Hunters Anonymous (OPEN)

[righteously]

WHO: Dean & Open - Mingle it up!
WHEN: late May
WHERE: the Horizon - Roadhouse Edition
WHAT: Starting a Hunters Anonymous Support Group
WARNINGS: drinking and murder, mostly.

( It starts out with just a couple of people. Dean, obviously, because it's his bar. Eventually Geralt, followed by one of Geralt's other hunting buddies — and then another, and then before you know it there's a handful of hunters all swapping stories about the crap they've seen out in the wilds.

It's about the time Dean makes to take out a notebook and honest to god start writing some of this crap down that two things hit him — First, this is actually really freakin' useful. Second, it feels right. The Roadhouse here may be fake, but this is what the real one would've been like. This is what it was meant for. This is the most real this place has been since he got here.

So he runs it by Geralt, and puts out an APB.

Harvelle's Roadhouse is officially open for business — and not just of the drinking variety.

Mind the jukebox. )

NOTES: This is an open mingle, so feel free to top-level below! The idea here is to open up the Roadhouse for hunter-types to use as a central meeting place or base of operations for anyone who desires to, so feel free to use it as a backdrop for any threads whenever. Obviously non-hunter people are welcome to see the message and wander in whenever they want, too! Info on the Roadhouse can be found here. Hit me up at paingravy for anything you need any time.

Comments

Dᴇᴀɴ → Oᴘᴇɴ

[righteously]

( He's not exactly a hard person to hunt down, considering he's manning the bar for the most part unless someone drags him away for a few minutes. He does it with an ease and efficiency that suggests it's definitely not his first time playing bartender, and this might just be his element. Wander up to ask for a drink and he'll make it happen — unless you ask for something with six pretentious adjectives, in which case he'll thunk down a shot of tequila and lime, congratulations it's close enough to whatever hipster crap you just tried to order.

The flat screen TV above the bar plays the music video for whatever song is currently on the jukebox, and he will not be changing it. Feel free to ask. Good luck.

He'll also weigh in to discussions on monster sightings near Cadens, or any talk about what your typical variety of monsters are like back where he's from. Vampires, werewolves, demons, he'll chime in about any of them.

He can also be baited into a game of pool, darts, or Knife Chess if you ask him the right way. )

[shadowthief]

Impressive. [She says from just behind him, watching the arc of the knife in the air as it lands on the board across from him. She takes slow, measured steps until she stops beside him. She glances at him and smirks.] But I think I could do better.

[She doesn't bother waiting before demonstrating. It's a quick and fluid motion from the knife at her hip, landing with a soft, steady thunk into the wood. Dead center of a black square.]

[righteously]

( Dean's seen her around, of course he has. Had a few drinks, if not with her, then at least in her vicinity. He's a good study of people, he has intuition bordering on uncanny at times. Easy to peg her as not just a civilian — but then again, who among the summoned is? Which is why he isn't exactly shocked when she totally Mr. & Mrs. Smiths that freakin' knife like it's nothing.

Surprised, yes, but not shocked. He tilts his head, lips pulling down, telegraphing that he's impressed by the shot. )

Huh.

( That's some Hawkeye shit. )

Something tells me we're gonna have to up the difficulty rating on Knife Chess. You got any suggestions?

[shadowthief]

[She laughs softly.]

Only if you think you could wire-walk or do an aerial silks routine. [There's a grin on her lips at that. Yes, those are actual skills she has in her arsenal.]

[righteously]

( He pulls a face, flat and utterly deadpan. )

Yeah, no, my- uh- aerial silks routine's a little rusty.

( Is he in great shape? Absolutely. Does he have the flexibility for even the mildest yoga? Not in a million years.

He plucks up another knife — no reason not to keep playing the game while they chat — and throws it with a clean, solid thunk into a square. )

So. Where'd you learn?

( Might as well just get the obvious question out first. )

[shadowthief]

The knives, or the silks?

[She asks, throwing another knife into the board.

The answer is very different, depending on which thing he means, actually. They come from two completely different parts of her life, that really feel more like two whole, separate lifetimes altogether.]

[righteously]

Yes.

( He says pointedly, a little wryly — as in, both. One's bound to be as interesting a story as the other, neither's exactly what you'd call an everyday skill.

She lands her shot, so he takes his obligatory drink. Not that he needed a reason.

He takes his time on his own, half his attention devoted to her expression. Waits until she starts her explanation to peel his eyes away and throw.

Bang on the money. Thank god, that'd be embarrassing otherwise. )

[shadowthief]

[She laughs softly, and takes the drink she owes him, now, too.]

