Wᴇʟʟ, I'ᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴜɴ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ғʀᴏᴍ ʜɪᴅɪɴ'

[righteously]

Who: Winchester & Co.
When: September
Where: Free Cities, Libertas, & the Horizon
What: Quests, training, or Roadhouse socializing.
Warnings: Suicidal tendencies, alcoholism, other psychological traumas.

Aɴᴅ I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜᴇs I'ᴍ ᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ
Aɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴀᴅ ɢᴏᴇs ᴏɴ ғᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ
Aɴᴅ I'ᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ sɪʟᴠᴇʀ ᴅᴏʟʟᴀʀ
Bᴜᴛ I'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʟᴇᴛ 'ᴇᴍ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴍᴇ, ɴᴏ
Nᴏᴛ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʟᴇᴛ 'ᴇᴍ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪᴅᴇʀ

Comments

Aɴᴅ I'ᴍ ʙᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴏɴ ʀɪᴅɪɴ' → (ᴄɪʀɪ)

[righteously]

( At some point, the group splits up. He's separated from Nadine, from Jayce, from Jo — possibly because he catches sight of platinum hair a ways off, and it looks like she's solitary. Obviously she's capable, probably more so than Dean, but that matters exactly not at all to him. The city's burning, buildings are still falling, combing through this joint is safer with a partner.

(He made a promise.)

He tries not to acknowledge the ways in which it feels like the dream they shared once. It helps that they're not running now, that it's a slow and methodical recovery mission.

Speaking of which.

Down one street, they catch the sound of yelling. Help, oh god, please help. The houses here are larger than the rest, practically freakin' mansions. Obviously the wealthy part of town. Good and bad — it means a couple dozen more rooms to potentially comb through, but that a lot of them aren't fully engulfed yet.

A skinny guy stands on the walkway before one such building, waving his arms to flag them down. )

[wiedzminka]

[ She's been working with various groups on and off, keeping busy, carrying supplies and combing through rubble and going wherever she is needed. It's chaos. Sephiroth had warned her, and her own experiences have left it all too easy to imagine what she'd be walking into, but stepping out of that portal into the ashes of a city she'd happy visited only weeks ago still makes her stomach drop, sick and heavy. It is a weight she carries, never easier for its familiarity.

When Dean joins her, Ciri doesn't even greet him. They work together, and she is mostly quiet, serious, efficient.

It's the call for help that draws her, at some point. She glances at Dean briefly, catches his eye. He heard it too. ]

What is it? [ She asks the man in the walkway, syllables clipped and urgent. He doesn't appear heavily injured; he's calling help for someone else. ]

Lead the way.

[righteously]

( In any other circumstances, maybe he'd be more wary. Maybe he'd have paid better attention to the guy's body language, and that high perception stat he's rocking would've kicked into gear. As it stands, all he sees here are victims. All he thinks about is the job he's got to do, and there's no time to analyze.

They exchange glances, but not words. A moment later, they fall into step as the guy leads them through the massive house.

It's my wife, I can't get to her, please, I can't get the door open!

There is no wife. What there is instead is three assholes with swords waiting for the two of them to walk in so they can slam the door and block them from exiting — and a demand: give us your shit or burn.

He's gotta hand it to them, it's smart. There's a time limit here that's rapidly approaching, that sense of life or death urgency that really screws with the appeal of an argument. )

[wiedzminka]

[ As it turns out, the panicked skinny man is an exceptionally good liar. The building they approach is smoldering visibly, the roof collapsed, but the lower levels are in one piece enough that the door opens--

And shuts, securely, when they enter. An ambush.

Ciri swears, drawing her dagger in a flash. Her sword isn't on her; she'd had no reason to bring it with her when her goal here is aid and rescue, not fighting beasts. But she is never unarmed.

They go for her first, the smaller target, perhaps some misguided attempt to take a hostage. Ciri dodges neatly out of the way of reaching hands, spins, and slices across the closest man's underarm and shoulder. Dodges again to avoid the spray.

A beam above creaks ominously as something collapses above them, the crash and crackle of the flames eating through the upper floors. The smoke stings her nose. They need to finish this quick. ]

Mᴀᴍᴀ, ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs ʙᴀᴅɢᴇ ᴏғғ ᴏғ ᴍᴇ → (ɢᴇʀᴀʟᴛ)

[righteously]

( He's screwed.

It's one of those massive houses, probably some merchant or politician or something. Too many bedrooms — or at least there used to be, before the whole damn thing went up in flames. It started out as just the stupid goddamn wings that got him pinned, one splintery shard of something that went clean through into the floor doorframe. He doesn't know how to bamf them back in yet, so he went with the coyote leg in the bear trap method — pulled out his sword, braced himself, and hacked a god damn line clean through it so he could rip it off of the stake.

Just in time for the rest of the doorway to come crashing down on top of him. The wings disappear from existence then, because of course they do, and then it becomes smoldering support beams collapsed on his hips, too heavy for him to heave off of himself no matter how hard he bares his teeth and shoves. Flames start to lick their way up one of his legs, cooking the fabric and skin in equal measure. The smoke's getting to be too much; having his shirt pulled up over his nose and mouth isn't doing a god damn thing to keep him from inhaling it, from coughing, from starting to get light-headed.

At least he got her out. There's no point trying to send anyone a message, who the hell's gonna make it in time? What are they gonna do, put out the whole friggin' fire? The only alternative is to run balls first into total conflagration, and there's no way in hell he's saving one person from it just to turn around and get another to run back in and get them both killed.

It is what it is. It was gonna happen sooner or later anyway.

And you know what?

Hell, maybe it's appropriate. After all, he's hardly the first Winchester to bite the dust in a housefire. Maybe it's apt that he's going the same way as his mom.

If he's completely honest with himself, maybe a small part of him is relieved. That mark on his arm can't do a goddamn thing if he's dead, right? He won't have to worry about what it might do to him anymore. Purification by fire.

Good. )

[gynvael]

[ As Geralt's stepping over a newly removed wall section, Ciri's hasty words scrawl across the broken stone. A pause. He knows the place. He's been by the manor, seen it in passing before the city fell to pieces. She tells him little of the situation; she doesn't have to. If she's asking for his help, it's serious.

Naturally, Dean somehow finds the one fucking building completely consumed by living flames to be crushed beneath.

He moves quickly, navigating over cracked walls and piles of debris. The thick smoke fills the sky from miles away. He can feel the heat as he approaches. The fire's undoubtedly drawn attention, though with half the city's roads collapsed, he can't wait for soldiers who may or may not arrive in time. Ciri leaves quickly for more help, and he lets her—glad he's taught her better than to dive into the inferno—while he circles the building. Time is of the essence, but he knows not to go in blind.

The near-invisible shield that flares to life is a touch more than his usual. Larger—covering more of him, keeping the flames at bay. It's still scorching, the smoke thick, but at least he can move through the fire. He drops to his knees. ]

Dean. [ Fuck. He lets the shield fall. Forces his hand under the beam to push it off. His palm sizzles, wood splinters embedding in his palm. ]

[righteously]

( Fun fact, a pretty high percentage of deaths by house fire aren't caused by the fire itself, but rather the smoke inhalation. Thankfully, there's about two hundred percent less asbestos and lead paint floating around out here in Middle Earth, but it's still doing a number on him. He's a little drunk on it, his head's throbbing. Eyes stinging and watering, chest aching from it, and it'd be nice if things could just hurry along here because he's straight up not having a good time right now. He'd rather pass out before that flame starts creeping up his leg to territory thus far uncharted by fire.

He's excluding Hell from that track record, obviously.

He's just about teetering on the brink by the time Geralt makes it inside, and it takes him about two seconds longer than normal to process it. It's just a blurry face and blonde hair shadowed by a writhing, flickering chiaroscuro thanks to the flames making one hell of a backdrop to this photo. He thinks, for one alarmed moment, that it's Ciri and he didn't actually get her out.

Thankfully, he manages to focus before that stomach-dropping dread can hit. In its place, a sluggish, agitated confusion. As Geralt works to heft that burning beam off of him, his reward is a mumbled: )

The hell are you doing, man? Get outta here.

( The house is burning down, dumbass. )

ᴅᴀᴍɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ, ᴅᴀᴍɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛ → ( ɴᴀᴅɪɴᴇ )

[righteously]

( They're in the Roadhouse. It's largely empty for once, no patrons drinking casually, nobody but them and maybe the unobtrusive fleeting presence of Jo, who doesn't linger. The tables and chairs have been shoved away, leaving a wide open space of wooden floor in the center of the bar. On top of the bar itself, a couple cans of white spray paint and a loose-leaf piece of paper with a symbol sketched onto it.

He stands nearby, arms crossed over his chest, watching her work. Step number one: have her practice painting the thing from memory until she gets it right. She's smart. It doesn't take many attempts before she nails it. When she finishes, he surveys her work for a moment, and then nods approvingly. )

Looks good. You ready for a trial run?

