ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛᴇᴏᴜs ᴍᴀɴ ( ᴊᴇɴɴɪғᴇʀ ᴀɴᴋʟᴇs ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
righteously) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2023-05-20 02:32 pm
righteously) wrote in abraxaslogs2023-05-20 02:32 pm
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
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.
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
no subject
Sudden desperate fear—or is it disbelief? betrayal? had she thought? started to believe in some smallest silent buried part of herself?—turns itself inside out with a just as alarming snap somewhere else when Jo moves before she can process it. The faint sheen of r e d dusts her vision, collecting hard at the edges suddenly. That she's leaped her saddle, the ground coming at her alarming fast. But her feet catch under her fine, and somehow, even expecting it, it doesn't hurt, and she's using the recoil from it to sprint toward them already, pulling out her sword.
That shouldn't have. She shouldn't be.
She'll question it later.
Now her eyes are only on the sword poised above Dean's body. ]
Geralt, don't!
no subject
I need you.
Dean does.
castiel jerks awake from a vivid, visceral dream of home. metatron, dean's demonic resurrection, the return of his grace. eerie as the memories of abraxas filter back in, and he's seeing the world in double vision as it all sifts out. the spell to remove the mark, amara, god. a disturbing period in which he rode sidecar to lucifer piloting his vessel. mary, and her scathing anger when he'd lost her sons.
billie. the stupid deal the brothers made that he broke.
i will not let you die
he wakes with a fury in his bones and a fire in his chest as his returned grace courses a wave of celestial power through his ailing body, lighting it up from the inside. jo's words ring a cry for help through his mind, and the reaction is automatic, carried on from only seconds before. the fierce, guardian surge that possessed him to slay the reaper still hums under his skin when he finds the note left for him. after some hunting, a sorcerer somewhere in cadens gets a bag of probably too much cash tossed in their face with an aggressive, threatening demand for a teleportation spell.i won't let you sacrifice yourselves
you mean too much to me
geralt's ready to bring his blade down, dean's begging for an end, and jo's on the charge, sword ready, with sam not far behind. before she's able to reach him, an explosion of a spell and a brilliant, searing, white light erupts at geralt's side. ]
Cover your eyes.
[ castiel's voice over his shoulder, to jo, as a strong wind whips the dust and sand around them, and the light builds to pain unless shielded, a sharp, rising heat against the skin. it's a compressed supernova that's visible on the horizon for miles and miles. the scent of ozone sizzles through the air — it's more than light, it's the living energy of something massive leaking through it's pitiful container, it's charged, like a precursor to lightning.
a trench coated hand snatches at the back of geralt's armor and yanks him off dean like a kitten snapped up by the scruff of its neck. he's launched in the opposite direction, from whence he came, some ten yards or so. as the light begins to dim, they'll see castiel standing tall, and at his back, the silhouette of wings stretch wide and high, singed feathers damaged but half still clinging to bone. ]
I don't want to hurt you, Geralt.
[ please stay down. ]
no subject
It doesn't matter who's calling for him. It does not matter that he can see the change overcome Dean—a look in his eyes that Geralt can't decipher. (His heart aches.) He will not allow the demon to take Ciri. Until it's stopped, she will not be safe.
Only the blazing light snaps his head around. He glances up a split second before he's launched through the air—body twisting on instinct. It's a fall that would snap a few bones were he human. He is not. He lands on his side, shoulder absorbing the impact, rolling with it onto his hands and knees. Sword lost in the sand, he snatches the dagger from his boot.
He's the one who informed them that Dean's here. Though he does not regret it—it was impossible to gauge how his battle with the demon would turn out—he understands full well where their priorities lie.
And it is not with Ciri.
He rises to his feet. His fight isn't with Castiel. Not unless the angel forces it so. The last thing he needs is a distraction that lets Dean reach her. ]
Do not stand between me and my daughter.
no subject
Respect for the man remains, and solidifies the suspicion he won’t be cowed so easily. His friendship with Geralt filters back through the heavy memories of home rapidly dumped into his mind, but the desperate need to protect roars at the forefront. Castiel’s acutely aware of the demon behind him desecrating Dean’s soul, and shoots a sharp look as the blue glow fades from his eyes, not completely losing sight of Geralt in his periphery. ]
Stay down.
[ cas all but growls at the demon wearing his best friend’s face, voice all gravel and promises of retribution should he disobey. He trusts Jo and Sam to handle Dean while he’s occupied with the witcher gone dad level murder mode.
There’s probably better ways, more diplomatic, more pacifistic ways to go about this, but Castiel loses sight of those ideals the moment family’s threatened (Dean’s threatened). It isn’t lost on him how this altercation is a clash of two deeply similar traits they share, something Castiel’s admired Geralt for. He can’t blame him for the extremes gone to in protection of his daughter, and for the same reason, he can’t give back anything less than equal. There’s hardly limits on what Cas would do to protect his loved ones, so he assumes the same. It’s unfortunate, but he won’t underestimate what Geralt’s capable of. ]
You will not touch Dean again.
[ Spoken to the tune of you shall not pass. He vaults towards Geralt, well aware of how formidable the Witcher is and determined to keep him from gaining even an inch of ground back towards his charge. Dust kicks up in a red cloud around the two as Cas slams into him. Hands grab at Geralt’s throat, wrestle for his sword arm. No angel blades, he isn’t interested in grievously wounding him, only establishing some measure of control, as he seethes. ]
Find your daughter and leave.
no subject
He can only see red.
Sam feels demonic, too. Thoughts flood in at the idea of Geralt raising his sword to his brother and the snarling gnash of teeth on flesh splashes his vision with image after image of vengeance. If Geralt completes his mission, Sam won't stop. He knows he won't. Not for Jo, not for Cas, not for anyone—
But then Cas' blinding fury overcomes Sam's, a millionfold of angelic wrath. Its cast leaves spots on Sam's eyes but he can't look to see what the angel's doing to Geralt because his focus is tensely placed on subduing his brother. ]
Dean!
[ Sam is at a full run, shoulder low as he charges to take Dean off-balance. The Mark allows Dean to do so much more, all Sam can think to do against it is buy time. For Cas, for Jo, for Geralt to get Ciri and get the fuck away from them—
He makes a show of it, a primal yell in his brother's ear as he flings his arms around him and grips tight. Dean's likely to ragdoll him away, but it's seconds they need, just seconds. ]
no subject
Gotta say, not exactly how he figured this was gonna go down. Not that he's really complaining, considering the pair of them seem too distracted with each other to do jack squattery about him.
Jo is ignored.
Sam is ignored — at first, at least.
His boots scrape until they find purchase in the dirt, and he bolts in Ciri's direction, fully intending to grab her and shoulder her like a fireman just to book it full tilt away from the scene of the chaos.
Except one refrigerator-sized hunk of squandered dreams and dead girlfriends shoulder-checks him. The two of them go tumbling over one another with the momentum of it, and anger floods him. He finds his feet before Sam. Latches one single hand around Sam's beefy throat, and raises him entirely up off of his feet.
Black eyes stare into Sam's face, and not a hint of that brotherly love exists in the demon. It is nowhere to be found in his expression. No mercy, no hesitation. )
Touch me again and I'll snap your neck.
( At that, he slings Sam backward toward the two battling non-human beefcakes several yards behind him.
And turns his sights back on Ciri, his desperate ticket out of here. )
no subject
But neither can she find it in herself to turn and run. With her grip white-knuckled on the reins, she waits, and tries to make out what is happening. Others are on their way. She knows; she spoke with Jo, and though the conversation was hardly encouraging, Ciri is at least aware that it's likely Jo and anyone joining her are close behind Geralt.
As it turns out, they're very close indeed. And so is Castiel. One thing follows another before Ciri can quite catch up to what is going on. The flash of light nearly blinds her, the sharp scent of ozone in the air and a crackling of energy that makes the hairs on the backs of her arms stand on end, even at a distance. Eyes watering, she searches for Geralt as the brightness recedes, and finds the demon wearing Dean instead.
It's making a beeline for her, sidelined only briefly by Dean's towering brother, whose imposing physical form apparently doesn't mean a damn thing to a monster. Sam's flung aside as easily as if he weighed about as much as a kitten.
And Dean is once again, very quickly, becoming her problem. ]
You will not take me again. [ She snarls, under her breath, a promise to herself more than something meant for Dean.
Even on the horse, she knows it's unlikely she can outrun a monster with the speed she's seen. She doesn't even bother.
Ciri yanks Roach around, turning squarely to face Dean as he approaches. If she were alone, she might have chosen differently. But she is not alone; her allies merely need a few moments to catch up. All she has to do is give them an opening.
She isn't practiced doing this intentionally, but there's no time to overthink. With a sharp, deep breath, Ciri gathers up the feeling of the chaos inside her, and with it, the rage. Anger, betrayal, frustration and fear, all pulled into a vicious, single-minded focus on Dean.
And unleashed in an earsplitting, prolonged shriek that crashes into him like a pickaxe to the head. ]
no subject
First, the entirety of the clusterfuck. Several men fighting, Ciri on a horse, Geralt getting his ass kicked. So far he can deduce: it's going not well.
Then, the scenes.
The blinding light that fires ahead of them as Sam rides and Jaskier flies. The look exchanged between them.
Getting closer: a large behemoth of someone who is shot away from Dean, presumably a demon, like a fly in the face of a man. Dean, who is moving towards --
The scream that he already knows the owner of without fully seeing her, which does not ripple through the air like it has before, but is pointed, he thinks -- like a magic bomb.
Castiel, who Jaskier can recognize even through the dust, with his hands around Geralt's throat.
Jaskier knows that he must help Ciri, but there are two things he's quite aware of: Dean is barely bothered by a man much larger than Jaskier himself, and also, the threat of his entrails being pulled outside of his body has lingered for, say... since Geralt mentioned it. Only one person can help Ciri at this moment.
Having learned well from his experiences in the mountain (and his solid face-plant and fainting into the snow,) Jaskier's small wings snap him down towards Geralt and Castiel, breaking away from Sam without explanation. As if there's any fucking time for it, staring at this -- this clusterfuck.
Jaskier lands, and in an instant the sandpiper becomes the man. No announcement, no shouting of his demand for Castiel to get his fucking hands off his friend -- Jaskier has no intention of giving Castiel time to react. One magic exchanges for another as the ground splits open beside the tussling men. Vines, thick and roiling, rip through sand and dust to curl around Castiel. They ripple and curl around his body as they encircle him and forcibly tear him away from Geralt.
A commendable act of bravery, but not without a heavy swallow and a pitter-pattering bird heart in his chest. This is a terrible, awful fucking idea, and it's far too late to regret it. (Please don't choke him next --)
Jaskier's boots slip in the sand as he goes to grab Geralt's hand, tugging at him.] He's going for Ciri! Hurry!
no subject
Straight towards Ciri.
There's a low snarl from his throat. He'll feel it later, every ache and wound, but right now, it's just the burning in his veins and an all-consuming instinct to survive. Even before the vines rush out of the ground, Geralt's bringing his hand up—claws extended to swipe across Castiel's face. He doesn't stop to see whether he makes contact, if he drew blood.
It's Jaskier, he knows (when the fuck did Jaskier arrive?) He hasn't time to spare his friend a glance or ask questions. He can't hear Ciri's scream directed only at Dean. All he knows is a threat is moving in his daughter's direction. That neither the brother nor Jo as mere humans are a match for the demon, that Castiel is far too tangled in his fucking attachments to give a shit about anyone except the echoing void of the man he once loved.
Hardly unexpected. Geralt's family is his. No one will put his people ahead of their own. He wouldn't for anyone, either.
It'd be a lie to say that he's relying on Dean to survive nearly anything in this state. A small part of him hopes—but the reality is, his primary objective is doing what he's always done: protect his daughter.
At the first opening, Geralt rolls out from under Castiel and snatches the rifle half-buried in the sand. Time spent with Dean has made him familiar with the weapon. He braces for the noise, aims directly at the demon's head, and pulls the trigger. ]
no subject
The Demon.
Jo's gaze snaps back to the Demon, suddenly full-on under that barrage, and she fucking sprints for him. She had no other thought but a head-on collision with his crumpling form. Taking advantage of the distraction of Ciri's attack, throwing herself full-scale right into Dean. Even if it throws her in the same path of that scream—and everything is pain inside of that, blurry and blasting, pain that feeds that redness in her vision, making it brighter and brighter—it's the best distraction they might have.
The fear that should come—she watched him throw Geralt like he was nothing, Sam even less; remembers all the destruction that Ciri's scream caused in The Maze—but the fear doesn't, and maybe she'll question that later, too. Not the soft untouchableness that has coated everything the last month and a half made it easier to push past things. This is something more. Something that blots that fear out all but entirely for pure anger. Winnows down on slamming into Dean, taking him down, helping Ciri and herself, two birds. Right now, it's just so goddamn fucking easy, and that's b e t t e r than anything else.
There's never been a question of whether Jo loved Dean or how much she would lay on that alter without a single blink. The first has been a given for most of forever; the second lived rent-free in her nightmares since early last fall. She's already died once (t w i c e), putting her body between Dean and something attacking him (before it and after it, both, she is gordian knotted to that forever now); there's nothing in her that would do any less now against something stupid enough to trespass into taking over him, too. ]
no subject
As it stands, for a moment it feels an awful lot like his brain is going to explode out of his fucking head. Knight of Hell or no, he's frozen, suspended by the unrelenting assault of it. The power that washes over him with every heartbeat, wom, wom, wom.
His fist clenches. The muscles in his forearms tense. He strains, ligaments bulging, arteries popping, one single step barely mustered in Ciri's direction.
Then comes Jo, barreling in like a freight train. She slams into him, knocking him loose his rigid state with a surprising amount of athleticism for her tiny form.
As it so happens, she makes a pretty convenient outlet for his rage.
The man she loves backhands her so hard she's sent airborne, flying a dozen yards easy toward an unforgiving, unempathetic hunk of rock. It does not yield for her skull, nor her spine. He watches her land, waiting for the satisfying crack of one or the other, or both.
Except that neither come.
A glow from beneath her shirt, an energy familiar to her but weeks-long lacking in the body of the man it came from, surrounds her. Fills her heart, her ribs, the places in her bones that should be broken. A snarl of frustration escapes him, and he means to advance on her to finish what he started after he rips that necklace from around her throat. To end her, to finally start dropping these sons of bitches one after another until they're all dead.
And then his head does, actually, fucking explode.
Well, kind of. A bullet bursts through it, spraying the ground in front of him and leaving a smoking hole in his forehead.
His entire body ragdolls, and he drops into the dirt.
Until the bullet wound slowly... knits.... itself closed, and he sucks in a gasping inhale. )
Um, ow?
( Holy crap that sucked.
It's gonna take him a second to recover — perfect time to lock his ass down, gang. )
no subject
That's the face that meets Jaskier when the angel's cold focus shifts to him, vines curling tight around him. There's little resembling the hapless hobo from the alley in desperate need of fashion advice and a fancy hat. For an instant, it does look like the bard's about to have a real bad time, but nothing comes from it. Jaskier’s human. Sending him flying might break something important, and angry as he is, murder remains strictly off the table.
Least of all when he watches, heart lodged in his throat, as Jo's sent careening towards a rocky end, as Geralt fires off a bullet that rips through Dean's skull. In one horrifying moment that seems to drag on for eternity, Castiel's terrified he's lost both of them. The world drops out from beneath him, gravity suspends, time is a cruel, still, endless ocean stretched horizon to horizon without current or hope. ]
No!
[ The word rakes up Castiel’s throat as an inhuman wail, broken and haunting with a faint, high-pitched ring singing beneath it. Frozen for that handful of seconds, Cas strains to hear any sign of life in either - breathing, a heartbeat, a murmur - before Jo's necklace glows, before Dean's crumbled body jerks back to life. Relief like a flood, and then fury.
A burst of telekinetic energy shoots out from him, shredding the vines and kicking up another small dust storm. From within it, Cas barrels into Geralt like an 18-wheeler late for delivery, with no regard for the life and rights of compact cars.
Snarling, Castiel's head whips forward, smashing brutally against Geralt’s, solid as a steel, splattering the black-red mess from his wounds into the Witcher's face. Whatever punches he was pulling before apparently forgotten, he headbutts him a second time, and a third. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he's pretty sure Geralt can survive it. The rest of him is just pissed (and afraid, so goddamn afraid). Meanwhile, that rifle is not long for this world. Whether or not he can yank the rifle from Geralt’s grip, the second he has two hands on, it starts to bend. The barrel warps and whines a sharp, screeching squeal until it's curved at a useless angle. He's always disliked guns. ]
no subject
The bullet is a shocking noise and the strange silence that follows is actually a roar in Sam's head so loud it's deafened Sam to everything. The entirety of the world pinpoints in on Dean and it's only when Dean breaths that Sam can again.
Fuck, that felt close.
Making no effort to telegraph his intent, he's back on Dean, dirty hands grasping and pulling until he's got Dean up on his feet. He's a parasite, then, like a backpack under Dean's arms and around his shoulders, fingers linked behind his neck, holding on and holding on. ]
They will kill you.
[ The warning is hissed through Sam's sore, tight throat, barely croaked as he tries to use his greater height and the leverage of his position to subdue Dean before more blood is shed. He's trying to drag him back, pull him away, tear the demon from its purpose to save the man beneath the tar-black before it's too damn late. ]
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from there on out, it's just a matter of getting this done. jaskier dives off first, peeling down to where cas and geralt are wound up with each other, and red follows. he's quicker than sam and his wings, so when sam turns and joins the dive downward, he's a few seconds behind. just enough to hear what part of him thinks is a scream, but also...there's no way it can be, is there? he's able to parse out very basic information while he's in dive - that castiel and geralt are at each other's throat, that the demon in dean is superhuman in more ways than one; there are other bodies, ciri on roach's back and a blinding light that comes from jo and then another too, but sam's attention snaps back to what he focuses on first, and what he thinks he can focus on.
it's going to take a lot more than a couple of hands to slow whatever that demon is down, and sam's attention is on the two arguably most powerful of the group, whose attention appears to instead be on each other. and so sam dives, pulling up (and putting arguably a bit too much strain on his wings, but that's something for viktor to worry about later) at the last second and his boots hitting the ground with a thud, just about the same moment the shot rings out. it's only another step or two before he's physically putting himself between cas and geralt - he knows it's a risk, judging by the heat in their previous exchanges and the amount of blood, but it's one he's willing to take.
( and if there is any sort of calm feeling to the air, it's less directed and more a general sort of aura emitting from sam. something that might subtly get the two of them to listen, rather than react. ) ]
Y'all, there are bigger things to worry about than each other. [ a glance over to the demon shows him breathing again, and shows the other man grabbing onto him and hauling him back up. with his hands up between geralt and cas, sam's attention is on the angel, knowing that's where he's going to make headway there. he knows where geralt's focus is - it's ciri, and it will always be ciri, and jaskier has that direction handled - but cas' will be dean. ] You got a plan for him? Cause now's the time.
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—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. ]
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It appear to be a retreat, Cas rapidly moving back towards Dean and the others. Sam Wilson wants a stop to the fighting, and Cas hopes he'll intercede if Geralt lunges again, but he can't risk either Jo or his own Sam being thrown into rocks again. ]
Your daughter, Geralt. Go. [ Ciri’s defended herself effectively, the three of them have a window to fuck off with. In Castiel’s mind, it’s over, end of conflict. ] Dean's ours.
[ he didn’t miss Sam’s harsh whisper, they will kill you, and the other Sam’s request for a plan. Once close enough, he motions Dean's brother to make room and takes up the space, twists Dean's arm up behind his back, looping his own over Dean's chest to seatbelt him in against Cas's torso. He turns enough he can half-shield Dean with his body from Geralt, should he choose to javelin a sword or dagger at them. finally, with a minimal, piano wire tense space to breathe and collect his mind, he can get back to Sam Wilson's original ask - a plan.
a stuttered moment passes, as he filters back through the intense dream he emerged from, panicked and desperate to bring dean back under his protective proverbial wing (from prison, from Billie, from six weeks of not knowing if he's alive, from his own failure to ensure his safety), and the years of events cluttered in. he frowns, shakes his head, and it comes from him like an abrupt realization. ]
It’s reversible. This happens back home, we— [ A pauses, another second of thinking, interrupted by a nervous glance to check geralt isn't inching too close, isn't reaching for weapons, and he shoots a look to Sam Winchester. He'll understand, he can translate to the others, so Cas can keep his focus on the time bomb in his arms, and the feral beast stalking round. ] We reversed it with the last trial from the Demon Tablet, like Crowley.
[ you know the one, with the purifying and the human blood and the syringes. ]
The Mark was removed with a spell from the Book of the Damned.
[ That’s the harder sell. No book here, no Rowena. They still need an alternative, unless Cas can somehow regurgitate what pieces he saw and utterly did not understand of the spell. Highly unlikely. But this problem, the demon, they can solve. So long as Geralt doesn’t kill him first. ]
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It is a wonder Sam is there. Because Jaskier could easily die here; it is not an idle thought he has that he must be the most vulnerable of all the people here. He is not a hunter, or a soldier, or a healer, or a Witcher. He's jsut a fucking tired, aching, angry man.
As Sam protects the two of them, so does Jaskier move in front of Geralt, a hand on his chest before he can stride any closer. He doesn't know the full picture of what the fuck is happening here -- he came only knowing Ciri and Geralt were, once again, in deep shite -- but he knows that Geralt and Castiel clashing (even if Castiel is a stupid piece of shite at the moment, in Jaskier's eyes) isn't getting anything but Geralt bloodied. He isn't a monster to be put down. It's no longer fucking simple, if his people can stand up after their heads have been turned to pulp.]
Geralt, stop! [He glances at Sam, then Ciri; she's safe, for the moment, and he will go to her, but first, he has to stop Geralt from getting his head ripped off by an unrighteous fool. Back to Geralt's face. To him, there's nothing surprising about the black veins or the ceaseless void that his eyes become. But this fight Geralt is in is not a hunt. Not for Castiel.] Isn't this exactly what demons want? Pain? I know you're afraid for Ciri, but you're helping it happen all over again.
[Or maybe that was only the one. He doesn't know. And he could choke out every person here for leaving him so in the dark, but that's for another time -- Jaskier's hand moves to Geralt's arm, holding his weapon down.] Stop. Please. You are not dying here, for him. For them. We'll subdue him, then take Ciri and go. [Jaskier turns back to them -- a bunch of strangers, at this point, who have come for his people. He suspects they feel the same. Castiel might have planned on breaking him a moment before, but Jaskier still meets his eyes as he crosses the no man's land growing between them.
He takes a deep breath, wishing he was anywhere but here.] I don't care what the fuck you do with him after this, but let me help. [As long as he's gone. Away from Ciri.] I won't hurt him, but I can -- I can sedate him. I can try. I'm sure it will work. You can trust me. I haven't killed a man in my life.
[Which sounds like a comedic plea, but it's entirely true. And maybe that bears remarking upon among all these... ah. Hunters.
As long as they are gone from here, away from this demon. As soon as possible. As soon as they can make sure Ciri is all right.]
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This is the man he loves, who he abandoned heaven for, severed his connection to the divine, became hunted and hated by his brothers and sisters, and still doesn’t regret a second of it. He gave everything, all he’s known since the Earth first coalesced together from ambient gasses and base elements. Cas fought tooth and nail to drag him from hell without ever knowing him, and now Dean’s become some immovable, irreplaceable piece of whatever passes for a soul in him. His most harrowing nightmare is losing him.
There was no scenario Castiel wouldn’t have fought like a creature possessed to keep him from harm. He has no intention at all of hurting Jaskier, Sam or Ciri, but he does eye the bard warily when he approaches. Less aggressive, more hugging Dean tighter to his chest, pulling him in to shield him from the others. If his wings were visible to the human eye, they’d see them cocooned around the demon in his arms.
This close, it’s impossible to miss the fierce but unsteady panic in Castiel’s eyes, the way his fingers curl protectively, possessively, lovingly against his frame. There’s a thick, emotional tremor under the low gravel of his voice and sharp set of his jaw. ]
How? What do you plan to do to him?
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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.]
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Not a thought she got, though, when the velocity of that back strike has her slamming into one very large, very sturdy, very not going to give rock face, and the weirdest thing happens. She feels the places her body slams; clothes rip on jagged crags, skin splitting, bones giving a warning bend, pain an electric crescendo everywhere, jarring, drowning red before everything is suddenly, violently, blindingly BLUE.
Warmth floods her body, even as Jo buffets, still in movement,
from the rock to the ground, clouds of dirt getting in her mouth and nose.
She's coughing even as she feels the little orb, hot against the skin of her chest, shatter, harmless pieces falling out the bottom of her shirt. Disorienting clarity, like someone rang a bell straight through her head. She knows there isn't time to stay down, but even as she's getting up, willing her thoughts and vision to clear, she can hear Dean again. (Haunted eyes and rough voice, her hand on his cheek, and possibly still her blood on his.)
But if something lethal were to go down...
Jo shoves it back. (He did it.) She has to. (He—)
Away. Into her magically not broken bones, as she starts sprinting back.
There is no time to celebrate a fluke miracle when this isn't over. Everyone's converged on one point now, with Dean all caught up in the passive-restrain of Cas' hold, the mania of his expression, half-shielding the demon with his body, when Jo slides herself in with the two of them and Sam. Miracle of miracles, people are actually talking and not throwing punches finally, and even catching up mid-conversation; Jo looks around for where Ciri is now, among the other group of them. ]
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Luckily, Jaskier is closer, responds faster. (And, from somewhere, the other fucking Sam also appears, so there's that.)
It's an actual motherfucking circus out here.
Panting, leaning down against Roach's neck, Ciri gets the mare to back up a few more steps, warily keeping an eye on the situation from a distance until Dean appears mostly subdued. She has no intention of getting anywhere near him again, but tries to find where Geralt's ended up, and in how many pieces. ]
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But they also cannot seem to kill it. That much is clear, too. Whether they destroy him or save him, they will need another way. Jaskier is not wrong; there isn't much else to be done here as things stand other than tear each other apart.
When he hears Ciri move, his gaze finally drops from Jaskier. He strides across the bloodstained sand towards her. The world is just a bit too loud, too bright, heartbeats that drum against his ears. He'll probably feel like shit later, but right now, he pushes it aside.
He takes Ciri's arm. She's bruised, but otherwise unharmed. Still, the demon isn't the only threat. The unforgiving desert will not let them linger long, and Ciri is only human. Whatever the angel's plan is, its explanation will have to wait.
For the moment, he wants to be sure Ciri is equally willing to walk away, if there isn't anything else he should know the others may not realize. (Or tell him.) She's the one the demon went after—and she's the one who spent the most time with it. Spoke to it. He trusts her judgment. ]