cained | 👻🎈🤡🥧

[ family was never about blood. there's no love lost between beverly and her late father (the mother she barely knew but looked exactly like); she had the losers, her best friends and brothers, and they were the ones who taught her about love and loyalty and sacrifice. having them wiped from her memories for decades, getting them back in the same breath as reconnecting with dean and his brother — it was almost overwhelming, to have gone from famine to feast when it came to having people who knew you, cared about you.

even with the long stretch of miserable, lonely years she'd never trade any of it for the world, either. not with this waiting for her at the end of the tunnel. the losers, the winchesters and their friends, the homes she's made in different pockets of the country. as a girl, she never dreamed of having a life as full as the one she leads now. it's different, sure; but in a hundred ways, that's what makes it special too.

she thinks it every time: we deserve this. ]

Who'da thought

[ not her. not him. not because neither of them believed in what they had but because even at the best of times, it wasn't always easy. they both know that. ]

We've come a long way
I think we earned the right to out-romance most people, after everything
I'm really proud of us, you know?
And proud of you

[ she lets that hang, lets the sincerity sink in for a beat before softening it with a gentle tease: ]

For remembering
You're such a sap, babe

[ counting the day they met as their anniversary, rather than the night they made things official months later. ]

( bobby once told him family don't end with blood, and he'll be damned if he doesn't think about that every day. hell, he's already been damned once and lived to tell the tale, crossed the afterlife bridge enough to know that what he's got right here and right now? it's worth hanging onto. it's worth all the shit they go through, all the highs and lows — and, frankly, his life, as miserable as it can get sometimes, has always been better with bev in it. it's been better with jack in it, too, as much as he initially begrudged that idea.

he's not his father. he never will be. (he never really was.) but he is his father's son. and that's something he's proud to carry with him. that's something he hopes to pass onto his own son. because that is what jack is, isn't it? he's their kid. and dean's proud of that, too.

maybe he is a sap. he likes to think it's made him a better person. )

i'm proud of us too, babe here's to two more huh?

( which may be the first time in a long time that dean's thought of the future like that. a future beyond tomorrow or the next day. two years is practically a lifetime for a winchester. but they've made it this far, surpassed all the odds. who's to say they can't go for two more? )

Here's to more

[ because they can't put a number on whatever lies ahead of them, beyond knowing that something does. that's always certain. maybe it was naive to think that, once upon a time, but two years and a couple of close calls later, they're right where they're meant to be. knowing cosmic forces exist, that they brush right up against them and live to tell the tale each time, creates that kind of unshakeable faith.

she's never been a big believer in anything. but she can believe in this. she likes to think that's made her a better person. ]

Who needs a wish-granting pearl
We've got everything we need right here ☺️

damn right we do hell if it hadn't been dad it would've been you

( after all, he never knew he needed her until he had her. but he doesn't need a pearl to keep her and he's sure as hell not letting her go if he can help it. )

Wow you really do have it that bad
But so do I

[ she knows, now, just how long he'd yearned for her before she met him halfway and half a year later. she's glad they didn't have to wait a moment longer after that realisation kicked in, though. ]

I miss you too
I'd wish you right here if I could
I'm sorry we couldn't celebrate together this year

[ their birthdays barely three weeks apart. their milestone. it's how their schedules fall, sometimes. ]

yeah

( which an all-encompassing response as much as it is a deflection, almost. it's the easiest thing to say without having to say too much, even though she deserves to know. it was never just work that kept them apart. but how does he say "sorry i missed christmas, i was busy trapping an archangel in my head"? god, he needs another beer for this. )

that one's on me actually you got time if i call?

( as if she wouldn't drop everything to make time for him (and he wouldn't call if it wasn't serious). he knows this, but he doesn't want to keep her up with his bullshit, either. still, he doesn't know when else he'll have a chance to explain — and as as much as he doesn't want to have this conversation, they've always been stronger when she knows the truth. the whole truth. )

[ he's right, she's always got time for him, especially after the night he's had. she's about to kick off into her busiest week of the season and honestly, talking to him has taken her mind off the nerves, helped her resist the urge to go over the details of her show for the hundredth time.

it used to scare her a little, how easily he can bring her back to centre. now it's always welcome. ]

Always

[ she pops in an earbud just as her phone rings; as always, her voice is warm when she answers with a hey you, like it's the best surprise of her day to hear him on the line. (it is.) ]

And before you say anything, February's are always on me. Fashion Week's making me its bitch; what else is new?

( it's good to hear her voice — it always is. but it soothes his nerves some, helps him focus on the now instead of the future where michael gets out because he isn't strong enough. hearing her voice reminds him exactly what he's fighting for, what he's so desperately trying to protect.

he can't help but huff a breath of quiet, almost disbelieving laughter. he knows exactly how crazy it gets for her during fashion week; it hardly feels like it's been any time since the last one, the one he'd showed up to right before the rescue mission to apocalypse world. )

God, it's that time again already, huh?

