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To talk to him in person, you'll need to be in Cadens or go to his domain, a snowy mountain fortress. Yard is open; doors are locked. If he isn't around, leave a delivery with the white wolf.
To talk to him in person, you'll need to be in Cadens or go to his domain, a snowy mountain fortress. Yard is open; doors are locked. If he isn't around, leave a delivery with the white wolf.
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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?
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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? )
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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. ]
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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. )
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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?
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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. )
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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?
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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.
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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. ]
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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. )
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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. ]
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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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[ Equally dark humour. They both understand the difference between killing with purpose and killing because some magic has taken hold of you against your will. He needn't point it out. But it is something to watch for, now that he knows.
That aside. What else can they do? He can dig, perhaps, for what little information exists, but without access to anything from Dean's world—of which, as far as he's aware, Dean has both the most current and thorough knowledge of—they're short on leads. ]
Tell me if anything changes. In the meantime, if Lucifer makes an attempt on my life, I'll keep you informed, but I doubt it. He seems more keen on... [ Geralt lifts a hand to indicate the vague concept of the devil's thoughts. ] How you found yourself a pet monster. So. Let him think as he will.
[ It's less about what Lucifer is capable of, more about what Geralt believes of his own significance. And the truth is, he doesn't imagine he features that prominently in Lucifer's mind past an occasional annoyance linked to one Dean Winchester. It doesn't surprise him Lucifer cannot look past him as some sort of loyal dog, following Dean's bidding, and he's content to keep it so. He's long learned the value of being looked at a certain way by those who have no need to know better. ]
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This is something he'll think about in the not too distant future — the fact that even after that confrontation, this feels solid. The fact that he doesn't even question it. That he knows with an instinctive certainty that they're both on the same page about where they stand with each other, and how rare that is in his life. He'll think about that about an hour and a half after he realizes he's ruined it. )
Yeah.
( He grunts finally — if anything changes, he'll speak up. )
Anyway, the blade's not here, so. How bad could it be?
( As long as that thing's far away from him, the progression should be slow enough that he's got plenty of time to figure it out. It's not like he's gonna suddenly wake up with the ability to summon the thing or something, that would just be downright nuts.
They pack up. Get their shit together. Head back into town. Something about the way the conversation ends feels... unfinished. Off somehow, one shade to the left in a way he couldn't put his finger on if he tried. It's nothing specific, it's nothing Geralt says or doesn't say, it's nothing he says, he just feels it. This sensation somewhere deep down in his gut: something is wrong. )