cained | 👻🎈🤡🥧

[ It's been nearly a year since Dean and Beverly first crossed paths as strangers. It's been three months since they kissed — and then some — in New York, a whirlwind all on its own. It's been two months since she last heard from him, some vague text about taking on something big that he couldn't tell her more about, but it was gonna be "fine." She hadn't worried too much then, familiar as she was with the job, and caught up in the flurry of the festive season besides: intimate celebrations with the Losers, mostly (their first holiday since the reunion, their first reunion since Derry and her divorce being finalised). But after a stretch of weeks with hearing nothing, she tried one of Dean's backup phones and got Castiel on the other end saying the Winchesters had gone off-the-grid. "Undercover." Something about work. (If that's what you call being held prisoner at a government black site.) Well, she wasn't sure if she bought that, but it made more sense than Dean ghosting her after six months of... friendship, flirting, and all in between.

So she rode out the holidays and hit the new year running, dead set on rebuilding her life and career, and feeling that new weight settle on her shoulders just weeks after being rid of the old. (It's different, she tries to tell herself.) She puts her head down and tries to ignore the buzzing press around the split of Rogan&Marsh, the removal of her name from the brand, the handful of loyal designers who walked out when she did, the fresh eyes on a divorce she'd done her best to keep quiet. She tries not to let herself spiral into self-doubt, wondering if fashion is really her calling, if she's even good at it, or if she just let herself believe it all because people (Tom) needed her to. She tries to ignore the weeks ticking down to her birthday and the rush of new-old memories that brings (the parents she'd forgotten until last summer, the father who blamed her for his wife's death). She tries to ignore Valentine's and the way the city is bursting with reminders of how she'd been forced to spend past ones. She tries not to feel like she's fucking drowning when her life has objectively never looked better, she tries not to pull away from the Losers or lean on them too much even though they encourage her to. They've all gone through so much, it's not fair of her to add to it. She tries to find balance.

But she can't, she can't, she feels like she's one bad day away from snapping. And then — Dean calls. He's fine (he sounds stressed actually, but), he's sorry for the radio silence, he'll explain later. And she should be pissed, she is (and struggles with feeling any right to be), but she knows the frustration is misplaced when she's missing all the pieces and when she's barely holding on to her own. What surprises her more than the hot flash of her temper, though, is how that vibrating chord of tension inside her seems to settle at the sound of his voice, gruff and exhausted as it is. Yeah, she's missed him, but... Huh.

A day and a half later, she clears her schedule and boards a plane for the midwest.

She should text, or call, or say something. She shouldn't just drop by unannounced, not without knowing what the Winchesters have come from and especially not with the vague directions Dean had armed her with "in case of emergency" all those months ago when they were just friends. She should warn them, but she's not thinking when she drops everything and leaves New York. Running towards something, not away. Well, hell. She was a kid when she thought that way. She's allowed to fucking run away when she feels like she's about to explode — and where better than a bunker in the middle of nowhere? Right? It'll be fine. (And by the time she comes to her senses, feels the first tendrils of self-consciousness, she's already landing in Nebraska, so no turning back now.)

Beverly rents a car and drives under two hours to Lebanon the next state over in Kansas. The flat stretch of nothing is unlike anywhere she's ever been; and instead of feeling dwarfed by it, she feels free, like she can breathe again. No skyscrapers pressing in, no crowds, no honking traffic, no requests for interviews or statements on what's next for Beverly Marsh? Just her behind the wheel and a straight shot to a secret underground bunker. It takes a bit of work to find it, using landmarks instead of the GPS on her phone. (That's the point of a secret bunker.) But once she does, she bangs on the reinforced steel door, restless on the threshold from nerves and the bitter February cold, and waits. ... And waits.

Fuck. No one's home. Of course. She could almost laugh, it's that fucking ridiculous — or cry. But it's freezing, so better the former. Best case scenario, they're on a supply run nearby. Worst case, a hunt. But they just got back from one (or so she thinks) so she doubts they'd have fucked off so soon. Right? God, she's an idiot. She should've said something. What good's a surprise when everything goes to hell at the last minute?

