[ His lips twist in faint amusement. If he wishes, he supposes he could bury and horde the coin in his forest like a jealous dragon. He doesn't. He brings it elsewhere, leaving it on the porch of an orphanage or tossing it on an old merchant's passing wagon. They don't know where or from whom the money came, and Geralt keeps it that way. Occasionally, they attribute it to the Piper or another Summoned. He doesn't bother keeping track. It isn't important.

He feeds a log into the fire, casting a light and warmth neither of them needs. It pops, sparks melting into the starlit night, and he thinks about how many of them retain their mortal habits. He with his swords and his horse; Castiel tucked away in his forest, resembling a wandering nomad more than an immortal being.

He didn't know about the forest. He's aware it held meaning to Castiel, but not precisely what. Geralt picks up another log, but this one, he holds between his fingers instead as he studies the flickering flames. ]

They would suffer with or without you. [ He finally adds the piece of wood to the fire. ] That's the nature of the world. I don't save the lives I do to bring an end to suffering.

[ That is not his job. It is not what he wants to pursue, and in truth, anyone who believes that to be their duty is playing a dangerous game. There is a fine line between protecting the lost and envisioning yourself their salvation. It is, he thinks, a trap Castiel fell into. He can't begrudge the angel for it. ]

We don't owe the mortals our pain, either.