abraxaslogs | ( ᴏᴘᴇɴ/ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ ) Wᴏɴᴅᴇʀᴏᴜs ᴀᴘᴘᴀʀɪᴛɪᴏɴ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪᴅᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄɪᴀɴ

( And that right there is a little ping on his radar. If they're all scattered across the grid, if they're pulling people through, if they pulled him and Cas through--

Sam.
Benny.

Goddamn it. There's about two seconds of silence wherein he looks like a guy resigned to a prison sentence, complete with an eye roll to the ceiling. He's not the type to screw with this crap, generally. He did his time dropping acid with dudes named Don in the back of a Volkswagen van back when his kidneys were still naive, he doesn't have a hard-on for the concept of Daydream Utopia in exchange for-- what, is the thing.

But at the end of the day, he's got people he's looking for. Sam might not be here, realistically speaking, but Benny had been riding shotgun when him and Cas went stumbling through the same portal. Shotgun as in inside Dean's body. If the two of them are here, Benny's gotta be here. Right? Right. Infallible logic.

He scrubs a hand over his face, and finally relents. )

Alright. ( Universe: 1, Dean: 0. ) Look man, not to rack up favors here, but- uh... think you could show me how to do it?

( The I'll pay you back is implied. Unvoiced now, but he'll put that in so many words later. )

[ Geralt lets Dean absorb the information and work out what he will in his own time. He's not acquainted with the man well enough to especially care what he decides. For Geralt, the Horizon is a complicated space; the fact that so much of it is born of his own mind means that every so often, elements arise that he never intended them to.

Though at least the shadow of Ciri as a child has not returned since the first time. Small blessings.

His agreement comes without much pause, as if he's already considered what he'll say should Dean ask. ] I can. Though you should be aware your initial visit, you'll be without a past.

[ The past, specifically. Geralt held his name, his memories of how to do things like hunt and ride his horse. It was only his past that had been absent—and he recalls not being particularly concerned about it, either. Like the world of the Horizon was all he knew and needed to know. ]

( Yeah, great, tell him about it. Dean probably shouldn't be anywhere his mind has complete control of. Probably definitely shouldn't take anyone there with him.

And yet- )

Yeah, well, probably better off. I could use the vacation.

( Flatly — a nice healthy dose of self-directed bitterness never hurt anybody, right? Seriously though, god forbid his brain take a fun, scenic stroll back to the forty years he spent in hell. Nothing loses a new friend faster than torture.

...okay so maybe he's a little worried about it. )

How long's that last? That comes back after, right? Can't be every time, otherwise what the hell's the point.

Edited 2021-12-11 17:48 (UTC)

Mm. [ That's a sound which suggests Dean may as well curl all three fingers on the monkey's paw with his statement. But then, Geralt's experience had been...different. He'd been there not a day, but nearly two, three weeks, building a life that was not his to have. He knows those who enter afterwards can avoid sinking so deep into it, with others who hold their memories to guide them. Or at least shake them out of it before they're lost inside for so long.

Regardless, it is what it is. Someone wants to enter, that's what happens. No way around it. ]

The once. [ He eyes Dean for a moment. ] If you know how to hold your focus, entering should prove little trouble.

[ If Kay, an exceptionally overactive girl, can manage, Geralt is fairly sure a self-proclaimed trained hunter can. (Right?) ]

( There's a maybe too-long pause before he answers. )

Fff- yeah, no problem. I can hold my focus. It's- pf.

( Do those not one but two completely wordless sounds seem convincing? Is the fact that he's suddenly doing his best to look casual but like he's temporarily forgotten what that is inspiring any confidence here?

He almost believes himself when he says it.

...mostly.

Quick, change the subject- )

Alright, Garret, ( this is your future, Geralt ) -when can we do the thing? Is this a see you next week kind of deal, or can you pencil me in after your-

( He eyes the bowl, maybe... just... a little judgmentally. )

Chunky meat water?

( Look, he's not impressed by the medieval menu going on here. He showed up wanting some Five Guys and instead he's getting four m'lords with a side of salmonella. )

[ The pause lasts even longer on Geralt's end. He recalls thinking he'd regret starting a conversation with Dean that day. That regret might be steadily marching towards him. Somehow, it's only a problem when he doesn't...dislike someone outright and then he ends up here. Vaguely annoyed and yet still offering his help. One day he'll learn.

