cained | 👻🎈🤡🥧

[ That distant horror sharpens into focus, settles with a cold weight when his answer lands, heavy with grief and guilt no matter how softly he says it. He made them forget. It's a kneejerk dread shaped by all the years she lost to magical amnesia of her very own, the past that defined her taken away against her will, and she thinks — God, how could he do that to people he loved? She'd never say it, she can see Dean's carried the agony (shame?) of that decision for years and she doesn't need to add to it so long after the fact. And she has no right to, anyway. But the hair at the back of her neck stands, reflexive, until she quashes those swirling questions with a second: He'd never do that to me. Surely not. Even if the road they're on now turned rocky, full of blind turns. She's had a foot in this fucked up world since she was a kid and Lisa and Ben were on the outside of it, untouched until it came crashing into their lives. It's different as much as it is the same.

He did what he thought was right at the time. What he believed was best. She didn't have to know him for long before she knew that much about him: Dean has always gone by that rule, has always been about saving people even at his own expense. And this, wiping someone's memories, is as selfish as it is selfless. There’s a fine line. She knows that. To sacrifice so that someone else can have a better life, because you're willing to do what they can’t. You don’t get to make that call; but equally, what if it’s the only one to make? It’s so grey even if it makes her stomach lurch at the thought. She wonders if that's what Lisa would have wanted. She's sure Dean's wondered it too. She doesn't know what it's like and she can't know, not really. (Bill could have let It take him as a boy and they would have lived long, happy lives... But would it have been in peace, knowing he did that for them, to them? Doubtful.)

God, it's awful. It's so much worse than she thought. Of course one little question about his ex wouldn't be so little or simple. Bev feels the twist of guilt in her own stomach, upset that she chased this thread and unravelled something fragile. He'd told her, when she showed up at the bunker, that she never has to apologise to him but the impulse still lodges itself in her throat when she watches that tear spill down his cheek. She's never seen him like this, even heard him like this though he's helped her through moments just like this one, haunted by her own past in the dead of night. But the trust he has in her to be this honest, to be this vulnerable, isn't lost on her either.

It's not her place to forgive or judge him for the choices he’s had to make in a situation beyond her understanding, but she can try to soothe the pain. He might not be able to hold her hand so she does it for them both, setting aside her glass and sliding to the edge of her seat so she can take his free hand with both of hers. She's silent for a stretch, letting that be their anchor point, her thumbs brushing back and forth over his skin.

Then finally, softly: ] I'm sorry.

[ Not for unearthing this buried hurt, although she'd apologise for that too if she knew he'd accept it. No, this is I'm sorry for your loss. Because it is a little like bereavement, isn't it? Losing the life he'd carved out for himself, the woman and son he loved. I'm sorry it happened that way. Sorry you felt you had no other choice. It's not on her to say whether it was right or wrong. But she can acknowledge it was shitty to have to make it at all. I'm sorry. ]

Edited 2020-09-08 06:13 (UTC)

( dean has never dealt well with grief, when he deals with it at all. (you shove it down and let it come out it spurts of violence and alcoholism.) so even having it out in the open like this is a step dean almost never takes and it shakes him in a way he's not accustomed to. at this point in his life, after so much loss, he and sam practically have a language of grief, silent but understood between the two of them. sam knows what dean needs without having to say anything about it, because he knows if he says anything, dean's only more likely to deny that he has feelings at all. it hasn't always been healthy, but it's worked for them, and they've gotten this far.

so to have this kind of open communication about something that's weighed on him for years, to have the emotional support of someone outside the life, to hear i'm sorry, to feel the warmth of bev's hands holding his — it's a fucking relief. it feels like letting go, even as he squeezes her hand back, almost to make sure she's still there and real. as much as sam and cas have always been there for him when it really mattered, they've never been able to give him this particular brand of support, mostly because dean's never let them (as tactile as he is and always will be, he rarely allows this kind of casual physical affection, but that's an entirely different can of worms).

he doesn't say anything for a long moment, just lets her hold his hand while he fights back the urge to cry. she doesn't need to see that and he doesn't want her to, even if he probably should let it all out, release the dam, turn on the full waterworks. but this thing between them is still so new, and just talking about lisa was hard enough, he feels like now is a good time to tap out on emotional vulnerability.

distantly, he's aware the record he'd put on earlier must have stopped playing a while ago. he gives bev's hand another squeeze and downs the rest of his drink, moving to stand as soon as he's swallowed, leaving his glass next to the decanter. )

Alright, how 'bout something to lighten the mood? ( he heads to where the record player sits, starts flipping through the box of vintage records left by the men of letters. big band, jazz, classical. ) C'mon, boys, where's the King? There's no accounting for taste, I guess.

[ In moments like these, sometimes the best thing to say is nothing at all. She's familiar with the weight of silence, knows how to navigate it with a steady course; there's no rush to fill it here, not when the only thing necessary is to hold on and be there in however way he needs her to be. It didn't take long for them to find that routine during their late night phone calls, hushed reassurances lapsing into silence, Beverly finding comfort in simply knowing she wasn't alone while the night stretched on around her. The only difference here is they get to hold each other instead of being separated by thousands of miles. It's a privilege they haven't had until now and it makes this so much easier. (She hopes it does, anyway.)

He squeezes her hand and her lips quirk a little, thumbs still stroking gently over his skin. She lowers her gaze to their joined hands, allowing him the privacy he might need without letting go. She won't be the one to break this connection, not when she doesn't know how long he needs it to ground him, to find a way to reel himself back from the edge. When he finally does, she can feel the air shift just before he draws away. She wishes he wouldn't, she feels like there's more to be said here, but she understands the reflex. She knows it isn't a matter of not trusting her enough but rather trusting himself. (It makes her heart pang to recognise her own habits in him, but she doesn't say anything. It isn't the time.) ]

Sure.

[ Soft, amiable. She can still hear the roughness to his voice as he tries to level out the emotion so she doesn't press. Beverly watches him go, trailing after him at a slower pace, finishing the last of her whiskey and leaving her glass on a library table as she passes it. In the same smooth motion, she sidles up behind him, slipping her arms around his waist; reassurance offered freely, without expectation. If there's a quota for emotional vulnerability tonight then it's easy to pass it off as something she wants rather than something he needs. So much of this may be new, but not all of it; after all, they were friends before they were lovers. ]

Not everyone can rock out to Elvis while reading Latin, I guess, [ she teases, peering at the collection around his side, . ] Besides, this stuff's like the definition of great taste. Hey, go back. [ One hand lifts off his stomach to point. ] Can't go wrong with Glenn Miller, right?

[ The late hour seems to call for easy listening. She quiet and thoughtful as she watches Dean pull the record out of its sleeve then tips her head a little to look up at him, studying the furrow between his brows; the idea comes a heartbeat later. She asks before she can talk herself out of it. ]

Do you dance?

( the sudden warmth in the room isn't just from the alcohol; it emanates from bev tucked against him and dean can't help the hint of a smile that tugs at his lips. as simple a gesture as it is, it speaks volumes louder than any words that pass between them. dean has never been very good at expressing his feelings out loud, was taught from a young age that what he felt was secondary to keeping sam safe, so the fact that he's allowed her into his space like this — the fact that he's comfortable with her this close — just goes to show how much trust they've built together. he doesn't know how to say thank you for listening or you know i wouldn't do that to you, but he lets her hold him, and that's almost enough.

he's only half paying attention to the records as he flips through them, his focus more on bev's arms around his waist, her chest pressed against his back, the steady beat of his heart, the faded scent of her perfume. he feels content for a moment, would be happy to stand here flipping through old records all night just to keep her close. (not that they haven't been spending the nights together like this, curled up in each other's arms.)

she points out glenn miller and he pulls the record out to consider it. not exactly his style but — )

What? ( he half laughs, the question catching him off guard. ) Maybe when I was sixteen getting ready for some dumb school prom — ( that he never ended up going to, thanks dad. ) — but, uh, not ... recently. Ain't exactly a skill they teach in hunting school.

[ She'd be content to stand like this all night too, even if the pair of them have been virtually inseparable since she turned up without warning at the bunker. Over two months apart with no word after parting in New York on such a high note — God, she'd been cruising on the memories of that visit all through the holidays — on top of Dean's stint in prison means taking every chance to be close to each other and savouring it. Sometimes it's as simple as their ankles brushing under the kitchen table over morning coffee; other times it's as overt as now, joined at the hip and then some.

Dean mentions prom and she has to laugh, too. Maybe it is all a little high school. But they've been starved of intimacy for so long, she thinks they're excused. Without eyes on them, Sam and Castiel nowhere in sight, they're allowed to let some walls down and let the softness come out into the open. That's what she's feeling now, anyway, especially in the wake of something so sad and heavy. She's glad to hear some lightness creep back into his voice and she's keen on encouraging that. ]

Well, put that on, and maybe I'll show you a few moves.

[ Her wedding was never really about her, although she'd tried to convince herself of otherwise at the time. She did think she was happy, then; had dismissed the sinking dread in her stomach as normal bridal jitters. But she'd liked learning to dance for the reception and had thought, naively at the time, that she and Tom could do it again sometime. They never did (surprise, surprise), but as Bev looks up at Dean, she finds herself glad that she has no old memories to overshadow the creation of this one.

This one's all theirs. ]

Come on, humour me a little, [ she smiles, patting his stomach twice as she straightens up behind him, decisive. ] We can be rusty together. It'll be fun.

( truthfully, dean always thought he'd be a good dancer if he wanted to be, and maybe he could have been if things had been different, if he'd grown up normal, but it's just never been in the cards for him. the most dancing he's ever done is the drunk texas two-step in some backwoods honkytonk. so maybe this is just as much for her as it is for him, in a way. a chance to pretend like his life isn't all monsters and death and trauma; a chance to convince himself he deserves moments like these knowing his life is all monsters and death and trauma. it can be both, can't it? isn't that the moral of this story? he doesn't have to choose anymore.

and, hell, he might just have a few moves of his own, if given the chance. )

Okay, Ginger Rogers. ( sarcastic, but painfully fond. ) Ain't no Fred Astaire, but what the hell.

( he pulls the record out of the sleeve, slotting it on the turntable, carefully dropping the needle. the sound crackles a little as the needle finds the grooves, but after a few seconds the melodic brass of moonlight serenade hums over the library speakers. he can't imagine the men of letters were ever dancing to these records, but it does evoke that feeling from every nostalgic old hollywood drama, and he can't deny how romantic it is. he can't help but smile to himself, taking hold of one of her hands to press a quick kiss to the back of her hand before he turns to face her, extending his hand palm up, bowing a nod, eyebrows raised expectantly. )

Shall we, Ms. Marsh?

[ It's a request she might feel ridiculous about making any other time, but that's the wonderful thing about what they have — even if this is new, their friendship isn't, and they've indulged in silly things together before. After years of living for other people's expectations, it's a relief to enjoy something simply for the sake of it: mugging for the camera in front of iconic street corners, diving into an indulgent platter of Belgian waffles, a big Broadway show or a nighttime stroll after. So what if it's cheesy? They've earned cheesy. No one's too old for that.

Her forehead drops against his shoulder as she laughs, delighted when he agrees. Mental note: Turner Classic Movies the next time they flip on the TV. ]

You're right, you aren't. [ Dramatic pause. Then: ] You're so much cuter than Astaire.

[ Well, Fred Astaire is technically cute but Dean Winchester is dashing. The proof of it is in how he kisses her hand against the swell of crackling music, turning to face her with all the smoothness of those old Hollywood stars. Swap out the flannel for a sleek set of tails against the Art Deco backdrop of the bunker, and it's a scene right off the RKO Pictures lot.

She's actually blushing when he offers his hand even as another laugh bubbles free — is he wooing her with her own damn idea or is she a little warm from the whiskey? (It's both.) She tries to school her beaming expression into something a little more dignified, but it doesn't last long, her eyes bright with amusement as she takes his hand. ]

We shall, Mr Winchester. [ The facade cracks in seconds, giggling as she steps into the circle of his arms. Maybe it starts out as a traditional dance hold; Bev doesn't lead so much as gently guide them into an easy sway, following the beat of the band. He's too tall for them to be dancing cheek to cheek a la Rogers and Astaire, but she rests hers against his shoulder and it's close enough. It's nice.

After a few moments, she speaks again, voice soft. ] You okay?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

👻🎈🤡🥧

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject