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( 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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