abraxaslogs | Tʜᴇ ᴊɪɢ ɪs ᴜᴘ, ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇᴡs ɪs ᴏᴜᴛ ( closed )

( They pull Geralt for questioning a day after they pull Dean, not that either of them know it. Geralt wasn't on the short list of folks he'd bothered to send a brain-text to, not because he's hiding anything from the guy, it's just not a big deal. It's two days, who gives a crap? Aside from, you know, the people in his life that love and care about him that are concerned for his well-being, but other than them, who gives a crap?

It's just two days.

Two days.

Two long... gruelling... boring... annoying... restless, relentless, trapped, not hunting, not killing, not burning off the energy, not moving, stuck, days. He's gonna lose his entire goddamn mind.

It's early morning on day two that they escort Geralt to his cell, and he may be surprised to find he won't be alone in it. Sprawled out on one of the uncomfortable bunks against the cell wall is Mister Dean Supernatural, who lifts his head slightly when he hears footsteps. Curls up just a few inches to peer suspiciously through the bars, only to look faintly bemused by the radiant blonde hair that comes into view on the other side.

They unlock the cell door to let Geralt in, and Dean offers him a little sup nod and a two-fingered wave. )

Hope you don't want bottom bunk, because I've been workin' on a shiv for about six hours now and I will fight you for it.

( Howdy, Gerald. Fancy seeing you here. )

[ Geralt's expression is vaguely annoyed when they bring him in. Not the worst outcome, but that doesn't mean he's fucking thrilled. Still, what's a few days? Four? Five? A fine was mentioned (which he assumes is the official term for a bribe), but he cares little for the idea of buying his way out.

Then his eyes land on...

He sighs. Of course. Who else? ] How long did they give you?

[ Not for those bandits they took care of, was it? He imagines not, or they'd have brought it up with him. Not the incident involving Nadine. And yes. Geralt is aware of the amount of bandits who wind up dead in his vicinity. Perhaps they should start telling each other to stop trying to rob anyone when the Witcher is around and save everyone the trouble. ]

Two days.

( He grunts absently, heaving himself heavily up from the mattress to plant his feet on the cell floor. He peers up at Geralt from his perch, back sloped to keep himself from banging his head on the bunk overhead, studying him as though he can divine the reason for Geralt's sentence with those psychic powers he's notorious for having. )

You?

( Behind them, the guard shuts and locks the door again with a jangle of keys, then ambles away, disinterested. )

[ Geralt looks out the tiny window they're afforded, then takes up a spot on the ground, arms resting on his knees. Surprised they were even allowed beds. Almost luxurious for a cell meant to contain drunkards and thieves. ]

A few. Less for some gold. [ Frankly, he's been threatened with a hanging for lesser crimes (or no crime at all), so he'll take it. He suspects the leniency is due to the fact that the Free Cities can't be arsed with the bandits, either.

And that thus far, the Summoned remain infinitely more valuable. Cold comforts at best. ]

They, ah. Weren't fond of the mess I left. [ So to speak. ]

( There's an ever-present feeling of same hat energy going on between the two of them — he's done more time for less crime, often with the threat of the death penalty hanging over it. That, and he got the whole bribe your way out of it offer, too. Turned it down. Costs too much friggin' money to renovate a house for him to be bailing himself out of jail. Screw that. )

...which mess? The bandits, or the other bandits?

( Or the other, other bandits he doesn't actually know about but can safely assume exist?

One of those vague, unspecified bandits he means to be the ones he killed in the desert, is why he's asking. He'll feel like a total douchebag if he's the reason Geralt is in here. )

[ Geralt shakes his head. He knows what Dean means, and it isn't that. ] Nothing to do with you.

[ He leaves it largely unspoken. Assumes the last thing Dean needs is him stating out loud that Dean's got some more bodies to his name the guards may not have heard about.

He tilts his head, considering. ] You weren't...?

[ Killing more people? Because of the mark, that is. Defending himself is one thing, but the mark is another. Geralt's been waiting, watching, for a spark that'll ignite the blaze he's been warned of. So far, Dean seems all right, that one incident aside, but it won't last forever. ]

( Geralt doesn't need to finish the question — Dean's already shaking his head. Part of him thinks he should probably be annoyed or offended, but frankly? He can't muster up the energy for either. He's just tired.

And... yeah, starting to admit to himself that it's a reasonable question to ask, considering the bandit thing. )

No, not- no. They're just salty about some bar fights. Basically told me to take it outside city limits next time, and gave me a two day slap on the wrist. It's fine.

( Granted, those 'bar fights' never would have happened in the first place if it weren't for the mark, but... still. He's not crossing lines. Not yet. )

Mm. [ He relaxes a hint. Even the fights are troubling. This, it isn't so much what Dean is doing—Geralt is scarcely one to talk—and more that it continues to be out of character. He's known Dean for a year. More than. He's never picked fights, in all that time.

Still. If that's all it is, then perhaps there's more time yet. That's been his main concern. That they will not have any more time. ]

Worse places to be trapped. [ He leans his head back against the wall. Shit. So much for having a drink as soon as he was back from his contract. ] Don't ask me to entertain with any stories.

( He scoffs at the very insinuation. )

What am I, five? I don't need you to entertain me. I'm just gonna do my time in peaceful, quiet meditation.

( To make his point, he deliberately settles himself back down on the mattress as though he fully intends to take a nap.

And so begins the last ten-minute period of silence Geralt will get to experience for himself for the rest of the night.

He's bored.

He's so bored.

It's more than that, though — he's got energy, the bad kind, the restless kind. The kind he'd normally channel into the relentlessly excessive amount of hunting he's been doing for the last few months. The kind driven by agitation from a dark, unsettled source.

It breaks through all his good intentions, and after ten minutes, he breaks. Hauls himself off the bunk to start idly pacing the cell.

It begins with some casual small talk: )

I tell you we bought a house?

[ Uh-huh. Geralt's not forgotten the last time he watched Dean attempt meditation. Technically, he could meditate himself and tune out anything and everything, Dean included. But he suspects the man needs something of an outlet, and he doubts the guards need much of a reason to tack on an extra few days to their sentence.

He looks over. ] You? A landowner?

[ Genuine amusement colours his words. Even beyond the idea of a hunter with a car and some weapons to his name owning property, the idea of anyone other than the nobility doing so is certainly a concept—though he's aware the Free Cities operates differently than a typical kingdom.

More than that: ] Whatever for?

[ If not for Ciri and Jaskier, Geralt would have never moved out of an inn room. He isn't in the city enough. ]

What do you mean what for? For- house stuff.

( Like it's baffling Geralt's even asking. Should he be offended at that landowner thing? Okay, technically he didn't legally own a place back home, but the Bunker's his in all but paperwork. He's a roamer, but he likes having a coop to fly back to in between his wandering. He likes nesting.

He settles against the bars, leaning his shoulder blades back until they dig gently into the metal, and rocks absently on his heels. Some pure restless toddler energy. )

I figured the four of us were taking up a little too much space, spent too much time squatting. If we rented somewhere, I couldn't remodel how I want to. I don't wanna have to crawl to somebody and ask permission before I knock down a wall to put in an armory or a sauna or whatever.

( Scoring a devil's trap into Mag's floorboards was pretty much the extent of what he thinks he could get away with, and if she finds out he imagines she's probably gonna wanna slap him upside the head. )

Gonna take a hell of a lot of work, though, so... if you get any free time...

( Renovation bonding round two's on the table for the next few months. )

[ House stuff.

In the face of Dean's bemusement, Geralt looks thoughtful. The closest he's ever come to having a place to his name was when he built his little winter cabin in the Horizon. He supposes it isn't out of the question to outright possess a home here, with Jaskier, but the idea had simply never occurred to Geralt, and he imagines Jaskier presumed—correctly—that Geralt would not be interested in the notion.

He hums. Fixing a home. That he does know well. ]

Patched up Kaer Morhen plenty. [ Sure. He does like to be occupied when he's in the city, and he's run out of things to fix in their own rented space. All the crooked cabinets and rickety chairs have been repaired. He's even built Jaskier's pet gryphon a miniature bed. ] What're you putting in?

( You're a saint, Gerald. Truly. Let it never be said this blonde son of a bitch isn't kind. Indulging him'll help him pass the next twenty minutes with a little more sanity than he otherwise might. )

Well, the basement's unfinished, so I figure I'm gonna stone that up. Put in a reinforced cell just in case we need to hold something later. Place to stash some arms. Maybe redo the plumbing some jackass did all wonk-ways on the second floor. Replace the floorboards in the master bedroom. I think Jo wants some bookshelves lining a few walls, so I'm gonna sling some of those together. Weather-proof the attic, swap out the kitchen fixtures to something a little less likely to burn the place down, and then... I don't know. Maybe pool table?

( So, you know, like a dozen and a half things — plus a few he's not thinking of off the top of his head. )

[ Though he did sign up for this work, Cas can’t help but wonder, around the fifth or sixth time a crab has managed to claw into the fragile skin between his fingers while he’s refilling a bucket, if this is karmatic revenge for the incident involving a certain witcher’s trademark hair and a ritual goose.

Waterlogged trenchcoat and heavy layers set aside, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, seawater soaking the trousers that cling to his thighs, cas is looking haggard, with wet sand caked to one side of his face, the evidence of a tumble after a stray jellyfish tendril gave his leg a shock. The sensible shoes might’ve come off too, if it weren’t for the swarm of offended crabs snapping at his ankles and legs in protest of the bumbling feet stomping around on their sand-lawn.

Dean, of course, has somehow managed to secure the job of bucket escort, taking the full buckets to the team irrigating the beached jellyfish, and the empty ones back to cas, and the surrounding crustacean horde, to refill. ]

Any time you might like to trade jobs, enjoy this… refreshing ocean water with your much taller boots, I’d be happy to hand over bucket filling duties. [ Cas huffs out, pointed and petty. ] Just, any time at all, Dean.

[ this is what he gets for taking jaskier’s advice on choosing fashionable over practical in this world. ]

[ Until the conversation morphs into an existential crisis over chickens and milk, he's willing to indulge.

A tilt of his head and a faint squint greets reinforced cell. They continue to have extremely different hunting experiences; Geralt can only imagine Dean wanting to lock a wyvern in his room somehow. If you ask him, hiding a cage in one's cellar is an open invitation for being questioned a second time by the city guards. ]

If you want good lumber, I know someone. Went looking there when I built Rinwell's shelves.

[ Who Geralt's not formally introduced, though Dean may have seen her in the stables with Roach or at Jaskier's flower stall these past few weeks. He's glad she's here, but he isn't certain how he feels, deep down. The thought that she may vanish again any day now lingers. It's a strange thing, to have that sort of impermanence to a loss. He is not used to people coming back. ]

( Dean, for his part, is having an absolute blast watching Cas struggle. No, seriously, it's entertaining as hell. Something about seeing an overpowered angel get thwarted by god's pinchiest sea creatures really is comedy in its purest form.

Like a true asshole, his initial answer is to beam an incorrigible smile and hold out his empty bucket again. )

That's what happens when you wear stupid shoes, man, I don't know what to tell ya. Top me off, Squidward.

No kidding?

( Cue a nice twenty-minute Manly Conversation about lumber, lumber prices, and shelf building that eventually dies of natural causes, because it ain't exactly a juicy topic with hours of staying power.

Things devolve into quiet again.

A few minutes after that, he starts pacing again.

Over the next two hours, we see a montage of snapshots:
Dean pacing while Geralt chills silently.
Dean sitting on the floor while Geralt chills silently.
Dean sitting on the bunk while Geralt chills silently.
Dean doing sit-ups while Geralt chills silently.
Dean bouncing a ball (where did he get it??) against the wall while Geralt chills silently.
Dean hanging off the bars while Geralt chills silently.
Dean groaning while Geralt chills silently.
Finally, the inane questions start to flow while he sits with his back against the bars, eyes pointed toward the ceiling. )

You guys have sharks back on your home planet?

Edited 2023-02-13 22:39 (UTC)

[ Geralt is shit at small talk of any kind; it's a testament to Dean's ability to fill the silence for both of them that the conversation even goes beyond thirty seconds.

Once it dies, Geralt sure as fuck isn't the one to resuscitate it.

Last time he had cellmates, he was crammed in with three others for weeks. Only one of whom he could really tolerate. (Ironically, the vampire.) He is, in other words, exceptionally good at ignoring a variety of pacing, sighing, and yes, the fucking bouncing ball that's emerged out of nowhere.

Geralt, meanwhile, has not moved from where he's planted himself. He cracks open one eye. Than the other. ]

Spare me the philosophical quandary of fish.

( He tips his chin down from his vacant stare at the ceiling just long enough to flash Geralt an unimpressed bitchface, then turns his gaze upward again. )

It's not a philosophical quandary, it's a serious question. Come on, man, did you have sharks or not?

[ A sigh in answer. He leans his head back against the grimy wall. ]

Sure. Taste all right.

[ Is Dean referring to the ever-typical great white? Possibly. Is that anything near the common dogfish Geralt has in mind? No. Regrettably, the sharks that appear in the northern waters around the Continent are fairly small.

They pickle well, though. ]

( So, here's the thing: that was a preemptive question. It was the Part 1 question to the far more serious question he wants to ask.

With utmost solemnity, he levels Geralt with a look. )

You ever had a sharknado?

[ On occasion, a man regrets the friendships he acquires. Perhaps he is better off alone. How does he go back to being alone?

He closes his eyes again. ]

I don't believe you understand the words you use.

( There is no turning back. He has willingly allowed Dean Winchester to tether himself and now he cannot be excised. This is just life now. This is forever.

Or until Geralt kills him because of the mark on his arm slowly corrupting everything that was good about him and turning him into an irredeemable shadow of himself deserving only of death, or whatever.

Anyway: )

Oh, I understand 'em. Sharknado. It's when a massive tornado hits shark infested waters and scoops 'em up, then moves inland and just... friggin' nados sharks all over the place. You guys ever have one of those?

[ His eyes are not opening. Not even in the midst of this absurdity. Why would a cyclone—? ]

Dean.

[ Can't the man go to sleep for a few hours? More folk should learn to meditate. It's soothing. Prevents conversation.

He rubs his temple. When he finally does open his eyes again, he can see the young guard outside staring sidelong into the cell with a mixture of fascination and deep concern. ]

No.

[ And. ]

You're scaring the boy.

[ after an unimpressed, grouchy stare, Cas snatches the offered bucket from Dean abruptly. You're a shitty friend, Dean Winchester. ]

For the last time, I was trying to blend. Isn't that important?

[ Or did you dress him up all those times just for your personal entertainment? Scooping up water, Cas doesn't exactly put one of the crabs into it, so much as not avoid scooping it up with the water.

Shoving it back into Dean's chest, the water sloshes about, and Cas silently hopes the crab pinches him somewhere awkward and painful. ]

( He'll be the first one to agree with you there. Hell, he's tried warning you for years, he's a terrible friend. This is not news. He also is not sorry.

Not this time, anyway. )

Nope.

( He declares cheerfully, plucking the bucket up again without glancing down at the contents. )

We all stick out like a fork in a dick factory, who gives a crap about making sure our shoes ma- mother fucker-

( The stupid crab hooks a stupid claw on Dean's stupid thumb and he yeets the bucket on instinct, hurling it vaguely in Castiel's direction as he tries to shake the pinchy crabby claws off. )

[ and so cas stands there, stalwart, as an entire ass bucket of sea water (plus one crab who's just vibing, having a good time, living his best life), splatters across his person. he's silent, eyes closed, lips pressed. said crab slaps him in the forehead, before tumbling back down into the water with it's asshole brethren.

castiel was an angel once. he was a seraph. he had a garrison, soldiers, respect. and now he's here, being crab-slapped by some manchild who thinks dicks come from a factory. ]

All phalluses are custom made for the individual, there's no factory.

[ Cas reaches up, patiently swipes the water and various sea gunk from his eyes. ]

If one were to be mangled by a fork, there'd be no available replacement.

[ to the tune of "i will fork you right in the dick, dean winchester, fuckin try me bitch". ]

( There's a lot going on here. A lot of crabs have been slapped, a lot of sea water has been flung. Dean stands there clutching his pinched hand, massaging it out like a baby, but that's just an afterthought.

The more important part is the conversation, and leveling Cas with a solemn look as he firmly corrects: )

Oh, there's a factory.

( Trust him. He has seen the dick factories.

Or, at least, he's seen what they produce.

A beat, and then faintly more amused: )

Hilariously, they retail on adam and eve dot com, which is funny because... you know...

( You're an angel. )

[ He does know. He wishes he did not know. He refuses to give Dean the satisfaction of knowing. With a judgmental squint, he shakes his head, feigning ignorance. ]

There's no wifi in the Garden of Eden. Or capitalism.

[ pretty sure capitalism makes it the antithesis of paradise. dick factories behind us, Cas is over this bucket detail, tossing his haphazardly into the nearby sand when a shout comes from the others hauling at the beached sea jelly. Time to drag this lazy marine life back from whence it came, all hands on deck. ]

If you're done lecturing on penile mass production, we're needed elsewhere.

[ grouchy and uncomfortably wet, Cas slogs his way out of the surf and past dean with a moody frown, dragging his feet. ]

Edited 2023-03-23 19:52 (UTC)

( No wifi in the Garden of Eden. Or capitalism.

Maybe to Castiel's satisfaction, Dean does look just a hair put out. )

No, because-

( He starts, then stops, then shrugs it off. Whatever, it doesn't matter. Fine, don't appreciate his glorious sense of humor. You're gonna miss it when it's gone, Cas.

He heaves a sigh, then rounds the big jelly boi to grab onto his allotted section of deer skin to tug. )

[ yeah well his forehead (pronounced: pride) still hurts, asshole. a vindicated smirk flashes as he reaches for the deerskin next to dean. (Yes, he will miss the dick factory humor once it’s gone, but now is not yet then.)

Needing to be some level more useful than scooping water and dodging crabs, Cas figures this is the opportunity to do a little more for the jelly boi rescue effort.

And maybe fuck around with Dean a bit. That’s apparently what “assisting the locals” has translated to today.

Castiel’s positioned a few feet down the deer skin from Dean, closer to the shore. When it comes time to pull, while most are bracing their legs and firming up their grip on the tarp, Cas gives his patch an abrupt, angel-powdered jerk, consequently yanking his closest up-shore neighbor off balance to be dragged a couple feet across the sand.

When Dean looks back up to him, the angel’s grinning, goofy and self-satisfied, making no attempt to hide his fuckery but clearly having fun with it. Hello, best friend, how are you feeling about your social choices this day? ]

Edited (Smth about the vibe of the tag was bugging me while i was working, wanted to adjust) 2023-03-26 02:49 (UTC)

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