( he's been a little preoccupied, hasn't been as good at keeping track of the date as he usually is (he wouldn't forget something that important to her under normal circumstances). it's hard to know what day it is anymore when you aren't even getting four hours every other night (when just last month your brother was talking you out of dumping your ass into the ocean for eternity). he feels like he's been awake for a week straight, and maybe he has been. keeping michael trapped is more important than sleep at this point, even if he knows it's not sustainable in the long term. he can't live on coffee forever. )

What're you working on this time?

( now that the excitement of the evening is over, he sounds exhausted, but the genuine curiosity is there. he wants to hear about her work. maybe it'll make telling her about his work a little easier. )

[ It's as much a whirlwind for her as it is for him, even if her time isn't peppered with hunting monsters and saving the world (much). She sure as hell gets more of a breather than the boys do between seasons, but it's surreal to think that the last time she saw either of them was just before the holidays. That visit had been — a lot. Bittersweet. As normal a vacation as they could make it for Jack but also a moment for Dean to catch Beverly up on what exactly happened when he went missing.

The Michael of it all.

God, she'd hated not having more time together, then. She'd wanted him to take his time. But the job is never done and she's been around long enough to understand that, to know when and where to press or simply offer support. Then she'd been caught up in the New Year and her own frantic, sleepless weeks of conceptualising, sketching, sourcing fabric, casting, doing fittings, the guest list, and Dean had been on her mind every step of the way because what're you working on this time? Well — ]

Us. Again. Sort of. [ She laughs, breathy. ] I guess I'm still riding the high from my last collection — [ back in September, full of warmth and pops of colour from their drive through the midwest ] — because it's the, uh, untold bit of our road trip? Nothing says fall/winter like ghosts.

[ Gotta love the spookies, eh, babe? She's moving through her apartment to fix herself a drink as she talks. ]

Which is definitely more of a fabric thing. I leaned more into iron and salt for the palette and construction. [ A beat. She's a lot less self-conscious these days about sharing her creative process with him because he does genuinely listen, but she thinks this'll really get his interest: ] My models are wearing pieces of armour down the runway. Maybe it's the insomnia brain but I started with Woman in White and ended up with avant-garde Joan of Arc. [ The clink of glass, slosh of whiskey. ] But I can't tell the press that, so "badass women who can fuck you up" will have to do.

Edited 2020-09-04 18:01 (UTC)

( his face softens a little, the exhaustion on his face briefly giving way to a smile at the thought of her last collection — the one he'd seen live and in person, the love letter made of fabric. he may not be a genius when it comes to what bev does, but even he could tell that collection was special, that he'd inspired it, without her having to tell him as much. if dean was ever going to start believing in fate, he'd put his money on that moment being destined: catching her eye backstage among the flurry of models and clothing racks and chaos of a major runway show, seeing her light up with so much love from afar. neither one of them needed to say a word to know exactly what the other was thinking.

beers clink in the background, followed by the soft thud of the refrigerator. dean sits at the kitchen table, back against the wall, popping the cap off his beer with practiced ease. )

I mean, technically, it's not wrong. Only we have to know it's more "dead-and-vengeful women who can fuck you up." ( a beat, a sip of beer. he doesn't really understand fashion, so he's not sure how well he can visualize what she's told him, but nevertheless: ) Can't wait to see it, babe. ( whether in person or not. but considering everything that's going on, it doesn't seem likely he'll have a chance to head up to new york for a while. still. ) I'm sure it's gonna blow 'em all away.

( but she must know that's not why he called, even as much as he doesn't mind the distraction. )

[ It had been fate, cheesy as it sounds. Even with the personal significance of that particular collection, Beverly hadn't pressured him on coming, not with everything that had been on his plate then — the invitation, as with everything in their lives, had remained open. And they'd seen each other over a month before, besides, stolen a little vacation time together before shit hit the fan for them both. In the chaos of running the show, she hadn't spotted Dean until it was all over.

And God, the way her heart soared when their eyes met across the room — of all shows for him to see, it had been the one that meant the most to her on an intimate level. She keeps their shared life so private but had bared her heart on stage in a language only he could understand. (Though maybe the Losers in the front row figured it out, too.) Yeah, that's pretty damn destined. ]

Thanks, [ she says, sweet and sincere. ] You actually caught me at a great time; my show's in three days, everything's as ready as it'll ever be. So I'm all yours tonight. [ Yeah, she knows there's more behind this call. Maybe there's more to his family reunion than he could say through text. She sits on her couch, voice softening just a fraction. ] What's up?

