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( her hands still and he can tell from the shakiness of her voice that she's terrified. how many times had she called him in the dead of night after one of her nightmares and he'd eased her down from it? he knows exactly how much this scares her — more than it scares him, because he's not the one seeing things, horrible things (but dean's seen more than his fair share of horrible things, has done more than his fair share of horrible things, so if anyone could understand the terror of experiencing those horrors in the middle of the night, it's him).

my shoulder was on fire. how many times has she dreamt of him and never knew it? there's a strange sense of guilt that twists his stomach into a knot at the thought that he might be accidentally responsible for any of her grief, that his life might have so much bearing on hers without meaning to. he's never wanted to drag anyone into this life, but he gets the feeling she's been in it for much longer than he ever realized. )

I don't know. ( it's almost startling honest. but, for once, he doesn't have an answer for her. he wishes he did, but he's just as in the dark about this as she is right now. still, he reaches behind him, sets his hand against the back of her knee, his thumb brushing gentle circles against her skin, just to touch her, to let her know he's here, that he's in it for her just like she's in it for him. it's not always about dean's shit (he just happens to have significantly more of it most of the time). ) But we'll figure it out, okay? You and me.

( which sounds a lot like a promise, a dedication. )

Right now, how 'bout we focus on one thing at a time, yeah? Gonna need that shoulder sewn up before I get back out there to finish this thing.

( easing her back to the task at hand. the visions are something to worry about, just not right now, and he's got her back on that, but he needs her to have his back on this, literally, before they can attempt to tackle the psychic thing. )

[ It isn't fair. She knew what she was signing up for all those years ago when they tried to find Georgie, the other missing kids; even with her half-hazy memories, she knew what she was signing up for when she returned to Derry 27 years later. She knew there was a huge chance she wasn't walking out of that cistern again, but she walked back in, anyway. She knew what she signed up for when she reconnected with Dean, when she kissed him, and in that sense, every bit of tonight holds no surprise for her. But she didn't fucking sign up for the deadlights and the visions that came with them — not as a girl, not for the years after, and definitely not now. It isn't fucking fair.

But that's not on her and it sure as hell isn't on Dean, either. She'd tell him as much if she knew what he was thinking. It's the clown and only the clown. He's right, there's no telling how many of her nightmares over the years had his face or his brother's woven into them; she only ever saw flashes of people, nameless and indistinct save for their pain. (Did she see him get dragged to hell by invisible claws? The hundreds of ways the Winchesters narrowly escaped death, the untold what-if endings that went south? Were her visions tied only to the Losers or was it people she knew, or was meant to know, past, present, and future? Maybe time means nothing in the cosmic space she's an unwitting witness to.)

One thing is certain: they're here for each other, their lives entwined, maybe even before either of them realised it. That reassurance and reminder come in the form of his gentle touch, the most he can offer in the way they're standing, but it brings her back to him all the same. ]

You and me, [ she repeats softly, breath easing out of her and taking some tension with it. He mentions his shoulder and she shakes her head as though to clear it, then nods. ] Okay. [ The Beverly of last year might have apologised for her lapse; but tonight, steady on her feet and in her place at his side (and back, she's always got his back), she bends down to kiss the crown of his head, lingering despite the scent of sweat. This is real, this is Dean. Softer, against him: ] Yeah, okay, you're right.

[ And she resumes the task at hand, with his at her knee a focal point for her nerves and racing thoughts. She takes a breath and threads the needle through the gash again, each pass more certain than the last, her knots efficient and tidy. Snip. On to the next, and the next, in a silence that was almost strained at first but settles into something more comfortable with each minute. Snip. It's almost soothing, meditative, stitching him up. Taking care of him, after months of him doing the same for her over the phone. It feels good to return the favour. To be the one he called in a pinch. To be trusted to help. Snip. ]

