ᴀʟʟ I ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ ɪs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʟɪғᴇ's ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ (open.)

[righteously]

Who: Dean Winchester & Others.
When: Post-Event.
Where: Cadens, the Horizon, Nocwich.
What: A catch-all of open & closed starters.
Warnings: A little grief, a little alcoholism, probably canon-typical violence and suicidal ideation. Mentions of fruit turbo-hell.

I ᴀɪɴ'ᴛ sᴇᴇᴋɪɴɢ sᴀʟᴠᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
Nᴏᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴡᴏʀʀɪᴇᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴅᴀᴍɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
I ɢᴏᴛ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀs sᴜᴄʜ I ᴀɪɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴀsɪʟʏ ʟᴇᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ
Aʟʟ I ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ᴅᴏ ɪs ʙᴇ ᴄʟᴏsᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ
ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴡᴇ'ʀᴇ sᴛɪʟʟ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ.

Comments

[righteously]

( An instinct rises in him like an echo — something old, something new. Something that cropped up in that alternate timeline, but not... not so late that it feels entirely fake. His memories, blurry and inconsistent as they are, hold the impression that they started something well before godhood ever took root in either of them.

Back when they were still people. Back when they were still themselves.

And it stuck around long enough to become familiar, to become a habit. In another life, this would be the kind of moment where he'd close the distance between them because he was comfortable enough to do it, because he'd done it a hundred times before. It would be chaste, but it would telegraph something he's always been terrible at putting into words.

This isn't that life, it's not who they were in what he considers reality. There's the matter of what he deserves, and what he manages to ruin when he puts his hands on it.

So, after a few too many seconds locked in place, his hand falls away from Geralt, and his eyes drop back down to the table before them. Lamely, his throat thick, he simply says: )

Good.

( And he wraps his hand around the bottle instead. )

[gynvael]

[ He can only presume what Dean is thinking, but he feels as if he might know. They did share something. He shared it with a few of people, ones he does not in their present day, but Dean is different because Dean is the only one wherein it crossed his mind before the Singularity's vision took them. Here and there, a half-formed notion in the firelight—how it once was when he travelled with Jaskier. Long nights under the stars make for wandering thoughts when your only companions are one another and some horses. Sometimes it comes to fruition years later, sometimes not at all. He has no true aspirations attached, of course. Just musings that come and go.

Now he has memories that are significantly more than musings.

This is not that life, no. It isn't not that life, either, but he doesn't need it to be anything one way or another. For him, it is enough that he has his friend. It's always been enough. The rest, he is content to leave to time, however much of it they end up having together. He supposes they'll have to see what the world's miserly hands are willing to grant them.

He lets Dean take the alcohol, releases his hold, and returns his attention to the table they're building. ] You know I can't leave before I claim at least one win against you.

[ So maybe, he will simply never claim one. ]

[righteously]

( His lips twitch up as best they can, a forced smile he shoots Geralt's direction. He appreciates it. The sentiment behind it, the lightness of it, the attempt at good humor to peel him back from his internal downward spiral.

Veering him away from a mental catastrophe, and back on a path to the present moment.

The weight feels too heavy on his chest, hard to breathe through, so he shifts the spotlight away from himself for just a minute to recover. )

So how'd you kick it? Did she mention? You go down fighting a Balrog after all?

[gynvael]

[ Now that's a question. Geralt huffs, brushing away sawdust. ]

A rabble in the streets. A mob of humans that didn't appreciate the rest of us who were not.

[ Same old song. He didn't ask Ciri for the particulars; telling him was difficult enough, and he saw no reason to make her recount every detail. The hands of some human tells him plenty. And what would have been the alternative? Alone in a bog to a water hag? He was never destined to leave this life in glory. He isn't sure he'd have wanted to.

At least Ciri knew what happened to him. He didn't simply...fail to return home one day. ]

You? Any better than speared by a peasant's son?

[righteously]

( A rabble in the streets; a mob of literal peasants. This is not at all an appropriate response, but despite the heaviness of the conversation so far and the grim subject matter, Dean's face breaks out into a dumb grin.

Man, is he glad Geralt's death wasn't cool. If this man died single-handedly beating freakin Smaug or some shit and saving the kingdom and Dean had to stand here telling his own stupid death story, he'd die a second time on the spot.

As it stands: )

A rabble in a barn. Some low-level who-cares vampire shoved me onto a freakin' nail. I got rebarred in the back. I went out like a human coat rack.

( So, no. Definitely not better than a peasant's son. Two peas in a stupid, stupid pod Gerald. )

[gynvael]

[ His eyebrow lifts, less offended, more curious what that reaction is about.

Mm. So that's what it's about. Funny. What decides an eternal rest for a man like Dean? When the forces around him grow tired of intervening? What made this death different from the others?

Nothing, possibly. Maybe it's a case of time catching up to all of them. He'd been done, as well. By the time they were at that market square, it was over. And he wonders if Destiny decided his path simply ran out of road. That he had given all there was to give to his daughter.

But she had looked for him, anyway, and found him here. So perhaps none of it means fuck all.

He looks thoughtful for a moment before shrugging it off. ]

I met a knight once who died taking a shit in the woods.

[ Always some unfortunate bastard who had it worse, at least. ]

[righteously]

( He shouldn't say it. He knows he shouldn't say it. It's inappropriate. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong tone. They're doing some very serious bonding over here. A man is dead. Technically, three men are dead.

The very, very pregnant pause displays just the pure lengths of the struggle goes through, mouth twitching between a smirk and then muscled back down to serious, only to twitch again.

And then he loses the battle, and blurts out: )

Sounds like a shitty night.

( )