove bloodstains by now). and it's not until he catches sight of himself in her mirror — his hair is matted with blood, his face bruised and dirty — that he realizes just how exhausted he is, how much the past weeks have worn him down, physically and emotionally. he can't remember the last time he got more than a couple hours of sleep; he's been running on rage and emptiness, propelling himself toward danger just to feel something (to try to convince himself he could still save people after losing the one shot they might have had to save his family).

bev's shower is a godsend as always, the heat turned up to practically scalding, the water running a muddy red from weeks of dirt and gore. his nails scrape against his scalps as he runs his scrubs his fingers through his hair, working the grime loose, lathering and rinsing until the water runs clear. his mind clears, too, eventually, the rush of water soothing the guilt flaring in his gut, the harsh scrub of her exfoliant brush stripping his skin clean and smooth. it's fair enough to say he hasn't felt this clean in a long time (even with the bunker's excellent water pressure), and given the state of his clothes, he throws on his embroidered robe once he's toweled off, grabbing a clean pair of boxers from his drawer in her closet before he heads out of her room and back toward the living room.

he's greeted by the smell of something fragrant and familiar, his stomach growling involuntarily in response. shit, he hadn't realized how hungry he was until just now. even still, the gesture takes him off guard; they usually go out or order in. he hadn't expected her to cook. the laugh that rises from his throat surprises him (when was the last time he laughed?) but it's a nice feeling, warm and comfortable. it sets him at ease, like things might actually be okay. )

Babe, you didn't have to — we coulda just ordered Chinese ... or pizza.

[ With the distance, Beverly doesn't always have the chance to be there for Dean in all the ways she wants to when the road gets rough — and they've weathered it together in their own ways, barely feeling the divide when times are good but aching with the chasm when they're bad. The past few weeks have been agonising, not knowing how to reach him in the way they both needed, so to have him in her arms (no matter the state he's in) is a relief. They're always stronger together, and when words fail then they find other anchors in the silence with the press of hands and lips — their phone calls can only do so much. This is what they need, both of them, and she holds him until she feels the tension drain from his shoulders, stays close when it gives way to exhaustion. Of course she does.

He kisses her where the old scar of an old promise used to be and her heart swells — maybe because his kisses always feel like promises of their own — and his invitation into the shower has her lips quirking in a helpless little smile, fond more than exasperated. Glad to hear the reflex in their banter after those hollow sobs. (There he is.) Any other time she'd join him in a heartbeat, help scrub the grief and grime from his skin, but she doesn't know the last time he had a hot meal and that need seems more pressing. So she shakes her head and gives him a gentle push in the direction of her bedroom instead. ]

Someone's gotta take care of dinner. [ It's nearly midnight, but that doesn't matter. ] Go on.

[ The second he disappears through the doorway, she digs up her phone in the couch cushions and texts Sam. He's with me. He's okay, just tired. Talk in the morning. She's sure he has a dozen questions because she sure as hell did when the younger Winchester reached out — and she does owe him answers, owes him more than some curt reassurance, but it's late and an interrogation is the last thing anyone needs when everything feels so fragile. And she has a feeling the two brothers didn't part on the best of terms either, which needs careful navigation only after a full night's sleep. (Dean's right. She knows him too well.)

That done, she takes care of the rest: stripping out of her freshly bloodstained shirt for a new one, getting the first aid kit out of the guest bathroom (considerably more well stocked now than at the beginning of their relationship; she's taken classes since the Jersey incident), and whipping up some kind of dinner for one hungry hunter. The quickest is leftovers — quicker even than delivery — and by the time he emerges from the shower, she's got a pot of soup on the stove and a skillet with a pressed sandwich ready to go.

It's his laugh that announces his return and the jolt she feels at the sound is electric. He must be feeling a little better. Bev glances over her shoulder at him, smile as warm as the feeling settling between them, and gestures at the breakfast counter with her spatula. Sit. ]

Chinese food can kill you, [ she says lightly, and they both know she means literally physically attack you rather than some offhand comment about diet. The clown trauma is a gift that keeps on giving. Her smile softens as she adds, ] It's no problem. You cook for me literally all the time. [ A beat; then, with a sheepish smile. ] It's just leftovers, though, so don't get too excited.

[ She checks the soup to see if the rice is done, then ladles a generous serving into a massive bowl before flipping the sandwich onto a cutting board and slicing it on the diagonal. Both dishes get set in front of him: tomato soup (from lunch) and a gooey grilled cheese. Easy. Comforting. ]

I know it's not pizza, [ she says as she pours him a glass of water next, ] but it's pretty much the same ingredients. And you can still eat it one-handed. [ Which is important, because — ] Let me see.

[ She holds out her hand for his right one, all busted knuckles and bruised skin. Yeah, she noticed. ]

Edited 2021-01-03 04:26 (UTC)

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