abraxaslogs | sᴛᴏᴘ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ's ᴛʜᴀᴛ sᴏᴜɴᴅ? ( ᴀᴘʀɪʟ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜ-ᴀʟʟ )

( Technically speaking, it could be any time of day in the Horizon he wanted it to be. There's no reason a pleasant sun would ever need to set, skies could stay perfectly blue, an eternal afternoon. That's not the case in Dean's domain.

When Sam eventually wanders in along the empty rural road and (slightly less empty) gravel parking lot that leads to Harvelle's, it's well beyond nightfall. There are no city lights here to pollute the sky — the stars are bright, vivid in the way they can only be when you're in the middle of goddamn nowhere. It feels like southern springtime outside, and cicadas chirp in their rhythmic way from nowhere in particular.

The lights are on in the bar, visible both through the slightly cloudy windows and the wide-open door, left that way to let in fresh forest air. It also, consequently, lets out sound. Music can be heard first — it's a rare day when there isn't something playing here. A little closer, and conversation can be heard over top of it.

On the far end of the room, beyond the pool table and its neatly racked balls waiting to be broken, is- well, it's kind of a giant chess board full of freakin' knives stuck to the wall. Seriously, like two dozen goddamn knives sticking into each individual square almost, with only one or two gaps hidden among the metal.

On the bar itself, a couple empty beer bottles, a couple empty liquor bottles, and the salt-lime-tequila set-up hanging out, prepped to be put to work.

Not really hard to guess how the night's been going, particularly given the fact that Dean's turned practically backwards on his stool so he can lean back onto the bar with his elbows, his posture more loose than it's been in weeks. As soon as he spots Sam he raises his drink enthusiastically, calling out a cheerful: )

Heyyy, Opa!

( Like it's a Greek wedding and not a dive bar. )

Where the hell you been, Wilson? You're late!

( Did they have plans? Nope. However, counter-argument: when you're getting drunk, anybody who's sober is late. )

Edited 2022-04-06 22:19 (UTC)

[ Somewhere between the sun setting and the stars rising, the game part of their drinking game is abandoned. One or two daggers remain on the table, buried securely in a hunk of wood because even several bottles deep, Geralt has rules about not slicing yourself up on open blades left scattered about.

He's relocated to a chair flipped around, close enough to the bar Dean's taken to occupying. A glass of something dangles from his fingertips. He's stopped giving a damn what they're indulging in, though a distinctly out-of-place jug of White Gull rests on the counter, produced at some point when Geralt decided to introduce Dean to what his own would have taken to drink. Diluted, so as not to knock a human flat on his back.

Sam's arrival receives a far more subdued greeting from Geralt: a turn of his head and a lift of his hand. Was Sam invited? He can't recall. He assumes Dean invited them both to his domain at separate intervals, and in this moment has simply decided that this meant they were to have arrived together. He isn't certain. Probably not of any importance. The main thing to note is that Geralt does not ever mind seeing Sam. It's more than the liquor buzzing in his veins that keeps him relaxed, where the appearance of a different face might've sobered him some.

Where were they? It takes him a second to step back into the conversation they were having. Mm, right. ] I don't understand how that isn't an unripe lemon.

[ Some citrus has made its way into the extremely northern-located continent he exists in. Limes are not one of them. It's also entirely possible he may have seen limes in Cadens and assumed they were a variety of small green lemons. It's equally possible one can gauge how much Geralt has been drinking by how easily caught he is on details that do not matter. ]

[ truth is that sam actually got to dean's almost twenty minutes before stepping through those doors - having had a vague understanding of what was happening that night and also deciding to hell with it - after everything, after all the people they've all now realized are gone, he wouldn't mind a night. geralt and dean have been going at it for some time now, but that also makes sense - sam had some things to finish up in the city, a couple of errands to run. he doesn't like being late, but. at least he's here.