Beverly doesn't know how long she's waiting outside. She idles in her car with the heater for a stretch, but she feels so goddamn jittery that she has to roll the window down for a smoke, and running the heat pointless. She gets out, leans against the side sheltered somewhat from the biting wind, and pulls out her cigarettes. Even with the sun, it's barely above freezing out here, but she remembers growing up in Maine now so she should be able to bear it. (Nah, it still sucks. A lot.) With numb fingers, she texts Dean something innocuous: What are you up to? Depending on the reply, she'll head into town and find a place to crash. It's as funny as it is mortifying at this point. What was that about being one bad day away from a total meltdown?

She's halfway through her third cigarette, cheeks almost as red as her hair from the cold, when she hears the familiar purr of the Impala's engine coming up the dirt road. And just like that, her heart lifts a little, traitorous as it is. The car's barely rolled to a stop when Dean gets out of the driver's side, and she can't quite make out his expression — worried? Upset? Confused as fuck? — because her eyes are watering from the wind (it's totally the wind).

She drops her cigarette, grinding it into the gravel with her boot, and grins behind the thick scarf wound around her neck. ]

Hi. [ Breathless, shivery, anticipatory. ] Um... surprise?

( the closest city with a major grocery store and a decent fucking liquor store is an hour north in nebraska — which is almost laughable after the fact; if he'd known bev was about to show up on his doorstep, he could have just picked her at the airport and saved her the trouble of renting a car and driving out to the middle of bumfuck nowhere on his very specific yet not specific enough directions on how to get to the bunker (which he realizes later are a little hard to follow for someone without an internal gps). the real irony of the whole situation is she must have left the airport around the time they left the bunker, leaving her to wait around for at least a couple of hours — dean insisted while they were in hastings they were getting greasy, meat-loaded pizza at godfather's as a fucking treat (sam still only had a slice of alfredo and a salad, like a heathen) which must have added another half an hour or so on top of their normal in-and-out supply run. though, of course, this trip wasn't so in-and-out considering everything in their fridge had expired while they were being held captive by government operatives.

he gets her text while they're checking out at the liquor store (he can't really blame cas for going through most of their stockpile while they were in government isolation for two fucking months, but it would've been nice if he'd left the good stuff) and, despite the overall innocuousness of it, he can't help the prickling feeling of something being not quite right. they don't usually text like this — unless, of course, this is supposed to be the lead in to some kind of sexting, in which case ... well, that's new, but not unwelcome. he shoots back:

supply run sorry to disappoint gimme half an hour and i can be doing something much more interesting 😏

it's practically a damn record how fast he makes it back to lebanon, anticipation gunning the accelerator, his heart racing almost as fast as the impala. he hasn't seen or spoken to bev since december — he'd called yesterday as soon as he could, couldn't explain everything, not yet, but he needed to let her know he was alive, at least — and, frankly, he's not entirely sure where they stand right now; this particular conversation could go one of two ways and so could his nerves. it's either gong to be a conversation he'll enjoy or it's not and he might be more anxious about it going south than in whatever direction they haven't explored yet. sam's learned by now not to question dean's driving habits or his speeding, but even he has to wonder what the hell has dean making such good time when they're just going back to the bunker. dean assures him it's not an emergency, just that he wants to keep his word to bev, as a personal victory.

so it's no wonder when he pulls up to the bunker and bev is just standing there, leaning against some rental car smoking a cigarette, he's never shifted gears faster, the impala lurching to a stop as he leaps out the door without bothering to shut it behind him. his heart is hammering wildly as he half jogs to where she is, laughing in disbelief, his breath coming out in bursts and clouding in the cold kansas air. what the hell is she doing here? he can't decide if he should be worried or pissed or confused or just ... happy. why didn't you tell me? i would have driven faster. he's sure he could have made it in under half an hour if he really put his mind to it, if he'd known what — who would be waiting for him when he got back. )

Holy shit, Bev. ( he reaches out to hold her face in his hands, press his forehead to hers, maybe just to convince himself that she's really here. ) Sure do know how to give a guy a heart attack. ( but he's laughing, delighted, and then he pulls her in, his arms wrapping tightly around her shoulders, his nose buried in her hair. god, he's missed this: her, physical intimacy, everything. he knows sam is watching, or at least standing awkwardly by the impala and trying politely to pretend he's not watching, so he presses a kiss to her head discreetly, lowering his voice just for her. ) It's so fucking good to see you, babe.

