( That's part of why Dean cut him off — there's never, ever a time when people like them can guarantee one another's safety. It's the antithesis of the work they do, of the life they live, and not's not something Dean expects Geralt to bother answering.
You cannot stay in this room; he's not sure what about that gets to him the most. Maybe the fact that he hadn't realized until it's said that there's a little part of himself that wants to. Turning back was never even remotely on the table, but walking away from Sam now? After trying for so long to get back to him?
That conflict is clear, written in the reluctant divot in his brow. In the way his lips flatten, and he glances beyond Geralt toward the cluttered and haunted hallway.
Then back to the clean, familiar motel room. To his brother. )
I'm coming back for you, okay? As soon as we're done. We get her, we'll get you, then we get out.
( Most of the time, Dean sounds rock-solid in his certainty. Now, he doesn't quite believe what he's saying, and Sam picks up on that better than anyone.
"Hope I'm still here when you get back. If you get back." A year and a half is a long time. An hour and a half is a long time, too. Sam levels Geralt with one last look, hard and cold as steel. Something in his eyes glints, something Dean doesn't see. "She's upstairs. Seventh floor."
Dean reaches out to squeeze his brother's shoulder, to jostle him once. A hand curls around the back of his neck in a soft clasp, a nonverbal promise — I'll be back — and then he peels away.
Nods Geralt onward.
Let's go.
Walking out of that room's the hardest thing Dean's had to do in a while — but Sam doesn't need him right now. Geralt does. )
no subject
You cannot stay in this room; he's not sure what about that gets to him the most. Maybe the fact that he hadn't realized until it's said that there's a little part of himself that wants to. Turning back was never even remotely on the table, but walking away from Sam now? After trying for so long to get back to him?
That conflict is clear, written in the reluctant divot in his brow. In the way his lips flatten, and he glances beyond Geralt toward the cluttered and haunted hallway.
Then back to the clean, familiar motel room. To his brother. )
I'm coming back for you, okay? As soon as we're done. We get her, we'll get you, then we get out.
( Most of the time, Dean sounds rock-solid in his certainty. Now, he doesn't quite believe what he's saying, and Sam picks up on that better than anyone.
"Hope I'm still here when you get back. If you get back." A year and a half is a long time. An hour and a half is a long time, too. Sam levels Geralt with one last look, hard and cold as steel. Something in his eyes glints, something Dean doesn't see. "She's upstairs. Seventh floor."
Dean reaches out to squeeze his brother's shoulder, to jostle him once. A hand curls around the back of his neck in a soft clasp, a nonverbal promise — I'll be back — and then he peels away.
Nods Geralt onward.
Let's go.
Walking out of that room's the hardest thing Dean's had to do in a while — but Sam doesn't need him right now. Geralt does. )