Iɴ Hᴇʟʟ, I'ʟʟ ʙᴇ ɪɴ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀɴʏ → sᴇᴍɪ-ᴏᴘᴇɴ

[righteously]

Who: Dean & Various
When: August
Where: Cadens & the Horizon
What: Catch-all

Warnings: Winchester-brand violence, booze, and suicidal ideation I'm sure.

I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ғɪɢʜᴛ
Tᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴠᴇ I'ᴍ ʀɪɢʜᴛ
I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ғᴏʀɢɪᴠᴇɴ

Comments

[righteously]

( She rolls in with the witty intro line, and it earns her a laugh and a flash of teeth for her trouble. Accompanying it, a grand gesture toward the nearest chair by his table set-up, a little ironic-theatrical. )

And here's me without my letterman jacket or beer pong table.

( A click of his teeth, a shake of his head. Shame on him for not being prepared.

Not that he ever went to college. The closest he came was sleeping with sorority chicks when he was still young and dumb enough to sneak into campus parties. )

So where are we slappin' this bad boy?

[gynvael]

[ They're frills.

He does give it over. Takes it back just as quickly, too. Geralt downs a good chunk of the bottle, not in preparation for the inking but because that's the kind of mood he's in. ]

I'm heartbroken. [ Dry as the cracked earth. No. It isn't his trousers that are coming off. His shirt, however. That is removed as he swings his leg over a chair. He gestures idly to his back. ] Where you have room. Put it there.

[ It's a bit of a mess, jagged lines of raised white skin from too long ago and a more recent thick scar that runs straight up his spine, like at some point the flesh split clean apart. Scattered lash marks lay over all of it, some deeper than others—one of the few sets of scars that appears not to be from claws or teeth.

And then there is, of course, the freshly healed remnant of where he was speared into the fucking ground a few weeks ago. But probably around the upper right, Dean will find a sufficient patch of skin. ]

[nadine_he_loves]

[Nadine does her best to block out the rest of the tavern. It's fine. This is basically her downstairs, she lives right above. Taking a deep breath, she sits.]

It probably won't surprise you.

[The placement of the tattoo. She lifts her skirt on one side, as she's done before in front of Dean.]

Right...around it.

[She has no idea if proximity will lend any potency, but if nothing else it will camouflage the branding. Draw attention from the initials themselves, overshadow them. Besides, it's easier to hide that way. Even more free with her wardrobe, Nadine dresses to the modest side.]

[righteously]

( He leans in to inspect the tattoo; makes a soft huh sound like he's appropriately impressed. It's a good one, not that he's a huge Tatt Guy — but the fact that it's not an anchor or an infinity symbol means it's already a step above the bottom of the barrel. A second or two gets spent inspecting it, trying to unpack any hidden meanings he can puzzle out at first glance, and then he leans back to continue cleaning up and resetting the tattoo gun. )

Thanks. I'm not actually an artist, it's uh... more a necessity thing. ( Explained with a press of lips and a little sway to one side. ) I can do this and like... two other wards, and beyond that? Yeah, you're gonna wanna look up somebody else for mermaids and calligraphy of the names of your future ex-boyfriends.

( Assuming he understood the context right about that lovely boy with the lovely mansion and which way his buddy here swings, that is. Otherwise, he's about to look real dumb. Wouldn't be the first time, won't be the last. )

ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ɢᴏ ɴᴏ ғᴜʀᴛʜᴇʀ → ᴊᴏ

[righteously]

( Dean's room at the inn isn't all that remarkable. Two beds, both neatly made with military corners. A devil's trap carved into the floorboards, discreet salt lines at the windows, a few other signs and sigils embedded around the place if one knows what they're looking for. It's clean, with stacks of books on end tables, weapons artfully but also practically displayed around the joint. Equipment and gear organized but accessible, a couple of liquor bottles in various states of fullness on his small two-chair dining table. That's not where they're set up.

