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( 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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