abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] on the ice i'm afraid

( A moment or two after the music stops, Dean's hand falls away. He ambles a few slow, bow-legged steps toward the nearest surface upon which to perch. There he sits quietly, companionably, to listen — right up until Geralt offers up that turnscrew. He takes it obediently, and settles into place on the opposite wide of the bed. Effortless, easy symmetry. Cues taken and followed unobtrusively, the work automatic and mindless, leaving plenty of room to contemplate what he's being told.

We learned to live with our memories, not bury them.

Kind of a foreign concept for him. Burying things until there's enough distance between you and it that it doesn't hurt anymore is the Winchester Way.

But he gets that part about erasing every trace. How it feels a little wrong to scrub something completely clean. He devotes a few seconds of attention to the leg on his side of the bed, brow furrowed gently, thoughtfully. )

We keep pictures. ( A beat, and then a shrug: ) Or scars.

( Of people they lose, or the traumatic crap they go through. Mementos, souvenirs, something to look at and reflect back on after a full bottle of whiskey. )

Maybe you should leave something?

( So it's not completely gone. )

[ He hums. Yeah. He could. He can't imagine what in this moment. This place, though—it has a habit of choosing for him, has it not? ]

Maybe.

[ He'll think about it, when it doesn't feel so damn raw. For now, he keeps unscrewing alongside Dean, taking the last bit of the room apart. He is...grateful, even if he doesn't say it. For the company. Someone he doesn't have to explain what any of this is about, yes. But also someone who's seen all this and worse. Makes it feel less like he's opening up a world of horrors no one deserves to witness.

The quiet takes over for a while. He tosses aside the wooden slats. There's another topic on his mind, which he's been meaning to tell Dean. ]

I spoke to Jo. About your curse.

[ That he's even spoken to her in the first place is a novelty, but. Here they are. ]

( Maybe; he doesn't press. It's not his business, not his place, he doesn't have a single scrap of authority on the subject. All he can do is be here, and maybe act as a soundboard for whatever Geralt feels like spilling in the process.

Except apparently what he feels like spilling is that. Dean heaves a soft sigh — resignation moreso than irritation. He's neither surprised or annoyed that Geralt talked to her about it, he just hates that it's a topic of conversation that exists in the first place. )

Great. ( He grunts flatly, tossing another wooden slat onto Geralt's first, the start of a small pile. ) Glad you two are bonding. That's... awesome.

( It does not sound like he thinks it's awesome.

On the bright side, at least he knows to brace for an oncoming storm in the near future as she (rightfully) chews his ass out for not telling her first. )

Let's not get ahead. [ Bonding is a strong term. They're. Communicating. It's complicated. ] I asked if she'd keep an eye on you. That's all.

[ It's blunt, but not unkind. Things are just what they are; Dean's obviously being influenced by something. Geralt would rather not leave it up to the fates when the man is around Ciri and Nadine and a handful of others he considers family. Besides, Dean's...falling into that category, more and more. Has been for some time.

Anyhow. He's concerned on several angles, is what it comes down to. Dean seems all right today, but he sure as fuck wasn't that morning. Too many echoes of Eskel for Geralt to ignore.

He sets aside the turnscrew and sits back on his haunches. ]

I've no wish to intervene where I'm not wanted. But I am here.

[ He can help. He wants to. They would not be talking otherwise. And as much as he knows how it feels to need time and space to work things through alone, this is a little different. Unpredictable. ]

( I asked if she'd keep an eye on you deepens the furrow in his brow, tugs at the frown on his lips, makes him put a little bit more unnecessary effort into the last bits of work disassembling the bed. Something to channel that mounting agitation into. )

I don't need a babysitter.

( Is what he settles on finally, peeling back from the scrap metal and bolts that no longer resemble the sum of their parts. He gently chucks the screwdriver into the pile with the rest, then lowers his ass down to the stone floor with a note of finality. One leg splays out long, the other bends at the knee so he can rest is elbow on it as he turns his attention fully toward Geralt. )

Look- don't get me wrong, I get why you're doing what you're doing, but whatever you think's gonna happen... it's not gonna happen. I'll take myself out of the equation before it gets anywhere near that.

And if this curse takes quicker than you think? Who will it fall on then?

[ They both know the answer to that.

