Sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴍᴇ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴀɢᴏ → ( ᴏᴘᴇɴ )

[righteously]

WHO: Dean Winchester
WHAT: catch-all with open prompts; the mark of cain is beginning to take a toll on Dean, resulting in some violent altercations and moodiness. also included: a quick trip to the naked werewolf baths.
WHEN: november-december
WHERE: cadens, nocwich, horizon
WARNING: alcoholism, corruption, violence, brutality, suicidal ideation, nudity

Tʜᴇʀᴇ's ᴀ ᴄᴀʟᴍ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴏʀᴍ
I ᴋɴᴏᴡ, ɪᴛ's ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴ' ғᴏʀ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ

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𝔫𝔬𝔠𝔴𝔦𝔠𝔥 ( 𝔡𝔢𝔠 2-4, 𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔫 )

[righteously]

( He goes for a change of scenery. Yes, he's totally capable of hopping on his horse and riding out for days at a time like he would back home, but there's a difference. Two days' ride covers drastically fewer miles than two days' drive, and no matter how far out he goes for a hunt around here, he still only ever sees desert. At least Nocwich throws him back into the forest for a while, even if it is perpetually night.

He spends most of his time in the hunting grounds, night vision drops in his eyes, sporting borrowed weapons. It's not particularly smart or safe for him to be going at it alone, but nevertheless he is for nearly two straight days. Pushing himself to his limits, pushing himself past all good sense, bringing down beasts that should be well out of his wheelhouse — but no matter how many he brings down, it never feels like enough. He sells the meat, the bones, the hides, and then he goes right back in, brutally savage, non-stop.

When he's finally too exhausted to continue, he makes his way to the hot springs — spending a good twenty minutes off to the side, considerately scrubbing away the blood from his skin and his hair before he steps in, so that he doesn't taint the water. )

𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔰 ( 𝔫𝔬𝔳 28-30, 𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔫 )

[righteously]

( Dean's been spending increasingly more time hunting, often on his own. When he isn't, he's usually training; he can be found with a sword in hand in the courtyard nearest to Mag's, or in any open space just outside of city walls, or anywhere with training dummies, usually with a massive set of wings protruding from his back. It's not a flex, and he's not comfortable with them in the slightest — that's the point. He's getting used to moving with the weight of them, learning to incorporate them into his stances. Learning to fight with them. If you catch him during an especially rare moment, you might even see him trying to fly with them. Tragically, poorly, and unsuccessfully. Other times, he focuses on slowly mastering what seems like battle magic, recognizable to some as Witcher signs.

There are a few scarce nights here and there where he pries himself away from the constant urge to fight and manages to coax himself into settling in for a drink or a meal in the evenings. Progressively more the former; it seems like his appetite has been dwindling these last few weeks, but his drinking's picking up to replace it. It also seems like that fight impulse doesn't ever completely dwindle. He's more easily irritated, more on edge, quick to argue. Quick to look for any opportunity to engage in an altercation. He starts to find them among the discontent soldiers or war-stressed civilians that have had a few too many. Anybody that gets vocal about the Summoned will get Dean rising up defensively, ready to get heated. He'll need a familiar face to placate him into settling down, or else it's likely he'll demand to take things outside and settle them in an alley.

As resentment grows among the population, so does Dean's temper. If your character happens to frequent Mag's, it's entirely possible one of the drunk locals might say or do something exceedingly rude to them — at which point whether they asked for it or not, they'll get an attack dog in the form of Dean immediately stepping up on their behalf. He'll shove someone, grab them by the shirt, hell, depending on the severity he may even outright throw a punch right off the bat. Feel free to assume he's gone overboard for a relatively minor offense; it's gonna take a lot more to deescalate him from this one. )

[unwings]

[ white feathers, castiel keeps finding, and not any kind of white feathers. he knows celestial debris when he sees it, touches it, is anywhere within the vicinity of it. it's a wavelength he's permanently tuned into. the feathers don't cover their living quarters, but finding even a few of these, in a place where he ought to be the only angel, is cause for concern. cas knows they aren't from him - they feel familiar, but not so exactly familiar in the way his own grace is. they remain tucked away inside his coat pocket, close to his chest, until he finally stumbles on the source: dean winchester.

