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[ With the distance, Beverly doesn't always have the chance to be there for Dean in all the ways she wants to when the road gets rough — and they've weathered it together in their own ways, barely feeling the divide when times are good but aching with the chasm when they're bad. The past few weeks have been agonising, not knowing how to reach him in the way they both needed, so to have him in her arms (no matter the state he's in) is a relief. They're always stronger together, and when words fail then they find other anchors in the silence with the press of hands and lips — their phone calls can only do so much. This is what they need, both of them, and she holds him until she feels the tension drain from his shoulders, stays close when it gives way to exhaustion. Of course she does.

He kisses her where the old scar of an old promise used to be and her heart swells — maybe because his kisses always feel like promises of their own — and his invitation into the shower has her lips quirking in a helpless little smile, fond more than exasperated. Glad to hear the reflex in their banter after those hollow sobs. (There he is.) Any other time she'd join him in a heartbeat, help scrub the grief and grime from his skin, but she doesn't know the last time he had a hot meal and that need seems more pressing. So she shakes her head and gives him a gentle push in the direction of her bedroom instead. ]

Someone's gotta take care of dinner. [ It's nearly midnight, but that doesn't matter. ] Go on.

[ The second he disappears through the doorway, she digs up her phone in the couch cushions and texts Sam. He's with me. He's okay, just tired. Talk in the morning. She's sure he has a dozen questions because she sure as hell did when the younger Winchester reached out — and she does owe him answers, owes him more than some curt reassurance, but it's late and an interrogation is the last thing anyone needs when everything feels so fragile. And she has a feeling the two brothers didn't part on the best of terms either, which needs careful navigation only after a full night's sleep. (Dean's right. She knows him too well.)

That done, she takes care of the rest: stripping out of her freshly bloodstained shirt for a new one, getting the first aid kit out of the guest bathroom (considerably more well stocked now than at the beginning of their relationship; she's taken classes since the Jersey incident), and whipping up some kind of dinner for one hungry hunter. The quickest is leftovers — quicker even than delivery — and by the time he emerges from the shower, she's got a pot of soup on the stove and a skillet with a pressed sandwich ready to go.

It's his laugh that announces his return and the jolt she feels at the sound is electric. He must be feeling a little better. Bev glances over her shoulder at him, smile as warm as the feeling settling between them, and gestures at the breakfast counter with her spatula. Sit. ]

Chinese food can kill you, [ she says lightly, and they both know she means literally physically attack you rather than some offhand comment about diet. The clown trauma is a gift that keeps on giving. Her smile softens as she adds, ] It's no problem. You cook for me literally all the time. [ A beat; then, with a sheepish smile. ] It's just leftovers, though, so don't get too excited.

[ She checks the soup to see if the rice is done, then ladles a generous serving into a massive bowl before flipping the sandwich onto a cutting board and slicing it on the diagonal. Both dishes get set in front of him: tomato soup (from lunch) and a gooey grilled cheese. Easy. Comforting. ]

I know it's not pizza, [ she says as she pours him a glass of water next, ] but it's pretty much the same ingredients. And you can still eat it one-handed. [ Which is important, because — ] Let me see.

[ She holds out her hand for his right one, all busted knuckles and bruised skin. Yeah, she noticed. ]

Edited 2021-01-03 04:26 (UTC)

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