Now, they're on the floor. Legs crossed, his hands palm-up on his thighs patiently but expectantly while he waits for her to get settled in and to rock 'n roll. The hand-holding is an actual thing, okay, he had to do it his first time too.

She's bound to scoff at him for it, and if she does, he'll just shrug. )

Hey, don't look at me, I didn't make the rules. Look beyond what you see, Simba.

( Because apparently he's Rafiki in this analogy, and there's no wrong time for a Lion King reference.

Once she reaches in and closes her eyes, once she allows herself to settle, it'll happen. She'll see it for the first time.

The Horizon. )

[tobeclosetohim]

This really could not be stupider. They're sitting on the floor. Indian Style. Like they're somehow trying to be little children. And Dean has her hands — which she hasn't entirely stopped making a face about. Not so much her whole face, and not even so much just Dean's hands. It's the crinkle in her forehead that hasn't moved.

Since she sat down.
Since he took her hands.
Since he told her to meditate.

Which is somewhere at the very back end of everything and anything her mind feels wired for right now. Even with him here. Even with the idea she's going to hold out some sapling faith that Dean is Dean is Dean (who can fucking set himself on fire), that doesn't change the rest. Strange place. Strange people. Nothing sounds right. Feels right. Is right.

Jo huffs in annoyance more times than she's even aware of. Sorting through it and trying to somehow make herself focus past it or collapse into a count of how long is too long and what happens if she fails it or can't get there. And why does she even want to believe she should go meet this stupid other place even more entangled in some stupid rock that decided it was its job to steal her today like she was some five-finger discount snack.

But she keeps trying. Jo only cracked an eye open once, but he was still sitting there with his closed. And eventually









there's







She blinks, looking forward. Right. Left. Endless expanse, flat and open, rolling off into every distance before her. Down. There's a pause. Color exists on her. And her hands do; somehow always did, touch those—pants and jacket of the same heavy, sturdy blue material. Toes curl inside boots. Worn but clean. Clear of anything of note. At least that she can see;

And what she can't is a long line of letters, going vertically down the back center of that blue jean jacket in crisp dark black letters mirrored perfectly to the line of her spine:

𝓢
𝓣
𝓡
𝓔
𝓝
𝓖
𝓣
𝓗
𝓣

[righteously]

And suddenly, there they are.

He stands a foot or two away, mostly beside her but maybe a few inches behind, too, so that he's just skirting the edge of her peripheral vision at first. Silent for a long moment, watching her taking it all in. Long enough to catch the letters that run down her back, a sign he doesn't remember learning but nonetheless knows on some instinctive level — just like everyone else who shows up here knows the signs. What they mean, what they say about a person.

Yeah, he figures that's about right.

Eventually, he'll throw out a comment — more to make his presence known than anything else, something inane and irrelevant like, "Man, I forgot how weird this place looked the first time."

His own wardrobe isn't much to write home about. Jeans and boots, same as her, but rather than a denim jacket, he's got a flannel shirt hanging loose and open over a black tee. It's subtle, easy to miss, but his sign can be found on the breast pocket — stitched into the fabric almost like it's a logo.



The truth is, he doesn't give a crap about how weird this place does or doesn't look. He's busy clocking her, checking in, studiously searching out the answer to you okay? without actually asking the question. Braced for things to take a turn if she freaks out because she doesn't remember who in the hell he is, and any sane, rational person might flip their lids if a strange rando six foot something douchebag wandered up into their personal space.

[tobeclosetohim]

The voice makes her stumble a step away, turning that way. The step isn't a skitter; the turn isn't hairpin fast. It's a slightly off-balance shift-turn only, in a shatter of surprise at broken silence. The birth of sound she hadn't even recognized as an absence of itself the second before there were words in it. Before there was suddenly someone next to her. Well, not next to now. Across from her now.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Eyes, intensely focused.

"Who are — "

It starts as a question on the first word, and by the end of the question, it's grown even bigger in her voice and even more so inside her head. Because she can't find anything to connect who he might be, where she is, and there's something decidedly wrong about that. Something in her gut. Deep and solid, not painful, but suddenly loudly present. Her gaze shifted from side to side, but focus suddenly turned in.

[righteously]

His hands come up a little immediately — not a full-fledged surrender, just faintly raised fingertips so his palms are slightly more upright than parallel to the ground. Deliberately casual posture, a calmness injected into every line. It's familiar, it's practiced, but it's not necessarily a conscious choice. Nothing so manipulative as all that. It's just the same reflex as he'd get trying to soothe a spooked horse or a sketched out victim before either of them had the chance to bolt on him.

"It's okay, don't freak out. I know you probably have a total blank going on upstairs, but that's- it's totally normal, alright?"

A tentative beat passes, and if it doesn't seem like she's on a hair-trigger, he'll lower his hands back down to his sides again.

"I'm Dean. This whole... memory loss thing, it's just a side-effect. It's temporary, it'll wear off eventually, I promise."

[tobeclosetohim]

The knot in her gut won't stop doubling down on the absolutely empty certainty, like an ouroboros whose recognition of itself only speeds up the ever-looping cycle. Not knowing who she is. Where she is. Why she's here. Who. How. What. Her eyes focus, and she looks up again when the man starts talking. Not quite to quiet, but definitely careful. Calm. And her brow wrinkles as it feels.

Placating. Is that it?

She definitely doesn't like that.
It's annoying. Even if she can't say why.

He's probably right about the freaking out, though. Or, more aptly, the not freaking out that she shouldn't be doing — that she isn't doing; that she potentially should be doing so he can stop her doing it? Except. That's absurdly ludicrous somehow, too. Just looking at him. It's not fear at all. Even for being rather like a blotting wall against the endless aimlessness, he's

... expansive.

In some other way she can't find a word for.
But then, as soon as she doesn't think she can, she has it.

The word, the meaning behind it, and everything that is the man in front of her. Expansive. Entrenched. Unwavering. Sacrificing. So very many cracks everywhere, and yet none of the pieces fall away, nor anything else in contact with it. An aching wound that couldn't be sealed away, refusing to let itself find mirror-homes in anyone around it.

There's a small "Oh," as Jo's head tilts a little, looking at that tiny symbol on his pocket. Then, with a blink, bringing things a little more into focus again. In and out were a problem. An eyebrow raised as her hands found pockets to slide into. "Dean." She tries it out like she's trying to label his existence.

It doesn't fit the way the symbol does.
It doesn't feel wrong. Just not as correct.

"Why are we —" Stops the same way the last had but differently. Because why are we here is not nearly as important as: "Why do you know what's going on?"

And why did it feel like she didn't even have to question that she could trust him? That he'd be right?

[righteously]

There's something indescribably weird about hearing her say his name like that. Looking at her, knowing her, knowing that she's supposed to know more about him than almost anybody else on their current freakin' planet out there, but the way she shapes the word hits more like she's feeling it out on her tongue for the first time. Weighing, assessing; not necessarily finding it wanting, but still lacking the concrete surety he'd have expected to hear. It doesn't feel conclusive, and he couldn't put into words exactly why that is, what it means, or how he feels about it, even if somebody held a damn gun to his head.

He does what he does with all complicated feelings he can't immediately unpack in the moment: he shoves it aside to think on later (with no signed commitments on actually getting back to it), and focuses on the here and now. The next, more immediate question.

"Because this ain't my first rodeo," he says, and it sounds a little more relaxed, or relieved. Like he's being a little less careful, less concerned about whether or not he's gonna have to prove himself to her. He's not completely convinced the ice isn't thin, but it feels sturdy enough to walk on for now. "I've been through this whole song and dance a few times now. You, on the other hand? First trip. Congratulations, welcome to Imaginationland."

[righteously]

( Dean's come to learn that Geralt has, like, four and a half moods.

baseline resting bitch face

I'm fucking with you

somewhere out there Gandhi's playing a lute and imparting his placid lakeside wisdom into my very core

I will rip your throat out with my actual teeth and swallow

hunting

Instantly divining where exactly he's at on the spectrum is something Dean's still working on — usually with certain people (his people) he gets to the point that he can clock it with a two and a half second glance, but he's still got a few miles to go before he's quite on that level yet with ol' Grumpy Bear of Rivia.

That's the reason for the assessing look, and the moment of contemplative, curious quiet that follows Geralt stripping his damn shirt off like this is Baywatch and old lady Brenda just started drowning. The patchwork of scars on display don't really hurry him along, though, and he tacks on another second just scrutinizing them as his mind assembles stories that probably aren't altogether that inaccurate. )

What, did they train you guys to sword fight in a friggin' blender?

( Not that Dean doesn't have a good number of double-digit party favors sticking to him too, but even he isn't on this level.

He also has no idea Geralt and co. are decimating him in the Frappuccino game of late, so he unnecessarily tacks on: )

That's an electric cooking thing.

~Handwaves this was always Bill's Leather Jacket, Because It Was~

[tobeclosetohim]

"Thanks. I hate it," rolls out of her mouth without any thought.

There's a second where she questions if that was rude, but then she realizes she doesn't care if it is. It's rude that she can't remember anything, and this guy — Dean; The Lovers — actually can. That he knows what the hell is going on, who he is, where they are, why everything is what it is. It's unfair and unfair is like a straight shot, rocket site for guiltless annoyance.

"Plus, whoever's imagination is?" Jo gestures more with her head than with the hand in her pocket — worn-in leather jacket all bunched up right at the pocket, too much sleeve, far too much jacket, and far too little her in it, in comparison — though that raises a little, too. Somehow, her hands feel like they should be involved with her words, not tucked away. "It's boring as all hell."

Like a slingshot right back, her words becoming rapid fire, shifting fast toward more steel than confusion. More demand to know than an uncertain plea for knowledge. "When does it end? How long do I have to be here?"

this is the way

[righteously]

Apparently she doesn't need to worry about being rude — it earns her a laugh, a breathy sound that may as well be an agreement. Tempted as he is to add in the factoid that this section of imagination is technically hers, he bites his tongue. Wouldn't do them any favors hurrying this part of the whole thing along, probably, so he settles on a wry look instead and plows right on.

"Come on," he says, holding a hand out. "We just had to get this part over with. We can head out, and it'll all come flooding back in again."

The hand-holding part probably ain't actually necessary for the leaving section of the tutorial, but honestly? He's not sure how else to escort her back to the waking world. Dean tends to operate on a gut instinct basis, and his ability to manipulate the Horizon is largely the same. Some people can manifest crap out of nowhere, Dean tends to open up closet doors to spawn the objects he's looking for. He doesn't question it, or how he knows to do what he does in this freaky psychic space, he just does it, and it works. Hence, hand. He can pull her back out with it.

"Mine's way better anyway."

[tobeclosetohim]

Jo stares at his hand for a second.

Drawn back to that notion, it's weird that she doesn't feel afraid of him. Even though it's weird, oddly disconnected, to consider moving closer, too. But she wants out of whatever this mess is, and she's just going to have to make the leap that this dude is anything he seems on the surface.

At least that's what Jo thinks when she pulls her hand out of the pocket — excess leather sleeve unbunching and dropping that cuff halfway over her hand, so she has to pull out her other hand and tug it back on the first — before placing her hand in his. But that thought vanishes as she looks at their hands for that even briefer second. It feels familiar. No. Something else.

Safe. It feels safe. He feels safe.

Like she knows him. Trusts him.
For reasons, she can't explain.
Has no proof for.

But it's there.

She's relieved for those last words of his. Her brow crinkles, and she wrinkles her nose.

"Are you insufferable outside wherever not-here is, too?"

[righteously]

"Oh no," he says with a scapegrace grin and a little shake of his head. "No, I'm way worse."