Peering out a window from his new room in Mag's, he spots a blur of white wings around a familiar hunter down in the courtyard, and for a moment, Castiel's awestruck. Not that he's never seen wings attached to a vessel, but something about it being Dean... It just seems to fit, in a way that has nothing to do with him being the Sword of Michael. It's the trail of molted feathers left behind, more than is any kind of typical, that pulls him out of it. ]

Curl them in when moving quickly, to reduce air drag. [ Cas calls from the window on the second story, ] Furl out when you need balance, to increase rotational inertia and maintain stability. It lowers your center of gravity.

[ Tucking back into the window, he's clearly on his way downstairs to meet up with Dean. His own wings are no longer operational, so it's walking for him. Boots crunching on the courtyard grass, he bends to pluck up a stray feather, examining it between light fingertips, dark features worried. ]

You're shedding.

[righteously]

( That voice calling out from above him is enough to bring him up short — a little too short, frankly. He's mid-thrust with a sword, and he over-balances a little. Manages to catch himself before he outright loses his footing, but it's another glaring case for why he needs to be doing what he's doing right now. A slip like that in the field could be fatal.

It hadn't occurred to him until now to ask. Hadn't occurred to him that Cas might be the perfect resource for this. He'd been distant before he disappeared, a little vacant, a little deliberately out of touch for reasons Dean never got the chance to learn. Now that he's back and he's right, it makes sense that he'd have some decent advice to pass along on the subject of wing techniques.

But it doesn't seem like that's destined to be the topic when Cas finally joins him. He's taken a breathless seat on the top of a barrel filled with water, sword lazily settled across his thighs, sweat in his hair and feathers ruffled, but not nearly as tired as he should be considering how long he's been going at it.

You're shedding.

He presses his lips into an unhappy line. )

Is that not what they're supposed to do? Birds shed all the time. ( A beat. ) Probably. I don't know. What the hell do I know about birds?

[unwings]

Angels aren't birds.

[ despite the glaring similarities. he'll get to the technique teaching soon, but first order of business is examining these wings. moving past dean, castiel's hands find a wing and gently tug it out from dean's side. while angel wings aren't usually so readily visible, this world isn't earth, and dean winchester, himself, doesn't seem to be an angel yet. yet, the otherwise appearance, structure, texture, chemical make up and frequency of them all fit the bill.

pulling one of the feathers he'd picked up earlier out of his coat, cas compares it to those in dean's wing - a match. instinctively, absentmindedly, cas smooths over some of the ruffled feathers, fitting them back into place, as he studies. ]

They are celestial wings by nature, but they don't exactly behave the same. Being connected to a human, for one. [ being out and about and solid on in this common plane of reality, another. it's remarkable, really. fascinating, if it weren't so perplexing. a few feathers here and there wouldn't be much concern, but this rate is somewhat more foreboding. either way, cas can't know for sure, so he'll save getting dean alarmed about it. ] Perhaps it's normal for these wings to, um. Molt.

[ maybe you're more bird than he is, dean. ]

I imagine new feathers will be growing in. I'll look—

[ if not stopped or redirected, Cas will be digging in under the larger feathers to look for smaller, baby feathers, so, enjoy that fussing. ]

[righteously]

( Castiel immediately goes for a wing, and Dean's eyebrows in turn immediately hike up. There's a shift, a tense, a frown like he means to instinctively yank himself away, but he manages to stifle it. Maybe chalk that up to Jo, to the time she spent gently neatening those askew feathers, normalizing the sensation of touch for them just a little bit. Enough that it isn't outright unpleasant to have Cas fumbling around in there, just... weird. Unexpected. It twitches, ruffling up a little bit like a temperamental cat.

Dean lowers the sword in his lap so that the tip hits the dirt, and he uses it for support as he leans an inch or two in the opposite direction to reluctantly make a little room. )

Never say the word molt to me again.