I grew up in a circus. [She pauses there, just to see the reaction to that small statement, but she does continue.] My main act was the high-wire, much to my parents' vexation, but I liked the art of the silks, so even though it was never my focus, I learned anyway. Just for fun.

[And though it might be an easy leap to assume the knives also tied into living the life of a circus performer, she adds: ] The knives came later, out of necessity, not entertainment.

[Another knife appears from somewhere on her person and lands on the board again.]

[righteously]

( Skrrt. Rewind. Hold up. He stares at her like she just told him she grew up on the freakin' moon. )

A circus. ( He echoes incredulously. ) As in, a circus circus. Tents, elephants, rings of fire, circus? You grew up in a circus.

( Okay, amazing, first of all. Literally a fantasy he had at six years old for a hot minute. He takes a second to process it, metabolize it, and finally visibly shake it off to move onto part two of this whole convo. )

Where'd the necessity part come in?

[shadowthief]

[The incredulity has her eyebrows arching high near her hairline. She mistakes it as something negative.

At least for a second.

Then, she recognizes it for what it is: Delight. The sort of doubt that was borne from amazement rather than true disbelief.

She laughs, then, her head tilted back in her merriment in the moment.]

Yes, as in tents and elephants and gravity-defying feats. [There's a thread of amusement still woven in her voice as she explains: ] It's common for the Suli. It's one of the main ways we make our living.

[But the other end. The necessity. It sobers that previous amusement.]

It isn't safe in The Barrel. Gangs. Lechers. [Her lip curls slightly in digust at the thought.] I had to protect myself.

[righteously]

( Gangs. Lechers. His eyebrows raise a little, and it's with some dry humor that he points out the obvious: )

Sounds like a rough neighborhood.

( Deliberate understatement. His condolences.

He'll keep his commentary there, surface level, but his deeper instinct says there's more to it. It's just...

He's been to Detroit. He's been to the Bronx. He's been to literally anywhere in the state of Florida. Met hundreds of people from gang-filled lecher-populated neighborhoods.

Can't say he's met any non-hunters that learned how to throw knives like this as a result. That's a skillset that requires a lifetime of consistent practice. Hell, maybe it's a circus thing, but she'd probably have mentioned that if it were the case. The conversation bits and pieces imply that it's a whole separate source.

Maybe she can pick up on that light ghost of skepticism. If she can, she can probably also pick up on the fact that if he's right about it he's not gonna call her out on it, nor judge her for keeping her truth to herself. It's none of his business. They're not exactly on That Level.

A small truth can be a deep, messy can of worms. )

[shadowthief]

To say the least.

[It's easy to catch that he's being purposefully obtuse, so she doesn't take it as the lightened edge of misunderstanding the gravity of it all.

But she also will not divulge the darker truths of her time in Ketterdam to a man she just met. Especially under perfectly banal circumstances and. not some Singularity-fueled nonsense. More people than she'd have liked saw the slavers and the Heleen in her memories, shared unwittingly and unwarranted even to utter strangers.

So? She doesn't say anything else at all. She can be a woman of very few words when she decides to be.]

[itookashot]

[ Jesper isn't a hunter by choice, and by that, it means that he thought about being a hunter to make money, was told he'd die most certainly, and chose life instead. But he's still a mercenary with a perfect shot, even if he hasn't gotten to do any fun adventures lately. He did make his money either way, but the revolvers he wears now in Cadens isn't the pearl-handled ones beauties he sported back home. Alas. At least in the Horizon he can carry them along with his favorite green suits and fashionable attire.

At the moment he is staring openly at the flat-screen TV, which he's gotten a little more used to in the Horizons he's been to, but he's never seen one that goes with the music playing. How bizarre. It's almost like going to a bard show, like with Jaskier, only it's recorded and on one of these screens. He's enraptured by television, either way. ]

I don't think I understand why some of these videos match up with the songs and some of them have nothing to do with the songs. Aren't there any rules?

[righteously]

( The green suit's a questionable choice to Mr. Denim Is Formalwear, but more importantly, he clocks the holstered guns — way more interesting, way more approval on this end. It earns Jesper a drink without him even asking. The dude looks pretty young, but definitely drinking age in England levels, and Dean started sneaking his dad's whiskey before he was a preteen. No room to decide the official drinking age here.

Still, he splits the moral difference and slides the kid a pint of beer in a frosty glass rather than the hard stuff.

His lips quirk up at the question. )

Music videos are art, man. Art's free rein. Plus, the people that make 'em are usually on so many drugs at the time they probably forget what song they're even making the video for.

( Barely a beat passes before he nods his head at one of Jesper's holsters. )

Nice piece.