( and, you know, he needed to spend those twenty minutes just sitting right outside the bar - listening to the cicadas, seeing the stars up in the sky. it's not that he's decompressing, or needs the time alone, but it's been so long since he's been home, so long that he's been in this weird fantasy world, that he's almost forgotten what southern springtime is like, when it's not his own memories he's got on display back at his home. )

when he steps inside to the dive bar that is dean's horizon, it's dean's welcome he hears first - the hey, opa! - in cheerful tones that immediately, immediately, let sam know about the level he's walking in on. the bar is about what he expects, some middle of nowhere cowboy biker place that fits. just about what sam expects from dean. it's warm, the murmur is comforting, and the music is just loud enough. he glances to geralt - who is also, apparently, just as wasted - as he makes his way over to their seats, his eyes glancing very briefly to the knives in the wall. ]

Some of us have work - but don't worry, I'll catch up. [ though he does take a look at geralt, who is staring very intently at those limes, and just sorta pauses. ] Or. I'll try. [ which, to be fair, is more of a tease than anything as sam absolutely approaches the bar and holds out a hand for either a friendly hand-hug-shake-situation, or whatever bottle is closest, whichever dean hands him first. ]

Y'all had some fun while I was gone. Hope I'm not too late.

( The look Dean flashes at Geralt about unripe lemons is one of a man absolutely offended. Well I never! The sheer audacity, the lime insult, they deserve better.

Fortunately for them both, Sam's presence is a much more immediate priority for his attention, and he spins around on his stool to start chopping aforementioned limes. There's nothing like a tequila shot to start the Catching Up process. )

No such thing, pal.

( Late, sure. Too late? Not unless somebody's face down on the pool table. )

Alright, for those of us unfamiliar with the most sacred and ancient of drinking rituals, it goes like this: you put the salt on your hand. You lick the salt. Take the shot. Bite the unripe lemon. Questions?

[ Geralt meets that look with an unabashed one of his own: he still hasn't received a satisfactory explanation.

He gets up to examine this ritual Dean has laid out. He knows of some drinking rituals, courtesy of the large amounts of time he spends with Julie, but this one is new if only because liquor handed to him tends to be taken straight from the bottle or the glass before anyone can deign to teach him proper form. He knows of no other method of drinking.

He glances over his shoulder at Sam, as if to determine if Sam is familiar with this process or if this is some shit Dean's come up with on his own.

Right. Fine. Geralt holds out his hand for the drink or salt or whichever the fuck is meant to come first. ]

Feels like the time I stepped into a small village outside Skellige and they insisted I pour the mandrake over the mushrooms before the wine. [ Has anyone an idea of what he's referring to? Probably not. Does he care? Also no. ]

You’re just now getting in on the tequila?

[ sam laughs, clapping a hand on dean’s shoulder before sliding into the space in the other side of him, watching him prepare the shots and limes.

when geralt glances over as if you confirm that what dean’s doing is legit, sam just grins. nods. and then just unceremoniously licks the stripe of his hand between thumb and forefinger before he shakes the salt there, and grabs one of the limes.

he’s done this a time or two (or a couple thousand, probably) as his eyes are now over to geralt. ]

Wait- you drink mushrooms with your wine? How bad is your wine?

[ sam is ready, whenever dean gets settled. ]

How good are your mushrooms?

( Might as well examine the flip side of that absolute madness.

He doesn't actually wait for an answer. Too busy licking and salting his hand to prep. Once Geralt's all set, he raises his shot glass in a tiny little cheers, lowers it to gently bonk the counter with the bottom of it, and then salt-shot-lime knocks it back.

Right after the swallow comes a sharp hoo of an exhale. )

Tequila. It never gets any less Tequila-y.

It isn't my wine. [ The Continent's big; there's a variety of wine and a variety of methods of imbibing.

Not as good as the mushrooms, though. It is an answer that doesn't come seeing as Dean's already moved on and Geralt, too, has been handed a shot glass and been appropriately. Salted.

Mm. All right.