Insufferable isn't even on the list of the worst things he's been called, and even if it was? She took his hand. That's not nothing. He'll live and die by the adage actions speak louder than words, and it doesn't escape him that she's been rolling with everything he's said from the second they started this. More or less from the second she woke up here, even.

There's something about people trusting him that makes him want to earn that twice-over. Prove he deserves it, even if he'll never actually believe he's met that mark.

Not that he realizes it. Not that he's thinking about it.

Come on.

He tugs, and a second later, they're back on the outside again. Cross-legged on the floor like kids, his hands falling away and his eyes blinking open one at a time to shoot her an appraising look.

We good?

Didn't take long, like he said. Wasn't hard. Couple weird seconds and then it's over, like getting a booster shot. She's tough, she doesn't need him to wear kid gloves, so a second later he's already pressing for round two with a, "You ready to see the real stuff now?"

Kind of a bland appetizer before the main course, he knows.

[tobeclosetohim]

Suddenly Dean is letting go of her hand, causing something so settled in and rooted behind her sternum to give a strange hard lurch, shooting her eyes open. And. They're back. On the floor. In Dean's small, not quite crowded room, everything feeling insanely surreal, like her skin is a few millimeters out of place, hairs on her skin raised.

Torn between fuck that was weird and the impossibly unsayable Dean was right and what is she even supposed to make of that checking in expression over there on his face as she focused on him. Deciding with lightning speed as it all clarifies that she hates parsing herself as not remembering herself. Her family. Her life. The choices and consequences worth those choices. Not knowing him, but knowing him, letting him —

Nope. Absolutely not.
She was not looking at that right now.

Jo gives an abortive wave of her hands right above her knees; that's a whole lot more an admission of there not being much of a second option on the board so, than the uncomfortably irritable, "It wouldn't be hard to be better than all that. A tumbleweed has more life."

It left a bad taste in her mouth. But she hadn't moved to get up. Where the hell would she go?

[gynvael]

[ Give it a little more time, perhaps Dean can include a fifth mood which is generally going through some shit.. All assessing looks are ignored, though he doesn't exactly mind Dean figuring him out. One of those situations where Geralt may not be inclined to verbalize it, but if someone knows him well enough to piece him together, he'll not complain.

Half the time, it's easier that way. When things can go unsaid. ]

No. We trained on feather pillows. [ He gives up the bottle in case Dean wants another sip. Yeah. He knows what a blender is. Though theirs happens to be hand-cranked. The look he gives Dean for his description is unimpressed. ] Didn't you?

[ If Dean ever stops by their home, he'll absolutely see the bladed device sitting in the kitchen. There's two of those things floating about the city now. Their local vampire has the other. ]

[righteously]

( She's right. It doesn't surprise him. There's a weighty significance to the look he gives her that implies he at least has some idea how serious this is, like he gets it on some level deeper than just aesthetics and practicality. A loud silence lasts for only a second, and then he nods. )

Alright. You got it.

( Accompanied by the businesslike shift in vibe, and him pointedly shuffling his chair a little closer so he can position properly between her knees. Another pause spent considering, and then he pats his thigh. )

Lemme get you to sling that leg up here for me, darlin'.

( Somewhere across the not particularly populated tavern, a drunk guy missing too many teeth leers over at Nadine from somewhere out of her sight line for several long, gross seconds. It's not out of Dean's sight line, though, and the dude's got a passive perception out of this world. He double-takes at the figure over her shoulder, scowls, then lets out a sharp, short little whistle to get him to look up. )

Hey. Pal. This ain't a free show. Turn around. ( The dude stares at Dean, measuring up how serious he's being and whether or not he's bluffing. Dean doesn't break eye contact. ) Do I look like I'm kidding?

( Evidently the guy decides he does not, and there's an awkward scrape of chair on wood as he scoots to face another direction. Dean shakes his head in exasperation, and ducks back in with the transfer paper, muttering: )

Friggin' reprobates.

[itookashot]

Wards? Oh this is a magic thing.