( He starts, just a hair or two away from a groan — and then Cas goes digging, and he flails a little, wings arching, one hand slapping at the guy's shoulder. )

No- what- wait, really, is that necessary, what are you even doing, it feels like you're- rummaging around in my underwear drawer or something, come on, man. This is weird.

[theidlemaiden]

[ Hilda hasn't been here long enough to know all of the history between the Summoned and the people of this world, but the abridged version she received from Claude along with everything she had seen in the last couple of days was enough to know it was tense for a lack of a better word. All things considered, she couldn't find it in herself to blame them. After all, she had been pulled from her own in progress war.

Someone has to wonder how much grace she's willing to extend though.

She returns to the Sarstina, the smell of alcohol permeating the enclosed space. If the noise is any indication the patrons are well into their drinks giving her a clear signal to get upstairs as quickly as possible. Making a beeline towards the stairs she barely registers one of the drunk locals catcalling her because it gets swallowed by the din of the tavern. Irritated at being seemingly ignored, the patron tries again and Hilda definitely hears it but continues walking which is enough to trigger the man to storm up behind her and grabbing her wrist so she has to pay attention to him. His breath is warm as he breathes on her and his words slur out of his mouth. "I was paying you a compliment, Pinky." Their grip is sloppy and Hilda's annoyance flares as she wrenches her hand free, nose wrinkling in distaste instinctively. ]

Pinky? If you want someone's attention, I wouldn't say this is the way to do it - what, hey! [ Her annoyance turns to shock as the man is suddenly sent staggering backwards into the wall by another. There's only a brief moment trying to gain her bearings before her reflexes kick in. Immediately she tries to pull her would be protector back in an attempt to stop him from completely throttling the drunk. It's probably a ridiculous sight, this 5'0" woman trying to stop Dean who has a good foot on her but she's been toe to toe with larger. Her arms flex in an attempt to stop him from swinging. ]

Calm down - are you trying to start a tavern brawl? Or worse, get kicked out by Mags?

[ Hopefully no flailing arms smack her in the face in the process because that would be the cherry on top of her night. ]

[righteously]

( It's not that he keeps a catalogue of all the Summoned running around in Cadens or anything, but frankly? The Sarstina isn't a huge place, and while good ol Mags might rent out a room or two to a local, the vast majority of her regulars are Summoned. Recurring new faces stand out on their own merit, and that's before you factor in something distinguishing, like, say, hot pink hair.

The point is, he doesn't know her, but he knows she's new. Knows she just got pulled in out of nowhere, and she's probably still finding her footing.

Also knows she's about five foot nothing and a hundred pounds soaking wet, and Summoned or no, he's not the type to stand around and watch some drunk asshole take advantage of some girl half their size. Don't get him wrong, he's totally aware there are chicks here that could yeet Dean straight through a god damn wall if they wanted to. Jo's about her size, and she could break a man's nose in three and a half seconds on a bad day. He knows this logically, but that wouldn't stop the knee-jerk impulse to intervene even if he didn't have a Mark on his arm steadily pushing violence into his bloodstream in progressively larger doses.

What that latter bit means, though, is that he's got way less chill than he'd otherwise have. Any other time before the Mark and this would begin and end with a terse warning, a hard look, and then he'd be done with it unless the guy escalated. Now...

Now, he's got the guy pressed against the wall with a fist in his collar, knuckles pressing in a little too hard on that windpipe, and one arm cocked back practically vibrating with the desire to swing. It's only the grip she's got on him that holds him back — accomplishing more psychologically than physically at this point, but either way it's saving the guy from a broken nose right now.

He doesn't immediately answer her. The question hangs heavy in otherwise tense silence, seconds ticking by with Dean's eyes locked intently on the son of a bitch he's pinning — narrowed on his side, wide enough to show the whites on the drunk guy's end of the equation.

Eventually, he breaks the silence — but not the contact. Not even so much as a waver in his grip. )

Don't worry, this ain't a brawl. This is a conversation. Ain't that right, douchebag?