( which sounds a lot like i'll explain everything once we're not freezing our asses off. he pulls back just enough to brush her hair out of her face and look her in the eyes again, as if assessing her for damage, physical and mental. )

You're not in trouble? No warrants for your arrest I should be aware of?

( he's joking, for the most part, but there's a genuine concern laced into it, too. he just wants to make sure she's okay. there are probably more bad reasons why she came all the way out here than there are good ones — and the good one he's pretty sure is standing right in front of her. )

[ Honestly, up until this second, Beverly wasn't sure how this was going to go. It's such a gigantic leap of faith, fueled entirely by impulse (just like when she kissed him in the car, invited him up to her place, adrenaline and attraction buzzing hot under her skin). Ever since Derry, ever since she got her memories back, it's like the veil between her past and present was worn paper-thin and the girl she used to be — could still be — is standing somewhere behind her, pushing, reminding her to make the first choice, to be brave, to follow her heart. It's as terrifying as it is exhilarating and she feels manic with the swings, sometimes, just like when she realised what the fuck she was doing in coming out here.

They're friends, of course they're friends. She's known Dean as long as she's (re)known the Losers in all the ways that count. But whatever they ignited between them back in November is still so new and still smouldering quietly under weeks of silence and uncertainty. But the one thing that is certain, after he called, is that she needed to see him. She could have gone to any of the Losers in this mini mid-mid-life crises, any one of them would have opened his door to her in the throes of emotional upheaval. But there's something comforting about seeing someone outside of all that, removed from the horror of the clown and everything it tore up inside of them.

It's one thing to be known, another thing to be seen, and yet another to have both reframed by perspective and distance without sacrificing the intimacy of either. So — Kansas. So... Dean. Even if she, like him, isn't sure where they stand. But that's for later. Right now is for being swept up in his embrace, warm and solid and tight; and if she feels the burn of unexpected emotions (relief, almost overwhelming), she buries them in his shoulder, laughing into his jacket. Even after his hands dropped away, she can still feel the burning imprints they've left on her icy cheeks.

Yeah, you too, she whispers back, eyes prickling. God. God, it's so good to see him, to lean into the callused curve of his palm against her face, looking back at him with as much openness as he does her. She needed this more than she thought. ]

No, no, it's okay, I'm okay, [ she says in a rush, meaning it as much as she doesn't. Obviously she's not okay, showing up out of the blue like this. But it's not an emergency. She's almost embarrassed that it isn't. If that makes her blush, it's lost in the colour whipped into her face from the wind. ] I'm sorry, [ reflexive, earnest, ] I should've said something, I just — [ didn't know where to go ] — I wasn't thinking. I know. [ Her voice pitches higher, eyes rolling to the sky, wry and self-deprecating: ] Crazy.

[ When she left Tom and had to run, it was Derry and the Losers acting as true north, Bev nothing but a helpless compass needle spinning round and round for 27 years. Now, she has a home in Long Island, Los Angeles, Atlanta, Florida. But she came here. She doesn't know what to make of that: needing him. This. Is that something to apologise for? ]

I'm sorry, [ she says again anyway, her faint smile turning inward, self-conscious. Her hands are still on the small of his back, holding him close. She's distantly aware Sam's behind him watching this go down and she straightens up with a sniff, nose running from the cold, swiping at it with her gloved hand. ] I'm being rude. [ Ruder than showing up unannounced? A shiver bolts up her spine, delayed. ] I should — should say hi to your brother, huh?

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