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[ It's been three months since Derry. Since the Losers Club (barely) survived their second showdown with It in the cistern, since they dragged themselves out of the muck and ruin of Neibolt, since they weathered Eddie's damn near-miraculous recovery and Stanley's literally miraculous resurrection. Three months since they turned their backs on the town that never knew the price they paid to save it, three months since they tried to return to their lives, three months since Beverly took control of hers. Three months since she called Dean from that hospital corridor, still covered in blood, and talked about monsters. Three months full of more phone calls and texts just like that one, less and less about monsters and more and more about the mundane. (Stories, music, the things they like, don't like; dumb pictures, funny pictures, the burger they had for lunch, the leftovers for dinner. Anything. Everything.) It's been three months since they became friends.

But that doesn't make the monsters are any less real.

It's been three months since Derry but the nightmares haven't stopped. They all have them now, not just Beverly. She and Richie talk the most, sharing the shitty honour of being caught in the deadlights, but they don't have the monopoly on good old fashioned trauma and the Losers chat is full of late night texts. They don't say why they're up at 4 AM sharing corgi compilation videos or a running commentary of Guy Fieri's Triple D marathon; they don't have to. But somewhere down the line, Beverly felt a little — guilty — for weighing the others down with something she's grappled with for 27 years. Somewhere down the line, she started texting Dean the same stuff. Somewhere down the line he, unlike her friends, pointed out the timestamps. Somewhere down the line, he told her, Call me anytime and Bev, thinking back to that shaky hospital phone call, doesn't feel ashamed when she accepts the offer. Usually, they talk like they do during the day (or he talks and she listens until her heartbeat settles). But sometimes, when she can't catch her breath enough to manage even that, Dean plays music over the line, soft strumming guitar and bluesy 70s cassettes — and it helps.

Tonight is one of those exceptionally bad nights. The kind where Beverly fumbles for her phone in the dark and taps on Dean's name before she's even fully awake, fully out of whatever murky, cold place she'd believed herself to be; she can still feel the icy grip of fingers on her throat when the call connects, voice ragged with memory and sleep and tears. ]

Dean? [ Normally she'd text first. Maybe she'd meant to. But she's running on instinct (fighting the instinct to run — or maybe she is running — towards or away, can't tell). ] You there?

( three months in the life of a hunter can often feel more like three weeks (back to back cases, hardly ever any days off because monsters never take vacations), but the last three months have been relatively quiet. it feels almost like he's gotten to enjoy things — or, at least, enjoy when bev texts or calls without immediately having to rush off to gank some nasty sons of bitches. the ganking still happens, but so do memes (and, hey, now he knows what a meme is). and in between the lighthearted and the ultraviolent, bev's nightmares find a space to settle into their calls, as if any of this was normal (neither one of them has known normal in a long time).

dean's just dropping his duffel onto one of the library tables when bev calls. it's been a long day (damn rugaru out in midland) and an even longer drive back (they could have stayed the night at a motel but dean insisted on wanting to sleep in his own damn bed so they made the ten hour trek from texas back), but when her name lights up his screen, he practically brightens himself until he realizes what time it is. fuck. she wouldn't call this late unless it was bad. (he's familiar enough with the nightmares by now it's almost like they have a routine. almost like clockwork when she calls him at ungodly hours of the night and he answers because he told her he always would.)

he picks up after the second ring, heading for his room with a renewed sense of urgency. he never unpacks his duffel anyway. bev is more important than getting settled for the night. if she hadn't called, he might have just passed out — but then he hears his name on the other end of the line, choked and terrified, and it's like being dunked into a tub of icy water. there's no denying he's wide awake now, that protective instinct coiling in his gut — the same instinct he felt when they first met, and then again when they reconnected months later. there's something unique about it, the way it twists all the way into his chest, past his ribcage, settles deep in his heart where it forges itself into something else. )

Yeah, I'm here, Bev. ( a soft click as the door to his room shuts behind him; the squeak of a mattress. ) You wanna tell me about it?

( she doesn't have to, of course, and they've had these conversations enough times for her to know she doesn't owe him anything. but sometimes it helps, to talk. sometimes it doesn't. sometimes she can't. sometimes she just needs to hear his voice. whatever she decides, whatever she needs, he's here for her. always will be. )

[ She knows he's busy. Knows he's often got bigger things on his plate without having to worry that she might become part of the job someday, that picking up a late night call with her voice strung through in distress could just as easily be a herald for that than one of her shitty dreams. But she'd apologised for that once before and he wouldn't hear it, only told her that he'd always pick up no matter what. Dean's fallen into her inner circle with the Losers without even trying; she's officially known him as long as she's known them (when it comes to getting reacquainted as adults), and he's weathering the peaks and valleys with her just like the others. Probably better, in some cases, for his experience with the supernatural and all the baggage that comes with it.