( Step number two: thinking up a fake, generic demon for her to exorcise. )

[nadine_he_loves]

[Nadine honestly isn't sure how much good this will do, but...she'd said long ago that anything that could be used to protect against Flagg was worth learning. So this is worth learning. Besides...Dean is something of an expert when it comes to demons and dark forces. She trusts him on these things, and if he thinks she should learn, she will.

Dusting off her hands as she steps back, nodding.]

Yeah...I mean, as ready as I'll ever be, I guess.

[How does one prepare for this sort of thing? Steel themselves? She isn't even entirely sure what she'll be facing off against - 'demon' is a very broad term that covers many things.

At least this is all within the safety of the Horizon.]

[righteously]

Good enough.

( He affirms brusquely, and pushes off of the bar to stride forward toward the circle. Two, three, four seconds pass while he concentrates — and then quite suddenly, it's there. A chair in the center of the devil's trap, and a person strapped to it. Hands bound to the chair arms, eyes black, staring up at Nadine with a sneer. It's a man, blonde, scruffy. Denim-clad. Maybe he reminds her of something — maybe the Horizon pulls it from her, or maybe it's sheer coincidence.

Generic, unnamed demon number three. A template amalgamation of every low-level demon Dean's ever dispatched — and he's dispatched a lot of them.

"Aw, cute. What is this? Hunting lessons for your slut? I'm quaking in my boots."

Dean ignores it. )

You got three main tools in your kit for dealing with demons. Holy water, salt, and the piece de resistance: exorcism.

( Let's start with the former.

He holds out a flask of holy water. The moment it comes in contact with the demon, it'll start to smoke, to burn, flesh will sizzle, and that thing'll start screaming — probably cursing her out toes to nose. )

ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ʙᴜʀɴ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴ ғᴀᴅᴇ ᴀᴡᴀʏ → (ɢᴇʀᴀʟᴛ)

[righteously]

( He can breathe again. His leg's good. The house has burned to a crisp by now, but Ciri's safe. That leaves most of the loose ends here tied up — save for one. Not long after Jayce steps away and Ciri heads out, Dean catches Geralt by the bicep before he can peel out after them. )

Can I talk to you?

( It's a question, but it's not a question. There's an unhappy set to his mouth, a flat line that verges on frown. He waits for the other two to be out of earshot before he rounds on the guy sternly — the lingering, smoldering agitation from the mark going unsatisfied, the call for hands-on death unfulfilled, mingles with his sour mood from such a close call. They couple together here, and pinpoint a target for an outlet. )

Look, don't get me wrong, I appreciate the assist. I do. ( Pause to let that sit for a second for the caveat. ) But you gotta knock this shit off. Between that thing back in Nocwich, tackling the god damn devil? Now, you're running dick-first into a friggin' collapsing inferno? It's stupid. You're gonna get yourself killed. You need to stop.

[gynvael]

[ Dean catching up to him is the only reason Geralt stops. He means to check in on Jaskier, Julie, after a day in this city—first trapped with Jo, then dragging Dean out of a fucking fire. Sun's nearly about to set. He needs a drink and dinner. Mostly a drink.

And he really hasn't got time for that look Dean is giving him. It also is not something he's dealt with before. People concerned he'll get himself killed. He isn't certain how he feels about it.

Geralt's expression suggests he's debating brushing past Dean without bothering explain further. He is, as always, not interested in an argument over why he does what he does. His decisions are his own; that's all there is to it. But he's been here on the other side with Sam. He can recognize that Dean's...worried. About him.

His gaze is scrutinizing. Possibly a little pointed. ] Don't make me ask whether you thought about your own life when you stepped in to save Ciri's.

[righteously]

( Welcome to friendship with Dean Winchester — concern for people getting themselves killed is up by 110% in the stock market, to compensate for how little that applies to himself.

Go ahead and try to brush past him. See how that goes, pal. Spoilers: not well. )

That's different and you know it.

( He snaps it out without missing a beat. Hypocrisy, thy name is me.

If nothing else, he figures they do have one understanding: the kid comes first. )

sᴇᴀsᴏɴs ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ғᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴘᴇʀ → ( ᴊᴏ )

[righteously]

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" It's not the first time he's asked, and at this point it's a little stupid — they're already all kitted up. Horses rented and prepped, swords strapped on, rifle on his back, contract agreed upon and payment negotiated. Hell, they're goddamn riding already, up to the front gate, waiting for the stable guards to open them up. "You don't wanna give it, I don't know, another week or two? Maybe save up for a gun?"

Or two guns. Or four guns. Or another six weeks.

Yeah, okay, he already knows he's not gonna talk her out of it. He's seen the signs. She's twitchy, restless. She's got cabin fever, she needs the outlet, god knows she's mentioned it one or two dozen times. Still, it's worth a shot.