He sighs. Part of him is tempted to let it go. Simpler, when he can walk away. People can sort their own shit out. And if they fail, well. Life goes on, doesn't it? It's different. Here, now, with Dean, and the shadows of his brothers that he'll never see again. ]

Last winter— [ Two winters ago? How the fuck does time work when your memories of home added a year you didn't always recall? ] —one of ours. We grew up together. He was...unlike himself. Infected by something impossible. By the time we knew, it was too late. I cut him down.

[ The loss still stings. He's never spoken of it to anyone. After Kaer Morhen fell, it was merely one more burden to carry, one more medallion to hang. ]

I'm not asking you to spare me. I just want to know we did what we could before hard choices are made.

( They do know the answer to that.

Of course it'll be him. Not because he's the only one capable of it, but because of the others that are... Jo shouldn't have to do something like that. He wouldn't want her to have to live with that. Cas wouldn't be willing to do something like that.

The thought puts a different kind of frown on his face. Has him peeling his eyes away to settle on the far wall, unhappy, thoughtful.

At length, the reluctant admission comes. )

I'm in over my head.

( His eyes fall to his forearm, upturned, sleeve shoved up just enough to make out the Mark — less angry-looking now than it had been when they fought, but still clear and raised. Still ugly. )

Without any lore here to fall back on... I mean, it's not like I can swing by the library in Cadens and brush up on Cain, which just leaves... curse removal on a goddamn theoretical level. It's like trying to learn quantum physics in two and a half months, meanwhile I dropped out of school before I hit sixteen. I'm hitting a wall, man.

[ Somewhere in the silence, Geralt moves to perch on a stack of fallen stone. His arms fold across his chest, expression softening. If there's one thing he understands, it's feeling as though you're in over your fucking head. And if he has been taught anything out of that, it's that you are only alone in it if you let yourself be. ]

So let us help. [ He shifts his weight. ] You're right. You aren't in your sphere. You're in this one. With those from dozens of worlds, and so much magic even the baker's dog can cast a spell.

[ Haven't they got far more than a library here? Isn't Dean capable of what should be impossible—Signs that he shouldn't be able to do, sprouting a pair of fucking wings?

Magic is magic. Its form changes, but its essence is the same. He will not deny that realistically, there's only so much one can do. Sometimes there are no easy answers. But he doesn't think that means they should consider it a lost cause, either. Not this early in. ]

( So let us help; he drags his eyes back up to Geralt again, gently narrowed into something studious. Quietly discerning.

Wouldn't have put any money down that the baker's dog was gonna come into this at any point, but okay. Fair enough.

Dean has a lot of faults — probably more of them than he has redeeming qualities, depending on who you ask. Pride's never really been one of them. It's not ego that's made him reluctant to ask. It's no hit to his dignity to finally admit: )

You're right. ( Or, to be outright clear about it— ) I need help.

( He lifts his hand. Presses fingertips into his eyelids, gently and fruitlessly massaging at an ache he's had for longer than he can remember. )

I felt like... I don't know, like letting you or Jo, or- anybody else get involved... admitting I can't figure it out on my own, would make it... real. ( Not that he doesn't know how real it is, not that he isn't aware how serious it is, but knowing it and feeling it are two different things. ) But I need this thing off my arm, man. I need it gone while I can still trust myself.

[ Geralt lets Dean take the time he needs, studies the man's face while his mind turns.

He does understand. How it's easier to look the other way and hope it isn't as bad as you fear. How long has it been, in fact? Four months? Since that mark first appeared? A small part of him feels as though he should've asked back then. Paid it more attention than he had. But he realizes, too, it likely would change nothing. He doesn't think Dean would've admitted it was a problem until it presented itself too strongly to ignore.

But it isn't too late. Dean's still himself, by and large. Even if they can't yet find a permanent solution—perhaps a temporary one could be an option. ]

We'll look for a way. [ It's a promise. ] Jo recognized the name Cain. Where is it from? A prophecy?

[ She'd mentioned the books in Dean's bunker, but there are dozens of books in that damn place. He wouldn't know where to start. ]

( Geralt's not wrong. Dean barely wants to admit that it's a problem now, and even still it's only happening when those teeth are being gently but deliberately pulled about it. Outside of these conversations they've had, outside of the research he's done, he's content to continue smothering it and pretending like it doesn't exist.

