Tʜᴇʀᴇ's ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛᴀᴄʜᴇ ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ

[righteously]

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

Comments

[gynvael]

[ 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. ]

[righteously]

( 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.

[gynvael]

[ 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.) ]

[righteously]

( 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?

[gynvael]

[ 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. ]

[righteously]

( 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. )

[gynvael]

[ 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. ]

[righteously]

( 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-

[gynvael]

[ 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 ))