There. [ She sets aside the instruments on the counter and grabs a fresh pad of gauze to clean up the trickle of blood down his back, mopping up around the wound one more time. ] It isn't pretty, but it's better than it was. [ She peers around his shoulder at him, brows knitting. ] How're you feeling? I've got some protein bars in my bag if —

[ A phone rings back in the room. Not her ringtone but Dean's. She looks through the door then back at Dean, brows raising as if to say I got it before leaving to do just that, stripping one glove from her hand before answering. ]

Sam? It's Beverly. [ A beat as she glances back at Dean from the bed, lips quirked. ] Yeah, no, he's fine. I'm no doctor but I got a couple stitches in him; he'll live. [ She sandwiches the phone between ear and shoulder as she pulls off her other glove now, tossing them in the trash before rummaging in her backpack for those protein bars. ] Of course. Yeah, hang on. [ As she comes back into the bathroom, passing a bar to Dean with a whispered, eat up, then: ] He's got something. Hey, Sam, you're on speaker.

[ The boys can chat while she returns to dressing that gash. ]

( rarely anything in this life is ever fair — neither one of them asked for this responsibility, this burden to bear, and yet they bear it anyway, because they don't have any other choice, really. the weight of the world has rested on dean's shoulders since he was four years old (even if the world, at the time, was just sam; now it really is the whole world and all the people in it) and he carries the guilt of every person he couldn't save with him because that's all he's ever known; it's the only person he's ever known how to be, no matter how unfair it's always been. because, ultimately, he never chose this life: it was thrust upon him by a man so wrought with grief he couldn't see another way forward, a man who conditioned him to be the perfect soldier in a war he was too young to understand. he's carried on that crusade, even if the thing that started is has long since been defeated, because he wouldn't know what to do without it. what is a soldier without a war?

(he thought, for a long time, he could never separate himself from the life enough to have someone, to come home to someone at the end of the day. but all soldiers are allowed leave, aren't they? he's starting to realize maybe bev is every teary-eyed airport reunion, every passionate kiss shared between two people who thought they might never see each other again, every whispered you come back to me.)

he imagines it's similar for her, this burden of a power she never asked for and doesn't understand. he wishes that all his experience, all his years in the life, could lend her more answers. but some things just aren't fair. some things don't come with an explanation or a user's manual. some things are just terrible and beyond their control. (if he listened to his own advice, that guilt would feel so much lighter, wouldn't it?) but he's here for her, regardless, always. you and me. they're a team now. they're stronger like this, he thinks. )

Atta girl. ( he says softly, his mouth curved upward, a twinge of warmth still washing over him from the kiss she pressed to his head. god, he wishes he could turn around and take her face in his hands, look her right in the eyes and tell her it's okay, kiss her with so much confidence it washes her doubts away. but he can't, not yet, not until she finishes with the stitches. silence settles between them instead and dean closes his eyes for just a moment, just to rest them —

they flutter open when he hears her voice again. he sits up a little straighter, attempting to roll his shoulder to test out how well the stitches will hold. it still hurts like a son of a bitch, but he'll live. his face pinches unflatteringly. ) Honestly? Like Marmaduke's damn chew toy. But —

( the sound of his phone going off cuts him short; he's already moving to push off the seat, but bev beats him to it, shooting him a look he takes to mean something like stay put. he does his best not to grumble about it. he can't imagine it's anyone other than sam calling back — and maybe it's better that bev answered, considering how dean ended their last conversation. when she returns with a protein bar, his hand lingers on hers as she passes it to him, a light touch just to tide him over. he tears the packaging open, his mouth full when he finally addresses sam. the pinnacle of manners. )

Alright, Sammy, talk to me. Wha'd'you got?

So, you were right. Definitely not a vampire. More like a distant vampire cousin. Says here the manananggal — or "one who separates itself" — is a creature that takes the appearance of a beautiful woman by day and and preys on newlyweds or couples in love by night, using its elongated tongue to drain the blood of its victims. And, get this: while the severed torso is flying around sucking people dry, its lower half is left vulnerable, usually somewhere secluded.

Okay, so, find the legs. Then what?

Well, according to the lore, the manananggal can only be killed with a pointed bamboo spear.

Only? Please tell me you're joking. This is Jersey, Sam, where the fuck am I gonna find bamboo anything?

I don't know! Look, it — ( frustrated page-flipping from the other end of the line. ) Okay, according to some accounts, dousing the lower half with salt will kill it.

Great. Plenty of salt. Let's go with that. Watch this bitch shrivel up like a snail.

Right. Garlic and holy water should deter it, too, if you run into the Flying Torso Girl again. But, Dean, you've only got until sunrise before it rejoins itself and takes off. So, what, a couple hours? Are you sure you're in shape to be taking this thing on?

Well, if it's just legs, I think I'll be fine, Sam. ( sam sighs, but there's really no arguing with dean when he's like this. ) Don't worry. I got this. ( a beat. he clears his throat. ) Listen, nice work, Sammy. You really came through for me on this one.

Yeah. Sure. Just — watch out for yourself, Dean, okay?

Always do. Call you when I'm headed back.

( the call ends and dean drags a hand over his face. sounds simple enough, except for the fact that he has no fucking clue where to look for this thing. it could be anywhere and he doesn't exactly have time to search the whole fucking town. unless... )

Bev, you got anything?

[ It's not the first time she's been present for a Winchester brother strategy session, but it is the first time she's felt as invested in the answers as they are. The life they lead and the details of a hunt were only spared from her during the shifter case that brought them together; after, in the wake of killing Pennywise, there was no point in keeping those secrets. Beverly and the Losers are just as much a part of this world as Sam and Dean, pulled in by necessity or fate rather than choice. But the choice to stay tangled up in it, well, that's where the roads start to diverge.

Beverly's friends have all returned to relatively normal lives since Derry (as normal as one can be after surviving the trauma they did) — but she's still got one foot in each world. Part of it isn't her choice, especially now that she and Dean have realised that her dreams are more than just dreams (that they never were just dreams). But the rest of it: being with Dean despite the massive weight of weird that hangs over him and his brother, running headlong into an unsolved case, learning how to shoot at the bunker and how to stitch up a gash in a backwoods motel... Those are her choices, and ones she's made freely. So she's listening. She's paying close attention as she bandages Dean's shoulder. When Sam mentions the lower half (which, holy shit), she feels that itch of deja vu again, frowning as she tries to pinpoint it. It's frustrating, slippery, each flashing image like a word on the tip of her tongue, caught on a feeling rather than anything useful she can articulate. Somewhere secluded. Dark but like twilight, not midnight; trees pressed close, lights in the distance, the rush of wings overhead, screeching —

She snaps back to the brightly lit bathroom at the sound of her name, the hairs at the nape of her neck prickling again. (That screech had sounded so faraway in her head, but why does she feel like it's closer, ringing in the air too?) She blinks down at Dean's back, bandage neatly stretched over his injury, and she smooths over the adhesive one more time with her fingertips. Get your shit together, Marsh. ]

I don't know. Maybe. [ She sounds frustrated. ] I think —

[ She steps back, job done, and rinses off her hands one more time in the sink. (What the fuck were those lights? A car? A signboard?) She glances sideways at Dean as she dries her hands, still frowning, mind whirring as she digs through her hazy dream and tries to pick apart the plan moving forward. Mostly the fact that there isn't really one. ]

Look, we don't even know if what I dreamt is enough to go on. [ Not true, they have more proof than they'd like, but she noticed Dean didn't mention that particular detail to Sam, so. ] Sunrise doesn't give us a lot of time to waste on a hunch, especially if batwoman's out there and pissed off. And when the odds are "find one half before the other finds you" — Sam's right, how d'you you plan to do that with a fucked up shoulder? You're basically fighting on two fronts here.

[ Two monsters for the price of one! He probably knows what she's getting at now. ]

And before you say you're fine, try lifting that arm and see how far you get, babe.

Edited 2020-09-22 20:56 (UTC)

( he finally turns to face bev (with more effort than he'd like) once he feels her hand drop away from the bandage on his back, his brows knitted as he pushes off the back of the toilet — but he manages it all the same, glad to be able to look at her and have this conversation. he watches her as she rinses her hands, searching for anything on her face that might ease the sinking feeling in his gut. two halves, two of them. yeah, he knows where this is going, and he sure as hell doesn't like it. maybe if they had more time, he could do this on his own. part of him still wants to insist on it, no matter how fucked up his shoulder is, but —

as soon as he starts to open his mouth to say so, she calls him out on it and he presses his lips together in a thin line. (the fact that she knows him well enough to call him out like that at all doesn't go unnoticed; she's probably the only person in his life he's rarely said i'm fine to, if only because their relationship was built on working through one of them being well beyond fine. she's always been honest with him; he owes her the same honesty.) he's obviously not enthused with how this is going, starting to feel like he's backed into a corner here with zero leads and a ticking clock counting down to game over. he leans forward, elbows pressed to his thighs, one hand coming to his face to drag thumb and forefinger over his eyes. he doesn't need to try lifting his arm to know exactly how out of commission he is. he would've fought through it like he always does, but when she's giving him that look, he feels more inclined to relent the subject. )

So what exactly are you suggesting? ( as if he doesn't already know, he just doesn't want to say it, because saying it would make it a reality, and he's not exactly prepared for the reality of letting bev go off and do his damn job for him. he didn't call her here to fucking enlist her into hunting with a crash course in monster-killing 101. ) You come with me? ( and before she suggests otherwise: ) I'm not letting you go out there alone, Bev. Don't even fuckin' think about it.

( and yet he knows she's already thinking about it. he knows her just as well as she knows him. )

[ Don't even fuckin' think about it, but of course she is — because he is too. It's right there, plain as the day fast approaching, and she can see it when she meets his gaze with hers. She doesn't like it any more than he does, can feel the implications tangle with a familiar jolt of nerves and settle like cold lead in her stomach: they know what the answer is here, but the anxiety doesn't get under her skin the same way it did with Pennywise. (That had been part of his power, she thinks, and the memory of him isn't enough to scare her off now. If anything, it bolsters her resolve. When you face off the ancient embodiment of fear itself, everything seems tame in comparison, doesn't it?)

Some people are dragged kicking and screaming into a life like this. She knows that. Dean's never sugarcoated it. But as Beverly listened to the boys discuss the horrific flying vampire woman that she had visions about, or thinks about what to do about her now, she doesn't feel that kneejerk reaction to kick, scream, or run in the opposite direction. She came, patched up Dean's torn up shoulder, and thinks that it's right that she's here. She'd hate to be anywhere else or kept in the dark. Fuck being on the outside of any of it. She's through being a bystander — and after getting her childhood memories back, she knows now that she was never meant to be one in the first place. Not when it comes to people she cares about or doing the right thing. ]

That's not — don't give me that look. I'm just saying we don't have a lot of options and I know I don't have to tell you that. I'm just doing the math. And I know enough about monsters to know they don't like loose ends so like hell you're going out there the way you are now.

[ The Losers were one big loose end Pennywise dearly wanted to tie up. She glances out the bathroom door towards the lone window of the suite like she can hear something. Nothing, of course, just her imagination — or her memory, playing tricks like it's always done since Derry. God, thinking about her dream is like trying to focus on a blurry photograph. She exhales, brows knitting as her eyes drift closed. Screeching, flapping wings, but there was another sound underneath. Rhythmic. And those lights in the distance. ]

God, and I know I saw it, if I could just — [ What? She's just gotta wander around town in the dark until something triggers that sense of deja vu again? There weren't any landmarks as she drove in, just endless forest dotted with houses, and — she straightens up suddenly, eyes snapping open. ] Holy shit.

[ Holy shit. She thinks she knows. It's not definite, whatever's going on in her head isn't an exact science and it lowkey makes her want to stress-hurl like Richie, but it's something. Nothing definite, nothing she can explain, but she's already moving into the main room to grab her phone, knowing he'll be hot on her heels rather than risk her rushing out the door; she spins around to give him an answer before he can even ask. ]

I might have something. Might. It's just a feeling, but — [ Beverly tucks her hair behind her ear as she looks over at Dean, a nervous tell to anyone who knows her, but she barrels ahead anyway. ] Look, if we're together when it comes knocking, then neither of us stand a chance. Right now it doesn't even know I'm here.

( he hates that she has a point — but at the same time, he's a little impressed that she's throwing her monster knowledge in his face right now and telling him to stay put with this much confidence. almost sonds like a real hunter. almost sounds like him. (god, he never wanted that to be true.) and even though she told him not to give her that look, he's still definitely giving her that look. he opens his mouth to protest, to say i'm fine (despite that being absurdly far from the truth and completely incapable of convincing her not to go out there on her own) but then it looks like she's focusing in on something and — she's right; he's already hot on her heels when she rushes out of the bathroom, gritting his teeth through the discomfort in his shoulder when he pushes off the toilet seat. )

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Bev, wait. ( he has to at least try to stop her, even though he gets the feeling there's no stopping her now. they don't have the luxury of time to fight about this, which only adds to the discomfort he feels about all of this, the twist in his stomach as she whirls around to tell him she might have something. ) Might? C'mon, babe, we're gonna need to do a little better than might.

( we, because apparently there's no i in team anymore. he steps forward, reaches for the hand she used to tuck her hair behind her ear. it's not shaking, but he can tell by the look in her eyes that she's nervous. she should be. he sure as fuck is, having to let her do this. what the fuck is he supposed to do if she doesn't come back? but he can't let that show, not now, not when she's about to go out there and do his damn job for him. he squeezes her hand, a silent vote of confidence. does he want her to do this? hell no. does he believe she can? well — he has to, doesn't he? because as much as he hates to admit it, he knows she's right. they're both dead meat if that thing catches up to them together. )

Okay. ( defeated, almost; tired, but with an edge of determination. he's never been a fan of sending people he cares about into the front lines for him, but if she's going to do this, she needs to be prepared. sure, she's taken out an evil cosmic clown, but she had six friends with her to finish it off. strength in numbers. now it's down to her and the monster of the week while dean sits back and waits. fuck. ) Listen to me.

( he fishes his keys out of his pocket, squeezing them as if to imbue them with luck or strength or just pure fucking faith before he carefully hands them over, pressing them into her palm. he doesn't give up his car to just anyone, but she isn't just anyone and this isn't just a milk run. ) There's salt and flashlights and a whole arsenal in the trunk. Take whatever you need to get 'er done. I'll hold the fort here — got plenty of salt and holy water in my duffel — but I need you to be safe out there, Bev. Call me, keep me on speaker as long as you can. ( he presses his forehead to hers, a hand rising to brush her cheek, squeezing his eyes shut briefly as if to steady himself. his voice drops to a heavy whisper. ) And come back to me, you hear?

[ It's been less than a year since she walked back into Neibolt to face down a monster and here she is, ready to do it all over again. She thought she'd be more afraid than she is; maybe it's the adrenaline, maybe it's the way time is pressing in on them both, giving her no room to be afraid — and of course she's nervous, she'd be a fool not to be, but that's normal. Expected. She can see Dean is too, can see he never wanted it to go this way. But she isn't asking for his permission to do this and he isn't stopping her, which says a hell of a lot about how much they trust each other. Beverly Marsh has always been brave — it's simply a matter of brushing off the rust — and it's easy for her to be brave for the people she cares about. Always has been. Maybe it's less that she's starting to sound like him and more that she's finally starting to sound like herself.

Whatever it is, she's never felt more in sync with Dean. (And she'll wonder what that means later, when there's time to think beyond a ticking clock.) They know what needs to be done, that this has to be a we, that there's no other way this could have gone. He manages to still her with a single word, bring her racing thoughts to a halt with a steady listen to me. Because even if she's tagging in for him this time, he's still the expert, and whatever advice he's got, she's all ears. What she doesn't expect is for him to hand over the keys to the Impala. It shouldn't surprise her — how else was she gonna get to where she needs to go? — but it speaks volumes about his faith in her, and that makes her heart do a funny little backflip that has nothing to do with nerves.

Beverly looks from their joined hands, keenly aware of keys pressed between them, to meet his gaze. She finds comfort in his steadiness, even if there's something else thrumming beneath it. No doubt it'd be easier for him to stop her than to let her walk out that door. He doesn't want her to go and God, she doesn't want to leave him here, either. There's no reason for the monster to go after her, it's the only reason this plan has a chance of working. But that also means he's a sitting duck, drawing fire while she does the easier thing, and she hates that, even if he's technically safer in here than out there. (Just like she's safer out there than in here. Jesus Christ.) ]

Okay, [ she's saying as he relays his instructions, nodding at each point. Salt, flashlights, weapons, phone call. Fuck, they're really doing this. She's really doing this. She's about to pull away when he stops her again with a touch; what he says next knocks her breathless, halts the countdown, narrows the world to each point they're touching. Her eyes fall closed as she breathes him in, relishes the warmth of his palm at her cheek. Come back to me. Softly, ] Course I will. [ Then she tips her chin up, just a fraction, to kiss him. Tender but too fleeting for their first of the night. ] Where else would I go?

[ All roads lead right back to him, as sure as the sunrise they're racing. She knows he's more worried than he's letting on, that gentle request couldn't make it any more obvious; but it tells her how much he cares about her too and that makes her stand a little taller somehow. Her eyes flutter open to look at him. ]

Dean. [ Beverly reaches up to rest a hand over his heart, fingers resting on the familiar lines of his tattoo. ] I'll be fine. [ Maybe if she says it with as much confidence as she's got, they'll both believe it. But she knows it too, if her dreams are true at all. They both survive this. They've both faced worse. Her lips quirk in a tiny smile then, whispering into the space between them: ] And like you said — it's just legs. I got this.

[ I got you. ]

You gonna be okay here?

Edited 2020-10-08 16:25 (UTC)

( no turning back now, he knows that, but some degree of comfort — confidence? — bubbles up in his chest when she stares up at him and says okay as if this wasn't the most batshit crazy thing he was asking her to do. (he knows it's not, and maybe that's the only thing stopping him from stopping her, from foolishly waiting this out. if she were anyone else, he might. but he trusts her more than just anyone else. she can handle this. she has to handle this.) that feeling becomes physical a moment later, her lips meeting his, warmth twisting in his gut (don't make me let you go), briefly melting the icy dread in the pit of his stomach.

where else would i go? (he wishes his first thought wasn't run as fast as you can, i've already dragged you into too much. after everything, he should know better. after this, maybe he'll finally learn.)

his name grounds him, and so does her hand, a familiar weight against his chest that evens out the racing of his heart beneath her palm. he takes another steadying breath. okay. they've got work to do. his mouth pulls slightly, almost a laugh, almost a smirk. )

I'll be fine. ( an echo of her own statement, which, for once, isn't a total lie (he says it to convince himself as much as he says it for her). he's as prepared as he can be for whatever comes his way while she's gone and he's definitely faced down worse than a flying torso on his own. hell, he's almost looking forward to a rematch, now that he knows what can hurt it — he deserves a little payback for getting his shoulder torn up, deserves to blast a few rounds of rock salt into torso girl if it comes to that. he can't deny it would be satisfying, even if he shouldn't be thinking about recklessly tearing bev's stitches after she came all the way out here to play nurse — and he respects her handiwork, knows how pissed she'd be if she came back and had to sew him up again, which, at the moment, is the only thing keeping him from doing anything monumentally stupid while she's gone.