( He reaches back behind his waistband to pull out his own preferred pistol — pearl handled is obviously the peak of gun taste. )

[itookashot]

( Jesper is flashy and that's the way he likes it, he wears green a lot in Cadens too, but he can't afford or find clothes that have his very unique style. Back home he wears lime or gold or all kinds of odd colors that shouldn't match but it's the confidence that does it. He catches the pint without hesitation and would probably be confused if an age limit was brought up. Ketterdam doesn't have drinking ages. The baddest gang on the streets is currently made up of mostly teenagers, the Dregs, Jesper's gang. )

Well them being on drugs does make more sense. So television doesn't only have recorded plays, it has plays about music. You lot are spoiled!

( They have books and in-person plays, nothing like this. Jesper absolutely loves technology, every piece of technology he's seen he has fallen in love with. He saw Shepard's Citadel and Anakin's droids and the televisions like here, and they're incredible.

He loves talking about his guns and guns in general more than anything, so his smile is sudden and bright. )

Thanks, they're two of a kind.

[ Jesper flips one of his revolvers up in his hand so fast it's hard to tell when his hand started to move. He's a quickdraw, he's not even trying to show off, it's just how he moves. He spins it around so Dean can see for himself if he likes. ]

They were my mother's, she was the best shot in our country.

[ Probably. So is he. ]

[righteously]

( You lot are spoiled; he huffs out a laugh. Well, Jesper ain't wrong about that. Seems like every ten minutes around here Dean's been wishing for first world problems again.

The look on his face is some cross between bemused and impressed as he flips his gun around like a friggin' cowboy, some straight up Viggo Mortensen in Hidalgo moves.

He takes the piece with all appropriately due reverence and care, turning it gently over in his hand. Takes a quick glance down the barrel to get a feel for the sights. When he hands it back, it's approvingly. )

Your mom had good taste. Seems like she really knew her guns.

( That's right, folks. It's the Dean Winchester Respecting People's Moms hour. )

[itookashot]

( There's technology here superior to his world even, although overall he would say they're somewhat even. But he listens to stories of these 'modern' worlds with so much envy. He has seen TV but he hasn't seen a movie yet. He's already told Shepard he'd love to go exploring worlds. Sometimes more than he would going home, but that's Jesper. Restless.

He is a frigging cowboy, a gunslinger, with gunslinger moves and a gun that's old-fashioned anywhere else. Jesper used to never be able to talk about his mother, in a way that memory situation helped him more than hurt him. Seeing her again as an adult was a different experience. )

And then some. Hunting, skinning, cooking, tanning, survival tactics, there were few things she couldn't do. I was shooting these by six.

( It's why it seems so easy for him, and it is. He's so blinding fast in a fight but after practicing so long, it seems obvious it would be. He holsters it just as quick, a blink and it's done. )

I just got guns officially in Cadens, they'll never be those, but it's good to have them again. Not that I've done anything that needs guns since getting here, alas.

( Alas for him! He's a mercenary. )

[righteously]

( Something undeniably nostalgic hangs around Dean as Jesper speaks. It's in the small smile that he directs down at his drink, it's in the gentle shake of his head before he brings it to his lips. )

She sounds like my old man. ( He pauses before he actually drinks, long enough to give a conceding sway. ) I was six, too. Probably a different kind of hunting for the most part, but tomayto-tomahto.

( Not that they didn't do the basic, standard kind of hunting too, just way less of a focus considering fast food was generally a drive away. )

[itookashot]

Yeah? My dad was the opposite, he couldn't do any of it.

( Why would he need to when his wife was so capable? He thought they'd be together until they were old enough for Jesper to take over, not that they'd lose her so young and Jesper would have to step into her shoes right away. Colm relied on him for a lot. )

Considering you kill monsters, seems different. There are no monsters where I'm from, there were a while back, called the Volcra, although I've only heard about them in stories. They were all destroyed a few years ago.

( So he doesn't have context. It is part of why Geralt was right to warn him not to get involved when he doesn't know how to handle the difference between human fights and monster fights. But he wants to be able to do that. He has the skills and the weapons, maybe he finally can start to learn. Killing people, that he's done for years, although he's far from bloodthirsty. It's more part of the lifestyle. )

I think I'd be good at it, my abilities make me useful. Maybe one of you would take me out some time?

( Hey, no harm in asking. )

[righteously]

No.