Hearing his voice on the other end of the line, soft and steady as ever, feels like an anchor. The tug is distant, still caught up in emotions she rationally knows have no place in the waking world, but it's a point to focus on and she tries to follow it even if she feels like she — ]

Can't breathe. [ Couldn't, she means. Past tense. But it's all colliding in the tightness of her chest, the stinging in her eyes. There's a rustle of sheets as she curls in on herself, forehead to drawn knees, gasping with sobs, her free hand clutching at her collar. She was underwater again, held there by — Tom, her father, Pennywise, it doesn't matter. They're all the same. ] Fuck, I can't — [ Her breath hitches, breaks. ]

( his entire body tenses when she answers. he has to get up, walk the length of his room to burn off the nervous energy buzzing through him. he wishes he could be there right next to her, wishes he could reach through the phone and touch her arm. solidify her to this moment. he hopes the soft edge to his voice, the palpable concern, can do the same. )

Bev, hey — hey, just listen to my voice, okay? You're okay.

( he knows what it's like to wake up from a nightmare still feel like he's in it: having his lungs torn out of his chest by alistair, being ripped to shreds by leviathans, metatron's blade piercing through his ribs, his life slowly drifting out of him. most of those nights he'd wake up gasping for air, desperate and terrified to fill his lungs, to feel the rise and fall of his chest against the thundering of his heart. )

I know it's hard, just try to breathe. With me, come on. ( he inhales slowly, releases it after a beat. repeats until he can hear her breathing even out. ) That's it, Bev. You're okay.

( because it bears repeating. it will always bear repeating. as many times as she needs to hear it. )

[ This had been easier when she was still in Derry, still with the other Losers. Sometimes she and Richie would share a bed because falling asleep was easier knowing someone would be there in the dark. Being alone like this is so much harder. (She wishes Dean was here, too. Doesn't even realise it.) Even if she knows she's safe in her apartment, the first home she's ever had that truly belonged to her, with locks and a doorman and cameras and miles between her and Tom — the night still presses in like a threat.

But Dean knows what goes bump in the night and they both know there's nothing like that here. Just ghosts of a different sort, ghosts that have no place in the present. The hand at her chest flies up to her mouth to stifle the whimper that catches without warning, eyes squeezed shut as she tries to focus on the soft cadence of his voice on the phone, the gentle instruction to breathe with him.

She lowers her hand, takes a shuddering breath. It tastes like blood or rank sewage, she tenses for the sense-memory of liquid flooding her lungs, but that's not real and it doesn't come. With me, come on. In, out. Her heartbeat settles before her breath does, but after a minute, he helps get her there; finally, she picks up on you're okay. Lets herself believe it. (Picks up on how he says her name, too. Can't remember when she first became Bev to him, but she likes how it sounds.) ]

Yeah, [ she whispers after a stretch, voice still fragile with emotion but no longer gasping. She scrubs her hand over her wet cheeks, half-expecting to see blood on her fingertips. She blinks the tears away. ] Sorry, I — [ No, that's not right. She swallows tightly. ] Thank you. Thanks for — sorry, [ she mumbles again, voice cracking, ] I'm okay, I just — I need a sec.

Edited (completely changing my mind here) 2020-09-30 07:07 (UTC)

( he listens to her breathe with him, finds some gentle reassurance in the sound of her inhales and shaky exhales. even if she's still rattled, he know she's going to get through this. she always does. he's just here to walk her through it when it feels like everything is caving in, when the dark feels like too much. he's been trapped in that darkness before, wishes he'd been brave enough then to reach out to the hand sam had offered him over and over (that he rejected because it was easier to drink, easier to bury it all and only let it out in spurts of violence). he's never been very good at coping with his own problems, doesn't want that for bev, so he'll offer his support as long as she'll take it. )

Ain't got nothing to apologize for, Bev. ( has he told her that before? surely he has, but he knows the background she comes from, knows it isn't so easy to break free from that particular habit. so he'll tell her every time. she doesn't need to apologize to him, especially not for this, this thing she can't even control. he told her she could call and she called. there's no reason to be sorry for that or anything else. hell, even when it's on a bad night, it's nice to know she trusts him enough to call at all. ) Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.

