abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] the feeling never dies in your eyes

( Find your balance — what the hell does that even mean? Not knowing doesn't stop him from trying, anyway. He plays it on a loop like a mantra, like the more he repeats it the more sense it'll make; find your balance, find your balance.

Deflect, not attack.
Don't shove as much force outward, you're not shooting a damn fireball here, Dean. You're shielding. Not catching, not absorbing, not returning fire, just deflecting.

You could cut a damn diamond with how hard he's concentrating this go. He's practically sweating it, teeth clenched, jaw set, one single jerky nod to indicate that he's ready.

Go.

Geralt brings the sword down.

It collides solidly with the shield, stopped in its tracks. It holds strong another two, maybe three full seconds before it finally breaks, and Dean's arms drop with a heavy exhale like he's just finished topping his one-rep max deadlift record.

God damn exhausting, but he did it, and that's all that matters. Might seem like a slightly disproportionate amount of relief considering the stakes weren't actually all that high, but it's palpable all the same. )

[ The sword doesn't quite bounce off the shield as it should, but it holds. Doesn't shatter, the blade doesn't slice through.

He pulls back as soon as he can hear that subtle whine of magic that says the shield is collapsing. ]

Good. [ Not perfect, but it's good. It's improvement. That's really all they're after. He lowers the sword. Sweeps an assessing look over Dean. ] Take a breath. Come.

[ He bends down to rest the sword against the stump. Might as well go inside. They can come back to it in a moment. A blind man could see Dean's fucking tired. Something tells him a second attempt without rest won't do much good, might fail altogether, and that isn't a note he wants to end the lesson on. He's discovered that much from teaching Ciri. From his own experiences, too, perhaps, in a different sense. There's training and then there's breaking yourself; he's been on the end of both, and he's learned the latter never did a thing to help him. They might be in the Horizon, but he treats it the same way. ]

( Good earns Geralt a look — still recovering, still fatigued, but subtly searching. Looking for sarcasm or honesty, like he's not immediately certain he can take the approval at face value. Is it good, or is it good enough, I guess? Is it good, or is it congratulations, you accomplished the bare minimum and you can see the visible disappointment hiding in the corners of my expression?

Turns out it's just good, flat out, end of sentence, simple.

Truth be told, he's not entirely sure how to respond. Doesn't right off know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything. Just shakes out his arms absently, rubs his sleeves down over cold skin. It leaves him quiet and compliant enough to follow Geralt without question, without insistence that they keep going. Not right now, not this time. Good is good enough.

He follows. )

[ It is simply a flat good—easy approval and satisfaction all in one. There's a second where Geralt almost sees something in the way Dean searches his face. Something he brushes, and then it slips out of his hands before he can really grasp what it means. If Dean were younger, he may have caught on. But the man isn't, so he doesn't. Not yet.

He pushes open the doors to the keep. Drinks are always to be had in here; he no longer offers. Dean knows he's welcome, in the same way Geralt knows he's welcome in the Roadhouse. (Even these days, after everything.) ]

When we go again, [ he sits on the table, ] we can work on your channelling.

[ It's still breaking eventually, and it shouldn't. Ideally, the Sign should hold until it's dropped no matter what's thrown at it. His tone is matter-of-fact: a frank You aren't there yet but it's closer than yesterday. ]

( Geralt doesn't offer, Dean doesn't ask. Just goes directly for a drink as soon as they're in the hall, heading for a pitcher and a cup with the kind of familiarity that only comes from being comfortable in someone's space. Knowing somebody well enough that it's not weird digging around through their kitchen, serving yourself.

He doesn't drink it immediately. Takes his time slowly straddling the end of a bench at Geralt's table, back sloping forward, elbows hitting his knees. He clasps the drink in both hands between them. Spends a couple of seconds contemplating on that — channeling.

Eventually, slowly, he shakes his head. )

It shouldn't be this hard, should it? You guys learned it when you were kids. I should be getting it. I don't know why I'm not getting it.

( A mild apology, muted frustration directed at himself. Both at once. )

[ Should it? The real answer is that he hasn't got one. They were trained by priestesses. He isn't a priestess; he's never trained anyone in Witcher Signs until a few months ago with Ciri. He's sure as hell never trained anyone who isn't even a Witcher or anything close to a mage. That Dean is capable of casting a Sign at all is impossible enough. This—this is territory unexplored.

