( There is no Mark on Dean's arm. He doesn't protest the grab, doesn't so much as tense under the examination — but frankly, it takes him too many seconds to even realize what it is Geralt's doing. He forgot about the Mark. He forgot about that time, and it comes back to him with a rumble of thunder in the background of his mind, feeling fresher than it ought to for having been some eight centuries ago.

It feels like cracks in fine china. It feels like a bullet to a plate glass window.

Geralt drops his arm. It falls limp, hanging heavy at his side, fingers flexing around — nothing, no blade, no weapon. Strange. )

They're molting. ( He says, but that's obvious, and so he — clarifies, sort of: ) They don't feel like mine.

( Does that even make any sense? They're attached to him, and they have been for hundreds of years. But-- have they?

He shakes his head, dragging a hand through his hair. )

Something's wrong. Something doesn't- feel right, man. I keep thinking, things- things don't really... add up, for me, in a way that makes sense, you know? Sam-

( He starts, then stops. )

You know me. How in the Hell could I let that happen to Sam? Does that sound like me to you?