( Color him surprised Geralt actually takes the thing. If it were anyone else, he'd be more concerned about the fact that he's never seen the guy use one. The thing is, Geralt's a smart guy — and there's a certain type of person that can make sense of just about any weapon you put in their hands. Handguns aren't rocket science, and good aim is an innate quality to that type of person.
He should still put the guy through some drills one day just to get a clearer picture on how he handles one, but that's not even close to a priority right now.
They move. Dean's used to hunting with a partner, and knows what it means to follow a lead. Geralt enters, Dean hovers at the door, half in and half out, attention split between the room and the hallway outside. Ready to run in if something goes down, but more ready to draw attention to anything headed their way from outside.
Watch the ceilings. )
Great.
( He mutters unhappily, flicking his eyes up immediately. Just ceiling tiles, a few cracked plaster, long-dead LED light panel strips. Hanging wires.
The next room's door is wide open. It's a classroom, long abandoned. Desks toppled, a strip of wallpaper circling the top with the alphabet in standard and in cursive. Bloody handprints are smeared across the chalkboard in a way that makes Dean's teeth hurt to look at.
Beyond it, a perfectly clean motel room, insomuch as a motel room is ever really clean. It doesn't strike him as off that this room is as orderly as it is, at least not at the forefront of his mind. Subconsciously, it scratches at that itch of discomfort found only in unsettling dreams. )
no subject
He should still put the guy through some drills one day just to get a clearer picture on how he handles one, but that's not even close to a priority right now.
They move. Dean's used to hunting with a partner, and knows what it means to follow a lead. Geralt enters, Dean hovers at the door, half in and half out, attention split between the room and the hallway outside. Ready to run in if something goes down, but more ready to draw attention to anything headed their way from outside.
Watch the ceilings. )
Great.
( He mutters unhappily, flicking his eyes up immediately. Just ceiling tiles, a few cracked plaster, long-dead LED light panel strips. Hanging wires.
The next room's door is wide open. It's a classroom, long abandoned. Desks toppled, a strip of wallpaper circling the top with the alphabet in standard and in cursive. Bloody handprints are smeared across the chalkboard in a way that makes Dean's teeth hurt to look at.
Beyond it, a perfectly clean motel room, insomuch as a motel room is ever really clean. It doesn't strike him as off that this room is as orderly as it is, at least not at the forefront of his mind. Subconsciously, it scratches at that itch of discomfort found only in unsettling dreams. )