( He doesn't care who 'they' are. Doesn't make a damn bit of difference if they're Sauron's army or the Green Bay Packers, it's all the same to him right now. He'll do what Geralt asks, he'll take care of her, he won't let 'them' get her, but god damn if they're anywhere near higher on his priority list right now than trying to keep his friend alive.
Geralt's hand slips.
Dean's heart plummets through his stomach, and fear shoots up to replace it. )
Geralt.
( He moves, shifting, pressing his hand more firmly onto the bundle of cloth at his wound like that'll accomplish anything. His body gets heavier, he has to grip more tightly onto Geralt's shoulder to keep him upright — that's the weight of a body no longer supporting itself. His fingers dig in more tightly. )
Look at me, you son of a bitch, hey, I need you to focus, I need you to look at me, man-
( He shifts, lowers Geralt down onto the sand so he can use that hand to angle his face up. To seek out pupils, desperately looking for dilation. Looking for focus. Looking for the faintest hint of eye contact.)
Geralt.
( That name becomes a bark, ragged, almost angry-sounding. The girl is crying, and it sears at his heart. Shreds it, decimates any chance he might've had to keep a wall between this and himself. He can compartmentalize with the best of them — right up until he gives a crap about somebody.
This is his fault.
He did this.
He screwed up, and now-
That cold, frigid bolt strikes him — realization, reality. The sharp thrust of truth. )
Oh, god-
( His blood-soaked hand abandons the shirt, the wound, in favor of curling around the side of Geralt's jaw beneath one ear. His thumb smears a deep swath of blood along one cheekbone. )
No, no, no- come on. Stay with me, don't do this, look at me-
( It swells, it pushes at his ribs, becoming a bigger truth than his staunch refusal to accept it. Becoming a more powerful force than all the stubbornness of his denial.
He did this. He screwed up. This is his fault.
He's not breathing.
His blood's soaking Dean's clothes, his hands, the ground.
You human? No. You're a hunter. As are you. You learn to put things away, for what's important. We can all be worse. You'll have to find me sufficient for now. Let me worry about them.
Every single god damn time.
This is his fault.
Shock sets in alongside the denial. The girl is crying. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of hooves.
If he doesn't get this girl out of here, he doesn't deserve to walk out at all. He rips himself up and away, and pulls the girl along with him. The last thing he remembers before he wakes up is hearing her scream. )
no subject
Geralt's hand slips.
Dean's heart plummets through his stomach, and fear shoots up to replace it. )
Geralt.
( He moves, shifting, pressing his hand more firmly onto the bundle of cloth at his wound like that'll accomplish anything. His body gets heavier, he has to grip more tightly onto Geralt's shoulder to keep him upright — that's the weight of a body no longer supporting itself. His fingers dig in more tightly. )
Look at me, you son of a bitch, hey, I need you to focus, I need you to look at me, man-
( He shifts, lowers Geralt down onto the sand so he can use that hand to angle his face up. To seek out pupils, desperately looking for dilation. Looking for focus. Looking for the faintest hint of eye contact.)
Geralt.
( That name becomes a bark, ragged, almost angry-sounding. The girl is crying, and it sears at his heart. Shreds it, decimates any chance he might've had to keep a wall between this and himself. He can compartmentalize with the best of them — right up until he gives a crap about somebody.
This is his fault.
He did this.
He screwed up, and now-
That cold, frigid bolt strikes him — realization, reality. The sharp thrust of truth. )
Oh, god-
( His blood-soaked hand abandons the shirt, the wound, in favor of curling around the side of Geralt's jaw beneath one ear. His thumb smears a deep swath of blood along one cheekbone. )
No, no, no- come on. Stay with me, don't do this, look at me-
( It swells, it pushes at his ribs, becoming a bigger truth than his staunch refusal to accept it. Becoming a more powerful force than all the stubbornness of his denial.
He did this. He screwed up. This is his fault.
He's not breathing.
His blood's soaking Dean's clothes, his hands, the ground.
You human?
No.
You're a hunter.
As are you.
You learn to put things away, for what's important.
We can all be worse.
You'll have to find me sufficient for now.
Let me worry about them.
Every single god damn time.
This is his fault.
Shock sets in alongside the denial. The girl is crying. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of hooves.
If he doesn't get this girl out of here, he doesn't deserve to walk out at all. He rips himself up and away, and pulls the girl along with him. The last thing he remembers before he wakes up is hearing her scream. )