But he senses that isn't what Dean means. He leans forward, mug dangling loosely between his fingers. It isn't a matter of reassurance or anything of that sort when he says what he does. It's just something he believes. He'd not have taken Dean on as a student in the first place if he didn't think Dean was capable. ]

You'll get it.

[ No uncertainty in it. Dean has focus; he's making progress. He'll get there. ]

( He studies Geralt again for another lingering moment, that same subtle searching he doesn't even realize he's doing. It's just a different brand of instruction, a different attitude than Dean's used to. What isn't learned on in the field on the fly is learned under drill-sergeant pressure like boot camp, that's the way it's always been. Hell, he was barely ever in school in the first place before he dropped out, he doesn't even have that as a frame of reference.

Once again, he finds no ulterior motive, no sarcasm, no hidden message to decipher, nothing but confidence — which he's not entirely sure he deserves, but all the same makes him even more determined not to disappoint. )

Yeah.

( He says at length, peeling his eyes away from Geralt and settling them on the cup he finally brings to his lips. It hovers there for another hesitant beat, just long enough for him to echo it again into the rim in a murmur. )

Yeah.

( Not with that same confidence, but with certainty. He swallows it down with a long drink.

He'll get it, because he's not giving himself an alternative. )

[ A beat where Geralt scrutinizes Dean in return. He can tell there's something here, something unspoken. It's as serious as Dean ever gets. And normally Geralt isn't one to pry, but Dean's much more than an acquaintance these days.

So he finds himself prodding just a hint. They've spoken enough he knows how it can go. That sometimes Dean just needs a nudge to get it off his chest. ]

You won't do much learning if you're distracted.

[ Something on your mind? in other words. It's an offer as much as a way out: space for Dean to acknowledge the plain truth of that statement and move on. But his tone is flat, as it typically is—and maybe there's also room to read more into his words than Geralt means there to be. ]

I'm not distracted, okay, I'm trying.

( Snapped out immediately, like hyper-defensive reflex — apparently he's doing that a lot lately. Getting a little heated, a little pissed off, defaulting to anger. It's not exactly new, but he doesn't usually turn that on people he gives a crap about. Not for little things, though this whole area's a little more sensitive than standard fare.

His bitching, historically, has always been an absent and noncommittal thing that never really feels serious. This one's a little razor sharp. Fleeting, but there's still a hint of dagger in his tone. Also, if you're keen enough to spot it underneath the layers, maybe a slight appeal.

A second or two after it escapes, he realizes it's harsher than Geralt deserves — and he doesn't wanna give the guy another reason to want to call the whole thing off, so he sighs and follows it up a little more softly, subtly contrite. )

I'm here. Trust me. I'm all in, I promise.

( Not that Geralt actually needs convincing. Not that Dean thinks on any conscious level that he's gonna get impatient and opt to pack up and bail on him because he's not getting it right, not doing it fast enough. It's just automatic, from a place accustomed to both disappointment and being that disappointment; stay with me please, be patient, I want to prove I'm worth the effort, I hate myself because I can't. )

[ A slow blink is the main indication Geralt's a little taken aback. Because it is sharper, and he can't tell if it's residual from their argument a few days ago (possible? Yes. Doesn't seem like the reason, though) or if Dean's even more frustrated with himself than he's let on. In a sense, he gets it. You spend your whole life skilled at what you do, hard lessons learned from an early age. Circling back to not understanding what the fuck you're doing can be aggravating.

So it's what Dean says next, alongside that knife's edge, that captures his attention. He expected to be brushed off, maybe told to mind his own business. Which is fine. There's always shit that can't be spoken of.

He doesn't expect contrite. His brows knit together. ]

I know. [ Dean's never given him any indication otherwise. He'd have called him on it long ago if that were so. But Dean is distracted. Not for a lack of trying. He simply is. Is it Lucifer? The new memories? Something else altogether? ]

Your mind's been elsewhere still. [ Maybe it's an unconscious response to the subtle shift Dean's bearing—but he's not asking anymore when he says, ] Tell me what's going on.

I don't know, man, it's-

( He heaves another sigh, this one beleaguered and loud. He shifts in his seat, one hand scrubbing down his face while he searches for words. Procrastinates by twisting around so he's sitting on the bench properly, elbows on the table, eyes on the cup he sets between his arms. )

Everything. It's you and Jo and that run-in with Lucifer, there's a damn war popping off, it turns out Michael's here, it's-

( This mark on my arm; he manages to bite that one back.

His hands flop down onto the table's surface with a soft, frustrated thwap. )

Between mages and angels and witchers, I'm playing so far out of my league it isn't even funny, and I just- need to be able to get this right before the next time the shit inevitably hits the fan. If something happens because I can't wrap my god damn head around this...

( It's on him. They teach this to kids. )

[ Who the fuck is Michael? There's an extra scrunch to his forehead for a second as he tries to figure that one out, then immediately puts it aside.

His expression softens. ] Dean. You aren't out of anyone's league. We'll always face dangers greater than us. And I'm not training you because you're lacking in it. I chose to teach you because I know you're capable.

[ Other than Ciri, Dean's the only person he's invited to train in Signs. There isn't anyone else he'd extend that offer to. Not in Cadens, not on the rest of this continent. It isn't about secrecy. It's a matter of what's worth his time. Of who is worth his time.

Yeah. Dark roads lie ahead. Monsters or armies or ancient powers, he'll be damned if they can predict which is coming when. What he can say is that he knows who he wants and trusts at his back when they get there—and it's not any of the born mages or powerful beings dragged into this world. ]

( At the sound of his name, he lifts his eyes from his drink and levels Geralt with a flat, unmoved expression. Don't get him wrong, he appreciates that, he does. It's just- )

Capable doesn't mean a damn thing if I'm shooting blanks when it actually matters. Like it or not, I am lacking. That's just... reality.

( The douchebag shooting fireballs isn't gonna give a crap how capable he is, if he can't get the shield up in time it's gonna be house fire 2: electric boogaloo. It's one thing to be back home, where angels and demigods are rare exceptions to a baseline he otherwise meets — here, practically half of the god damn civilian population can do magic. )

You wanna know where my mind is? I have one job. I have one... thing that I do, and I don't mean hunting. My responsibility is to look out for my family. That's priority numero uno, always. But I watched Jo die — hell, I even saw you die — meanwhile, I can't even do something you guys teach twelve-year-olds. That's not good enough. It's just not. That's where my mind is.

[ That's the second time Dean's raised this point. He leans back, eyes fixed on Dean with a frown. ]

None of us were children anymore. [ It's his turn to sound a little sharper. They ceased to be children even before the Trials took place. Nothing they studied was made for their sake as boys. Besides, he hasn't said everything he has to mollify or for the sentiments of it. It's not about that.

(Later, he might revisit the fact that Dean has mentioned he and Jo and family in the same breath.) ]

I'm not offering platitudes. I'm telling you that if you won't look past your failures, then that's all you'll find waiting for you, and you may as well go home. Or, you can put them aside and finally concentrate on reaching where you want to be. On the people you can still save.

[ He understands it, he does. The weight of not saving everyone you wish you could. Every choice you've fucked up. It isn't something you ever leave behind. He's not asking Dean to, either. But there's no path forward if that's all you carry with you. There has to be more. ]

( That initial sharp tone doesn't seem to faze him — no strong reaction one way or another.

He knows. He gets that. He wasn't either. Doesn't change the fact that in the middle of his god damn thirties, doing what he does for a living, not being able to keep up with a preteen a remotely comparable level doesn't feel like Christmas. Either way, it ain't worth getting hung up on. It's not really the point.

He studies Geralt's expression as the gears in his mind turn over that response — and he finds himself gently scoffing. His eyes drop back down to the table's surface again as he slowly shakes his head.

Put aside his failures, huh?

Under his breath comes a tired mutter of: )

Easier said than done when I rack up a new one every time that damn sword breaks through.

( And it's about here the ghost of John Winchester would snap at him, that one uttered line just a little too close to whining to be acceptable, so he course-corrects quickly. )

Alright, you ready? Let's go do this.

[ He hums. Fair enough.

When he rises, he picks up not the sword he'd been using but his own—and he takes a second equally sharp blade once outside. If they're to keep going, he wants to try a different approach. ]

We're sparring. [ He holds out the sword. ] When you need to shield, use it.