He follows suit, as directed, with no small amount of skepticism. The alcohol is sharp but smooth. Give him a moment to contemplate whether the green lemons or salt make any sense as part of the process. Doesn't take away from it, he supposes, but Geralt is a man who prefers his drinking with as few frills as possible. Seems complicated. He will, however, not complain about liquor of any kind offered his way.

He squints at the two of them, perhaps to surmise if there are additional secrets he's missing. ]

So we're not going to talk about mushrooms in wine?

[ though sam doesn't seem all that concerned by it - he cheers alongside dean, taps the shot, downs it back. dean makes a sound and geralt doesn't (as expected) in reaction to the tequila, and sam just ends up shaking his head. setting up his next shot, seeing as he's got some to catching up to do.

after the next shot, he pours a third, though holds it like he's planning on sipping it more than anything as he looks around the bar. catches the signs, the lights, the vibe. ]

So. [ also the knives. but hey - getting these two to talk about anything close to their feelings will take a lot more than what they've already got going for them, so he'll ease into something else. ] You grow up in a bar? Or just have a favorite spot?

( You grow up in a bar earns a laugh out of him, breathy and amused. Frankly, it ain't too far off from reality, if they're being honest here. He settles back on his stool again, backwards, one elbow on the bar behind him and his beer back in the other hand. Something to sip on while Sam does his catch-up shots. )

Close, but no. ( Accompanied by a crooked little smile and a shake of his head. ) It was a motel room, actually. Or, rooms, but after the fiftieth or so they all start to look the same. This-

( He gestures around absently with the neck of his beer. )

This belonged to a friend of mine.

Edited 2022-05-20 01:37 (UTC)

[ Grew up in a bar? Geralt casts Sam an amused look. ] Do you think Jaskier grew up in a tree?

[ Perhaps that isn't a far-fetched presumption. He reaches for the bottle of tequila—or maybe it's something else; the liquid is clear and smells strong, which is all that matters—and tips it back, minus the citrus and salt.

(They're not going to talk about the mushrooms.)

When Sam's shot glass is empty once more, Geralt fills it up without hesitation. They all start to look the same. Yeah. He knows how that is. One inn room after the next—though he prefers the woods, most of the time. ]

Hey. For one, the tree wasn't Jaskier's first situation here. Plus, this place feels more... [ sam thinks for a second, about his words and what he's trying to say. ] Lived in. But if it was a friend's then yeah, that makes sense.

[ he does nod in thanks when geralt refills his glass. god, he's already slowing down. when did he get old? ]

Motel rooms, then. Interesting choice. That cause of your whole family business situation? [ sam doesn't exactly know the details, but monster hunting was a quick enough thing he could catch onto. ]

( Lived in — yeah, that sounds about right. Ash did live on the pool table, or slept there at least. Frankly, Dean's not sure the dude ever actually left back when he was still alive. )

Yep. ( To the tune of yeee-up, bingo, got it in one. ) You go where the monsters go. Turns out, they'll go practically anywhere on the damn continent. Go figure.

( A beat, followed by a puzzled: )

Except Canada. I don't know, man, I don't think I've worked a single job in Canada. Maybe it's the Mounties.

[ Fair enough. Jaskier's first situation was actually a caravan, and then a vineyard—which may or may not, admittedly, be his family's. Hard to say. Jaskier talks a lot, tells stories, but none of them fully add up beyond common names or places. Geralt's never pried.

He's silent for most of the conversation, but there is one question he eventually has: ] How did you find your contracts if no one actually hired you?

[ The tone of it suggests he's been curious about this for some time, and only now—multiple bottles in—has found a reason to ask. ]

[ sam's known these kinds of places, lived in these sorts of buildings. you can always tell when something is held together more by a love for the place itself than any actual profits, and - if anything - it makes sam feel comfortable in it, despite any other reason he might have to feel otherwise.

the mention of canada has sam snorting, if only cause...somehow that doesn't make sense? isn't canada the one with bigfoot? do cryptids count as monsters these days? sam finds himself a little curious about the details of all of this everything, but then geralt is asking an actual question and sam decides he likes that question more. ]

Yeah- [ he adds, somewhat unhelpfully. ] Is there some kind of Hunter website people post jobs?

