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[gynvael]

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Geralt is always reachable by the network. Unless it's an emergency, expect not to hear back for a few hours, if not a few days.

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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[righteously]

Yeah, no kidding.

( It's an unhappy mutter, punctuated by Dean gently tossing the rag into the small bar sink.

If it does come to that, he gets the feeling Geralt wouldn't sit on the sidelines. He gets the feeling he'd have a partner on the field. That doesn't solve anything, he knows it wouldn't be enough to win a real fight, but it's enough for him — or it's at least enough to leave him feeling about two percent less crappy than he did before this conversation.

Which he doesn't say, not in so many words. Instead, what Geralt gets is a solemn, weighted: )

Thanks. I know you got a million better places to be right now, tackling scorpions or getting frisky with Sam out there in the middle of nowhere, so... Thank you.

( For showing up when he asked. For listening to his novella and taking it seriously. For sticking around.

He's never been one to shy away from expressing gratitude, least of all for stuff like this. )

[gynvael]

[ His gaze stays on Dean for a few moments. He had not thought twice about showing up—if Dean's asking while Geralt's working, then it's important; why would he not come?—but Dean's gratitude suggests something about his expectations. Geralt senses it is not one that reflects on their relationship.

He gets it. It's difficult to explain—how it happens, when you learn from early on that you can rely on very few, when it isn't exactly a source of disappointment or a case of mistrust. It just is. People protect their own. And it takes a lot before it ever sinks in that maybe, for once, you happen to count as part of that.

There's a nod, the only acknowledgement of the depth of what Dean's saying, before Geralt makes a vague dismissive sound. ]

His turn on watch, anyhow. He can converse with the scorpions. [ Though it's true he shouldn't leave Sam alone too long. They're further out than usual, and Sam's not as familiar with the landscape.

Dean gets a hand on the shoulder as Geralt rises from his seat. ] If you've plans to wrestle a devil some time, do tell. I'll place a wager.

[righteously]

( There's a moment, an expression he wears when Geralt does the classic manly shoulder thing — short, less heavy than the others so far, but still faintly affected. Dean is, by nature, a fairly hands-on guy with friends and family. It's an entire language in and of itself, one he arguably often speaks better than English. Also, not something he's had much of in the last seven months. He appreciates it.

But it's just that: a moment, one that doesn't linger. One that transitions easily and habitually into obligatory humor. Serious to sarcastic in one swift maneuver, as is the Winchester way. )

Yeah, okay. Shut up and get out of my bar.

( Like he's even remotely annoyed by that exchange. Like he'd ever actually kick Geralt — or anybody he legitimately likes — out of the place he innately wants to populate with them.

Geralt does have work to do. There's nothing else to be done now aside from that warning, and the informational broadcast surrounding it.

They're good.

When Geralt leaves, Dean does bust out some sandpaper to take to the space where not even a hint of the mark exists anymore. For posterity. )