he leans down to steal another kiss, lingering just long enough to convince himself to let her go, to steel the nerves buzzing under his skin. he pulls back, presses a final quick kiss to her forehead, then nods to the door, pushing her gently toward it with a flash of a smile, apprehensive but determined all the same. ) Go on, Scully. Do me proud — and bring my baby back in one piece.

( maybe not the most appropriate joke to be making considering what they're dealing with, but — well, he doesn't just mean his car. )

[ They've seen worse. Done worse. Endured worse. Tonight walks along the edge of dire but it's nowhere near what they've encountered in the past; still, it feels heavier somehow — maybe because this is the moment their worlds are well and truly colliding in a way they've managed to avoid for so long. (It's not even that they were trying to do that; they've just been lucky, somehow, that the overlap began and ended with the shifter that brought them into each others' orbit. But Lucky Seven or Winchester or not, you can't outrun odds all the time. But you can sure as hell beat them in the end.)

Beverly can taste fear and faith both in the press of their lips, the clutch of their hands, and she feels like she should say something more. (There are words this moment calls for but it's too early for them. Too soon. And she doesn't even know they're there. Not consciously.) Instead, she nods again, throat tightening unexpectedly with emotion at the way he kisses her forehead — they're always affectionate with each other, but it's a sentimental gesture that doesn't go unnoticed — and chokes out a startled laugh at the nickname, the wordplay.

My baby, huh? ]

We'll be back before you know it. [ Car and Bev both. She peers through the peephole before easing the door open and stepping out. Just before she closes it, softer: ] Be careful.

[ She knows she doesn't need to say it, but it makes her feel better. She only lingers long enough to hear the door lock behind her before she heads for the Impala; she slides into the leather seat (sticky along the back with Dean's smeared blood), adjusts it and the mirror, and starts the engine with a familiar and comforting rumble. If Dean's watching her through the motel room window, she catches his eye through the windshield, smiling briefly, lips pressed into a tense line. Enough stalling, Bev. Okay, sweetheart, she tells the car as she peels out of the parking lot, let's go find a monster.

Dean made her swear to call him but she doesn't do it right away. Finding the hazy location from her nightmare isn't an exact science; she's driving through this town by feel which makes her uneasy given the time limit, the stakes, and her massive inexperience in being — what? Psychic? (Jesus Christ.) She's gotta focus. Beverly scans the road as she drives along, trying to pinpoint what she saw (and heard) in her sleep: Lights, distant mechanical banging. The patch of woods she's looking for has gotta be behind the construction site she saw on the way in. It takes a precious 15 minutes to locate, taking the Impala off the paved road onto gravel, right up to the darkened treeline. She parks and gets out to squint at the skyline, inky blue already tinted with twilight; the angle's right. The deja vu feels right. Fuck, it's freezing out here.

She calls Dean as she makes her way around to the back of the car, putting him on speaker and her cell in the breast pocket of her jacket while she unlocks the trunk, lifts the false bottom to expose the arsenal. ]

Hey, [ she says when he picks up, voice hushed. She grabs a flashlight first, shining it over the overwhelming array of weapons. (Luckily her stay at the bunker a couple months ago got her familiar with most of them.) ] I found the spot. At least, I think so — it feels like the spot, anyway. [ She finds the canister of salt next, shoving it into a side pocket; it's large, sticks out a little, but it stays put. Good. ] It's pretty quiet, though. [ What'd he say? It was afraid of his dagger? Well, she can't find that in this jumble but the machete will have to do. She pulls it out of its sheath, thinking, What the fuck am I doing? and saying: ] How about you? All quiet?

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