Not like he's got a wealth of better options anyway.

He shakes his head slowly, plucking at splinters of wood caught in the fabric of his shirt and absently chucking them toward the pile. )

No, he's like a religious... guy, look- you know what? I am- beyond happy to keep trying to give you theology lectures that I can tell you love and completely understand, I mean that. I know it's our special bonding time and missing out on it's just gonna break your whole entire heart, but I'm gonna level with you man — at this point it's probably easier for both of us if you just read the damn bible. You'd be, like, a solid ten percent less likely to choke me to death half-way through the explanation.

[ Mm. Actually—

Geralt straightens up without a word and holds out his hand before Dean finishes his little speech. For once in what feels like much too long, there's the faintest quirk to his lips.

That's effectively what he was meaning to ask for next. The damn book itself. One theology lesson with Dean was plenty.

He prefers their bonding be done over smashing pieces of his home to bits. Which, they did succeed at. Later, he'll realize it's the first time since he created Kaer Morhen that he's been able to just stand down here. He doesn't think it'd have happened without Dean. ]

( Dean pulls a face at that open hand, an exaggerated telegraphed annoyance he doesn't actually feel — there isn't enough room for it among everything else going on under the surface, all the actual legitimate feelings churning around between the significance of what they've been doing today and the heaviness that comes with any discussion about the Mark. Still, it's habit to put on a token bitchface, for posterity.

He reaches into his duffel bag — don't ask him why. He could absolutely manifest that thing in his hand directly, but for whatever reason it's more natural for him to reach into something and pull out a book that definitely didn't exist there a second ago than it is to just... already be holding it.

And thus, he blesses Geralt with a thick leather-bound tome, the full unabridged old and new testament in all its glory.

Along with it comes the necessary disclaimer: )

It's not a hundred percent accurate. This is the watered-down, mass-produced version they stuff down the throat of like... half the world's population the second they walk out of the womb, practically, but it's good enough to get you the basics. Frankly, most of the hyper-devout jackasses that live and die for this crap never bother to actually read the thing cover to cover, so you'll probably be ahead of the curve.

[ All right. Significantly thicker in volume than he was anticipating. Geralt releases another sigh, closing his hand around the offering. It is not that he is unused to studying. He just hasn't needed to do this shit for a long time. He's a hundred years old, in the same profession he's been in since childhood. What has he left to study?

This, apparently. Never let it be said he doesn't do a damn thing for his friends. Especially friends afflicted with unknown curses. ]

You couldn't page mark the relevant sections?

[ He's only griping for the sake of it. He'll read it end to end, and then some. Geralt, too, does not like to have things appearing and disappearing out of thin air. The tome is given to his wolf just outside the doorway, which dutifully takes it in its mouth and carries it off. He sweeps aside some broken planks with his boot. ]

I'll clean up from here. [ It doesn't feel so stifling to be in this place anymore. ] And. Thank you. For...

[ He lifts his hand to indicate the torn down room. That. Coming by, even when Dean's had a hell of a lot more on his mind than a piece of the past that'll not let go. ]

( You couldn't mark the page is answered with an immediate, utterly flat: )

No.

( Read the whole thing, jackass. Get on his level. You either get the book or you get Dean's recount, pick a lane. This is the consequence of not appreciating his hand-written summarized version of events.

Don't get him started on the fact that Geralt immediately hands the bible off to a god damn wolf that just carries it away into the great wide yonder. God, this place is freaking weird.

Any thought of bitching is swept gently away at that expression of gratitude. He doesn't feel like he's done that much to earn it, all he did was show up with some tools and spend a few hours smashing things up. Wasn't exactly rocket surgery. Hell, it wasn't even technically real manual labor. Just time spent — time he'd probably spend with the guy anyway, just in another room with lot more beer.

Rather than putting that to words, he opts to gently dismiss it with a mild, facetious: )

Yeah, well. Don't say I never did nothin' for ya.

( Tossed out absently, slightly strained, to the tune of an out of shape forty year old barbecue dad as he stands and dusts his hands off in that classic wellp, I'mma head out fashion.

What he means is you're welcome, any time, seriously, but he's pretty sure Geralt knows that. He doesn't need to say it. )

[ CLOSED ] on the ice i'm afraid

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