gynvael | abraxas:: INBOX

Excuse me, what
I'm not sure I got that right
Could you repeat that, because it seems a lot like you just said he KILLED you

In the Horizon. Yes.
I woke up.

Cool
Hey, hypothetical question
Remember that time I was super worried this one douchebag angel might, I don't know, straight up murder you? And you were all

mm I'm a witcher and you're a mere mortal I'm sure it's fine relax he's not that strong mm fuck

Well, it's not fine, he totally STRAIGHT UP MURDERED YOU. And you couldn't take twenty seconds while you were pooping to send me a damn text about it? If this would've gone down in Nocwich instead of the horizon I'd be raising your ass from the grave to kill you myself.

Firstly.
I said none of those things.

[ All he said was No. As in, No, he doesn't give a fuck about arguing how powerful Lucifer is, he'd save Dean's apparently ungrateful prick again if he had to. ]

Secondly.
If you wish to shout at me,
You can come speak to me.
Instead of scrawling aggressively in the sand.

You know what, sure
Sign me up, I got the lung capacity, where are you?

( ask and ye shall receive, he's more than happy to deliver )

Up the eastern cliffside.
But for your sake,
I'll meet you aground by the tree.
One hour.

[ Maybe that'll be time to calm down or it'll only rile Dean up some more. Geralt is not thinking about Dean, in truth; he is genuinely up the cliff—climbing clears his head—but more than that, he wants the time for himself so he doesn't immediately throttle Dean two seconds in. These past several days have not left him in an especially good mood, and he's not thrilled at having to deal with this, too.

Geralt makes it there as promised—a private little shaded tree not far from the gates where they've trained a few times. He's not interested in having this conversation in the middle of the city even if he were there. ]

( Surprise motherfucker, this salty son of a bitch shows up fifteen minutes early because if you're on time you're late. He is punctuality powered by sheer irritation which is in turn fueled by sheer concern, it's just doing a bad job expressing itself productively at the moment.

It appears those forty-five minutes did nothing to sway Dean's attitude one way or another, because he stands there at the foot of the cliff Geralt's descending, hands on his hips, looking like somebody who's about to be a real jackass. )

Whole lotta precedent happening up there, huh?

( He calls up in a voice that would be pleasant if it weren't laced so thoroughly with irritation. )

[ He cannot say he anticipated Dean arriving while he's descending, but now that it's occurred, nor is he surprised. He sighs. It may be heard from down there.

Geralt hasn't got much on him, just a pack he's left tucked at the bottom of the cliff and his sword. It's only him, latched onto the rock face with both hands under the morning sun. Dean beneath with the aura of an elderly man whose children woke him from his nap for the tenth time.

Irritation goes both ways. On the one hand, he understands Dean's...frustration. Or worry. On the other, he's hardly pleased himself with how shit turned out. Not that he died—though there's that—but because his head had felt thoroughly fucked with. But Geralt has never begun a conversation with an unprompted explanation.

He's too high up for a dramatic drop to the ground. So he makes a vague gesture at Dean with one hand from above. ]

Say your piece.

( That sigh is totally heard from down there, and it has him shifting to cross his arms over his chest.

Damn it, Geralt — that obvious not giving a shit is the most annoying thing on the planet. At least if he were arguing back this might be satisfying. Instead, it feels like he'd accomplish more if he started arguing with the cliff instead.

Dean Winchester, however, is not to be deterred. )

My piece is that I've been practically pulling my own teeth out trying to keep you as far away from that son of a bitch as possible, and you know that! My piece me is trusting you to tell me when something like this happens, so I can't help but wonder why you didn't. Hell, I'm wondering why you stuck around long enough to fight him in the first place instead of getting out before things got lethal.

[ A few thoughts cross his mind in return. Geralt holds his tongue for the time being as he makes the rest of the way down: dropping two ledges before finally landing on the ground. He gathers his sword and his pack, carrying them over to the shade of the tree.

He isn't bothered that Dean's frustrated. He is irked by the insinuation that he deliberately withheld the incident. He put it aside for a short time to attend to other shit, and his reasons for that had nothing to do with Dean. ]

Let me be clear: I do apologize I delayed something of importance to you. I had other matters on my mind. But understand your sense of urgency will not always be mine. [ He sets his gear down and leans back against the trunk. ] Do not leap to accuse me of deceit because I needed a few days. As for why, our heads have been fucked with all week. I've not exactly been myself.

[ Which is not to say he didn't make a choice. He did. He'll take responsibility for that. But it wasn't a choice he'd make if he'd, mm, well. Fucking had his memories and emotions intact. ]

Edited 2022-11-04 13:14 (UTC)

( The anger is like an itch in his chest that he can't seem to scratch no matter how hard he tries. It burns, it claws unsatisfied behind his ribs and in the back of his mind. Not enough, he hasn't raked his fingernails across this enough, and there's an ever-present compulsion to try harder.

He knows better. Logically, rationally, he knows being pissed is the wrong way to handle this. He knows aspects of this were outside of Geralt's control. He knows he should stop.

But lizard brain is starting to tip the scales in a way it didn't quite manage a week ago, the last time Dean nearly blew up at him. It's louder, it's starting to block out the part of him that would kneel to expressing his concern with empathy. With being reasonable about this.

I'm worried, I'm stressed, I care becomes I'm angry, I'm discontent, I'm being dismissed becomes be louder, be stronger, do better.

Which then becomes something decidedly less than good.

Fight. Escalate. Fight. )

That's not good enough. If I can't trust you, why the hell should I bother telling you this shit in the first place? Hell, for that matter, why should I even risk letting you stick around? If you're not gonna fucking listen, you're gonna get yourself got for real, and frankly? I'd rather take a hard pass than be responsible for that. No, thanks. Screw that, and screw you.

Edited 2022-11-13 17:19 (UTC)

[ If they had not known each other for such a length, those words would've easily severed what bridge may have formed between them. There is nothing Geralt detests more than: one, someone demanding he be at their beck and call; and two, being told he is a responsibility as if he is not often thrice their age and more than capable. He hasn't got time for this. He's got other shit, other people, who need him, and had his ire been provoked he'd have agreed that yes. It would be ideal for Dean to leave him out of his bullshit because it is his choosing to be there for the man that's granted him half his fucking headaches.

But they've argued before. This doesn't feel like Dean. Reminds him of the same volatile temper Geralt had those past few days, the same Jaskier did when he loosed his tongue.

He steps forward. It isn't possible any of those effects linger. Is it? His brows knit together—not irritation, but concern. Caution. ]

What's the matter with you? [ It's—he isn't sure. He leans in. Sniffs. The scent isn't prominent, but it's there. Lingering beneath. Burnt ash, like a forest after a blazing inferno. ] You don't smell right.

( Geralt's bang on the money about being reminded of Koth; it's practically the same echo, only it comes back louder. Things that might have required provocation to manifest are doing so of their own accord in him, or at the very least are being sparked into existence by things that he can't justify.

He's so caught up in it, in the anger, in the itch, he doesn't immediately connect the dots between what's the matter with you, the smell, and the concept that Geralt might be referring to something deeper than this surface level interaction. It doesn't make him falter yet — if anything, he's geared up and taut now that Geralt's stepped up, tensely coiled and fists balled like he's taking it as a sign of an impending fight rather than curiosity or concern.

If he weren't starting to lose control, this would be where he'd deescalate, hands down. Hell, his instinct was to go on the defensive a few months ago in that cave when Geralt's god damn eyes went black. Now, he may as well be internally vibrating, willing an altercation into existence.

And then he comes in with the you don't smell right, and that takes him aback enough that some of the aggression slips into sheer incredulity. )

Are you freakin' kidding me? That's what you're coming back with? I smell bad? What are you, six?

[ It's the radiating tension that catches his attention the most. Though Geralt is not relaxed, his stance is far from ready to come to blows, arms folded across his chest and weight resting on one leg. Dean, however, looks as if he's locked in a fight that only he can see brewing.

He makes an exasperated noise. That's Dean's takeaway from his remark? A childish insult? ]

Your scent. It's different. Like you've walked through fire.

[ Which, a month or so ago, he could understand. The fires have been put out in Libertas since. And this is...he can't put his finger on it, but it isn't the exact smell of smoke and ash. That's just the closest description he can put into words. ]

And you're behaving more of a cock than usual. [ He's only saying. ] What's going on with you?

( He still doesn't get it — right up until like you've walked through fire. That's when it pings, that's when the connection is made, ringing clarion in his mind, loud enough to break through the fog of anger. There's a telling flicker of his expression, a fleeting moment of eyes widening in surprise and definitive recognition before he can smooth it back out again into something hard.

He reels himself in. A layer of agitation remains, lingers, seemingly a permanent fixture these days, but it's paved over by a stone of dread just beginning to sink heavily into his stomach, the fleeting first moments of its descent and all the ripples it brings with it.

He wants to be angry. It's easier to be angry, a hell of a lot easier to burn like that than to process the other things that are starting to take its place. )

Nothing.