( The guy says nothing, too busy waging an internal war deciding between fight or flight. Probably trying to decide whether he's more pissed off or freaked out, and whether or not he could take Dean in a fight if he decided to push back. The longer this drags on, the less optimistic that picture looks. )

But I guess we both missed the memo about keeping our hands to ourselves. Oh wait, silly me, is that only okay when we're yankin' around somebody we've got a foot and fifty pounds on?

[theidlemaiden]

[ His question sends the drunk into a pathetic flail of panic as he grasps uselessly at the fist on his windpipe. If he tries to answer Dean's question it comes out as squeaks and gasps and Hilda watches his eyes dart desperately around looking for anyone to help. Unfortunately for him they're in a tucked away corner of the tavern just out of view from the rest of the patrons so that no one has noticed his situation. Rabble and tiffs happened all the time at taverns - or at least that's what Hilda assumed.

She didn't exactly spend a lot of time in bars because who she was back home and most of what she had to go off of was Balthus' stories, all of which usually ended with some kind of fight. And based on those stories, Hilda assumes that the man's friends would come looking eventually. Or maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they think he'd gotten lucky. However the likelihood of someone else stumbling across them and "helping" the drunk out were probably higher and that's what she's more concerned about at the moment.

Hilda hasn't let go yet of the Dean's arm but her tone is light and airy like this is just a normal conversation they're having over some pints. There was nothing they could do to mask the physical aggression of the situation but she could at least try to make it sound like everything was Just Fine. ]

I'd love to know that answer too but I don't think he can do that if he can't breathe or drops unconscious.

[ Her gaze turns sweetly to the drunk man, a glint of a warning mingling with it as she tries to impress the fact that she might be his very slim chance of getting out of here without a broken something. Whether or not he would make that connection or interpret that as a threat was entirely up to him. ]

If my friend here lets up a little bit, you'll be nice, right?

[righteously]

( Rabble and tiffs don't usually happen at Mag's, but unfortunately the frequency has been increasing lately — largely thanks to one particular guy currently instigating the very thing. It goes against the reputation he's built for the last year leading up to now, but you'd be amazed how easy it is to tank a reputation fast. If he keeps this kind of thing up, it's bound to happen sooner rather than later.

Fortunately, her intervention's helping postpone it just a little longer.

Drunk Guy does his best to nod frantically, given the scarce few inches of space between his chin and Dean's fist. It's still enough to telegraph the message clearly — yes, he'll be nice, he'll be very nice, please let go.

Another long moment passes.
A muscle in Dean's jaw twitches, thumping unhappily.
He grapples with the fact that a small part of him doesn't want to let go.

He seems to make his choice abruptly, shattering the moment by reeling back away from the guy and dropping his grip. Drunk Guy staggers a little with the suddenness of his release, knocking into a chair before he can find his balance, and then quickly scampering away. Dean watches him go with a scowl, and only once he's out of eyeshot does Dean finally turn his attention toward Hilda properly. )

You okay?

𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔰 ( 𝔡𝔢𝔠 5-14, 𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔫 )

[righteously]

( Sometime in the first week or two of December, things get out of hand.

Apparently Dean's bad attitude lately hasn't made him any fans. In fact, there's a handful of guys he's personally affronted in his eagerness to fight. The first time they have a run-in is at Mag's, during a heated argument that just started to get physical right before somebody managed to deescalate the situation.

Temporarily, it would seem.

Fragile egos on alpha males never end well, and even though that small gang of assholes left the tavern that night without things escalating, it wasn't to let bygones be bygones. It was to wait for a better opportunity, with fewer people around to intervene.

He gets into a few fights.
The worst of them looks something like this:

They catch him coming back from a hunt one evening around sundown, not very far outside of the gates of the city while most sensible people are having dinner or heading home. It's just him, slowly leading his horse toward the entrance when the group of them emerge one after another to block his way. From the looks of things, it's not to have a tea party. )

Fellas... trust me, you don't wanna do this.

( He tries, at least. Even if a part of him (bigger than he cares to admit) is burning for them to follow through.

And they do.

