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[ 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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