( How often did you make him tan your hide? He snorts, and lets that be an answer in and of itself. The truth is tanning his hide was always more his father's thing. Bobby had a different method of dressing him down; that goddamn I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed, except it was Bobby, so it was no actually I am pissed. It cut to the quick every time. Probably more effective than John Winchester's methods ever were.

He genuinely can't friggin' remember if Geralt got two in a row, if he screwed one up or if he's been nailing it even among that crowded board. He doesn't bother questioning it, he just drinks. As a wise man once said: fuck it. )

Nah, believe it or not, I did what I was told growing up. Followed orders. ( A accompanied by a little sway-shrug. How many spots are even left on this damn board anyhow? Two? Maybe? ) It was my little brother... man, that kid... Wrangling him was like herding cats into a paper bag.

( He throws a knife — it hits the hilt of another, clatters to the floor again, and he holds his hands up in surrender. )

Alright, I think you got me.

( He'll concede. From his vague, buzzed recollection he screwed the pooch more than Geralt did. There's no way he's sneaking in anymore. )