He sighs. Why is he doing this again? (Because it's better than staring at the ceiling trying to get his mind off of—anyway.)

He's not one to leave food behind, usually, but his appetite's sporadic at best as of late. So. Fine. May as well do it now. Dean's already here and Geralt's got little else occupying him. His hand braces against the table and he stands with the faintest wince. He drops a few coins for the food, the drink, then tips his head for Dean to follow—and that's all the answer Dean will get before Geralt is already weaving his way out of the place. They can go to what's become his home in this damn city; it'll be safe enough there for both of them to depart their physical forms for a bit. ]

( The table gets an absent tap tap with his fingers, and then he's on his feet striding out alongside Geralt. He still hasn't gotten this city entirely mapped out in his mind, so the trip's mostly devoted to clocking the layout, the turns, the buildings they pass, and... trying not to make his one millionth comment on just how old world everything is, or how much money he'd make if he opened up a drive-thru restaurant but for horseback.

When they make it up to Geralt's place, it gets some far keener scrutiny. Scoping for signs of the staples of hunter houses back home — salt lines, hex bags, warding.

He doesn't clock a devil's trap anywhere in any of the usual places, so he's gotta ask- )

Are demons not a thing here or something?

( They gotta be, right? If they can pull an angel through, they can pull a Crowley or a Meg just as easy. )

[ The place looks occupied by more than one person: two of the beds slept in, books on the table, scrolls of parchment with half-written compositions. Multiple potted herbs by the windows (don't ask). The only equipment of note Dean will find is a steel sword, tucked in its sheath next to a leather bag that looks permanently packed to go.

He pushes up his sleeves. What, demons? Why them, in particular? ]

Hard to say. [ Geralt sounds distinctly unconcerned about demons. ] None I've seen. What're they to you?

[ They're a rarity on the Continent. He expects them to be just as rare here. Most seem to be concerned over whatever happens to be eating their livestock and crops, or overturning merchant wagons. ]

Dicks.

( He answers, just a touch distracted — sword, check. Bounce-bag, check. Roommate, check. Herb garden — that one gets a tiny little arched brow for a second. Didn't really peg Geralt for the window garden type, but who is he to judge? Maybe the guy finds his zen pruning Banzai trees or something.

Assessment done, his full attention circles right on back to the man himself for a slightly more helpful explanation. )

Black eyes, made of smoke, like to jump around possessing people and stealing their bodies?

( We on the same page here, man? Maybe a better question is: )

What are they to you?

[ Geralt nudges aside a cushion fallen to the ground with his foot. His reply is dry. ] That's people.

[ He hasn't been back here in a bit, has mostly been staying at Sam's since he returned. Evidence of distracted minds lay strewn about the room, things out of place. He tries not to think about it, aware he's the reason why Jaskier and Ciri have spent the past weeks barely holding it together. ]

About the same. Beings from other dimensions. They take their own form or choose to inhabit another.

[ He moves to a window and where his palm hovers over it, a faint glow hums, sealing it. Possibly, he's being more careful than he needs to but—Thorne grabbing him in the desert not far from the city has left him. Cautious. Not to mention the wraiths that sprang from nowhere. The last thing he wants is to return to his body to find another round of chaos. ]

They're uncommon. Often not worth the contract.

[ Mostly because dispatching one tends to require a temple priest. Besides, half the time they've been invoked by some rogue mage. Geralt has no desire to be entangled in that. Curious, that Dean has singled them out. Makes him wonder if the man's world is overrun with them for some reason. ]

( Don't mind him side-eyeing that magic, Geralt. It's nothing personal and entirely a learned impulse to be knee-jerk wary when a relative stranger that could potentially kick his ass starts sealing them in a room. He forces himself to tuck the paranoia back in his pocket, hopefully without it being too obvious.

It's not a thing, Winchester. Don't make it a thing.

Dude's helped him out enough to earn the benefit of the doubt. )

Where I'm from they're practically like cockroaches.

( First thing that popped into mind walking in: get the guy set up with a couple on the off-chance. Statistical likelihood for it being a problem probably shot through the roof when he showed up. )

You might wanna-

( Skrrt.

Pause.

Rewind.

Take it back now ya'll. Charlie Brown. Everybody clap your hands. )

Hold on, did you just say contract?

[ Whether Geralt notices or not, it doesn't show. He's never once bothered to explain what it is he can do to anyone. Likely he does notice if Dean's pulse is involved; he can always hear that—but either way, the door's only regularly locked from the inside if one's desire to bolt ever arises.

Instead, he glances over his shoulder, thoughtful. That sounds like a fucking headache, in truth. Apparently Dean's world is full of doors to other planes that are permanently cracked open.

He's easing himself onto the middle of the floor—if Dean's expecting a fitting atmosphere to help him along, he isn't getting one—when the question comes. Geralt looks up. His eyebrow raises. ]

Mm-hm. [ And? ]

( Totally a mild little heart rate spike to pick up on — brief, though, and deliberately reined in right after. Just the career-standard paranoia and constant vigilance that kept him alive back home. Sleep with a gun under your pillow and your boots on.

Anyway, he'll join Geralt down there on the floor in just a second. Won't be the slightest bit heartbroken over the lack of burning sage and singing bowls; frankly, the hippy crap's more likely to distract him than help.

He just has to make a quick clarification here: )

You mean, like, soul deal contracts or like... money contracts?

( Because context clues are really hinting toward the latter. If it's the former, that's a whole other can of worms to crack open and talk about. )

[ Frankly, Geralt hasn't the faintest notion why Dean is circling around this concept and it shows. He gives the other man a look. Why has this even got to be asked? ]

I've no intention of meeting any creature bold enough to seek a blood contract with a Witcher. [ That speaks to a kind of power or ancient being that Geralt knows he will fully regret being involved with. Absolutely not. Secondly: ] Do not tell me you work for gratitude.

[ It's not unheard of, knights who take up the mantle for heroics, for their own sense of self-righteousness. Saving villagers for the low fee of having their arse kissed. Geralt keeps out of their way, mostly wishes they'd stop existing, occasionally ends up saving them in turn. It's hard enough to make a living as it is; half the townsfolk still wring their hands over paying him shit all and he doesn't even demand that high of a price. He doesn't need humans running about claiming they can do his job for free only to fuck it up and then somehow receive their commendations, anyway.

But while he's only spoken to Dean for a short period, nothing he's said or done strikes Geralt as that sort of person. So. Curious. ]

Gratitude? Are you- ( WHAT IS THIS HORSESHIT ) I don't get gratitude, I get arrest warrants.

( Begging your pardon Mr. Frodo, he's just gonna throw a tiny little tantrum here and vent to an unwilling audience. But, to be fair, generally all of Dean's audiences are unwilling when he goes off on a rage tangent. )

You mean to tell me- ( A pause, not for clarity but for dramatic emphasis. ) That you're out there getting paid, meanwhile I'm getting my ass kicked up and down three dimensions, hustling pool for milk money, and all I got was this stupid T-Shirt? Do you know how many times I've had to fake my own death because some jackass townie doesn't- I'm-

( Maximum capacity. Internal explosion. )

You know what- never mind. I can't.

( When he finally flops down across from Geralt, it's almost defiantly. Defiant at the injustices of the universe and- )

Screw your world. ( No, you know what- ) Screw my world. I'm done. I'm retired.

( He's not. )

Edited 2021-12-15 21:54 (UTC)

[ Uh-huh.

This is far from the first time someone has ranted at him unprompted—thank you, Jaskier—and Geralt lets it go unheeded and uninterrupted. He is, in fact, listening; he's always listening, but his attention appears to be elsewhere up until Dean collapses in a huff before him. There's a lot he could say in response, more than a handful of assumptions he could correct. He does not because none of it matters for what they're doing and Geralt has no desire to go down the long list of why being a Witcher is not an enviable position.

His only reply is an especially deadpan, ] Your resignation will be a great loss.

[ Look, he's certainly made the decision to take a job without pay, for one reason or another, and he's regretted it more than once but a choice is a choice. He has little sympathy for Dean acting like he was forced into indentured servitude killing monsters. If Dean never thought to demand a few coins in exchange, that's not his problem. The man isn't even a Witcher or anything close, so he obviously took up the profession of his own free will as an unremarkable human. Maybe he should've become a stable boy if he's so put off about this.