All four of them jump him, and ten seconds in it starts to become apparent that all four of them are out of their league. They get plenty of licks in, but even so they're dropped one after another in a display of pure brutality, with just a little too much strength to be entirely human. And that would be fine, if that's where it ended. But it doesn't. At some point between the first guy throwing the first punch and the fourth one hitting the ground, Dean winds up with a particularly abhorrent looking blade gripped tightly in one hand, seemingly summoned from nowhere, jutting obscenely out to the side as he grips the handle — not stabbing, but rather punching the guy over and over again relentlessly, breaking nose, breaking cheekbones, breaking teeth. Two of them manage to get themselves upright to try and drag him off their fallen friend, but all it does is get that visceral violence directed at them instead. Eventually, they'll wind up in the same predicament.

He's drunk on this. He's covered in blood — his own, theirs.

He's not stopping. Not without an intervention.


Maybe you don't catch him in the midst of this. Maybe you catch him shortly after, bloody and bruised and a little broken, hauling himself into the inn to clean up in the aftermath. )

Healer incoming you know how it is

[hextechhead]

[ Jayce has been working long hours lately and not all of them in the workshop, putting in the time to help Libertas and their reconstruction efforts. It's going very slowly and it is not beyond him that he and Viktor could make it faster, given the chance, but they are tied up and unable (or unwilling) to do as much as they can. So it can be frustrating, albeit necessary. With Caitlyn back in his life too, it's been busier to juggle everything, but not impossible. And it's a wonderful additional thing.

He is on his way to see Caitlyn, as a matter of fact, when he spots Dean from a fair distance. It's dark so he can't tell right away what is going on, although he does recognize his friend fairly quickly.]

Dean, hey!

[ Jayce smiles and hurries to catch up, although the closer he gets, the more he's aware of details that makes that smile drain off his face and concern come in. Once that happens he is hurrying for an entirely different reason and he reaches his side before Dean gets to the inn, concern in gold-brown eyes. Most people notice Jayce's bulk when they first meet him, the kind of bulk that could manhandle most people with no trouble, but his touch is gentle when he reaches out to touch his arm. ]

Dean, what happened? [ He looks doubly worried when he sees him covered in blood. ] Is this all yours? Here, lean on me.

[ Jayce encourages Dean to put an arm around his shoulders if he's willing, able to take the weight off him if he needs it to not limp as badly from there. He does luckily have his bigger-on-the-inside satchel with him, automatically thinking like a healer these days. ]

[righteously]

( Any other time, Dean would've met that greeting with a more or less pleasant return of his own, even in the crappy state of mind he's been in lately. It's probably telling that no such greeting comes — partly because his nose is broken and the thought of trying to snorkel out anything intelligible from this distance is incredibly unappealing, partly because he just can't muster up enough give-a-shit to try right now. He's exhausted, burnt out, beat all to shit, and whatever just went down back there was...

Not great. It wasn't great. He's still in a detached sort of shock state, still processing how he feels about it, and has only gotten as far as not great. )

I'm fine.

( He says as Jayce makes to insert himself as a support, and even though it sounds like a protest, he accepts the offer passively anyway. Reluctantly lays that arm over broad shoulders, and puts a portion of his own not insignificant weight on it. Lets the guy help lessen the strain on what's probably just an impending sore back. )

I got jumped. I handled it. I'll be fine.

( Except that's not really what it was, is it? That may have been how it started, but that ain't how it ended. )

[hextechhead]

You got jumped? Who would be stupid enough to jump you?

( That sounds insane to him, anyone looking at Dean Winchester knows that he is not someone you mess with. He's a skilled fighter and hunter and that sounds like a bad idea. But obviously someone made that mistake and hurt him. Jayce is glad that he accepts the help without argument so it is easy for him to take on Dean's weight. )

Mag's is just ahead. I think I need to set your nose.

( He can already tell from this angle that it's been damaged or broken, although he'll need light to know for certain. Jayce is far more concerned about the blood that appears to be everywhere, but Dean would be limping far worse if it was all coming out of him. He'd actually be unconscious if all of this came out of him. If he was attacked, though, it probably was theirs. )

I'm going to be your personal healer soon enough.

[falcony]

[ it's not a surprise that sam's the one who steps in to de-escalate things at mag's.

he's been spending a lot more time around the inn as of late, his focus turning to the other summoned in the city as well as any possible locals who stop by the inn. he's aware of the suspicion looks they've all started to draw since the last singularity mishap, and sam's been worried about what that could mean. how it could build, and the longterm effects. these things turn into problems if they're not addressed early on, and sam feels like he's got enough of a repitoire with enough people to be able to actually sway.

the altercation at the tavern, though, leaves him worried. the group of locals go their own way with enough persuasion, but sam can tell there are lingering issues. for all that sam's calming abilities can be helpful in these situations, it only works for so long, especially if the issues run deeper than a few short tempers and some alcohol. plus, he's been around enough the last couple of weeks to see dean's willingness to jump in, to stand up for other summoned, yes, but to do so in the exact way sam knows they're looking for. to be ready for more, with clenched fists and furrowed brows and thinly veiled threats.

something is going to happen, he knows it will. it's just a matter of time, and sam makes a note to keep his eyes open. whatever it is, it won't happen at mag's - there are enough people here to stop it before it even starts, to take the parties outside and get them on their separate ways, but cadens is a big place, and sam can't be everywhere.

that much is obvious one night when he catches sight of dean turning a corner heading back to the inn. sam had been out, running a last minute errand for mag to pick up something from one of the local merchants, and he was on his way back himself when he sees dean just on the other side the square. there's enough distance and darkness that he doesn't see the blood at first, but as sam picks up his pace, about to call out to get dean's attention, the other passes under a lantern and sam can't really ignore the carnage. so instead of calling out, getting dean's attention, sam makes the decision to catch the shadows just as nat taught him and follow. he doesn't know where dean is going, what he's planning to do or what he's already done, but sam plans to find out.

it doesn't last long - whether it's dean who picks up on sam's presence, or sam's own impatience that wins out - but after a couple more blocks, there really isn't any point to keep it up. ]

Dean. [ sam's voice is calm, unassuming, but not nearly as friendly as usual. he holds dean's eyes, standing firm where it is. there is some level of concern, if dean is one to look for it, but it seems to be pointedly directed at dean. for him. ] You good?

[righteously]

( Would you believe that one of the last things he wants to hear tonight is the sound of someone sternly calling out his name? Shocking, truly. It brings him to a slow pause, eyes closing briefly, and it's accompanied by a quiet, muted sigh. Everything in him's screaming I don't want to have to deal with this, and a little of that probably reflects in his body language.

But it's here, it's happening, there's no dodging a conversation. He resigns himself to that, then opens his eyes again and angles his chin Sam's direction. Turns just a little, not to fully face him, but enough to see that concern written all over Sam's countenance.

There's a short, heavy pause between the question and Dean's flat, dry answer. )

Peachy. ( Why, doesn't he look peachy?? No? Alright, fair enough. The concession comes a moment later: ) Nothin' you need to worry about.

[falcony]

[ it may only be a little bit of his body language that screams those words, but a scream is still a scream, and it's plenty enough for him. for him to read, written out across the space between them. there is no friendly air, nothing that sam would normally have expected to find, were dean is his more easy-going moods. instead, what sam finds here is barely contained violence, tension, something coiled and ready and yet cool.

it's not as though this is the first time he's seen dean in this mood, but something about this shadow feels off, more so than he's seen before, but sam can't put his finger on it. so instead, he asks. he waits. and when dean answers, his tone is dry. flat.

nothing you need to worry about he says, and sam's brows lift. ]

No? You wanna let me make that decision?

𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔡 ( 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 )

[righteously]

( hit me with anything and we'll wing it. )

your honour, i did it for the work wife.

[gynvael]

[ The dozens of distractions means Geralt has found little time to work. It leaves an itch that's harder to shake the longer he stays close to the city. When enough weeks have passed, he decides fuck it, searches for the simplest contract he can get his hands on—a pack of roaming sand cats—and saddles Roach. For the first time since landing in Cadens, he has a second sword tucked alongside, forged with the new materials from Nocwich.

