cained | 👻🎈🤡🥧

[ It's one of those rare nights where Beverly actually went to bed at a decent hour because she's been dead on her feet all week, caught up in the flurry of prep for an event just barely a month away. Whether or not her sleep is going to be restful is anyone's guess; the nightmares have eased since they killed the clown, but whatever the deadlights burned into her as a child is a curse that will never fully fade. So she's not sure what jolts her awake a few scant hours later: the cry ringing in her ears and caught in her throat, or the buzzing on her nightstand, too loud in the relative silence of her bedroom. It takes a few ragged breaths for her to get her bearings, dragging herself to the present from wherever she was, shadowy in the world of the dream. (In Manhattan, it's never truly dark, so it was somewhere else. Rural. Trees? It's already slipping away.) Her heart's still racing as she fumbles for her phone, half-awake and trying to ignore the phantom bite of — something, claws, a blade? — on her prickling skin, squinting at the name on her glowing screen: Dean Winchester.

Shit. He knows how nights are for her, he wouldn't wake her unless — What's wrong?

It's a goddamn miracle she manages to get an Uber in the middle of the night, let alone one willing to take her across the river into Jersey, but this is the city that never sleeps and cash is king (and a dozen other cliches that ring true) so it all falls into place somehow with a little coaxing on her part. The town she's headed to is barely an hour's drive away when the sun is up; now, at 2 AM, Beverly's hoping they can shave some time off that ETA. She'd already wasted a whirlwind 15 minutes at Duane Reade stocking up on medical supplies her rudimentary first-aid kit didn't carry. Dean had sounded... Well, not fine, but alive on the phone. Not bad enough to go to a hospital. And lucid enough to be a pain in the ass about asking her to haul hers into the next state for a favour he didn't even have to ask of her. She knows how the job goes, knows this was a hunt that should have been simple (so no back-up, no Sam) but obviously wasn't; and she knows she was his nearest and only option for help.

Because whether they've actually talked about it or not, she knows Dean wouldn't have called her if he had any other choice. Well, she never hesitated the first, second, third time she walked into Neibolt House and she's made it perfectly clear she'd do it again, too. Any haunted house. No one's taken her up on the offer yet, but it still stands. So swooping in after the monster is dead? That's nothing. Easy. But she can't stop checking her phone or tapping her fingers on the carton of cigarettes in the front pocket of her backpack. God, she's dying for a smoke. She's trying to quit but it's been a stressful week and her nerves are fraying like silk; she tries not to put too much stock in her nightmares, knowing a lot of them are just noise and memory, but sometimes — sometimes there's truth to them, even now. Especially when she recognises the faces staring back at her for help.

Jesus fuck, she really wants a cigarette.

The GPS inches closer to her destination: some motel near West Milford, nestled in a dense patch of forest. She texts Dean that she's almost there, then scrolls through Twitter and the local news for any clues as to what he was working on. That's a new habit she's picked up, browsing for the Winchester kind of weird. At 2:37 AM she's thanking the driver with a generous tip as they pull up to the motel and she slings her backpack over one shoulder as she steps into the parking lot — deserted save for one mercifully intact, if haphazardly parked, Impala — and scans the numbers on the doors.

There. That one. ]

Hey, it's me, [ she calls between knocking and opening the unlocked door. And then, as she catches sight of him across the way, loaded backpack dropping from her shoulder into the crook of her elbow with the same weight that drops in her stomach: ] What the fuck happened?

[ No, this doesn't make her queasy. She's half-drowned in blood. Twice. But that doesn't stop the worry or the sickening lurch of deja-vu when her visions and reality intersect. More than anything, she sounds almost angry. ]

No, don't, [ she's already saying — either don't tell me or don't get up. Beverly shuts and locks the door behind her, crosses the room, and deposits her bag on the floor as she kneels in front of him, brows knit and face pale. Her hand rests on his thigh without thought, her next words riding on an exhale both exasperated and strained. ] Jesus, Dean.

Edited (clarity...) 2020-07-16 08:06 (UTC)

( it should have been an in-and-out case. one vamp should have been a no brainer, something dean could hunt in his sleep. only — well, it's not a fucking vamp, for one. similar, but nothing like dean's ever seen before, and there's almost nothing he hasn't seen. on one hand, he kind of enjoys the surprise, a little added spice to an otherwise routine case; on the other, he's not exactly thrilled at the fact that he just got his ass kicked by something he still doesn't know how to kill.

he texts bev because she's the closest — both spatially in terms of distance and where her name happens to be in his phone (on speed dial; before jody, after mom) — and because he doesn't really have any other choice. the closest hunter wouldn't get here until after sunrise at the earliest and he's a little desperate at the moment. it'd be great if he didn't bleed out all over a shitty motel floor that probably hasn't been steam cleaned in a decade (or ever). despite the bitching he knows sam will give him, he knows bev is more than capable of sewing him up in a pinch.

he's on a speaker call with sam when bev knocks; sam sounds frantic, while dean sounds not frantic enough considering the shape he's in. if anything, he sounds pissed off and annoyed rather than anything close to terrified. (but he is, a little bit. terrified. it's been a while since he had a scrape this close to the veil that wasn't on purpose. he's sure there's a book in billie's library somewhere where this could have gone real different and he's not keen on playing that out.)

it's not a fucking vamp, sammy, thing damn near ripped my shoulder off. oh, and it ain't got any legs. but it sure can fly.

dean, seriously, i need a little more to go on than — wait. is that beverly? you called bev? you nearly die trying to kill, what, half-batman? and you called bev?

it's an emergency, sam. look into it. call me back. i'll be fine.

he hangs up before sam can throw a bigger fit at him, but he can imagine the annoyed line of sam's mouth on the other end of the line. he's too tired to deal with sam's exasperation, even if it's warranted in this particular situation. and he knows sam will look into it, annoyed or not. dean had to spend ten minutes convincing him not to jump on a red eye to new jersey so they could handle this together. dean's got this, once he knows what the fuck this is. he drags a hand over his face, straining to turn his head toward bev dropping to his side. the cocky smile he shoots her is unconvincing at best, patronizing at worst. )

You should see the other guy. ( and he knows it's almost definitely the wrong thing to say, but this is how he copes. he's folded against the end of the bed, his shirt in shreds, blood slowly leaking from a deep diagonal claw-like gash between his shoulder blades. if the cut had reached any further than the ridge of his shoulder, he might not be alive enough to tell the tale. honestly, it's a goddamn miracle his spine isn't fucked, that he even managed to drive the impala back to the motel at all. he doesn't wanna think about the blood stains all over the leather seats he's gonna have to deep clean later, but it's almost a consolation knowing baby's been through worse and bloodier.

his face softens when her hand falls onto his thigh, something more genuine crossing his face when he looks at her, equal parts apologetic, guilty, and a little dash of something else. a four letter word he refuses to let take shape. he's just delirious, that's all. ) Think you got enough thread to stitch me back together, Doc?

[ Beverly catches the tail-end of Sam's voice on the phone and honestly, looking at the mess his brother's made, she agrees with his bewilderment that she was number one for the phone a friend option. Holy shit. She meets Dean's grin with blank incredulity. Then: ]

Don't, [ she says again through grit teeth, the exasperation from three seconds ago losing out to something sharper, a warning. He's absolutely correct that the smile, the cheeky one-liners, are all the wrong thing to throw at her in the middle of a medical emergency she feels woefully inexperienced and underequipped to handle. Their fledgeling relationship hasn't hit rocky terrain in the past, and this definitely isn't throwing a spanner in the works, but if he keeps making jokes, she's gonna —

Oh. She falters as his expression shifts, mellows into something both familiar and not (reminiscent of their shared lazy mornings and out of place in this dingy motel); the breath she's been holding, ready to release in some kind of reprimand, rushes out of her in a loud exhale instead. God. Okay. Okay. ]

Okay.

[ Out loud, more to herself than to him. Get your shit together, Marsh! She isn't angry, not really. Not at him. It's just the worry getting all twisted up inside and that does jack in the here and now. She takes a steadier breath, wetting her lips as she looks over him, brow still wrinkled with concern. Her brain switches gears, starts putting mental steps in order: Shirt first. Need to see what she's working with and stop the bleeding. ]

Okay. [ She's gotta stop saying that. Makes her sound as rattled as she feels, which isn't helpful. She pats his thigh for reassurance, then reaches for the open edge of his flannel, only half-processing his question, more concerned with peeling fabric away from the wound without it hurting too much. ] Uh, I don't know. Maybe. I've got — I brought everything I could find. But I don't...

[ Wait, what? ]

Stitch you ba— [ She snaps her eyes up at him, wide and incredulous. ] I can't sew this up!

( dean lets his head slump against the mattress once he's fairly certain she's not gonna change her mind and hightail it out the door. he can't imagine why she would, but the mind does strange things when you've lost a lot of blood, and dean's always waiting for people to leave (waiting to push them away). his eyes squeeze shut briefly, brow pinching when she starts peeling away bloody bits of shirt from his skin. he's had worse, but, god, he could really use a drink. he gestures vaguely (limply) in the direction of where he thinks his duffel is. )

Might be fishing line in the duffel if you ain't got thread.

( which he mentions far too casually, like this is just something that happens often enough that he needs to carry fishing line around with him in case anyone needs to get sewn up. it's — well, not too far from the truth. you never know when someone might need stitches. part of the life is always being prepared for the worst, though he might have severely underestimated the worst in this particular case. still, this is a bag he almost never unpacks, only adds to. if bev doesn't have what he needs, he more than likely has something stashed away, either in his duffel or in the trunk of the impala.

honestly, he'd expected her to be freaking out way more than she is, so when stitching him up is the apparent least of her worries, it sends something almost like pride coursing up his spine, settling in the warm curve of his mouth. he reaches for one of her hands; his are dirty and caked in dried blood, but the sentiment remains the same: you can do this. more than that: )

I need you to, Bev. ( his stare hardens, though it's mostly out of desperation. ) Believe me, you do not wanna walk me into a hospital like this. Too many questions. Someone could recognize you, things could get complicated. I can't afford more complicated. ( he doesn't want her lying for him, anyway. it's bad enough he's dragged her into this mess as it is. his gaze drifts to the bag she brought with her and he nods at it. ) Hope you brought booze. ( he huffs a laugh, dryly. ) For disinfectant, but you know I ain't gonna pass up a drink.

[ Beverly Marsh doesn't run. There are people in her past who may say as much, but they're the ones who never really knew her and never really mattered. Because when it comes to the people she cares about, she will always run towards something, not away, with them, for them. Kneeling on the grimy carpet of this rural motel, Dean soaking blood into the sheets he's pressed up against, Bev knows there's nowhere else she'd want to be because this is where she has to be. It'll take a hell of a lot more than this to make her walk out that door — but God, she would walk out of it right now if it meant she was dragging him with her to the nearest hospital.

But of course it isn't that simple. Her eyes close briefly when he talks about fishing line like she'd asked for a snack and he's got Oreos stashed away. Jesus fucking Christ. She knows, rationally, that this is part of the job. The life, as the boys call it. She knows he's probably had much worse than this and handled it with less help. Doesn't mean it doesn't suck. Her eyes flutter open when he takes her hand, lips pressed into a tight line when their eyes meet. There's an unwavering faith in his grip, voice, gaze and it warms her to be on the receiving end of it, especially when the nerves have made her go a little cold all over. I need you to. That's — a lot, but it grounds her, too. She knows he trusts her but she hadn't realised the depth of it until now; maybe later it'll really hit her. What it means. Right now she's listening to him and shaking her head, resolute. ]

I can handle too many questions at the hospital, [ she tells him quietly, voice just as firm. A lifetime of bad boyfriends and bad "accidents" build that kind of skill; it helped the Losers avoid too many complications when they carried Eddie into the emergency room months ago. As far as injuries go, this one would be easy. Camping, an animal attack. And she highly doubts anyone would recognise her either. But this isn't about her, it's about Dean, and he's been at this a lot longer than she has. So if he says it's complicated, likely for reasons beyond her knowledge, then she'll listen for now and do her best to patch him up. But — ] And I will handle them if it turns out I can't handle this. Got it?

[ AKA she will do as he asks but if it goes south, they're driving out of here, no arguments. She lets that ultimatum sit for a stretch, then she exhales and releases him, reaching for her backpack. The first thing she pulls out is half a bottle of whiskey from her kitchen, brows raised at Dean like, Who do you think I am? as she sets it in front of him. If this were an action movie, she'd take a swig of the bottle before passing it over, say something cool and funny like for the nerves. But she's not cool like that and she wants her hands steady, her mind clear; she can have that drink after everything is said and done because by then, well — hopefully she's done a good enough job that she deserves it. (A drink and a cigarette. Fuck.) ]

Hang on. [ Beverly gets up to dig through that duffel. But as she passes the bathroom, she gets a better idea, doubles back to grab her backpack of supplies and unloads it in there. It's practically half the first-aid section of the drugstore (bottles of saline, dressings, antiseptic, lidocaine, gloves) plus the kit from under her bathroom sink and a pair of fabric scissors from her studio. Then she's back out and looking through his stuff, searching for that goddamn fishing line and coming up with something even better: an actual suture kit, presumably thanks to Sam Winchester. Small mercies.

Despite her fluttering anxiety, she moves with efficiency, a woman used to high-pressure situations, heavy expectations, and tight deadlines. Bathroom prepped, she's back at Dean's side, helping him up. He's taller, broader, heavier than her but she's sure his legs work just fine; still, with a grunt of effort: ] Alright, up up up, c'mon. Let's go.

[ And once they're through the door, she eases him onto the closed toilet and goes back to peeling off that flannel. She's gonna have to cut off the shirt underneath, too. Because if she's doing this, then she's gonna do it right. ]

Edited 2020-07-19 08:57 (UTC)

( dean's always running headfirst into something stupid with full faith there will be someone on the other end to drag his ass out of the metaphorical fire (hell, even a literal fire every now and then) — and, truthfully, it's the only real faith dean's ever had in anything: faith in the people he cares about, faith in his family. even then, it's been a long and bumpy road to get him to where he is now; he never lost his faith in sam, not really, but there were times when it wavered so close to the edge he thought they might not come back from it — ruby, demon blood, the book of the damned, releasing the darkness. all of that feels like a fucking lifetime ago, like old familiar scars, reminders of what they've been through, what's made them stronger. they heal and move on, move past the hurt and the anger, because they have to.

he believes in sam, just like he believes in cas, in jack. in bev. that kind of trust — that kind of faith — is what keeps people alive in this business. it's never come from god or any other higher power (cas dragging dean's ass out of hell might have been preordained, but he still ain't about to give chuck credit for it). and, frankly, if dean hadn't had the opportunity to look the almighty directly in the eyes on more than a few occasions, he wouldn't have put stock in any god. hell, he still doesn't. chuck has never been there for any of them (human or angelkind) when it really counted and he sure as hell ain't around for them now.

so he knows bev can handle this. she may not be out there fighting monsters 24/7, but she's seen her (un)fair share of blood and gore; not exactly something to put on your resume, but there's something morbidly reassuring about this not being the most fucked up thing she's ever seen (disturbingly relieved that he isn't going to have to talk her down from having some kind of panic attack, fully aware of how awful a thought it is to think that a perfectly normal minor mental breakdown would be inconvenient). he realizes, as soon as she says it, that she's been through this before, on her own side of things. you don't drag your half-dead friend out of a sewer and not expect a few questions. he almost shoots back you're supposed to say get it? got it. good. but even as hazy as his mind feels, he's conscious enough not to be a smart ass when he can see she's seconds away from fraying at the edges. )

You got it, babe. ( which is meant to mean i understand but comes out more like you're doing good. his face brightens at the bottle of whiskey, his mouth sloping at bev as if to say i knew i could count on you. he reaches for the bottle, wincing at the effort it takes to unscrew the cap. once he manages it — ) Oh, yeah. Come to papa. ( he takes a long swig as bev busies herself readying her supplies. the burn of the whiskey is a helpful distraction from the searing pain in his shoulder, enough that when bev returns to help him up, he's much less keen to protest. ) Yes ma'am, up'n at 'em.

( he grunts uncomfortably when he has to move for bev to tuck herself against him, arm around his waist, his less fucked up arm around her shoulders, but his legs do work just fine and they manage it well enough to the bathroom without too much complaint from dean. he drapes himself over the back of toilet, bottle of whiskey still in hand. this many stitches ain't gonna be fun. )

Like a regular operating room in here. ( an idle comment, not meant to be snarky or sarcastic, just something to keep him present. then, a beat, a drink, a moment of hesitation before he says: ) I appreciate you coming, Bev, really.

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