( He snaps, but it's a moment too late and with far less conviction than he had a second ago. Try as he might to hang onto the simplicity of it, it's slipping away. His body language changes, softening, backing down while he replays the last few minutes in his mind with a clearer head. What had he said again? It felt right in the moment, felt justified, but-

The mark feels hot on his forearm, feels tender, like a still-healing burn.

Denial's been working so great for him thus far, time to aggressively and convincingly double down: )

Nothing. I'm fine.

( Which of the two of them is he really trying to convince? )

Edited (purely for the icon indecision) 2022-11-13 19:57 (UTC)

[ So he's right. Geralt peers at Dean, argument put aside while he tries to determine what this even means. The recognition on Dean's face that tells him Dean has not been unaware something's off. Surprise, like he was only just reminded of this knowledge again.

What is it? (Had Lucifer done something? But no. It isn't possible from that distance.)

Geralt's voice softens, as well. Yeah. He heard what Dean threw at him about trust. But something tells him beneath whatever may be fueling his anger, Dean does trust him. ]

You can tell me.

[ He knows better than to push too hard. He also remembers the consequences when he didn't push hard enough, when he let himself be distracted by more pressing concerns—putting Eskel's bizarre behaviour out of his mind.

It is not a mistake he will repeat. ]

( Yeah, he does trust Geralt. Despite what flew out of his mouth, despite how he's been acting, that's not even a real question. It's not about trust — neither him holding this back for weeks now, nor the long silence that follows that earnest appeal.

It's about a handful of vastly more complicated other things, reasons that weigh heavy on him now. That have him scrubbing a hand across his mouth and turning his back to Geralt to pace away a few slow steps.

Seconds pass, and it would be inaccurate to say Dean spends that time debating, or contemplating, or struggling through any rational arguments. The truth is he spends it thoughtlessly, his mind as rough and blank as white noise, feeling. His fingers flex; the muscles of his forearm feel tight.

Three or four bandits in a housefire, and all he wanted was to keep driving his fist into one of them. Why should I even risk letting you stick around? The want to hunt nonstop. The want for things to come to god damn blows now.

Hard to keep pretending like he's got everything under control when he didn't even realize he was losing it until afterward. )

It's not good.

( He admits at length. Another beat passes before he finally turns around again to level Geralt with a raw, solemn look.

The confession comes reluctantly, thickly; )

Geralt... I think it might be bad, man.

( It's a confession, but it's also an apology. Not just for acting like a dick, but for something deeper. Something else. )

[ In the silence, Geralt waits. Doesn't push for an answer, doesn't offer Dean an out. A few questions cross his mind in the meantime. Namely, when did this start? He turns back towards their interactions, but nothing quite stands out prior to this moment. The last time they spoke, really spoke, had been inside Kaer Morhen, and if anyone had been volatile then, it was Geralt.

Dean doesn't say I don't know what's going on. He says, It's not good, and Geralt feels another piece click into place. The confirmation that Dean knows. Doesn't he? He knows he's been behaving strangely.

The sharp emotions—they concern him the most. It suggests something's taken hold of Dean, something rooted inside his head or heart, but which leaves Dean still him. A corruption rather than a possession. Only very few things, to his knowledge, do that. Curses, for one. A bestial infection, for another.

Geralt studies him. ] Dean. What is it?

( Let it never be said Geralt's not intuitive. Dude knows his stuff, he's bang on the money yet again.

There's perpetually something distinctly fatigued in Dean — more and more every day, it seems. Impossibly, somehow, always more tired. That tiredness carries him across the short distance toward the cliff face, to a low boulder he can drop himself wearily onto.

His back slopes. Elbows hit his knees. He drags his palm over his face again as he talks, muffling a couple of the words in its absent passage. )

I've been trying... not to bring you into more of my bullshit.

( His hand falls away so he can shoot Geralt an earnest look. He has, he really has, he means it.

That agitation ramps up again the more he talks, but it's not directed at Geralt. It's not because of him, so much as it is at everything, or himself, or maybe on Geralt's behalf. )

From- from practically day freaking one I just keep unloading more and more of my crap on you, I mean- it feels like every other month it's something new. I thought- I don't know, I thought maybe it wouldn't follow me here, or that- that I could shut it down until I could figure something out, or- something. But ever since all that crap went down with the heralds... I don't know. I think it's getting worse.

( Which is a whole lot of words that don't even remotely answer the damn question, so a moment later, he holds out his arm. He bares the mark, angry-red and inflamed like an irritated wound rather than a months-old scar. )

[ Dean walks off, and Geralt gives it a minute before he follows. Crouches down in front of Dean.

Yeah. He knows. Dean hasn't pulled him into anything. They're friends. Bullshit comes with that. Fuck knows Dean isn't the only one whose problems have come onto Geralt's doorstep, and Geralt is well aware his own have converted onto others. Onto people he cares about deeply. Jaskier, Julie, Sam. Dean in return. It's a consequence he has accepted. Because the alternative is to push them all away, tell himself he needs none of them and they do not need him.

He's tried that. Didn't end well. So.

His gaze lands on the scar that's no longer a scar. Blazing now, almost as though it's grown into a festering wound. He frowns.

Not good is putting it lightly. Now that Dean's revealed it to him, now that it's more than just a scar he's glimpsed in passing, he realizes there's a shape to it that more accurately resembles a rune. What. The Heralds branded him? Is that what Dean means? No. That isn't right. He'd seen the scar long before then. Weeks ago. In the scrapyard. Hadn't given it much thought. Wait—

Follow me here. What does...? ]

Your memories. When I saw you shortly after you told me they returned, you had this. [ Understanding settles over him, inch by steady inch. ] What marked you? Is this to do with Lucifer?

( The way Dean's expression doesn't seem to shift in the slightest at your memories probably answers Geralt's question immediately. )

No. I mean- yeah, that's where I got it. The memories, back home, however the hell it works, but Lucifer had nothing to do with it. Not exactly.

( Technically everything in Hell is Lucifer's fault as far as Dean's concerned, but for once he's not directly to blame for this particular round of horseshit. )

There was something I had to kill. A demon, except... different. Stronger, older, more annoying. She was- it's called a Knight of Hell. Nothing works on them, not silver, not salt, not the god damn magic knife specifically made to kill demons. Nothing.

( A pause, and then an amendment: )

Almost nothing. We dug up the only blade that would get the job done, but you can't wield it unless you take this.

( Followed by a disgruntled, irreverent slap to the mark with his off-hand. )

The Mark of Cain. Gift-wrapped from the first human on the planet to commit murder. Swell guy. Total douchebag. He said it came with a price, but I didn't exactly have time to get the fine print.

[ As is often the case, Dean's stories leave a number of oddities unanswered. Geralt does not, for example, quite grasp the significance of the first human who killed, or what it has to do with the brand. It also isn't important enough to ask. The key point seems to be that Dean accepted a bargain to kill a demon, for a steep price.

Which. How does something of that nature follow a memory through the Singularity? Though...Yennefer awoke with her magic lost. Perhaps this functions similarly.

Didn't read the fine print. Geralt takes a breath. Decides not to remark on how unadvisable that choice was. Dean is undoubtedly aware. ]

This mark of Cain. You don't know what it does?

[ Curses can be broken—but you need to first know what the curse even is. ]

( He's aware. He didn't have a choice, so at the end of the day, does it really matter? Turn him into a Shih Tzu or make his dick grow backwards, the bitch had to die regardless of the cost. Finding out the details felt like something that could wait until after.

Except, yeah, he didn't get an after. He got an Abraxas. He got this, here, with not a single way to find any answers at his disposal.

He shakes his head, lips pursed unhappily. )

Aside from joining me and the First Blade in unholy matrimony... no. Not a clue. ( In a tone that suggests it's meant to be a joke, but with nary even a single scrap of actual humor: ) I'm figuring the rest out the fun, hands-on way. Side-effects may include acting like a huge dick, apparently.

( Just so that last part's out there. He didn't mean it. )

[ Reason tells him breaking the curse (this is a form of curse, is it not?) means severing the tie between the blade and Dean. A blade that clearly is not here. If the magic followed him into this sphere, it must be linked to the Singularity instead. What else could hold it?

He's not certain that's something that can be broken. Not without breaking the magic that links Dean to the Singularity itself—which is out of the question. Some things are not worth entertaining as even a possibility. ]

Curses are often rooted in some logic. [ He rises to his feet. ] You're joined to a blade wielded by a man known to commit the first murder. Therefore...

[ Coupled with the already increased agitation, it appears additional murder is on the table as a consequence. Beyond that? Dean doesn't seem to know, either. Though he has to wonder: what is Cain? A spirit? The figure can't be mortal anymore if Dean spoke to him. ]

( That's a conclusion Dean's fully aware of, and has been deliberately blocking out of his head. Now that it's out there, though, he answers it with the bleakest, darkest humor. )

Little redundant, don't you think? I'm already a murderer.

( Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. Hell, that's the reason Cain gave it to him in the first place.

The mark can be transferred to someone who's worthy.
You mean a killer, like you?
Yes.

Might seem like he's not seriously entertaining the implication, but he is. He knows where this logic train leads. He also knows he's not gonna let that happen. If push comes to shove and things start looking bad... he'll handle it before it handles him. )

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gynvael - 2022-11-14 19:09 (UTC) - Expand

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