( He says immediately, accompanied by a small shake of his head, and while there isn't any uncertainty in his tone, there is an undercurrent of apology. Genuinely. It comes from a place of good intentions and bad history. From a place of knowing, and a place of loss. )

Doesn't matter if you'd be good, and it ain't that I doubt your skills, but... this isn't a life anyone should want to be a part of. If you have the option to never figure out why that is, you should take it. This isn't an ego thing. I'm not kidding. Trust me, it's the smart choice. I'd take it myself if I had the option.

( Not that he could ever really imagine it. What he'd be like, how different he'd be, what he'd even do with himself. Hunting is who he is, he'll die doing it, he has no other skills, it's the only thing he can do right.

But still. )

[itookashot]

( Jesper sighs, having reached yet another brick wall on this, he doesn't know why they're so reluctant. Killing is killing. At least he'd be killing things that weren't people, it really does seem like a step up, slightly less questionable. )

There's nothing equivalent to what I do back home here, and it's driving me insane. I'm a person of action, I'm not meant for a boring life.

( He's talked to Shepard about them going after bandits, getting a crew together, arming them to the teeth, and heading out, just to be able to do anything. He is very twitchy in a quiet life. He was supposed to settle into one back home, with the option to run out when he needed an adventure. Jesper doesn't have the same burn under his skin anymore though. It's not that he can't help it, like before. )

My gang and I would get into the most incredible capers, we always had something cooking, never a dull moment. How do normal people exist for decades like this?

[righteously]

( Dean's given the same answer as others, but while he might still be more brusque than the average civilian, he's also more empathetic than the average hunter. I'm not meant for a boring life resonates. He knows the feeling of being lost when he has nothing to fight. That understanding hovers around his eyes, broadcasted sympathy, and he settles down into his chair like a reflection of how he's settling into this conversation. )

I get it. I tried it once, for about a year. At the end of the day... ( He shakes his head slowly. Idly spins his tumbler sporting a couple fingers of whiskey. The second part of that sentiment, he just couldn't do it, goes unspoken. ) Anyway, for the record... if there was, I don't know, a war, a shoot-out, if I needed people with me to go toe-to-toe with a bunch of humans, I'd ask you. No question. But...

( How to articulate this? It takes him a beat, before he settles on: )

Monsters aren't people. They don't think like people. People are... most of 'em are predictable. They have some kind of rationality you can guess at. People hesitate. Ninety percent of them have even a scrap of empathy, they have limits, they have vulnerabilities you'll probably know by heart after whatever you've lived through. ( There's a short pause to let him digest that, but then he carries on because this here's a good old fashioned monologue. ) Monsters are different. Even the rare ones that can walk, talk, and pretend to be people. They're chaos. They're rabid. They're rage. They will kill you, and they will kill the people you care about if you're dumb enough to bring them. One wrong claw, one swipe, one bite too close to an artery or without some kind of anti-venom, and that's it. Lights out. One hundred to zero. Most of 'em you can't kill with a bullet, or two, or fifty, and then they're on you.

People see other people. Monsters see food, and honestly? If you're too slow, you're better off dead. Half of 'em keep their food alive for days so it stays fresh. ( To close this all up: ) This is just one of a dozen other reasons why nobody with any sense is gonna take you out there. Most of us have made that mistake already, and that blood doesn't wash off.

[dirtytrenchcoat]

It's a good turnout.

[Castiel has been at the roadhouse most of the night, watching the place go from somewhat empty to bustling and full. He's seen those he knows, and some he didn't know and has regarded the patrons with about as much concern as he typically did. Hardly any.

His focus instead has been on Dean, and from time to time the flat-screen television overhead. Especially when a song he's familiar with starts to play.] How are you feeling?

[righteously]

( Dean's finally in a place where he doesn't feel the need to be a host. Where he can let go of his projected extroversion to fall back into his more genuine, subdued self, and just watch. Just sit back and enjoy the sight of friends or his people mingling in his space. Happy, content, safe, alive.

That's what makes him whole. That's what brings him energy. Not extroversion, not being social, but bringing a select few to him. Bringing them into his introversion and just surrounding himself with them.

Especially Cas.

There's a soft, quiet little piece of him that recognizes the absence of one person in particular, though. )

I'm good. ( He says, and means it — but there's an obvious caveat. One he admits after a beat, still smiling, but slightly sadder. ) Man, I wish Sam could see this.

[dirtytrenchcoat]

[It's a room bustling with energy, and kinship, unlike anything Castiel had ever witnessed outside of Dean's company. So, it's fitting he'd be here now beside him to take it all in.

A quiet smile finds Castiel in the silence that follows Dean's comment. The absence of Sam was more than just something physical, it was a key piece of the life he'd found in helping Sam and Dean left unlinked.] I do too. It doesn't feel the same here without him.