( He scratches at the back of his neck absently, thoughtfully. )

Not exactly. It's not really a contract thing, either, it uh-

( Granted, Geralt might be using the word contract the way Dean uses the word job, but he throws it out there anyway. Just for clarity. )

It's a little more police work than that. Digging, you know. Every once in a while I'll get hit up by a contact, hunter network, phone calls, word of mouth, but for the most part it's more like... Newspapers. Obituaries. Scouring the internet or the headlines for weird deaths. If Karen's a full-time mom with three kids that always brings brownies to the bake sale and she suddenly goes postal and slaughters her whole family at the backyard barbecue, it's probably my thing. If some rando town in Minnesota has three disappearances the same time every year for the last thirty years, probably my thing.

( He shrugs a shoulder, sways a little in his chair. )

So I suit up, head over, throw on an FBI outfit and grab a fake badge or whatever. Scope it out. Look for clues about what it is. Dig through lore on how to kill it. Put it down. Burn the body. Move on to the next.

( The longer he talks, the more distant he sounds. A little far away, a little bittersweet. )

Or at least that used to be the job, anyway. Lately, it's more like... I don't know, hanging on by the skin of my teeth and keeping the friggin' world from burning down every six seconds.

( God damn it, alcohol, look at you making things all melancholy. )

[ Admittedly, Geralt is asking because the alternative is what Dean ends up describing: that the man, apparently, just searches for something to kill, digging through bodies and deaths until he stumbles over a demon or a monster.

Sounds like a shit time, really. Work never came easily—even after Jaskier started singing his damn songs, there are only so many beasts to slay, only so many men willing to shell out coin for it when there are knights and soldiers who might accomplish the same for a lower fee, or without cost at all. But at least people know what he does. He can step into a town and now and again, a villager will be desperate enough to come up to him, asking him to solve a problem.

Geralt holds the bottle to his mouth for a second before he takes a sip. ] Can't say I envy you.

[ Which is something coming from Geralt. ]

[ sam recognizes a kind of distance in dean the more he talks about his work, and it's a curious thing. to find out how this job, this calling, works where dean's from, but also how it is he recalls it. sam listens, actually quite interested, though his brow does end up arching at some of the logistical sides of things.

and listen - he can't judge. an alien showed up and snapped away half of all people for a solid five years. finding a weird story in the paper or getting a call from a friend if hardly the weirdest thing he's heard of, even if what they're talking about is monsters. demons. so sam just takes another sip of his drink, snorting once. ]

And you don't get caught? I mean with the whole FBI uniform and everything. If you've got a whole network set up, I'm sure that helps, but I imagine it gets dicey if the monster is bad enough. [ there's a beat there, and then sam catches...a little bit of what he assumes has dean sounding that far away. and sure, okay, there's probably a whole lot of dean and probably also geralt who doesn't want to get into the whole melancholy of it, but sam can't help but catch it. to worry. ]

Did something happen to change things up?

( He raises his shotglass at Geralt - thanks, pal. Appreciate the sentiment. A glass he's just realizing is a little too empty for the subject matter, so he reaches lazily forward to slosh a little more tequila in.

Tops off the other two amigos while he's at it. )

Been caught once or twice. Gets a little hairy, but.

( He shrugs a shoulder. )

You do it long enough, you know how to deal.

( Helps that legally he's super friggin' dead, but he'll keep that to himself. Doesn't really matter. )

As far as changing things up... ( His lips tug down, and he sways casually from one side to the other. ) Not much. Just your typical apocalypse, biblical war, heaven versus hell, end of days, Armageddon.

( He tosses back his shot. )

sᴛᴏᴘ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ's ᴛʜᴀᴛ sᴏᴜɴᴅ? ( ᴀᴘʀɪʟ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜ-ᴀʟʟ )

→ sᴀᴍ & ɢᴇʀᴀʟᴛ

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

spongebob narrator: one month later

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject