[ If Castiel broke anything of Jaskier's, there would be no forgiveness on the table, so that's for the best. He slides across the rocky sand with the angel; it all becomes a dull roar, pain registering distantly. His ears ring from the gunshot, sharp and high-pitched. He lets go of the weapon—not his preference, either—and the third headbutt smashes off an invisible shield instead. He grabs the nearest exposed flesh he can find—or maybe he ends up with a handful of fabric. Either way, his palm heats, hot enough to turn steel flaming red. He tangles his legs up with Castiel to flip them over, dagger in his other hand.
—Before another body lands in his path. He growls at it on instinct before the familiar scent catches up to him.
(Should have known. Sam would have gone to Jaskier as soon as he heard.)
Geralt pushes to his feet, not as steady as he'd been but probably steadier than anyone who faced off with both demon and angel has a right to be. There's blood staining his fingers, in his teeth, copper soaking the back of his throat. Jo is on the ground, Dean's brother is latched on desperately like an oversized potato sack, and he is not as surprised as he should be to see the demon perfectly alive, perfectly whole. Not one damn mark on his forehead.
He shoots a glance at Sam, then at Jaskier. There's something protective in the way he stands with them. Sam is right: his focus is Ciri, and Castiel's will be Dean. And where Geralt hasn't any desire to spill blood except the demon chasing after his daughter—and anyone (a singular angel, mostly) preventing him from doing so—he can't help doubting Castiel will choose the same.
But there is no time to split his focus. The moment for talk and plans is long gone. He makes a gesture at Jaskier—in part because he trusts him the most with his daughter and in part because he wants Jaskier out of Castiel's vicinity. ] Get Ciri.
[ Sam, he thinks, can handle himself. He'll have to believe that; he can't be in two places. And unless someone stops him, he's already stalking across the sand in the demon's direction, reaching to snatch up his sword as he passes it. Seeing as a fucking bullet hardly slowed him, Geralt has no qualms about driving his blade through the demon's stomach to pin it down. ]
no subject
—Before another body lands in his path. He growls at it on instinct before the familiar scent catches up to him.
(Should have known. Sam would have gone to Jaskier as soon as he heard.)
Geralt pushes to his feet, not as steady as he'd been but probably steadier than anyone who faced off with both demon and angel has a right to be. There's blood staining his fingers, in his teeth, copper soaking the back of his throat. Jo is on the ground, Dean's brother is latched on desperately like an oversized potato sack, and he is not as surprised as he should be to see the demon perfectly alive, perfectly whole. Not one damn mark on his forehead.
He shoots a glance at Sam, then at Jaskier. There's something protective in the way he stands with them. Sam is right: his focus is Ciri, and Castiel's will be Dean. And where Geralt hasn't any desire to spill blood except the demon chasing after his daughter—and anyone (a singular angel, mostly) preventing him from doing so—he can't help doubting Castiel will choose the same.
But there is no time to split his focus. The moment for talk and plans is long gone. He makes a gesture at Jaskier—in part because he trusts him the most with his daughter and in part because he wants Jaskier out of Castiel's vicinity. ] Get Ciri.
[ Sam, he thinks, can handle himself. He'll have to believe that; he can't be in two places. And unless someone stops him, he's already stalking across the sand in the demon's direction, reaching to snatch up his sword as he passes it. Seeing as a fucking bullet hardly slowed him, Geralt has no qualms about driving his blade through the demon's stomach to pin it down. ]