[ He's never seen Dean wield a sword against another man before. Only monsters. But sword work isn't the point here. He wants to see if Dean will do better when they're engaged in more than one singular action over and over.

He turns the sword in his wrist, waiting for Dean to strike first. ]

( We're sparring.

Well, that seems to cut through his less than charitable attitude. It earns Geralt a quick look, surprised and a little confused, but not dissenting. It immediately holds a hell of a lot more appeal than just screwing up on repeat. Getting it wrong on an endless loop is exactly the right way for him to make zero progress and walk away frustrated.

Sparring, on the other hand? Well, if nothing else it's an opportunity to get some of that frustration out — maybe even distract himself enough that he isn't mentally ready to fail before he even throws the damn sign. Not that this occurs to him.

God damn genius move, Geralt.

He takes the sword. Gives the guy an unnecessary moment to make sure he's ready, and once he's sure he's got the go-ahead, he launches into it.

Holding back in a way that's probably visible and also completely unnecessary, but cut him some slack. It's instinct to be cautious if you're concerned about the guy you're swinging a weapon at. )

[ That look is all he needs to know this might go better than their last rounds.

Dean might be holding back; Geralt is not by near as much—the only indication that he is being that Dean isn't cleaved in half a few strikes in. He's not worried about his ability to pull back before any contact is made. The purpose is to give Dean a reason to cast Quen, anyhow.

He starts light, at least, testing to make sure he's not pushing too hard. It isn't long before he picks up the pace—drives forward with enough pressure to force an opening. His blade swings down. Quick, but not so quick it can't be blocked. ]

( To absolutely nobody's surprise, Geralt is good with a blade. Good enough, in fact, that he manipulates Dean's position perfectly — catches him after a swing when there's no way in hell he'd be able to get his sword back up in time, and too off-center to dodge it fast enough. No chance to think, and no other alternatives. Only enough room for reaction.

It happens so fast, he doesn't even realize he's doing it. Pure lizard-brained reflex, because it doesn't matter how logically he knows the dude could stop himself the moment before he did any serious damage, lizard-brain only sees you're about to get cleaved by a god damn sword.

And he is. He totally is. He's braced for it, it's totally gonna happen.

Any second now, it's totally-

-not happening.

It takes him about two stupid blinks to realize he's got the damn shield up, two more to process the fact that it's still up, and Geralt's sword is bearing down but not breaking through it.

Wait. )

Holy shit.

( It freaking worked. )

[ He's ready to stop short before Dean loses a Horizon-made arm—but then there's the telltale bounce against his blade off a barrier. It's the first time the shield holds for longer than half a second.

Geralt lowers his sword. That's it. That's what he wanted. ] There we are.

[ If he sounds pleased, it's because he is. Like most things with him, it's subdued, but it's there: a mix of Hadn't I said? and I knew you could. Perhaps some satisfaction with himself, as well. The student's only half the picture; the other half's on him as the instructor. Good to know he can teach someone their Signs, too. Despite not being a priestess.

But he wants to see the same result more than once. He takes a step back. ] Again. Don't stop this time.

( There we are; Dean exhales one soft, short sound. Not a laugh, a little too stunned for that, but it's close. Same neighborhood, same family tree.

This genuinely might be the most visibly pleased Dean's ever seen the guy — stack that on top of the pile of stuff it takes him a few too many seconds to wrap his head around. That probably shouldn't so satisfying, but damn if it doesn't. )

Alright, don't get all smug about it, bitch.

( Later on when he replays this, it might occur to him who he sounds like right then. That he's been on the receiving end of exactly this brand of playful ingratitude, with the same appreciation not-so-subtly beneath it.

He sounds like Sam.

My, how the turntables — and how freaking weird is it to be on this side of the equation?

He can try and downplay it all he wants, though, there's no denying the fact that this just practically eviscerated any remainder of his bad mood.

They go again. He gets it right again, and then again, and he doesn't stop.

Congrats, Geralt. You cracked the code. Maybe all he needed was to get it right once to prove to himself he could do it, maybe it's just that he learns better with practical application, or maybe it's the approval that does actually cement it. Whatever the case, by the time they wrap up Dean's finally got a solid hold on one whole ass witcher sign. )

[ CLOSED ] the feeling never dies in your eyes

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