cained | 👻🎈🤡🥧

[ 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?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

👻🎈🤡🥧

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject