( Geralt doesn't talk about his past that much. These short little admissions, brief as they are, get meticulously memorized and filed away in the mental repository Dean's been keeping on the guy since they met. That folder started out tiny, but over the course of the last nearly two years, he'd like to think he knows a respectable amount.

Enough to have less than stellar opinions about Geralt's mother. Not that he's got any right to have any opinions at all, but he can't help it. What he knows about her stands in direct odds with his protect my people instinct.

She abandoned him. Screw her.

He snorts gently at the kind reminder; the sound distorts in the rim of the moonshine jar as he brings it to his lips to take a swig — though not nearly as hearty a swallow as he'd have done a few months ago. The subject matter is serious, but he's... maybe in a better place now than he's been in a long time. Without the driving force of the Mark and all the baggage it entails weighing on him, he can cope with stress a little better. )

Yeah, that too.

( He says after a swallow, voice a little rough from the burn of it.

Seems as good a time as any to take a break, so he lowers himself carefully down onto his designated Car Stuff Stool. Absently wipes his free hand off on his jeans, though really all it does is transfer grease from denim to skin and back again, accomplishing nothing. )

Anyway, I talked to him about it. Cas, I mean. Jo, too. We, uh... ( He hesitates, awkwardly scratches at the back of his hair. ) Well, I guess we kinda took a page out of your book, so. Thanks for that.

( Appreciate the sexagonal inspiration, bro. )