Regardless— ] We're starting. I haven't got all day. You'll need physical contact to make the entry. Once you're inside, you're on your own.

Edited 2021-12-16 03:20 (UTC)

( Your resignation will be a great loss.

Have, just... the flattest bitchest bitchface in the history of bitchfaces.

Shut up, Geralt, who even asked you. Except him, just now, but nobody should ever listen to him. )

Good lookin' out. Really feeling the sympathy rolling out of your chiseled jaw.

( Which is to say, he wasn't actually looking for any. He's just a salty asshole with a burning need to inform everyone around him why he's salty and an asshole. Call it a hobby.

He sticks a hand out. Gives his fingers a little wiggle. )

Whatever. Come on, grumpy bear. Kumbaya me already, and don't get fresh before the wedding.

[ Have even more sympathy out of him, which is precisely none. Though there's an undeniable interest that lies beneath: if not money or misguided glory, then why do it? Is it vengeance? Is he protecting someone? (The angel?) Geralt wants to say he doesn't sense any drive for revenge on Dean, but they also don't know each other well enough for him to draw conclusions.

He leaves it for now. Takes Dean's hand instead with a sigh. ] Concentrate. You'll sense a pull, a sort of tether. Grasp it and follow it. I'll await you inside.

[ His eyes fall shut. It takes longer as of late for him to shut the thoughts out, to clear his head, but soon enough, he finds that connection that's opened to it Singularity. He arrives the same place he does every time, in front of the fortress that rises above the snowy peaks he's built.

There, he waits. He can give it time; he's aware not everyone find their focus as quickly as he can. He'll...come back out if Dean doesn't appear within ten, fifteen minutes. Or the man can simply shake him awake in the real world. ]

( In Dean's defense, he tries. It isn't some sugar-filled toddler-esque attention deficit that screws him up, although that wasn't exactly outside of the realm of possibility.

It's something else.

He hasn't been alone with his own thoughts in a long time — by design. It's only been a few days since he got out of Purgatory, and he's been violently repressing every intrusive flashback that's popped into his head since. Meditation... it was never destined to be an easy feat for him. Maybe three minutes pass before snapshots start to filter in. He dismisses them aggressively, one after another, brow furrowed deeply and a slow scowl spreading across his face.

One particularly brutal encounter is enough to have him jerking himself up to his feet and pacing away from Geralt, heart rate and adrenaline going nuts. )

This isn't working. ( He declares, practically a bark. ) There's gotta be another way.

[ The moment Dean lets go abruptly and stands, it's more than enough to shake Geralt out of the Horizon. The world dissipates, going blank. He cracks open an eye, then the other, and looks up at the hunter.

He takes in the running pulse, the look on Dean's face.

Yeah. Been there. It's only over the past week or so that he's managed to slip into the Horizon for longer than a minute or two since he was. Taken. He won't ask about it, but his expression says he's reading something here about the situation. ]

There isn't. [ His reply is frank but not unkind. There's exactly one way to enter the Horizon, and either you learn to do it somehow or you can't. ] When you can't sleep. What do you do?

[ Doesn't matter how shit your sleep is or how little of it you get; almost everyone has something they do when they can't get any, at some point. ]

( Pacing away a few steps has the neat little side-perk that he can drag his hand across his mouth mostly privately — at the very least, he gets to keep his expression to himself long enough to lock it down. It's a quick enough wrestling match that he manages to turn back around to answer the question.

It's blunt, a little grumpy, and just a hair sarcastic. You'd think the man invented the concept of sassy deadpan himself one Tuesday night in the shower. )

Drink, shoot something, and get laid. Preferably in that order.

( Only mostly true. The getting laid thing has fallen by the wayside for a couple years now.

What he doesn't need to overshare: he just doesn't. He keeps going until he physically can't anymore. During the bad times, he's been known to ride by on four hours of sleep for a couple days straight with the help of caffeine and the occasional friendly upper. During the good times, he can usually zen himself sleepy by working on his car, cleaning guns, cleaning anything really, packing salt rounds, whatever manual labor he can do to distract himself for a few hours.

Good thing he totally has his car, guns, and ammo to work with right now. )

[ Fair. There's a stretch of silence where Geralt gives no response other than a sigh, though he isn't ignoring Dean, either. He's only thinking. He can gather when he can no longer be of help; this is a little more than he'd anticipated when he'd first agreed, and he simply hasn't got that much time or that much of himself to give right now. He's not one to waste efforts on what he already knows will leave them both irritated at best and exhausted at worst.

He also doesn't want to leave Dean hanging; he'd said he'd help get him in and he intends to make good on that offer.

There is another who will make that time, though. He unfolds himself from the ground without a word. On a scrap of parchment, he inks the name of an inn in walking distance from where they are and hands it over. ]

Find Sam Wilson. Tell him I sent you. He'll help.

[ Is he foisting Dean and his troubles on Sam? A bit. (More than a bit.) But it isn't truthfully a comment on Dean. Perhaps if Dean had caught him a month or so back, Geralt would have been able to do more, been willing to try more. At the moment, he's just—not in that place. Dean will be in better hands with someone who's got more of their shit together. ]

I know that guy.

( Mostly uttered out loud because it's surprising — look at that, making friends already, way to go, Winchester.

A beat later the realization hits. He funnels annoyance into something that sounds an awful lot like sarcastic betrayal. )

Wait a second, did you just yoga divorce me? Damn, Gerald, here I thought we had something special.

( Realistically, that annoyance is almost entirely self-directed. The fact that he can't do this means there's something wrong with him. Not a new feeling, still a sucky one. Not that he's gonna let himself think about it — a strategy that's clearly working out for him so far. )

[ He does? Of course he does. Who doesn't Sam fucking know? Even simpler, then. They're already friends. Unless Dean happens to find Sam intolerable, but it doesn't sound that way and the chances of that are slim. He can count on one hand the number of people who do not get along easily with Sam. Ironically one of them being Ciri.

Dean's irritation seems to roll off Geralt as easily as water over oil. His expression is not openly sympathetic, nor anything close to the sort—but there's something contemplative in it, even as he matches the sarcasm with his own dryness. ] I don't doubt you'll find his hand just as pleasant to hold. He'll get you where you need.

[ Sam is good, in other words. Reliable. However much his word is worth; they barely know each other, but Dean's followed him here and sought his help, so Geralt presumes there's a certain level of understanding between them. It's not trust, exactly, but perhaps along the lines wherein neither of them believe the other is liable to stab them in the back at this stage in time. ]

( Later on down the line he'll admit to appreciating how friggin' unflappable Geralt is. It takes a rare breed to fire back at Dean's attitude with that level of deadpan, let alone tolerate it in the first place. Impressive feat of patience, and pretty much exactly what it takes to make it through that initial answer all negative emotions with sarcasm layer.

Right now, though... not quite as much admiration going on.

He makes an effort to check himself, though it doesn't completely disguise the storm clouds hanging overhead. It's the thought that counts or something, right? )

Great. Well. Good hustle, thanks for giving it a shot, anyway.

( Guess he's gotta roll out to see a man about a brain-horse. No reason to start questioning Geralt's advice all of a sudden. He makes for the door without much preamble, just to stop a pace or two away from it and shoot another look back. )

Remind me about that devil's trap. I'm serious. I don't know if a demon where I'm from can hijack a- whatever you are, but I'm not all that interested in finding out.

[ Geralt has found his perch on the edge of the table now that they've given up on the Horizon trip. His gaze is unwavering, but not scrutinizing. If he's got questions—and he does—he knows when not to ask them. There's time yet for answers, anyway, if Dean is about to drift in and out of his path from now on. Which he suspects will happen. By sending Dean to Sam, Geralt is aware he's effectively assured they will see each other again in some capacity.

He cants his head, neither rejecting nor accepting the concept of a devil's trap. If Dean is insistent, he can't see the harm. Either it'll do nothing or it'll do something. So long as it doesn't get in his way.

It's only as Dean is halfway out the door that Geralt gives a reply of a kind—not towards anything Dean's explicitly said or asked, but to a question lurking in his words. ] A Witcher.

[ There's a finality to it, like he neither expects nor is willing to answer any follow up to that statement. Dean can take it as it is on the way to Sam's. ]

( ᴏᴘᴇɴ/ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ ) Wᴏɴᴅᴇʀᴏᴜs ᴀᴘᴘᴀʀɪᴛɪᴏɴ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪᴅᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄɪᴀɴ

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