abraxaslogs | Tʜᴇʀᴇ's ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛᴀᴄʜᴇ ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ

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Tʜᴇʀᴇ's ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛᴀᴄʜᴇ ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ

Who: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Jo Harvelle, Castiel, Ciri, Geralt, Jaskier, Sam Wilson, probably others that I'm forgetting
When: Last week and a half of May
Where: Cadens, the bad lands, and the Winchester-Harvelle house
What: Demon Dean triggers his master plan to snatch Ciri and take her to the singularity to portal him off-world. The gang catches up and things get violent before Dean is eventually subdued and cured.
Warnings: Demons trying to be as demonic as possible, with all the gross violence and mean language that entails. Also, needles.

𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒
𝐵𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ
𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑒
𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛' 𝑤𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑑𝑜
𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦
𝐼𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡
𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒
𝑀𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡
𝐴 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡
𝐴 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤
𝐿𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤

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[ His eyes flick from sword to demon. He isn't watching Ciri, but he can hear her—the shift of her heartbeat, the light shuffle of sand beneath her knees. Whether Dean can, he isn't certain. He understands better than to call out to her.

But he gathers one thing: Voleth Meir had been an entity of her own, invading Ciri's body. She had not fought how Ciri was trained to fight. Dean, though, appears to be doing exactly that. Something to take note of, because it makes Dean's movements a touch more predictable. He did teach him.

For another minute, Geralt is still. A buzzard screeches above. He drops the crossbow to free his hand. Maybe where Ciri can reach, with luck. Roach shuffles; his second sword sits in her saddle, along with his hunting knife. Things he knows Ciri is well aware of. He trusts she will take advantage where she can—that she remembers every lesson he gave her. He can't worry about how or why, what he could have done differently.

When he finally strikes, it's not with a swing from his sword. Instead, a blast of Aard kicks up the sand in a thick spray. He's aiming to send Dean flying away, moving the fight by inches from where Ciri and Roach are—but if the dust can blind the demon, too, he'll take it. ]

[ His eyes are fixed on Dean, but Ciri's are on Geralt. The way his shifts his weight and weapon, the slightest turn of his shoulders away from her before he raises a hand. She recognizes the Sign before he even finishes casting it. And the opportunity he's opening for her.

Ciri moves, using her bound hands to rock up from her knees to the balls of her feet, and then propelling herself toward Roach. If Dean hadn't been so cocky and overconfident, he might have tied her down to Karen, or even bound her arms in a way that wouldn't let her use her hands so easily. Despite the graceless landing, practically crashing into Roach's side, Ciri manages to wrap both hands around the hilt of Geralt's second sword; the way Roach snorts in surprise and shuffles away actually helps her get the blade out faster.

From there, it's only a matter of seconds. A quick downward thrust of her arms to either side of the sword slices clean through the ropes, allowing her to cut her feet free next. It's not great for the blade, but she's hardly going to be fussy about these things right now; Geralt will just have to forgive her for being sloppy with his sword as Ciri leans on the hilt like a cane to haul herself up to her stiff and half-asleep legs.

Her free hand yanks the blindfold the rest of the way off. The gag's tied too tightly, so it is momentarily ignored. Instead, she lurches forward to grab Roach's reins before she spooks any more. ]

( It works. Demons may be immune to certain kinds of magic, but they're not immune to being force-blasted up the asshole. He goes flying, and as soon as he's in the air it's a learned reflex to try and pop the wings out. For the first time since he's turned, he does.

What comes out... is not a set of wings by any definition. It's skeletal bones, bare but for the occasional cluster of fractured, ugly-burnt feather. They catch no wind, they do absolutely nothing to slow his momentum. They barely absorb any of the impact as he goes rolling in the dust, but they do help him quickly right himself as he plants the bones into the dirt for leverage. When he stands and they spread, they look more like a prehistoric nightmare than anything crafted by a god.

It's an annoying disadvantage, but he isn't attached enough to them to be concerned. Something a little higher on his priorities list is going down.

The little flecks of cuts on his cheeks from the rocks begin to heal instantly, the wounds closing before Geralt's eyes as Dean quickly stalks forward to close the distance between them and, without hesitation, begins a barrage of offensive swipes and swings with his sword.

There is one significant difference between his fighting style now; before, a small part of him was always wary of properly landing a blow that could do any significant damage. Always prepared to pull back, even if Geralt didn't even slightly need that from him. It was built in, automatic concern. That is entirely lacking now, and he is in all ways vicious. )

[ As the demon slides across the dirt, Geralt presses forward, leaving both horse and Ciri further behind. It's the first time he's seen Dean's wings since they revealed themselves half-moulted months ago. Ragged, but not skeletal as they are now.

At least he needn't worry about flying demons.

He ducks the first swing, then the second, before parrying the third. Dean moves startlingly fast—a preternatural speed—but Geralt isn't holding back, either. The aim of sparring was to teach. The aim of this is to walk away in one piece. And though he doesn't know if it's true Dean can survive even his head being taken off, he can see Dean heal instantaneously. What remnant of hesitation he might've had about drawing too much blood vanishes with the scratches.

When the final blow falls, Geralt spins on his back foot. Their blades interlock. He shoves hard, twisting his grip and jerking the blade upwards to slice through flesh. His eyes are sharp, never moving off his target.

But it's hard for his full attention to be on Dean when Ciri remains in the picture, when he can hear her scrambling in the dirt. ]

( Fun fact for curious minds: he can survive having his head taken off. Abaddon did; devil's trap bullet to the brain to keep her from smoking out, and then a full decapitation. Somehow, the bitch spit the bullet out, sewed her head back on her neck, and promptly tore them a new asshole for it. Dean outranks Abaddon, so long as he bears this Mark.

Geralt's blade touches down, slicing cleanly through cheek, then nose, then worse.

His eyes shutter black as the edge of Geralt's sword begins to cut through his eyebrow. He smiles. The cut does not bleed. He doesn't with draw from it, doesn't shy away from the pain or the threat of losing an eye like most adversaries might. Instead, he leans into it, shifts his stance to send the pressure rounding off his body to one side, and jerks his elbow up to bash Geralt in the face with more strength than any human would have.

It won't stop Geralt either, he knows, he just wants to hear the satisfying sound of a broken nose. For shits and giggles. )

[ In the split second he's diverted (by the lack of blood, by the lack of any fucking reaction to being struck), he catches an elbow to the face. Dean receives the solid crunch he's waiting for. A trickle of blood drips toward the edge of his lip. His ears ring. For a blink, the sun shines too bright.

He steps back to create the distance he needs to whirl around. The momentum drives the arc of his sword; he lets it carry through into the next few swings. Landing a hit will do, but his true purpose is to disarm—the first rule of any fight involving weapons. Especially one with a demon who doesn't seem to feel much, if anything, at all. Had he the time, he might've sought Castiel or someone out for the requisite holy water. But once Ciri called for help, Geralt took off in an instant.

The terrain is flat, at least: hard dirt beneath their feet, tiny loose pebbles that skitter across the ground. Geralt isn't wearing anything except the lightweight cloth Jesper gave him, meant for projectiles and not for slicing blades. In the heat of the desert, armour isn't much of an advantage. He prefers to rely on his reflexes than his ability to take a blow. And he is fast, but he's not powered by a non-living entity. The longer the fight drags on, he knows the more he'll feel it—that there's an upturned hourglass to every battle he's in. ]

( In the end, the artist formerly known as Dean winds up fucking himself up a bit. It's familiar, this fight. This opponent. The rhythm may be faster, the blows may be harder and more unforgiving, but it's still familiar. Enough so that muscle memory steps in, his body knows that when Geralt whirls around he's likely to carry the momentum through with his sword. He knows there's an easier way to block it than to try and position his own sword in time.

He raises his off-hand forearm up intent to Sign himself a shield automatically, thoughtlessly.

Only for nary a god damn thing to happen. Nothing. Geralt's blade cuts deep into the meat, the muscle. It hits bone, and it's only his enhanced reflex speed that keeps him from getting the whole god damn limb severed then and there — he brings up his sword, uses it and his own friggin' Ulna to shove, and then rips himself backward out of immediate strike range.

Frankly, he looks more puzzled than hurt. Black eyes flick back to green again. )

What the hell? Oh, you gotta be kidding me.

( It doesn't work? Why doesn't it work? What horseshit is this? )

[ Geralt realizes precisely when Dean does, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. It's the first Sign he'd taught him, the first Sign where he'd really learned what would and would not work for Dean to grasp control of Chaos.

Hard to say what is more unexpected: that the demon attempted to use it on instinct (hasn't it got abilities of it's own?) or that it failed to cast.

It would be simpler, he thinks, if the demon carried no traces of the man it's occupying. But he can't let the thought seep in; they've crossed swords and Geralt knows there's only one way this will end.

He lets Dean break off. There's a time and place for pressing the attack. Instead, he waits: patient, watching to see how Dean will pivot next. Maybe to reorient his footing, too. His grip is firm on his sword. Dean may find him predictable, but Geralt hasn't got the same advantage—facing something familiar and yet wholly new. ]

( For a long, tense moment they stand yards apart, staring at one another. Where goading gleefulness once existed in the quirk of his lips and the corners of his back eyes, now instead lives a simmering irritation quickly melding into rage as it tends to do in demons. This realization of his newfound limitation is less than ideal, and it'll make winning this fight a little harder than he thought.

Whatever. He doesn't need it. It's useless bullshit.

Between one moment and the next, without any particular provocation, he's back in Geralt's business in an angry flurry of blows. The wings, also useless, only hold him back, and so they disappear into his shoulder blades as he sweeps his blade about. Less useless is the toothy knife that appears in his off-hand out of nowhere while Geralt's busy parrying his sword, which he thrusts forward at the easiest, most open unarmored space around his torso.

As quickly as the blade finds flesh, he rips it back out again. )

Lemme ask you a question, Geralt- don't you feel... the slightest bit guilty about all this?

[ Rage is good. Rage sometimes means carelessness. Geralt isn't the sort to go out of his way to anger in a fight, but he's more than willing to use it.

His sword flips to his left hand, deflecting the incoming steel. A shove drives them backwards against a rocky overhang. It leaves him open—he's fast enough to react to a dagger drawn, but Dean's knife isn't drawn. It flickers into being from thin air. The jagged teeth catch on flesh as it tears through. On instinct, he wraps his fingers around Dean's wrist. His nails are sharp. Maybe some catch as the demon yanks the knife out. Blood flows warm, sticky, between leather and linen.

The sharp flare between his ribs dulls as a rush floods through him. His eyes seep black. Inky, matching the demon. Darkened veins trail down his cheekbones. It's different, almost startling—all his senses opening up further. Familiar, and yet he's not felt it in months, years. Not since he set foot in this sphere.

He shouldn't answer. For a second, he doesn't. He does feel responsible. He feels responsible for a lot of things, for a lot of reasons. He's why the demon knows as much as he does about Ciri. A decision Geralt does not regret—he needed to trust Dean then, and Dean as he knew him did not betray his trust—but still a decision he made. But his entire life has been blood on his hands. For things he did, for things he refused to do. If there's something he learned young, across the decades, it's that if you will not choose the price you're ready to pay, the world will choose for you twice over. ]

It doesn't matter what I feel.

[ He kicks, aiming to slam his foot against Dean's knee—searching for that same crunch and snap of bone. ]

Edited 2023-05-29 18:14 (UTC)

( Fingernails do catch on skin, and they drag nice, neat lines down his hand. Like the rest of his surface wounds, they don't bleed, nor do they seem to particularly hurt him. What does, strangely enough, is the spatter of Geralt's own blood that lands on his forearm and bicep. It burns, and he hisses instinctively, jerking himself back. He glances down at where the droplets sizzle, at the mark on his forearm which flares suddenly hotter and brighter — and it distracts him enough that he doesn't even slightly anticipate that boot headed for his knee.

It crunches quite thoroughly, bones splintering, ligaments tearing. A demon though he might be, he still requires muscle connectivity and bone support to put his weight on that leg. Neither of those things he currently has, and so it buckles under him.

He slashes out haphazardly at Geralt's thigh, hoping to hit that dangerous artery that could easily bleed a human out. )

I'm just- saying, ( He grunts, kicking off with his good leg into a roll and tumble away to get that space again. He needs distance, at least for a few seconds, for his knee to put itself together. Breathlessly: ) It's your fault. You knew what was happening to me. You could've stopped it before I became this. If not for me, then for your kid.

[ His gaze snaps to the sizzle, then at Dean's face. What—? The small part of his brain still engaged in real thought tells him it's the corrosive substance in his claws and to move on. So he does, pressing the advantage as the demon crumples on his bad leg.

Good to know broken bones will do something despite Dean's continued lack of pain. Unlike before, Geralt is moving as though his wounds don't hurt, either. They bleed as expected, dripping down his side, his leg where the blade catches—though the pump of his heart is slow, keeps the gashes from spilling blood as quickly. Maybe he's starting to limp a touch, too. But his responses seem to be physical. Things his body can't help doing when injured.

Geralt's attention is elsewhere. Fixed on his target. He could hear the birds before, but now he can pinpoint each one from a distance. The grains of sand shifting under his feet. It's nearly overwhelming; he has not taken his elixirs for ages, and normally, he prepares for it. Fuck if he knows how or why it triggered, but right now, he hasn't the time to dwell.

Instead, he tries to close the space before Dean can get too far and recover. He flips his sword over his wrist, slashing downward at the same time he throws out another Aard blast. There's a strength behind it that wasn't there the first time. If more blood drips on Dean, it might burn even hotter, like he's bleeding poison directly from his veins.

A low snarl rumbles in his chest. The demon's refusal—or inability—to put on even a facsimile of emotion, of still being Dean somewhere deep down, only makes it easier to separate the face he's looking at from the man he came close to calling a brother. Perhaps he should have stopped him sooner. Or perhaps he would have merely called forth the demon sooner by putting an end to Dean. Whatever the branching paths, the monster he faces is not the one he owes an explanation to.

(Poor, poor Witchers. You truly feel everything.) ]

( 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?

Edited 2023-05-29 21:57 (UTC)

[ The second scorching smear of blood catches his attention more thoroughly. That, the smell of something human beneath, trickling.

He moves to pin the demon against the wall rising behind them. His blade is in his hand to drive it through or take a head off at the shoulders. Then he falters, abrupt. If not for the distinct smell of human blood, he might not have stopped. But in combination with Dean's sudden shift in expression, he can't help hesitating.

(I came back here. I thought you could help me.)

It doesn't last long. He knows better, knows not to let himself fall into this sort of trap. Even were anything to remain, it is not enough to stay his hand after everything. Not when Ciri needs him. But it's still a second where he doesn't follow through with his next strike, and a second where Dean has room to retaliate. ]

( That's all he needs. That fleeting hesitation, that's all it takes for his joints to pop back into socket, for bone to meld, for muscles to mend.

Humans, Witchers, whatever. They're both the same, they both have the same weakness. Big, stupid hearts with big, stupid feelings.

He grins wickedly, and then launches himself forward, tackling Geralt to the ground. That's the thing about swords; up this close, they're hard to swing. Hard to get momentum. Hard to get leverage. His best bet is to work the floor game, grapple the son of a bitch long enough to shove this cursed dagger through neck or heart or head and be done with it. )

[ Even the smallest mistakes are costly.

Geralt catches the demon straight to the chest. He rolls with the momentum, skidding across rough dirt and rocky ground. Dust showers the air. He wraps one leg over to try and flip himself on top. Dean has that jagged knife; the edge isn't sharp—to say the least—but it needn't be sharp to kill in Dean's hands, and he's mindful that for all the damage he can take, he still has a beating heart to preserve.

True: his sword is optimal with some distance, but Geralt's learned to adapt when he hunts everything from wyverns to wraiths with it. And a weapon is a weapon.

He grasps the blade of the sword with his other hand, slamming the pommel down—or upwards, if he's trapped beneath—towards Dean's face. ]

( They're suddenly and temporarily even in the broken nose department; Geralt's pommel smashes him square in the nose hard enough to not only break it, but to send splinters of bone upward in a move that would be highly dangerous to anyone of the slightly more human variety. His sword goes skittering a foot or so away, and it's a minor miracle his other hand manages to clutch onto the First Blade.

The whole thing does a good job freeing up a little space — if only because of the sheer force of it, he recoils, rising up and away a foot or two. Their legs remain tangled, threaded, hips on hips in the dirt, but it's nothing Geralt can't overcome. He earns himself the perfect opportunity to flip things in his favor before Dean can get his bearings again.

Under his breath, a snarled: )

Son of a bitch-

[ Deep down, some part of him wants to be able to pull back. To find an out, one that brings his friend back whole and rewinds all this shit that's happened.

He knows that time passed long ago. Perhaps longer than any of them could comprehend—months back when Dean first appeared with the Mark on his arm. They'll never know. There was never an opportunity to find out.

He doesn't hesitate again. Once was all the lesson he needed. The instant he has his chance, he forces Dean onto his back and pins him down. ]

(( sliding them on this way ))

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