( He's seen this before. It's not as reassuring as it should be that Geralt tries to push him off. Even less reassuring that he doesn't make it much further than up-ish. His gun's been abandoned in favor of gripping Geralt's shoulder with one hand and pressing that shirt into the wound with the other. He's torn between helping Geralt stay up, or trying to coax him back down onto his back again. He's suspended in that limbo, conflicted. )

Don't worry, we're gonna get her outta here, okay, but we need to get you stable first.

( Beneath his hand, Dean's flannel is already soaking through with blood. How much can a Witcher afford to lose? How super-human are they really, when push comes to shove?

This is a lot of blood. Dude was already pale to start with. )

Geralt, listen to me, man. We gotta stop this bleeding before I can carry you outta here, okay? I need you to focus, I need you keeping pressure on this until I can figure out a way to bind it.

( Because he's not willing to entertain the possibility that Geralt's not getting out of here with him.

But there's a little waver in his tone still, because the back of his mind... ain't so sure. That little logical part that he steadfastly ignores, one that's seen plenty of injuries. One that's seen plenty of people die. One that knows loss, and anticipates it almost always. It's keen to point out Geralt ain't looking too good. It sparks the first hint of real fear in him. )