[ steve hadn't been there when geralt's amnesia had kicked in, hadn't come around in the weeks, months, after. he'd thought about it, wondered if coming by and just seeing him could maybe spark some sort of...something. but dean had told him to wait, that there'd be time for that but it wasn't time yet. and steve understood it, in a way - what would he even do? so he waited. he checked in with dean, he asked (through dean) when would be a good time, and then months later he got the okay.
that's what's led him here - to the yards of kaer morhen, a place he's come to know very well over the decades and decades and decades. a place he would have very nearly called home, until it suddenly felt like it wasn't supposed to be.
( geralt doesn't recognize him, when he arrives. steve tells himself he isn't disappointed, that he expected as much, but he is. )
it gets a little easier after a day or two, and even the night before was good. steve has gotten a little more aware of not saying remember when and back when you did this and dean is good at keeping things moving, at keeping things light. at making conversations feel as normal as they used to feel. because these two- these men are the ones that steve's leaned on for these last few years. the ones he's looked up to, depended on. and these last few months shouldn't have felt as awkward and strange as they have, but they have, and now...
now steve feels like things might be getting back to normal - or at least, as normal as things can be in abraxas, and that's enough. that has to be enough.
he should have known something would go wrong, and that in the end, it would be his fault.
but sparring feels good, steve is keeping up with geralt more than he felt he has in a long time. part of him understands that it must be because of his memories, because of everything he's been going through, but steve keeps up, and none of that really sets in. instead, steve starts to feel maybe a little too good about it, maybe a little too reckless. he doesn't know when the shift happens, per say, but he does know something shifts - suddenly steve doesn't feel like this is a game, like he's being played with, and instead each one of geralt's strikes come a little harder, he can feel each clash of metal a little more down into his hands, his wrists, his forearms.
he doesn't back down - that's one thing he's picked up on, over the years. whether it's nero voice (still) somewhere in the back of his mind, or some training, some practice session, something. you back off, and you've already lost - and that won't help here, right? geralt doesn't need anyone pitying him, doesn't want people to be soft with him. right?
so steve pushes, and with each passing minute, he can tell geralt pushes back. that's good, right? better. he's not going easy on him, and maybe this is steve's chance (again, because he always is, in some way) to show that he doesn't need to be babied. that he can handle this. he's not a witcher, he's not geralt, or dean, but he's not a kid anymore either. he can handle this, he can handle a sword, he is light on his feet and he's been working on his footwork, and he can do it. he can do this.
until he can't.
geralt knocks him on his ass, and steve goes down hard. it hurts, but it's not a bad hit. steve's been hit harder, been hit harder in sparring lessons, but when he looks up - instinctively expecting geralt to be standing there, a vaguely amused expression on his face and a hand held out to help him up, he sees geralt back up. turn away. leave. and steve- steve feels something hard and heavy in his gut. something like embarrassment, something like shame, something that reminds him a bit too much of a time way too long ago, and he- well. he doesn't snap, exactly, but a kind of hot anger does shoot up from inside of him. ]
What the fuck? [ he's on his feet pretty immediately. steve's small enhancements of magic have become second nature to him, so it feels that much easier to get back on his feet, to stand up after a hit, to feel that rush of energy and strength, and he doesn't realize he's leaning into it. instead, all he's focused on is that feeling of all but being disregarded spiking something he hasn't felt in a long time. he doesn't remember the last time dean or geralt turned their back on him when they were sparring, not actually. ] You're gonna walk away? Seriously? [ before he realizes it, he's moving on geralt, only a step or two, just enough to try and reach for his shoulder - to force him to turn back around. ]
[ This, all of it, it's rooted in the void of his mind. He doesn't know Steve, fails to understand him in a way he should after three hundred years; he catches on too late the fact that Steve would feel sidelined. Dismissed. Because if he'd had those memories, he'd recall the times Steve confessed how he felt lacking, and Geralt has always (though he doesn't quite know it now) made sure Steve knew he was not.
But right now, he isn't thinking about Steve; he's not been able to think of much at all beyond the holes and gaps. Between Ciri's refusal to be near him and a sense that he cannot protect the people closest to him as he is, it's difficult not to be lost in his own shit.
So what he wants to do is leave. Remove himself from the fight before he does something he regrets. Steve's magic has grown, but so has Geralt's, and he's realized his grasp on his abilities is spotty at best. His Signs are never as controlled as they should be. His flashes of strength come and go. Whether Steve can take it or not isn't the point. He hates it—the sensation of things spiralling out of control. It's what he feels now as he stalks off through the snow, brushing by Dean without a word.
At least, until Steve catches up to him. The words don't register so much. Taunts are easy to ignore; that part is ingrained in him, shrugging off insults and challenges as he walks away. It's the hand grabbing his shoulder that sparks something cold and sharp. A flash of other hands on him, pulling roughly through thick snow and dark stone walls.
He spins around. His eyes are a hollow black; he doesn't really see Steve, just a target. One he knocks to the ground again—this time with a backhand that goes beyond mere warning. His sword begins to sing, the way it does when the blade is primed for more than light swordplay. ]
( That first hit that sends Steve to his back has Dean fully on his feet before his brain can really process it, and while his sword isn't held aloft at the ready, he realizes belatedly he is firmly gripping it on the off-chance. What stops him, what settles him — if only for a moment — is that Geralt self-regulates, removing himself from the equation before Dean has to actually step up and insert himself.
The hairs at the back of his neck stand up, but he wants to believe — wants to trust his friend, partner, brother, wants to be loyal enough to believe he'll reel himself in before it goes too far.
For one sterling second, he's almost relieved.
And then Steve steps up faster than Dean can walk him back, and Dean should've known him well enough to anticipate it, he should've known, but he didn't.
That backhand cracks with enough force that it rings across the training yard, rings in Dean's ears, and he stops holding himself back before the sound even finishes resonating. Before Geralt's sword can finish that song, before he can redirect his course back Steve's direction, Dean flares. An unrepentant, unapologetic blast of white light sends the Witcher flying into the nearest stone wall with enough force to crack bricks, and in an instant Dean is between them, absolutely livid.
He casts one swift, sweeping glance over to Steve, just long enough to see that he looks okay and awake and unbroken, and barks out a stern: )
You stay. Training's done.
( And before Steve can answer or protest if he has any mind to, Dean's already wheeling around to point the tip of his sword Geralt's direction. )
You backhand my kid like that again, we're gonna have problems, you understand me? Go inside. Now.
( Training's one thing. Sparring's one thing. That? That was different, and he may not be articulate enough to define how, but he knows it was. )
[ Dean wholly slips from his mind; it takes him a second, even after he's rolled with the impact onto his knees, to realize where they are and who he's with. That these mountains are a little different from the ones locked away in his head. That in the distance, he can see Thorne's jagged wall of ice—not the crystal lake that lurks in the faded depths of his memories.
A small gash opens the earth where his sword slowed his momentum before he could fly off the edge. The air crackles. For a moment, he almost turns on Dean. It's a flickering thought. An instinct that tries to tell him he has intruders in his home.
But this isn't home. He doesn't remember where that is.
The black bleeds from his eyes again. He should say something, he thinks, but he's caught between knowing these men with him and yet bearing little recognition of them. They're at once familiar and strangers. And perhaps in the past, he'd have stayed—but in the past, he would not have found himself here in the first place. All he knows is, if his blade had connected, Steve would be nursing more than a bloody lip.
The snow swirls in a thick curtain around him as pieces of the forest curl upwards at his feet. The makeshift yard crumbles—walls of broken stone erected onto the Hayle mountainside that harken to what Steve calls Kaer Morhen. He doesn't answer. He does not go inside. Instead, he mounts the horse never far from his side, forever waiting within the trees, and vanishes in a flurry of hooves. ]
[ for a very brief second, this whole situation plays out very, very differently. he catches geralt's arm, yes, and geralt turns back on him, yes, but then it just keeps up like it has. intense, but doable. a teaching moment. steve will get his ass kicked, sure, but that's nothing new for him. that's nothing new for any of this. there has never really been a moment where steve has been better than anyone he's sparred with - not geralt, not dean, not aloy, not nero. so he's ready, he's ready for it.
at least - he thinks he is.
geralt turns, and his eyes are black, and steve feels the fear wash over him like a tidal wave - wholly and completely. this is different, this isn't sparring, and that realization hits steve the moment the back of geralt's hand connects with his jaw. it sends him down again, crumpled back to the ground, and for half a breath he's stunned, shocked, caught off-guard, but it's only for that half a breath, because that's how long it takes for the energy to shoot back through him again.
when he pushes up, the change is immediate - body shifting faster than his mind can keep up. his eyes are more focused, teeth sharper, it's like he can feel the blood more crisply through his veins. he's ready to strike back, to push back, to be up and to go again, and it's that adrenaline that superseeds the suffocating fear that still claws at the inside of his chest.
but when he turns back, when he's ready to get up again, dean is already there and geralt is not. it doesn't take all that long for steve to put the pieces together - he thinks he remembers the white light, thinks he remembers the sound of a body hitting squarely against a wall. geralt is halfway across the yard, stone split in front of him where his sword slowed his push, and dean says you stay, training's done and steve feels the rush of adrenaline that had been pushing him forward drain as quickly as it had risen.
dean calls him my kid and tells geralt to go inside and steve feels a little hallow, a little in shock, as blood drips from where his teeth had split open his lip. it falls, splattering the snow at his side, and this feels....wrong. he feels like he did something wrong. his eyes are still on geralt when he watches the black fade, when he feels like he sees him looks back at the two of them and again, again steve is struck by the lack of recognition there. it hurts, seeing that lack, seeing geralt look at him like he doesn't know him, and then the witcher's turning to his mount and leaving.
guilt, embarrassment, shame, all swirl somewhere in the pit of steve's gut as reminds himself to breathe - as he feels the pain shoot through his jaw and teeth down into the muscles of his neck. he doesn't look at dean as he pushes himself off the snow, wipes the trail of blood from his mouth. ]
Sorry- [ he mumbles through the taste of blood on his teeth. he spits, red splatters the ground again, and he tries to ignore the way he can feel himself shaking, the echo of geralt's sword still in the back of his head. ] I shouldn'tve come.
( For one heady, resonating moment, Dean feels so very deeply like he has failed. He's failed both of them. It rings familiar — harkens back to old days, old insecurities, old fractures in his soul and his personality that he will never outgrow. They've been filled in with gold, those cracks, and made permanent in him like Kintsugi. He will forever watch the person he looks up to the most and the person he's trying to protect rift, and fall apart, and he will never, ever be able to mediate them so that he can have both peacefully and happily.
He cannot remember the finer details of this pain. He can't remember the man he once disappointed, he can only vaguely remember Sam's childhood years — but the familiarity fades as quickly as it rises, and he's left standing there in the aftermath with something far more important than his own issues to deal with.
Steve is behind him, and while Steve is not a child anymore... ask any parent, any of them, age twenty or age eighty — or older, in the case of those more supernaturally inclined — and they will tell you it doesn't matter how old your kid is, they're still your kid. Adult or not. Right now, Steve sounds and feels as young as Dean has ever seen him.
It takes effort to scale back the adrenaline and anger, takes concentration to school himself into something less than pissed — but he manages. Through decades of experience, he manages to stuff it back into a compartment in his mind, to take the edge out of his voice when he finally turns, shoulders slumped, to look Steve over again.
Those black eyes and fangs echo through his memory, and he'll ask about that in a minute, but he knows where Steve got them from. They're not alarming, just surprising. It can wait. )
No, it wasn't your fault. ( He crosses the distance between them, and settles a hand on Steve's bicep. The other tosses his sword absently to the ground, so he can raise Steve's chin to look at him properly. More sternly: ) Hey. Look at me. It wasn't your fault, you hear me?
Edited (lord. don't drink and tag. 500 typos I only noticed after the fact.) 2024-04-23 05:08 (UTC)
[ steve may not be a child, but he certainly feels like one. no matter the years that have passed and the experience he thought he's gathered, all it takes is one wrong thing he says. one wrong thing he does. and all it takes is one move by geralt, by anyone really, and he's already back on his ass again. he rolls his tongue across his teeth, tries to check where he's split his lip, if his sharpened teeth have dulled yet, and everything that had been swirling coalesces into shame. into that dark, hot, edged shame that steve wonders if he'll ever outrun. if he'll ever get rid of.
dean looks down at him and steve can't bring himself to look back, focuses instead on blinking, on pulling back the way his body had reacted at first. his instincts had him ready, had him prepared to jump back up on his feet, to keep pushing, to get knocked down again and to push up just as quickly. he can always get back up, he will always get back up, ready for the next swing. or he would be ready, if geralt wasn't already gone - disappearing off into the trees. if dean wasn't already turning back around to face him, to close the distance, and god. god. part of steve wishes he could just sink into the snow right here.
it wasn't your fault he says, and then dean is there and his hand goes to steve's bicep. part of steve hates how the touch, even now, feels both comforting and also makes him feel smaller, younger, worse. it's not until dean is raising steve's chin that he finally looks at the other, his brow furrowed and mouth turned down. ] Pretty sure I'm the one who grabbed him. [ a beat, where steve tries to hold onto the tension in his shoulders. tries to hold it all together by sheer force of will. but then the second passes, and then another, and his own shoulders drop - the fight that had been slinging to his eyes, his frame, dissipating with it. ]
I dunno, I guess I thought... [ he shakes his head. ] Doesn't matter.
( What an absolute goddamn nightmare these last few minutes have devolved into. The guilt churns, that sense of failing churns, and with one last glance over his shoulder in Geralt's parting direction, he lets go of that part entirely and focuses on stepping up to fix what he should've prevented in the first place. His priorities are sorted.
He curls a hand around Steve's shoulder and uses it to steer, guiding him firmly onward and away from the scene of the crime. Putting the disturbed snow and blood and fallen swords behind them, aiming for the warmth of the still-burning hearth fires inside. )
Look, what went down just now? That is not on you. I thought he could handle it, he thought he could handle it, but we were wrong. It's just a bad day. We don't always get to see 'em coming, but it's- nothing you did, alright? Just give him some time.
( It's followed by another gentle jostle and a firm pat on the back to really cement the point, before his hand finally falls away.
But... You know, something else merits addressing, before that can slip away and get swept under the rug: )
So, uh... the teeth thing? How long's that been happening? Did I miss that memo?
[ dean is blaming himself, steve feels it more than sees it - the situation, being the one who told steve it was okay to come, not stepping in early enough. who knows the exact reason, but he's taking it on too, and it makes steve feel small. smaller.
it's easy to go with dean's push, to walk where dean guides him back to the cabin, the fire in the hearth, the easy comfort it brings. part of steve feels bad that he's so thankful for it, that he wants to be comforted and so much of that involves the warmth found there, a place that isn't even his. that fact settles like a rock deep in his stomach, but he tries to push it down. further, somewhere else.
he knows that dean is trying- to clear the air, to change steve's thoughts, to divide the blame or settle it out or explain what it was that happened. steve keeps his eyes on the ground in front of him, the steps that lead them back inside, and tries not to grind his molars with each argument he wants to make. ]
Yeah, just a bad day. [ it's pretty obvious steve doesn't believe the words, but it's also his way of saying he doesn't really want to fight dean on it. not yet.
he doesn't expect the question that follows, though, and it catches him off-guard just enough that whatever dark hole he'd been slipping into falls away. ] Oh. Uh- sort of. It happened a few- [ decades? centuries? times where the singularity up and exploded and everyone faced the consequences? it's hard to know what to call them, so steve hasn't settled on anything quite yet.
he also isn't sure why he feels...almost embarrassed, about this. like he's upset dean by not telling him, like he's showing up with a bad grade on an exam. ( the memories of school, of high school, are distant - but the echoes remain, enough that steve's latched onto them, when he needs to. there's no telling how long they'll last, but for right now, steve can still call to them. ) ] It only comes out when I'm- [ he hates saying it, calling it what it is- when I'm losing or when I'm hurt. dean has seen steve fight enough to watch the way he tends to get back up when he shouldn't, how he can take a hit that should take him out, but he has just enough to push back up on his feet. the last man standing is a name that a lot of natives have started calling him, and steve can get why. hates it, feels guilty for it, but-
his abilities, his powers, always tend to be reactive. this is no different. ] They only come out I'm in a [ losing ] fight, or after I take a bad hit. [ which still happens, despite all his training. ] I haven't shown you yet 'cause I haven't gotten the hang of 'em, I can't like- call them out. [ a beat, a sigh, and finally steve glances back to dean - waiting for his reaction, good or bad. ]
( He can count on one hand, he thinks, the number of times in his life he's ever felt like a successful mentor. They're few and far between, those memories of having done something like this right. His mind goes to a field at night, lifetimes ago, with a lighter in his pocket and fireworks shooting up into the sky for only two sets of eyes.
Maybe one day he'll get a moment like that with Steve, and he'll feel sure of whatever the hell he's doing here. Until then, it's just the struggling uncertainty paired with the stubborn, defiant refusal to let it stop him from trying. As long as the kid keeps turning up, he's gotta be doing something right. He'll hold faith in that. It's gonna have to be enough. Besides, he doesn't see anybody better stepping up to the plate.
He could do worse, he knows — and this, this conversation? Is a prime example. His own father would've torn him to shreds over this. If he flashed those features at John Winchester... Christ, he doesn't even wanna think about it.
But even aside from the inhuman nature of it all (he's got six wings and an extra arm, Geralt's been spitting venom since right after they met, the time of xenophobia has long passed) if John Winchester found out Dean hid something like that from him? Regardless of the reason — insecurity, shame, fear — he wouldn't have been able to walk right for a week. Here, he has the opportunity to do better than what was done to him, and so rather than reacting immediately, he takes a second. Lets it sit. Lets himself wade through it, to figure out how he wants to react.
It starts with a slow, careful nod. )
Okay.
( Alright. He's... digesting, as he paces across the kitchen and settles in with his back against the countertops. )
Okay- well. We can- work on that.
( Which does not come out quite as confidently as maybe he'd like, but the spirit's there, anyway. Does he know how, exactly, they'll figure it out? No, but... you know what, they will. Somehow. )
[ which may be part of the reasons this has worked as well as it has with him and steve. because while dean worries about his success rate with mentorship, steve wouldn't know the difference. he can count on a single hand the number of adults he's ever looked up to, and that number cuts in half when he thinks about the ones who gave a shit about him back. there might have been more, once upon a time, back when steve cared to hold onto ideas and images of people he hasn't seen or even thought about in years, decades. but now?
now, steve feels a little bit like he's the one failing this. failing dean. he doesn't know why, but there's something he's missed. something he didn't do, or think about. is dean mad that he hadn't mentioned the abilities before now? is dean upset that steve kept it from him? but...why?
it tends to sneak up on him, the surprise that someone he isn't dating would give that much of a shit about what he does. what's happening to him. or- rather, give any shit at all about him. and while part of him knows that dean isn't pissed at him, exactly, he does think that he...missed something. forgot something. okay dean says, and it's slow. accompanied by a nod. steve comes to a stop right inside the kitchen and his bones remember things that he doesn't, a familiar sense of walking into a kitchen and knowing that you've disappointed your dad. ]
Did I do something wrong?
[ he asks, equally slow. eyes slanted up towards dean in preparation for... something. something? god, he's not a child and yet somehow he doesn't feel any older at all. ]
I just- I wanted to show you when I was good at it. When I could actually- [ he gestures. it's not like new magic, new abilities are anything new to them. but maybe this time it's different. maybe whatever happened- the teeth, the eyes, the senses, the...everything. maybe steve was wrong (it's not like that would be a first) and maybe he should have said something a long time ago.
he sighs a little, deflates, and shakes his head - his hair falling around his shoulders, now. ]
( Boy, does he ever feel bowled over by that one simple question. Did I do something wrong? It's a heartbreaking and familiar feeling, and now that he's on the other side of it, he doesn't understand how in the hell his own father managed to be so ruthless with his disappointment. He weaponized it like a damn gun, fired rounds of loaded judgment straight into Dean's chest damn near every opportunity he got.
Looking at Steve now, he can't imagine intentionally inflicting that same kind of pain on the kid. He can't imagine wounding on purpose, when Steve's so obviously just trying to do things right.
He swallows down his frustration — at himself, at his father, at Geralt, at this situation. Does his best to muscle it out of his posture and his voice when he speaks again. )
No, I know, I saw. It was... somethin'. Looks like it could come in handy. Just-
( Go easy. Find a mild way to put this. )
When something new like that crops up, do me a favor and keep me posted, huh? I just don't wanna have to learn about stuff like that on the fly, you know what I mean? I give a crap about you, and about the stuff you're going through, so I like to stay in the loop. That's all.
[ steve doesn't know what that's like- his father had been disappointed in him plenty, but weaponization, reflection, steve never had a chance to get used to that. instead, it was a casual glance, a comment made at the dinner table in front of their friends, an uninterested grunt in a conversation. it was a lot of that's nice and then some conversation-turned-argument with his mom about another work trip, another conference, and that had been that.
the question was one steve got used to, if only in some half-hearted attempt to get something out of his old man. anger, annoyance, even a raised voice would have been better than the dismissal he'd grown so used to.
it's part of why steve isn't exactly sure he breathes in the half-second dean takes to answer him, waiting for some kind of drop, some kind of weight to fall over him to remind him that he fucked up. but as dean talks, steve relaxes, if only marginally.
I give a crap about you which may not be the most emotionally sound or comforting sentence to most people, but it cuts through... a lot for steve. so much that he finds he can't keep watching dean, his eyes drifting to the countertop, to the glasses strewn around the room. ]
Yeah, no, definitely. I'm- [ but this requires better than steve's natural avoidance to these kinds of situations, so he forces his eyes back to dean. ] Sorry. I get it. I will. [ he smiles - even if it's hesitant. ]
( Good job, Steve — it's the right answer, and it earns immediate and visible approval in the form of a wide smile and an outstretched hand. He cuffs Steve gently on the back of his head, gives him a little jostle by the scruff at the nape of his neck. Light, playful, affectionate. )
Good.
( Because tactile messaging is easier than words, half the time. At least, it is for Dean, who punctuates it all with one last clap on the back to signal the end of the Talk. )
Let's get a drink, and you can show me what you can do with all that, huh?
( And they can focus on something other than Geralt for a little while. Change the subject, change the setting, change the scene. Make it feel less important, less precarious. He'll deal with all that himself, later.
The two of them recede deeper into the house, and things get... better.
This will be one of the memories he retains with crystal clarity, long after this universe has faded. )
[ dean beams, and cuffs Steve on the back of the head and a jostle by the nape of his neck, and Steve- god. it's actually kind of pathetic, how the second, maybe two, fills inside his chest. it feels like such a change from where they'd been just moments before, or even minutes, out on the snow with geralt, but there's no point in Steve trying to act like it isn't where he'd hoped to be.
where he always hopes to be, if he's being pathetically honest with himself.
he's an adult, is the thing. he's older than most adults in actual years thanks to the magic of abraxas and what it has meant since they're all living here. he shouldn't be this dependent- or, maybe dependent isn't the right word. maybe it's desperate, maybe it's hopeful, maybe it's...eh. doesn't matter.
dean says good, and Steve just huffs a laugh, has to physically hold back the way he wants to break out into a near-matching grin of his own. dean claps Steve on the back, mentions getting a drink and showing off, and Steve nods. follows him back into the house like this is the most normal, casual, regular conversation for them to have. like the day hadn't shaken Steve to his core, because dean has pretty effectively straightened it all back up again. ]
Yeah, yeah. But don't get your hopes up- still figuring this out, remember?
[ the rest of the evening follows. the rest of this time together follows.
and dean isn't the only one who will remember it. ]
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that's what's led him here - to the yards of kaer morhen, a place he's come to know very well over the decades and decades and decades. a place he would have very nearly called home, until it suddenly felt like it wasn't supposed to be.
( geralt doesn't recognize him, when he arrives. steve tells himself he isn't disappointed, that he expected as much, but he is. )
it gets a little easier after a day or two, and even the night before was good. steve has gotten a little more aware of not saying remember when and back when you did this and dean is good at keeping things moving, at keeping things light. at making conversations feel as normal as they used to feel. because these two- these men are the ones that steve's leaned on for these last few years. the ones he's looked up to, depended on. and these last few months shouldn't have felt as awkward and strange as they have, but they have, and now...
now steve feels like things might be getting back to normal - or at least, as normal as things can be in abraxas, and that's enough. that has to be enough.
he should have known something would go wrong, and that in the end, it would be his fault.
but sparring feels good, steve is keeping up with geralt more than he felt he has in a long time. part of him understands that it must be because of his memories, because of everything he's been going through, but steve keeps up, and none of that really sets in. instead, steve starts to feel maybe a little too good about it, maybe a little too reckless. he doesn't know when the shift happens, per say, but he does know something shifts - suddenly steve doesn't feel like this is a game, like he's being played with, and instead each one of geralt's strikes come a little harder, he can feel each clash of metal a little more down into his hands, his wrists, his forearms.
he doesn't back down - that's one thing he's picked up on, over the years. whether it's nero voice (still) somewhere in the back of his mind, or some training, some practice session, something. you back off, and you've already lost - and that won't help here, right? geralt doesn't need anyone pitying him, doesn't want people to be soft with him. right?
so steve pushes, and with each passing minute, he can tell geralt pushes back. that's good, right? better. he's not going easy on him, and maybe this is steve's chance (again, because he always is, in some way) to show that he doesn't need to be babied. that he can handle this. he's not a witcher, he's not geralt, or dean, but he's not a kid anymore either. he can handle this, he can handle a sword, he is light on his feet and he's been working on his footwork, and he can do it. he can do this.
until he can't.
geralt knocks him on his ass, and steve goes down hard. it hurts, but it's not a bad hit. steve's been hit harder, been hit harder in sparring lessons, but when he looks up - instinctively expecting geralt to be standing there, a vaguely amused expression on his face and a hand held out to help him up, he sees geralt back up. turn away. leave. and steve- steve feels something hard and heavy in his gut. something like embarrassment, something like shame, something that reminds him a bit too much of a time way too long ago, and he- well. he doesn't snap, exactly, but a kind of hot anger does shoot up from inside of him. ]
What the fuck? [ he's on his feet pretty immediately. steve's small enhancements of magic have become second nature to him, so it feels that much easier to get back on his feet, to stand up after a hit, to feel that rush of energy and strength, and he doesn't realize he's leaning into it. instead, all he's focused on is that feeling of all but being disregarded spiking something he hasn't felt in a long time. he doesn't remember the last time dean or geralt turned their back on him when they were sparring, not actually. ] You're gonna walk away? Seriously? [ before he realizes it, he's moving on geralt, only a step or two, just enough to try and reach for his shoulder - to force him to turn back around. ]
Actually hit me, Geralt. C'mon!
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But right now, he isn't thinking about Steve; he's not been able to think of much at all beyond the holes and gaps. Between Ciri's refusal to be near him and a sense that he cannot protect the people closest to him as he is, it's difficult not to be lost in his own shit.
So what he wants to do is leave. Remove himself from the fight before he does something he regrets. Steve's magic has grown, but so has Geralt's, and he's realized his grasp on his abilities is spotty at best. His Signs are never as controlled as they should be. His flashes of strength come and go. Whether Steve can take it or not isn't the point. He hates it—the sensation of things spiralling out of control. It's what he feels now as he stalks off through the snow, brushing by Dean without a word.
At least, until Steve catches up to him. The words don't register so much. Taunts are easy to ignore; that part is ingrained in him, shrugging off insults and challenges as he walks away. It's the hand grabbing his shoulder that sparks something cold and sharp. A flash of other hands on him, pulling roughly through thick snow and dark stone walls.
He spins around. His eyes are a hollow black; he doesn't really see Steve, just a target. One he knocks to the ground again—this time with a backhand that goes beyond mere warning. His sword begins to sing, the way it does when the blade is primed for more than light swordplay. ]
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The hairs at the back of his neck stand up, but he wants to believe — wants to trust his friend, partner, brother, wants to be loyal enough to believe he'll reel himself in before it goes too far.
For one sterling second, he's almost relieved.
And then Steve steps up faster than Dean can walk him back, and Dean should've known him well enough to anticipate it, he should've known, but he didn't.
That backhand cracks with enough force that it rings across the training yard, rings in Dean's ears, and he stops holding himself back before the sound even finishes resonating. Before Geralt's sword can finish that song, before he can redirect his course back Steve's direction, Dean flares. An unrepentant, unapologetic blast of white light sends the Witcher flying into the nearest stone wall with enough force to crack bricks, and in an instant Dean is between them, absolutely livid.
He casts one swift, sweeping glance over to Steve, just long enough to see that he looks okay and awake and unbroken, and barks out a stern: )
You stay. Training's done.
( And before Steve can answer or protest if he has any mind to, Dean's already wheeling around to point the tip of his sword Geralt's direction. )
You backhand my kid like that again, we're gonna have problems, you understand me? Go inside. Now.
( Training's one thing. Sparring's one thing. That? That was different, and he may not be articulate enough to define how, but he knows it was. )
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A small gash opens the earth where his sword slowed his momentum before he could fly off the edge. The air crackles. For a moment, he almost turns on Dean. It's a flickering thought. An instinct that tries to tell him he has intruders in his home.
But this isn't home. He doesn't remember where that is.
The black bleeds from his eyes again. He should say something, he thinks, but he's caught between knowing these men with him and yet bearing little recognition of them. They're at once familiar and strangers. And perhaps in the past, he'd have stayed—but in the past, he would not have found himself here in the first place. All he knows is, if his blade had connected, Steve would be nursing more than a bloody lip.
The snow swirls in a thick curtain around him as pieces of the forest curl upwards at his feet. The makeshift yard crumbles—walls of broken stone erected onto the Hayle mountainside that harken to what Steve calls Kaer Morhen. He doesn't answer. He does not go inside. Instead, he mounts the horse never far from his side, forever waiting within the trees, and vanishes in a flurry of hooves. ]
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at least - he thinks he is.
geralt turns, and his eyes are black, and steve feels the fear wash over him like a tidal wave - wholly and completely. this is different, this isn't sparring, and that realization hits steve the moment the back of geralt's hand connects with his jaw. it sends him down again, crumpled back to the ground, and for half a breath he's stunned, shocked, caught off-guard, but it's only for that half a breath, because that's how long it takes for the energy to shoot back through him again.
when he pushes up, the change is immediate - body shifting faster than his mind can keep up. his eyes are more focused, teeth sharper, it's like he can feel the blood more crisply through his veins. he's ready to strike back, to push back, to be up and to go again, and it's that adrenaline that superseeds the suffocating fear that still claws at the inside of his chest.
but when he turns back, when he's ready to get up again, dean is already there and geralt is not. it doesn't take all that long for steve to put the pieces together - he thinks he remembers the white light, thinks he remembers the sound of a body hitting squarely against a wall. geralt is halfway across the yard, stone split in front of him where his sword slowed his push, and dean says you stay, training's done and steve feels the rush of adrenaline that had been pushing him forward drain as quickly as it had risen.
dean calls him my kid and tells geralt to go inside and steve feels a little hallow, a little in shock, as blood drips from where his teeth had split open his lip. it falls, splattering the snow at his side, and this feels....wrong. he feels like he did something wrong. his eyes are still on geralt when he watches the black fade, when he feels like he sees him looks back at the two of them and again, again steve is struck by the lack of recognition there. it hurts, seeing that lack, seeing geralt look at him like he doesn't know him, and then the witcher's turning to his mount and leaving.
guilt, embarrassment, shame, all swirl somewhere in the pit of steve's gut as reminds himself to breathe - as he feels the pain shoot through his jaw and teeth down into the muscles of his neck. he doesn't look at dean as he pushes himself off the snow, wipes the trail of blood from his mouth. ]
Sorry- [ he mumbles through the taste of blood on his teeth. he spits, red splatters the ground again, and he tries to ignore the way he can feel himself shaking, the echo of geralt's sword still in the back of his head. ] I shouldn'tve come.
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He cannot remember the finer details of this pain. He can't remember the man he once disappointed, he can only vaguely remember Sam's childhood years — but the familiarity fades as quickly as it rises, and he's left standing there in the aftermath with something far more important than his own issues to deal with.
Steve is behind him, and while Steve is not a child anymore... ask any parent, any of them, age twenty or age eighty — or older, in the case of those more supernaturally inclined — and they will tell you it doesn't matter how old your kid is, they're still your kid. Adult or not. Right now, Steve sounds and feels as young as Dean has ever seen him.
It takes effort to scale back the adrenaline and anger, takes concentration to school himself into something less than pissed — but he manages. Through decades of experience, he manages to stuff it back into a compartment in his mind, to take the edge out of his voice when he finally turns, shoulders slumped, to look Steve over again.
Those black eyes and fangs echo through his memory, and he'll ask about that in a minute, but he knows where Steve got them from. They're not alarming, just surprising. It can wait. )
No, it wasn't your fault. ( He crosses the distance between them, and settles a hand on Steve's bicep. The other tosses his sword absently to the ground, so he can raise Steve's chin to look at him properly. More sternly: ) Hey. Look at me. It wasn't your fault, you hear me?
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dean looks down at him and steve can't bring himself to look back, focuses instead on blinking, on pulling back the way his body had reacted at first. his instincts had him ready, had him prepared to jump back up on his feet, to keep pushing, to get knocked down again and to push up just as quickly. he can always get back up, he will always get back up, ready for the next swing. or he would be ready, if geralt wasn't already gone - disappearing off into the trees. if dean wasn't already turning back around to face him, to close the distance, and god. god. part of steve wishes he could just sink into the snow right here.
it wasn't your fault he says, and then dean is there and his hand goes to steve's bicep. part of steve hates how the touch, even now, feels both comforting and also makes him feel smaller, younger, worse. it's not until dean is raising steve's chin that he finally looks at the other, his brow furrowed and mouth turned down. ] Pretty sure I'm the one who grabbed him. [ a beat, where steve tries to hold onto the tension in his shoulders. tries to hold it all together by sheer force of will. but then the second passes, and then another, and his own shoulders drop - the fight that had been slinging to his eyes, his frame, dissipating with it. ]
I dunno, I guess I thought... [ he shakes his head. ] Doesn't matter.
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He curls a hand around Steve's shoulder and uses it to steer, guiding him firmly onward and away from the scene of the crime. Putting the disturbed snow and blood and fallen swords behind them, aiming for the warmth of the still-burning hearth fires inside. )
Look, what went down just now? That is not on you. I thought he could handle it, he thought he could handle it, but we were wrong. It's just a bad day. We don't always get to see 'em coming, but it's- nothing you did, alright? Just give him some time.
( It's followed by another gentle jostle and a firm pat on the back to really cement the point, before his hand finally falls away.
But...
You know, something else merits addressing, before that can slip away and get swept under the rug: )
So, uh... the teeth thing? How long's that been happening? Did I miss that memo?
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it's easy to go with dean's push, to walk where dean guides him back to the cabin, the fire in the hearth, the easy comfort it brings. part of steve feels bad that he's so thankful for it, that he wants to be comforted and so much of that involves the warmth found there, a place that isn't even his. that fact settles like a rock deep in his stomach, but he tries to push it down. further, somewhere else.
he knows that dean is trying- to clear the air, to change steve's thoughts, to divide the blame or settle it out or explain what it was that happened. steve keeps his eyes on the ground in front of him, the steps that lead them back inside, and tries not to grind his molars with each argument he wants to make. ]
Yeah, just a bad day. [ it's pretty obvious steve doesn't believe the words, but it's also his way of saying he doesn't really want to fight dean on it. not yet.
he doesn't expect the question that follows, though, and it catches him off-guard just enough that whatever dark hole he'd been slipping into falls away. ] Oh. Uh- sort of. It happened a few- [ decades? centuries? times where the singularity up and exploded and everyone faced the consequences? it's hard to know what to call them, so steve hasn't settled on anything quite yet.
he also isn't sure why he feels...almost embarrassed, about this. like he's upset dean by not telling him, like he's showing up with a bad grade on an exam. ( the memories of school, of high school, are distant - but the echoes remain, enough that steve's latched onto them, when he needs to. there's no telling how long they'll last, but for right now, steve can still call to them. ) ] It only comes out when I'm- [ he hates saying it, calling it what it is- when I'm losing or when I'm hurt. dean has seen steve fight enough to watch the way he tends to get back up when he shouldn't, how he can take a hit that should take him out, but he has just enough to push back up on his feet. the last man standing is a name that a lot of natives have started calling him, and steve can get why. hates it, feels guilty for it, but-
his abilities, his powers, always tend to be reactive. this is no different. ] They only come out I'm in a [ losing ] fight, or after I take a bad hit. [ which still happens, despite all his training. ] I haven't shown you yet 'cause I haven't gotten the hang of 'em, I can't like- call them out. [ a beat, a sigh, and finally steve glances back to dean - waiting for his reaction, good or bad. ]
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Maybe one day he'll get a moment like that with Steve, and he'll feel sure of whatever the hell he's doing here. Until then, it's just the struggling uncertainty paired with the stubborn, defiant refusal to let it stop him from trying. As long as the kid keeps turning up, he's gotta be doing something right. He'll hold faith in that. It's gonna have to be enough. Besides, he doesn't see anybody better stepping up to the plate.
He could do worse, he knows — and this, this conversation? Is a prime example. His own father would've torn him to shreds over this. If he flashed those features at John Winchester... Christ, he doesn't even wanna think about it.
But even aside from the inhuman nature of it all (he's got six wings and an extra arm, Geralt's been spitting venom since right after they met, the time of xenophobia has long passed) if John Winchester found out Dean hid something like that from him? Regardless of the reason — insecurity, shame, fear — he wouldn't have been able to walk right for a week. Here, he has the opportunity to do better than what was done to him, and so rather than reacting immediately, he takes a second. Lets it sit. Lets himself wade through it, to figure out how he wants to react.
It starts with a slow, careful nod. )
Okay.
( Alright. He's... digesting, as he paces across the kitchen and settles in with his back against the countertops. )
Okay- well. We can- work on that.
( Which does not come out quite as confidently as maybe he'd like, but the spirit's there, anyway. Does he know how, exactly, they'll figure it out? No, but... you know what, they will. Somehow. )
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now, steve feels a little bit like he's the one failing this. failing dean. he doesn't know why, but there's something he's missed. something he didn't do, or think about. is dean mad that he hadn't mentioned the abilities before now? is dean upset that steve kept it from him? but...why?
it tends to sneak up on him, the surprise that someone he isn't dating would give that much of a shit about what he does. what's happening to him. or- rather, give any shit at all about him. and while part of him knows that dean isn't pissed at him, exactly, he does think that he...missed something. forgot something. okay dean says, and it's slow. accompanied by a nod. steve comes to a stop right inside the kitchen and his bones remember things that he doesn't, a familiar sense of walking into a kitchen and knowing that you've disappointed your dad. ]
Did I do something wrong?
[ he asks, equally slow. eyes slanted up towards dean in preparation for... something. something? god, he's not a child and yet somehow he doesn't feel any older at all. ]
I just- I wanted to show you when I was good at it. When I could actually- [ he gestures. it's not like new magic, new abilities are anything new to them. but maybe this time it's different. maybe whatever happened- the teeth, the eyes, the senses, the...everything. maybe steve was wrong (it's not like that would be a first) and maybe he should have said something a long time ago.
he sighs a little, deflates, and shakes his head - his hair falling around his shoulders, now. ]
Well. You saw it.
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Looking at Steve now, he can't imagine intentionally inflicting that same kind of pain on the kid. He can't imagine wounding on purpose, when Steve's so obviously just trying to do things right.
He swallows down his frustration — at himself, at his father, at Geralt, at this situation. Does his best to muscle it out of his posture and his voice when he speaks again. )
No, I know, I saw. It was... somethin'. Looks like it could come in handy. Just-
( Go easy. Find a mild way to put this. )
When something new like that crops up, do me a favor and keep me posted, huh? I just don't wanna have to learn about stuff like that on the fly, you know what I mean? I give a crap about you, and about the stuff you're going through, so I like to stay in the loop. That's all.
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the question was one steve got used to, if only in some half-hearted attempt to get something out of his old man. anger, annoyance, even a raised voice would have been better than the dismissal he'd grown so used to.
it's part of why steve isn't exactly sure he breathes in the half-second dean takes to answer him, waiting for some kind of drop, some kind of weight to fall over him to remind him that he fucked up. but as dean talks, steve relaxes, if only marginally.
I give a crap about you which may not be the most emotionally sound or comforting sentence to most people, but it cuts through... a lot for steve. so much that he finds he can't keep watching dean, his eyes drifting to the countertop, to the glasses strewn around the room. ]
Yeah, no, definitely. I'm- [ but this requires better than steve's natural avoidance to these kinds of situations, so he forces his eyes back to dean. ] Sorry. I get it. I will. [ he smiles - even if it's hesitant. ]
Promise.
wrap it here, i think??
Good.
( Because tactile messaging is easier than words, half the time. At least, it is for Dean, who punctuates it all with one last clap on the back to signal the end of the Talk. )
Let's get a drink, and you can show me what you can do with all that, huh?
( And they can focus on something other than Geralt for a little while. Change the subject, change the setting, change the scene. Make it feel less important, less precarious. He'll deal with all that himself, later.
The two of them recede deeper into the house, and things get... better.
This will be one of the memories he retains with crystal clarity, long after this universe has faded. )
ties this off with a bow
where he always hopes to be, if he's being pathetically honest with himself.
he's an adult, is the thing. he's older than most adults in actual years thanks to the magic of abraxas and what it has meant since they're all living here. he shouldn't be this dependent- or, maybe dependent isn't the right word. maybe it's desperate, maybe it's hopeful, maybe it's...eh. doesn't matter.
dean says good, and Steve just huffs a laugh, has to physically hold back the way he wants to break out into a near-matching grin of his own. dean claps Steve on the back, mentions getting a drink and showing off, and Steve nods. follows him back into the house like this is the most normal, casual, regular conversation for them to have. like the day hadn't shaken Steve to his core, because dean has pretty effectively straightened it all back up again. ]
Yeah, yeah. But don't get your hopes up- still figuring this out, remember?
[ the rest of the evening follows. the rest of this time together follows.
and dean isn't the only one who will remember it. ]