( not now, not ever. at least, not if he can help it. )

[ He's told her that half a dozen times before but each reminder is still as kind and patient as the last. The ease in how he offers the reassurance is the only reason her stomach doesn't twist with shame or embarrassment, that reflex soothed by the distance between her and her old life and the friends she's gained along the way. Friends like the Losers, like Dean, who won't make her feel small for being weak; who won't make her feel guilty for taking up their time.

Ain't got nothing to apologise for, he says, and she has to rub at her tight and aching chest to ease the way that makes her feel (different from the fear, breathless in a new way). Makes her eyes well up again too, fresh tears streaking hot down her cheeks, and she chokes out a sound that's half sob, half self-deprecating laugh, sniffing helplessly as she scrubs them away. Get your shit together, Bev Marsh. ]

I know, [ she murmurs, lips pressed into a watery smile that colours her tremulous voice. There's no mistaking the gratitude. ] You're always — [ here for me. Her breath hitches on a drier sob, more reflex than emotion now. ] Means a lot. Don't know how much.

[ She trails off into silence, taking a few more shaky breaths until she feels steadier. Then she finally straightens up with a rustle of sheets, slouching back against her headboard with her eyes still shut. Softer now, her voice suffused with as much warmth as exhaustion: ]

Hi, honey. [ She'll tell him about it. She feels like she needs to, with how frantically this call started. But first: ] Did I wake you?

( sam's always been the crier of the two of them. probably because sam's always been a little more in touch with his emotions than dean ever has — he couldn't let dad or sam think he wasn't strong, can still barely stand to show weakness in front of anyone because he's built up this supposedly impenetrable wall to keep that vulnerability from ever escaping. it comes seeping out through the cracks every now and then but he's always made sure to keep that wall firmly in place. (only with bev does it come crumbling down, brick by brick.) he's always had to be there for sam when things would get to be too much, talk him through the worst of it, pick up the pieces and glue them back together countless times. (they've both been broken over and over, but sam's undoubtedly been shattered worse than dean ever has.)

so it's second-nature to him falling into the easy rhythm of these late-night conversations, even if the topics are never easy. his base instinct has always been to protect, to care for. that instinct doesn't end with sam, never has. the only difference is the tightness of his chest when she tells him how much it means to her. gratitude is rare in this business and he's learned not to expect it (knows that isn't the point of doing the job), but there's something about the way she says it that makes his stomach twist knowing how much she appreciates him. he only wishes he had the words to let her know how much that means to him. )

Got some idea.

( but he lets the silence fall comfortably between them while she regains herself until hi, honey — and suddenly he's grateful she can't see the warmth rise to his cheeks, the faint tug of a smile at his lips. god, he could get used to hearing that. )

Hiya, Bev. ( he slumps back onto his bed, leaning up against his own headboard. ) Don't you worry. Just got back from a hunt.

[ Her father hated it when she cried. She'd forgotten that after she left Derry, but the reflex to bottle it all in (or at the very least weep silently) never left her, like a part of her knew to brace for further punishment if she let her tears overwhelm her. So often it meant gritting her teeth in the moment and hiding in the bathroom behind a locked door in the aftermath. And Tom — well, she thinks he liked it when she broke in front of him. Took her silence for resilience; hated her defiance. Feared it. In the months since regaining her memories and breaking free of her marriage, Beverly's struggled to find the middle ground of who she is, rather than who she had to become to survive.

It's cathartic to let her emotions run free now, as ugly and messy as they are. Sometimes it's hard for her to let go. But over the phone and in the dark, it's easier. It's a fucking relief to know that her friends will take her for who she is after years of contorting herself to fit the rigid moulds of rigid men. Yeah, it means a lot that Dean's willing to stay on the line with her for this. No, she doesn't have the words to express the whole of the why. But he knows about Tom and he's heard a little about her father; and he sure as hell knows about the clown. That's enough for now.

Warmth blooms in her chest at hiya, Bev, full of soothing familiarity. The sound that hiccups out of her is almost a laugh. ]

Busy night for you, [ she teases with a twist of self-deprecation. ] Saving people left and right. [ Because what's this phone call if not a lifeline when she wakes up drowning? Her voice is still thick with tears, ner nose stopped up; she clears her throat, sighs through her mouth. ] You ever get a day when the phone stops ringing?

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