[It's a wonder he didn't understand before now, but to be fair to himself, he was also watching Geralt get beaten by a man who doesn't know the difference between a wimple and a headdress.
There are only certain sorts of reasons a man could ever hold another man like this. Like they're trying to occupy the same space on their sphere. And, when one considers Dean is infected with a demon, that he just survived some sort of device's blast that obliterated his head (with the evidence still spilled across the sands), then someone like Jaskier, who has staked his entire life on love, can put two and two together.
It doesn't feel like a guess. Castiel must be in love with the man. The man he was before the demon.
It's why he went after Geralt like Geralt was the monster. Why, for a moment, he looked as if he might smite Jaskier in his stead. The wild look in his eye, like a orphaned wolf, still lingers. It is stupidity -- at its highest order. The most respected, beautiful, and dangerous form of utter fucking idiocy.
Jaskier sighs, rubbing his face.]
I can alter the plants. A mild -- [He should refrain from words like "toxin" and "poison." He only knows what he's read, but he's practiced this magic, like he does all of his, to understand its limits.] Sedative. And a paralyzing agent. Until you figure out what to do with him, he won't hurt anyone else. [A small pause.] Or himself.
[He doesn't know if demons are so inclined, but if the creature realizes these things about Castiel, it would not be hard, he thinks, to use it against him. So the vines this time, when they erupt from sand, are less feral, less dangerous; they move slowly, waiting for permission, as Jaskier touches one and moves them across the distance. Liquid beads on their surfaces, covered in tiny spines almost imperceptible to the eye.
Melitele's fucking tits. It's a good thing he researched botany.]
no subject
There are only certain sorts of reasons a man could ever hold another man like this. Like they're trying to occupy the same space on their sphere. And, when one considers Dean is infected with a demon, that he just survived some sort of device's blast that obliterated his head (with the evidence still spilled across the sands), then someone like Jaskier, who has staked his entire life on love, can put two and two together.
It doesn't feel like a guess. Castiel must be in love with the man. The man he was before the demon.
It's why he went after Geralt like Geralt was the monster. Why, for a moment, he looked as if he might smite Jaskier in his stead. The wild look in his eye, like a orphaned wolf, still lingers. It is stupidity -- at its highest order. The most respected, beautiful, and dangerous form of utter fucking idiocy.
Jaskier sighs, rubbing his face.]
I can alter the plants. A mild -- [He should refrain from words like "toxin" and "poison." He only knows what he's read, but he's practiced this magic, like he does all of his, to understand its limits.] Sedative. And a paralyzing agent. Until you figure out what to do with him, he won't hurt anyone else. [A small pause.] Or himself.
[He doesn't know if demons are so inclined, but if the creature realizes these things about Castiel, it would not be hard, he thinks, to use it against him. So the vines this time, when they erupt from sand, are less feral, less dangerous; they move slowly, waiting for permission, as Jaskier touches one and moves them across the distance. Liquid beads on their surfaces, covered in tiny spines almost imperceptible to the eye.
Melitele's fucking tits. It's a good thing he researched botany.]