( Geralt's blood spatters across his cheek, this time searing through in a streak. One slender, jagged line that burns. It doesn't seem to heal as quickly as the rest; it lingers, though it isn't quite corrosive enough to eat through him. From the open wound, maybe Geralt can smell it — the faintest trickle of real human blood pools ever so faintly. There's nothing sulfuric about it, no burning, only copper and... slightly high cholesterol. Dean doesn't seem to notice.
The aard blast sends him tumbling again, in what would be a graceful and controlled forward roll, except his knee hasn't quite put itself together. The boot of his lame leg drags a streak across the dirt and rock; he favors one side as he rises unsteadily on his good leg.
He needs to stall for just a few more seconds.
Black eyes shutter green again. About that inability to wear a facsimile of emotion...
His expression turns hurt, earnest. It looks so damn much like the real him, it might be jarring. Knit eyebrows troubled, betrayal written in every line and wrinkle on his face. )
We're friends, man. I called you family. You were supposed to help me. I'd have done it for you. Why won't you help me?
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The aard blast sends him tumbling again, in what would be a graceful and controlled forward roll, except his knee hasn't quite put itself together. The boot of his lame leg drags a streak across the dirt and rock; he favors one side as he rises unsteadily on his good leg.
He needs to stall for just a few more seconds.
Black eyes shutter green again. About that inability to wear a facsimile of emotion...
His expression turns hurt, earnest. It looks so damn much like the real him, it might be jarring. Knit eyebrows troubled, betrayal written in every line and wrinkle on his face. )
We're friends, man. I called you family. You were supposed to help me. I'd have done it for you. Why won't you help me?