( what's up? oh, nothing, just an archangel dickbag locked in the metaphorical trunk of his mind, no biggie. just another thursday, right? it takes him a moment to answer, hoping the alcohol might have the right answer to that particularly loaded question. it's not bev's fault it's loaded; with dean, it's almost never unloaded. it's never just as simple as i wanted to hear your voice — it's not not that, of course, but there's always something more to it. dean's life has never been simple.

finally, after a long swig of beer, he manages to force out: )

It's Michael. ( which is a bombshell in and of itself, underlined by a tinge of impending dread, subtle as it may be (she knows every falter of his voice well enough now to hear it, the way it breaks him to tell her this). but wait! there's more: ) He's the reason I wasn't around for Christmas. It's — it's complicated, but we trapped him. ( he leans his head back into the wall, squeezes his eyes shut against the pounding at his temples. ) I trapped him. He's — he's in my head, Bev, screaming at me, pounding the inside of my fucking skull every damn minute of every day. That's why I can't see you until this is over, as much as I want to. It's not safe. I'm — ( he laughs hollowly, dragging a hand over his face. ) — honestly, barely keeping it together.

[ Michael. She knows the name, remembers the look in Dean's eyes when he'd told her about that ordeal last fall, and she'd — they'd — believed it was over by then. It does hit like a bombshell. Cold, leaden, like the collapse of a black hole at her centre, sucking out whatever light had filled her and their conversation just seconds before. (Or her side of the conversation; fuck, he'd been carrying this with him the whole time on top of everything that happened with his family and she just rambled about something as inane as her fashion show. Jesus.)

What does she say? I'm sorry? It seems so goddamn inadequate when you know archangels are real, here, walking amongst them, walking as one of them. And whatever weight she's feeling now is just a fraction of his; she can hear it, of course she can, the tension coiled through his voice — she can't miss it, no wonder he'd kept this conversation to text until now — the exhaustion. He tells her they can't see each other until this is over and all she wants to do is book the next flight out of New York for Nebraska and fuck the show.

But she can't. She knows she can't. Her eyes squeeze shut on her end, a mirror to him a thousand miles away, head dropped back against her cushions. I hate this, she thinks but doesn't say, throat tightening with emotion. She knows what she signed up for, has always known the risks, but — I hate this. ]

That's why you had the pearl. [ She says it after an agonising stretch of silence, too long, as she tries to keep her voice level. She barely manages it. (Don't cry, Bev, neither of you need that right now.) ] What can I do?

( he wishes she could do anything, but, well. what can she do? dean doesn't even know where to go from here; the pearl was a bust on the michael front, so that leaves them right where they started: no leads, no cures, the inevitability of michael escaping if he doesn't lock himself in that damn box. )

Nothing. ( it's not harsh, just tired. honest. ) I know that's not the answer you wanted to hear, but — we're working on it, Bev. ( he can't tell her about the ma'lak box, can't tell her that might be his only option if things go sideways. it would break her, and he needs her to be his foundation when he feels like his is fracturing with every second. ) I just wanted you to know. In case.

( he hates it too, hates that he can't just get in his car and drive. hates that she can't be here. they've always been stronger together. being apart like this, with michael trying to violently shawshank his way out of his skull, is torture. )

Anyway, hearing your voice reminds me what I'm fighting for.

[ She doesn't know what she expected him to say, really. Even with how she's managed to straddle the line drawn between their two lives, even with how she's dabbled in their research and hunting and even a little magic courtesy of Sam and Rowena, what Beverly Marsh knows about their world is a drop in the ocean of their vast experience. That she can do nothing on that front isn't a surprise, so it doesn't sting when his reply lands; but maybe she wasn't asking about helping in that way at all.

What can she do as the woman on the outside looking in, as the woman who loves Dean with all that she is — that's the real question. She can't be there physically for him, as much as it pains them both, but if he needs her to be his anchor (just as she always has been, just as he has for her), then that's what she'll be.

What was it they'd said years ago, in a dingy motel room? All in. They haven't wavered from that since. ]

Sweetheart, you'll hear it every day until this is over, [ she tells him softly, her voice shot with emotion but steady in its assertion. ] And every day after. [ I just wanted you to know. In case. No. Nope, not having that. This isn't how the story ends. She hasn't dreamt it. (She's dreamt of the ocean, but she doesn't know why.) ] I'm not going anywhere and neither are you, okay? You beat the son of a bitch before, you'll do it again.

[ She wills her voice not to break, he doesn't need that from her, but her eyes burn with tears all the same. She presses a smile into her next words: ]

Here's to two more, and more after that, right?

👻🎈🤡🥧

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

gently retcons myself re: michael 😇

👀

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject