abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] though my feet my rest

[ While Dean wrenches, Geralt opens the jar for another drink. The weather's often mild here—warm, but not too warm, and after too many months on the desert, he's beginning to appreciate mild more than ever. ]

Mm-hm. [ His gaze lingers on Dean. He's returned to looking thoughtful. ] That's not the only smell on you.

[ Were it anyone else, Geralt would've let the observation pass by. Not his business, not his problem to find out. Unfortunately for Dean, he's reached the stage in friendship with Geralt where Geralt will, in fact, choose to prod at certain things.

He's curious, that's all. Considering Castiel came to him for love advice, he thinks they've already crossed the private affairs line, anyhow. ]

( You're gonna have to excuse him — the last time Geralt told him he smelled weird, it was a Mark thing. It stops him short, has him reacting a little too quickly, straightening up to shoot Geralt a bemused look. What, like burning?

A glance down at his forearm - nope, still Markless. Probably not that.

Following the glance, a slightly less than discreet sniff-test of his armpit area — ya boy's a neat freak with good hygiene, this is the Horizon, he gets his fake-real cologne crap here, no medieval sad organic deodorant. )

What's your problem with Private Reserve? It's leather musk. That's basically you in a bottle.

[ He follows Dean's eyes to where the Mark once sat. There's a shake of his head—not that.

No, this is...less alarming. Interesting, but not alarming.

Geralt doesn't let the mystery linger. He switches out wrench for ratchet, then clarifies with the nonchalance of weather observation: ]

Your angel. You worked things out.

[ Whether Geralt means he smells it here or he'd noticed it at some point in Cadens is left unexplained. It matters none. He'd have caught the scent eventually, and from there, it's only a case of Dean asking him How long have you known?

May as well address it now. And besides, whatever tension remains between he and Castiel, Geralt doesn't wish him ill. If they're happy—that's good. Fuck knows they could all use a bit of it in their lives. ]

( Your angel — another moment of confusion that lingers, because wait, wouldn't he smell like Cas normally? Like, all the time? Isn't that just- a normal- how is that different-

A beat.

Then it hits, like a truck full of dildos. )

Oh, crap- you can- ( He glances around as though checking for filthy imaginary eavesdroppers, leans in an unnecessary extra few inches to harshly whisper: ) You can smell- ( Hrngh ) -that?

( Sex. He means sex. Specifically, his sex. With men. Or- angel. Cas. Whatever. )

Seriously?

[ A vaguely startled expression flicks across Geralt's face. Is it possible he's surrounded himself by too many of Jaskier's and Julie's disposition? For nearly his entire existence?

Perhaps. He still finds Dean's inability to be straightforward about it...different. ]

Don't shit yourself. [ The remark carries some fondness, though. He leans back against the open hood. Were they only fucking to fuck, Geralt would not have taken much note. This is more than that. ] He came to me, you know. It weighed on him.

[ He doesn't add more than that. Dean must've realized, no? The thoughts that lingered in Castiel after all that transpired. Geralt isn't sure if what he said then helped—but something must've pushed them towards this path, eventually. ]

( Look- shut up, his disposition is fine, okay. Just- it's fine when it's about anyone other than himself. When it's about him, suddenly he discovers the meaning of the word modesty or something.

He's coming around. Just let him get over this initial awkward little first hurdle. He hasn't really... talked about it with anybody that isn't also involved in the bang triangle.

Tribangle?

Anyway.

He huffs gently at don't shit yourself, but the razzing does take some of the edge off. Has him settling back those few inches and shaking his head at his engine, which is suddenly Very Important to Study while they talk.

He chews the inside of his cheek for a second, and then answers with — surprise surprise — some measure of seriousness. )

I know. I, uh- ( There's a pause, while he sifts through the right words. ) I didn't know... how he felt, until after I turned. After that, it's like I could see without the blinders, you know? I-

( This is hard. It's a complicated topic, one he doesn't feel nearly articulate enough to speak on — in part because he doesn't feel like he's smart enough to do the subject justice, but also because it involves analyzing a lot of his own hang-ups, something he's never a fan of doing voluntarily.

Eventually, as he talks, his hands still beneath the hood. He stares at nothing, stands still, and just lets the words roll out of him in a slow stream. )

Where I'm from, my world... in some regions, or to some social groups, it's... taboo. Controversial, there's a whole political... religious... back and forth about it. Two guys, people of the same sex, being- together-... there are judgmental assholes that put kind of a stigma on the whole... thing. I always said to each their own, let people be happy and everybody else mind your own damn business, who cares, but... The way I was raised, my dad...

( Another pause, because reconciling honesty with not disparaging John Winchester is a nigh-impossible task sometimes. )

Let's just say a lot of those stigmas didn't exactly align with his vision of what being a man meant. It never seemed like- something I could do. It was so far outside of who he wanted me to be, it's damn-near laughable. It's like- the possibility for me wasn't even on my radar, it didn't matter whether I was interested or not, it just wasn't- for me. Then I turned, and none of that mattered anymore. It's practically like the laws of physics shifted. And then I saw Cas, and it was so obvious.

( Followed by a darkly cavalier shrug of one shoulder. )

Of course, I was a demon, so I did the biggest dick move you can think of and totally roasted him to a crisp about it. Go figure.

[ A part of him expects Dean to sweep past the topic with only a brief acknowledgement. Instead, Dean grows still. Geralt shifts his weight, arms folded across his chest while he waits for Dean to gather his thoughts.

Certain concepts, he may never truly grasp. They're so far past the realm of his reality, his world. Monotheistic religions, for one. This, for another.

Not that the Continent is entirely free of marriage conflicts. They've arisen where royalty is concerned, on occasion—but only in the context of heirs and bloodlines. Beyond that, no one gives a fuck who some farmer or wandering mercenary decides to bed. What effect could that possibly have on who claims which kingdom? On whose throne belongs to whom?

But he does understand the demands of an unyielding father. That, he's seen too many times. And though he's never asked Dean about it directly, he's gathered from vague indications throughout their friendship that Dean's father was not...the most forgiving figure. Not in his training, not in any aspect.

For a while, Geralt is silent. Most of the responses that cross his mind, he doesn't think are necessary to put into words. Whatever Dean said to Castiel—a fraction of which the angel relayed—they've evidently resolved those feelings.

Instead, he finds himself circling back to Dean's upbringing. Perhaps it lingers because he knows what it means to be told what you should be. For people to look at you and determine you aren't to fall in love or feel what you feel. That some things are not yours to have. ]

I know you loved your father. But your life belongs to you. Not his shadow.

( There once was a time when Dean was younger that this conversation might have irked him. Might have rubbed him the wrong way, or made him defensive. Now, at nearly forty years old — not counting the decades in hell — and after everything he's been through?

It just makes his lips quirk gently into something almost wry. Reserved, subdued, but there's a trace amount of good humor in there if you know where to look. )

Ya know... ( He grunts absently, fiddling with the ratchet he's got lodged elbow-deep in metal car guts. ) My brother used to say something like that. And you're right, both of you. I know you're right. It's a lesson I feel like I keep learning, but no matter how many times I learn it...

( A slow, absent sway of his head. )

Growing up, when I was a kid, I used to think maybe if I was exactly who he wanted me to be, maybe he'd stop leaving us. That kinda thing... it ain't so easy to shake, no matter how many times I tell myself I've grown out if it.

( There's a small huff, breathy, almost a laugh. )

Frankly, at this point I'm not sure which one would have him rolling in his grave harder, me screwing dudes, or palling around with somebody with yellow eyes that isn't human. He's probably spinning hard enough to generate enough electricity to power the Eastern Seaboard.

[ Geralt matches the small smile. Mm. Yeah. He knows that feeling. Lessons learned over and over.

A careful look crosses Geralt's face. It's not the first time Dean has referenced his father leaving, but it's the first time he's said it in a way that makes Geralt realize it's less straightforward than a man taking off for a few brief periods. Something closer to abandoned. For...what. To hunt monsters? For how long? ]

I used to ask myself every day what it would take for my mother to return for me. Even after Kaer Morhen was burnt to ash, she never came back.

[ Not until he was dying, a hundred years later. And what was it worth then? What had it given him? Nothing he can firmly grasp. Certainly not closure.

When Dean ducks out from under the hood, he hands over the moonshine. ] You forgot about them turning black on occasion.

[ He still hasn't quite determined what provoked the full change that day in the desert, beyond the fight itself. He's working on it. ]

( 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. )

[ Dean is perhaps one of three he's ever spoken to about his mother. She's out there somewhere. That much he knows. In some ways, it makes it harder than if she'd died. Or vanished into the unknown.

Not that he wishes her dead, either.

He joins Dean, taking a seat on the dusty ground against a tire. Jo, too? Now that's curious. He hums. ]

I know Castiel and I are...complicated. But I am glad you're content.

[ Other than their brief encounter in Nadine's office, Geralt has not spoken to the angel. It's different than how it is with Dean. Castiel has not been under another's influence when he intervened. And though he understands the angel was only protecting what he loved, it doesn't change the implications.

But there's nothing to be done about it. Not all cracks in the road can be smoothed over, nor do they need to be. Some things just are. ]

( Now, there's something he hasn't thought about yet. He's been so caught up in his own processing, his own interpersonal dynamics, he hasn't taken the time to think about the fallout between his people. Between the ones fighting for him, and the ones just fighting him.

He remembers everything that happened that day. That fight, in the desert. He tries not to think about it, but he does remember — the way Cas stepped in. The tension between him and Geralt.

A look of slowly dawning understanding slides into place. Yeah, this might be a better thing to talk about than his friggin' sex life. It's automatic reflex, it's in his nature, to want to smooth things out between the people he cares about. Resolve conflicts that he has no real, feasible way of resolving. )

Look- I know... I know it's- a screwed up situation, but Cas... He wouldn't have let anything happen to her. He's just...

( Dean doesn't actually have an end to that sentence, no good apology or excuse he can issue on Cas's behalf. Not his place, not his battle, not his conflict to resolve, but he can't help at least trying. )

[ Even before Dean speaks, Geralt can guess what he might say. The second Jo stepped into this world, Dean's instinct was to reconcile them. As much as Geralt understands the desire, he's maintained his distance from the others. Mutual company can only bridge a gap so far, and the one between what he is and what Dean's people are able to accept is a wide chasm.

Castiel falls under a different category, though. They were friends on their terms, outside of their connection to Dean. ]

I'm not angry. [ He'd told Castiel as much. ] Ciri is my family, not his. There are sacrifices I'd make for her that he would not. I don't expect his priorities to change. Just as he should not expect mine to.

[ The most important person to him is Ciri. He can't ask for anybody else to feel the same. They each have their own to protect. No. He isn't angry. Merely wary of the lengths Castiel has made clear he will go to where Dean is concerned.

Not that he hadn't known this from the beginning. The conflict has simply brought it to the forefront. Perhaps in time, it will fade once more into the background. He isn't sure. The truth is, his primary concerns have lain elsewhere than reestablishing his footing with Castiel. That will come when it will. ]

Edited 2023-08-08 16:15 (UTC)

( This impulse to reconcile, this stepping in between the conflict of people he cares about, would feel a whole lot more like intervening between Sam and his father — except for the fact that Geralt is so level-headed. I'm not angry soothes the urge a little. He already knows that to be the case, he's seen Geralt angry plenty at this point, but hearing it settles him mildly anyway.

It's still not ideal. In a perfect world, in Dean's ideal world, his merry gang of collected pseudo-family would all hold hands and sing Kumbaya together while blasted on tequila.

For a few weeks there, it almost felt like they were all at harmony. Possibly because they all had a united common issue. Him.

Well, the Mark. But. Still.

Now, there's friction again, and- yeah, he doesn't love it. But it is what it is. He settles into it with a weary sort of resignation, taking back the jar of moonshine to swallow down another mouthful as consolation. )

I hate that it got- messy, between you two. But... I get it. Cas... he's got the same problem I do, of not knowing when to let someone go. The lengths we go to for the people we care about... it does us more harm than good in the long run. You wanna talk about learning the same lesson over and over again, that one... I don't know if that one's ever gonna sink in right.

[ Messy is one way to put it. Though perhaps it's fortunate neither he nor Castiel held a grudge over it. Frankly, Geralt is used to contention. His relationships have often been combative, not only with himself but between his people. Jaskier and a Yennefer, for many years. Jaskier and Yarpen. Lambert and Triss. Sam and Ciri. He tends to let it be. Either things work out, or they don't—so long as one doesn't try to kill the other on his watch.

He stretches out one leg, the other drawn up. A contemplative silence settles over him. He's seen it. Over and over again, how someone cannot let go—whether love or ambition or vengeance—and how it brings them to ruin. Them and everything around them. It's the reason curses are born, why blood feuds explode into war.

Dean and Castiel are hardly alone in this. But it does take a certain character to admit it, he thinks. ]

Someone asked me not long ago how far I'd go should Ciri vanish from this world. [ He reaches for the clear liquor. ] And I answered that it's senseless to preserve the people I love if I can't look them in the eye. But...the truth is, until you're there, you can't ever really know.

[ He's lost numerous people he loved. Each one was painful. He likes to think he has a firm grasp on how to face a loss and move on, no matter how bitter or heatbreaking. But none of those were his daughter. ]

( Until you're there, you can't ever really know. That one earns a breath, small, short — a laugh, if a bit on the bitter side. )

Oh, I know. I know exactly how far I would go. I mean, I sold my soul to hell to bring my brother back to life. I stopped-

( -Sam from closing the gates of Hell in order to keep him. Damning the world to more years of demon crap. Innocent lives lost because he wasn't willing to sacrifice Sam in exchange.