[tobeclosetohim]

Jo nearly laughs, and the looks she tosses him at the first question is more one would give a child they were amusedly humoring than a peer eliciting obvious concern. Like he's misworded the actual question: Are you sure you want to breathe? There's nothing she sure of more. Nothing she wants more.

(Aside from getting off this rock.)

"I'm saving up for a gun," has that same dry-amused sound as that first look. "Even stopped by the guy's shop to talk specifics during the whole Libertas thing." Thing. As though the first thing to come to mind isn't bodies and breakage in every direction. The noxious scent that got stronger every day there was so clear in her memory that it was all she could smell again for a few seconds.

Then, a little more pointed,

"You said two months. This is two months."

She even got two extra teachers on top of him. Jo's not sure she would have made it to the end of this month if it hadn't been for a combination of all of that. Libertas. Dean. Ciri. Altaïr. Enough people that needed her in another way. Enough people to fill the in-between places with the promise of freedom after Libertas cleared. It was barely enough at that. But she had made it.

[righteously]

He sighs deeply, tiredly, the sound of a resigned dad coming to terms with the fact that his kid's going to prom and there's not a damn thing he can do about it.

"Alright, well, in that case. I got you something." He dips over a little, reaching down into the saddle bag on the side opposite her, obscured from her view. A second later, he comes up hefting one hell of a crossbow that he holds out to her.

It ain't dainty. It'll hit like a god damn truck, and it'll take her a solid grip to wield it — but he remembers the day they met. It wasn't a pistol she levelled at him, it was a heavy shotgun that seemed damn near as tall as she was at the time.

It's a gift for himself, a little, frankly — using this thing means her keeping some distance between herself and whatever they're hunting. It's smart. Ciri's advice made sense to him.

Training: Interrupted

[waywardsister]

Hey!

[ The voice is sharp. This isn't a friendly, casual 'hey, how's it going' kind of 'hey'. It's not even a 'hey, I'm mad but being coldly civil' kind of 'hey'. No, this 'hey' snarls. This 'hey' is a feral dog, kicked one too many times, about to bite before it's finished barking.

Claire's been... absent. No one could blame her if she'd bothered letting anyone in on her very rich (read: grief-stricken) inner life for anyone to guess at the reasons why. As it's been, she's turned into a satellite. Sort of hovering around Dean and his people, but keeping her distance to them. To everyone, really. Burnt too often, she's trying not to get attached. The plan is rapidly showing its weak belly and getting slashed to ribbons, because clearly, clearly there's people she might give a shit about on a good day, and clearly, clearly those people are real damn shitty at keeping themselves in one piece.

So yeah. She rounds on Dean. Screw his training. ]

Hey, what the fuck do you think you're doing?

[righteously]

( He's there in the small yard behind Mag's, training dummy set up, sword in hand, and those big ass hulking fuck-off wings out on full display. All fifteen feet of them tucked up, bulky on his back. Sword in hand, it seems like he's doing his damn best to go through some practice motions with it, without over-balancing himself one way or another.

And then comes that voice, and there's a full two seconds of silence wherein Dean looks at her, then left, then right like the god damn John Travolta meme.

What does who think who's doing?

Him? Is he who?

He points to himself in confusion, then gestures around. Sarcastically, and with peak confusion: )

Macramé? What's it look like?

[waywardsister]

[ Hands on her hips, bright blue eyes glaring Dean down with righteous fury. It's funny, perhaps - if he had more context, perhaps he'd recognize just how similar she looks to Jimmy Novak like this, and therefore to Cas. How the shade of blue in her eyes isn't so different at all. But Dean's out of context, and Claire shifts to cross her arms. And then she thinks better again, stalks the remaining steps forwards and pokes her index finger into his chest, nostrils flaring. Like she can't quite decide what to do with her body to express whatever emotion is swirling in her eyes.

She has to block out the wings, because that's not a thing she's gotten into with him yet and frankly, they have to take a backseat. Not important right now.

Instead, accusatory: ]

It looks like you just recently got out of bedrest after you almost died.

sʜɪɴᴇ ᴀ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴏɴ ᴍᴇ → ( ᴄɪʀɪ )

[righteously]

( Today hasn't exactly been what you might call hunky dory. It's not the almost dying part — that one's par for the course, that one's a friggin' Tuesday. It's the stuff that came after. The twisting pain in his lungs, the flair of dissatisfaction, the irritation, the outright anger that flared up. The argument with Geralt that ensued, and how much absolutely goddamn nothing it accomplished, culminating with him stalking off like some kind of pissed off cat headed toward the portal.

She's already there by the time he starts approaching it, shoulders tense, expression stoic, jaw set. She's gonna have to stop him if she wants something, otherwise he's gonna stroll his ass right on by without saying a damn word and take his stormy mood with him. )

[wiedzminka]

[ As soon as it was evident that Dean would be fine, Ciri had left. Hadn't announced where, hadn't trusted herself to say anything, knowing her words would twist around far too fast to expose the simmering, relentless anger that'd begun bubbling up inside her chest moments after Dean was breathing more or less normally again.

She doesn't expect to see him again so soon, still with her heart thundering in her ears and temper high. He stalks past where she's been waiting several minutes already for the portal, which is in the process of being recast after some sort of scheduled break. Shouldn't be long now.

But perhaps too long to stand around without letting her frustration get the better of her. ]

Look at you. Already spry as a fucking goat.

[righteously]

( Of course the portal's down. Of course they're on a friggin' coffee break when all he wants to do is get the hell out of here. Scrub the ash off his skin the way Jayce scrubbed it out of his lungs. Maybe punch something a few times, get this low-burning aggression out of his system that he can't seem to shake.

But no, he's stranded waiting at the god damn bus stop.

Awesome.

Things he's not expecting: a round 2, this time with the scarier of the platinum blondes. He turns, angles himself her direction enough to shoot her a look. Arched eyebrow, fatigued, skeptical. )

Did you just call me a goat?

( Seriously? )

ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ʟᴏᴛᴛᴀ ʟᴏᴠᴇ → ( ᴛʜᴇ sᴇxᴀɢᴏɴ )

[righteously]

( Frankly, it's a little surprising they haven't gotten together like this before now, all things considered. The five of them haunt the same damn place half the time, it's weird they haven't all wound up sharing a table — or, more aptly, sharing drinks — in the ten-plus months Dean's been in Cadens.

At any rate, here they are at the tail end of dinner, food mostly finished, three or four rounds in, the occasional arm flung over the back of someone else's chair, spirits largely good despite the recent fuckery and Julie's fleeting desire to yeet Dean into orbit over the Nocwich disaster.

Light-hearted banter flies pretty equally across the whole dinner party, and our camera pans into the scene as the stupidest attendee kindly informs Geralt: )

You're the worst, you realize that? ( He continues on without waiting for an answer, directing his attention to aforementioned Worst Guy's best friend: ) He's the worst. Just. Absolute worst person. How do you live with this?

[cointosser]

[It truly is an event that should have happened months ago. Nothing beats the heat of so many bodies together, the ease of conversation that always flows when there's so many people to contribute to it. The last time he felt like this may have been that strange little Christmas party, but this one has blossomed out of nothing more than a natural occurrence, and so many in the same place. Too many people wanting company to drink with. The company he keeps in Cadens has grown, it seems, by the daily, and now... he can drink, drink with company, and keep the myriad of thoughts in the back of his mind away.

And drink he does. He does not hold back, dipping into the skill of swallowing it down he indulged in during the Nilfgaardian assaults, favoring mead for the night over wine.

Jaskier laughs, scraping his chair back so he can wiggle out to pour himself another drink. He stands, voice warm as the honey in his drinks.] Live with it? Don't know what I'd do without that cock sometimes. [He gives Geralt a kiss on the cheek to annoy him and another laugh, stumbling over to search out another bottle. Unfortunate that the Sandpiper has raised his head again, a man so used to touting his name around a bar that he can capture any sort of bottle that pleases him.] You know, I'd already assumed you'd seen it. Geralt's never been shy about the view.

[gynvael]

[ Certainly none of this is intentional, at least not on Geralt's part. This is simply where he drinks. Then Dean came along, and Jaskier, and now the five of them are here, mismatched stools and chairs pulled up. He's at least two pitchers into the evening. Been a long week.

He can't even remember what it is he said that spurred Dean on. Might've been nothing. Might've just been a look directed towards one of Dean's absurd remarks. Whatever it is, Jaskier takes it on himself to reply with. That. It's not the comment that makes him frown; they're hardly in polite company. (He doesn't keep polite company.) It's the kiss, which he waves Jaskier away with a long-suffering sigh, the kind that Jaskier's heard a thousand times before. ]

Please, [ he takes the bottle out of Jaskier's hands as soon as it comes near, ] do spare Nadine.

[ He's certain she's no desire to hear about his cock. (Unless she does. She's a hard one to read sometimes, and he's been wrong about her before.) It is telling, perhaps, that he doesn't glance at Dean for his reaction—that there might be a reaction hasn't even crossed his mind. ]