( That makes it even more interesting. Dean never gave him the impression of being a magic user, but Jesper does know what the term means, he's learned it here. They didn't really have that back home. Grisha don't use wards, they just use their abilities. He's thought about learning a few of them merely out of curiosity, but sometimes he's too lazy. )

Boyfriends and girlfriends, actually. I'm an everything goes type of guy.

( Jesper winks at him roguishly because it's the sort of thing you do after saying something like that. He really doesn't have a preference, it's just his most recent love interest was a bloke. He's slept with both since getting here, it's all about the vibe. )

My gang's the Crows, also this. ( He taps the NMNF letters. ) Stands for No Mourners No Funerals. We say it before all jobs, as a sort of break your leg type of thing.

[shadowthief]

"Oh, you've decided this already, have you?" She asks, amused at the way he seems so certain, instantly.

She watches him work, the symbol forming slowly across her skin as he does. Her stomach clenches, but she breathes through it and relaxes. It's not a brand. It's protection. "Net-flix?" there's an obvious hesitation in the middle of the word. "Dean, we didn't even have electricity where I'm from, you cannot throw so many foreign words at me and expect me to follow the conversation," she says it through a soft huff, both amused and annoyed at once, though not heated at all.

"I'll trust your taste," she teases him playfully.

[wiedzminka]

[ The offer is considered, but not acknowledged. For now.

Apparently not giving a damn about personal space, Ciri leans in pretty close to take a look at the tattoo, squinting at the little squiggles and lines around what appears to be a star. There aren't even any runes that she can see. It looks purely decorative. ]

Are you sure this works? It looks...

[ She frowns, tilting her head like it might make the mark make more sense. It doesn't. She straightens back up. ]

It just looks like a wiggly star.

[ Maybe demons in Dean's world hate stars and star-shaped objects (she thinks, briefly, of Yennefer's necklace and takes a sudden drink). ]

[dirtytrenchcoat]

[Castiel spends much of his time at Mag's inn and if he's not cleaning and helping with the bar, he's upstairs with a book or somewhere green people-watching. Today, he's fallen back on old habits and is bussing tables to keep the bar clean and functional while Dean does his thing.

His attention is split between the glasses in his bucket, dishes, and Dean's steady hand as he works. In sigil work, there's little room for error and Dean is one of the quickest studies he's ever known. His artwork is seamless and perfect, and he uses that same talent to guarantee the safety of those closest to him.

In the time he'd spent in Cadens he'd become intimately aware of his own power and where it was failing. Though he didn't consider himself aligned with the seraph anymore the presence of Lucifer and what he knew of other people and the monsters from their respective worlds made him more cautious.

When every table not occupied is accounted for Castiel drops his bucket off near the basin, and walks over to Dean's now empty station while cleaning his hand on the small waist apron he uses to keep his clothes clean while working.]

Do you have room for one more?

[enduringkestrel]

Cassandra might not have had any predilections towards magic and no magical abilities to speak of before coming to this world, but she had very much enjoyed learning (when her instructors weren't awful, at least), and had devoured all she could get her hands on about any and all subjects. Which had included magic.

Magic from other worlds? Well, she finds herself immensely intrigued, and wants to know more. Sigls, protection spells, cloaks and rings and amulets, were all well known in her world. Tattoos... are new. "Protection from what?"

[righteously]

She's damn good at keeping herself in check, she really is. He's also damn good at reading people — especially the ones he cares about. Could she handle jumping immediately back into it? Absolutely, no doubt, she'd white-knuckle it just like the best of them do and they'd roll on.

Should she have to, though? Why? What's the rush?

There's a pause, a moment spent studying her, and then a gently offered out.

"We can rain-check this if you want. Take a break. Grab a beer."

He ain't judging.

If she insists, he won't fight it. Won't make a big to-do about it, he'll just settle back in again. They shouldn't need to hold hands this time, she should be able to just follow him in. Now's as good a time as any to test that.