He's not proud of that. He's got enough shame about it to clamp down, to withhold it from Geralt, because Dean actually respects his opinion. He's already screwed his reputation up plenty good on his own here in these last few months without throwing any more fuel on top. )

To tell you the truth, I think... when you live the kind of life we do, every other week the world's ending. People are always dying. Everything's going to shit, all the time. The next monster, the next battle, it's always bigger, and harder, and heavier. If you don't find something to hold onto... I mean, really hold onto, with everything you've got... it's real easy to lose sight of why you're still going on.

( He stares at nothing as he talks, his gaze distant, unfocused. Contemplative. )

When the only thing that gets you out of bed in the morning is other people, it's easy to get carried away. To let the lines get blurry. It's not healthy, or good, it just... is.

[ His gaze flicks over. Dean does not expand, and so Geralt simply thinks: paying with one's life—or one's soul—is only natural. He would give the same for Ciri.

It's the cost of others that becomes the real question. (He's paid that, too.)

He's quiet while he listens. In some things they differ, and this is one of them. Dean is right. Everything is shit. Death dogs his footsteps with unrelenting fervour. And where Dean held on, Geralt pushed aside anything that could matter. Or tried to. ]

I spent the better part of my years alone. Wanting no one. I thought, at the time, it was better that way. The world can't take what I never had. [ He slides his thumb along the side of the glass jar. ] Then people came along, anyhow. They became important. And now...

[ Now he understands. If one were to ask what once got him up in the morning if not for someone, he couldn't answer. It's not a conscious thought. He rises because that's what he does, in the same way a wolf awakens and goes about its day on instinct. There's always a horse to tend to, a contract to find, a town to journey towards. Small things. A cadence to follow.

But he's discovered what it means to have more. To redefine his purpose beyond the bare simplicity of living merely to live. To accept the fear he may fail in exchange for something immeasurably precious. He avoided it for so fucking long only to find himself here in the end. Maybe that's what they mean by Destiny. ]

( He can imagine it. Spending years alone, wanting nobody. He's tried to walk that path, tried pushing people away. Gone through stints where he told himself he didn't need anybody, he didn't even need Sam, he was fine. Except fine meant denial, and spiraling mental health, and depression, never managing it for more than a couple months or years at a time, because unlike Geralt, there is a need inside of Dean.

There's a massive, consuming void, a black hole pulling in all light and matter in a desperate search for something to fill it. A void probably meant for an archangel, but that Dean has instead redirected to be a longing for family. However it's labelled, whatever the source, he has always had a soul-deep longing for someone to fill the cavity in his chest with.

Then people came along...

Dean offers him a wry, knowing smile. Raises the jar of moonshine in a soft cheers. )

Welcome to family, where everything's screwed up, and the points don't matter. You're gonna spend the rest of your life trying not to lose them, then break your own heart watching 'em die anyway. The only consolation you get? Is whether or not you can honestly tell yourself you did everything you could.

( But that... that's where it gets dangerous. What they're capable of compared to the average Joe gives everything he could a completely different context.

But things are different for Dean than they are for Geralt, probably. Presumably, Geralt has the ability to let go. Dean does not. )

[ He gives a soft huff, plucking the jar out of Dean's hands when he raises it. A casual gesture he exhibits with very few. He takes a sip, then returns it.

They've both been there. Losing the ones that mean the most to you. ]

It was different with my brothers. The world determined our fate long ago. [ Though Eskel was painful in a way the other losses were not. Only four of them were children when Kaer Morhen fell. Eskel was one.

Even so, Geralt grew up understanding they were destined to die on the Path. There was never a question of if, only when. Death clung to them like a shadow. Reminders lay scattered over every inch of their home, from the bones buried in the snow to the medallions on the tree. They would ride and kill and eventually fall. That is all they were meant for. ] But Ciri is more. She has more waiting for her.

[ A future he was never afforded. He wants to make sure she sees it. It's not merely about protecting her or keeping her safe. He knows what it is to survive and never truly live. That's not a place he ever wants Ciri to find herself.

So he doesn't know, in the end, what lengths he will reach to grant her the future she deserves. He's not afraid of the answer, exactly. (Or is he?) He just hasn't got one. ]

( They don't have medallions in Dean's community. There are no bones to burry — if there's a body at all, it's salted and burned until nothing remains. Otherwise, he can relate to bits of it. The way death hangs over hunters not as a possibility but rather an inevitability, the way reunions and parties often start with a tally of who died between the last and now. Rather than a tree, they have numbers in journals and phone books, its branches just the crossed out lines of the ones no longer in service.

He's no stranger to loss, but when it comes to his family, he'd rather cross off a dozen other numbers than one of theirs.

But that's a him problem, and so he swallows that down and instead offers an empty, humorless smile.

Ciri is more. She has more waiting for her.

With gravity , with weight: )

Well, then I guess you better do everything you can.

[ CLOSED ] though my feet my rest

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cw: societal / internalized homophobia

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