He is not the only one, he suspects, who could use time out of the city. He sends Dean a short message: location, approximate time, the thing they're hunting. Noncommittal. The sort of invitation where Geralt doesn't wait, but he travels slow enough that Dean can catch up should he decide to come along.

Since the attacks, the blights, Geralt's noticed the line between bandits and hungry townsfolk turned to robbery has grown razor thin. Off the main roads, there are more hooves in the sand, rickety wagon trails that don't belong to merchant caravans. It leaves him wary. Desperate souls often do. He's had one encounter with Nadine. He isn't eager for a second.

Still. Nothing he's not dealt with before. He'll be careful, that's all. In the meantime, he chooses a route that circles around the prints he can see travelling south in the dusty ground. He maintains one eye on the horizon, watching for if Dean will be joining him or not. Is he hoping Dean will? A little. The city itself hasn't much room to let off steam—and Geralt is not oblivious to word that's circulated about an incident here or there. ]

[righteously]

( Geralt's right. With exponentially increasing frequency, Dean's finding himself in need of time away from the city. It's not just the cabin fever, not just that feeling of being rooted in one place when he's used to a lifetime of mobility, though none of that helps exactly. It's the persistent itch, it's the aggression that can only be excised in one way — to an extent that he thinks is getting alarming even for Jo, who he'd started taking along as a partner up until recently.

Now, he slips out without her more often. Not because he has a problem with the company, but because he pushes too hard. Too much stamina, too much brutality; it might just be his imagination, but he thinks she's starting to look at him funny. All things considered, Geralt's a solid alternative. He accepts with a succinct on my way, maybe more clipped than he'd have been six or eight months ago, and then saddles up.

Doesn't notice the wagon trails. Doesn't think about anything but the thing they're hunting.

It doesn't take him long to catch up. Geralt's initial greeting is a little sup nod. If the world at large needs any proof that deep down underneath it all he is still very himself, let it be the fact that he rolls up visibly chewing. )

Check it out. I re-invented the burrito.

( Said with his mouth still full, with a nod at the atrocity he's sporting in his left hand. It's the world's shittiest version of one, to be sure. God only knows how he made the tortilla, but it definitely isn't a tortilla. Just a shitload of bread that's been rolling-pinned relatively flat and wrapped around bacon and eggs.

Close enough. )

[gynvael]

[ When he catches sight of Dean's horse, Geralt slows down for Dean to draw up beside him. Who has, apparently, learned that Geralt does not and never will provide breakfast for anyone except Roach and Ciri.

Not that he thinks what Dean's holding constitutes as—what the fuck is that? He squints, taken aback for two reasons. One, Dean is not, he realizes, eating a flatbread. He is eating flat bread. Two, Geralt was half-expecting a surly version of Dean to arrive, one step from picking a fight with the nearest living thing. Seems not to be so.

He'll take it as a good sign. For now. ]

A nest of sand cats by the eastern cliffs. [ No. He is not acknowledging the squashed bread Dean calls a burrito. ] Area's normally clear, but. [ He tips his head towards the wagon trails he assumes Dean must've seen. ] We may have company.

[ Ideally, they'll have moved on. He turns his horse down the path, picking up the pace now that Dean's with him. ]

𝓃𝒶𝒹𝒾𝓃ℯ

[righteously]

( One particularly bad altercation leaves him reluctant to skulk his way back through Mag's to clean himself up. Too many eyes, too busy a time of day, and frankly? He's running low on supplies. It should be a red flag to him, that should be something that stands out as a clear sign that this is becoming untenable. Problematic.

But he's not thinking about that. Staunchly, pointedly.

He'll be fine. He'll heal — at a rate faster than he's entirely comfortable with, at that, but not instantly, unfortunately. Which means he's gonna need some patching up in the interim.

At this point, there's only one place he feels comfortable going, and one person he feels comfortable doing it. One person he thinks won't press too hard, or at the very least won't take anything that's said back to Jo and the others.

He slips into Nadine's clinic one evening shortly before dinner time, looking... less than stellar. There's a gash on his forehead and an accompanying smear of blood from where he keeps wiping it away with the back of his hand. A deep cut along one bicep that he's wrapped hastily with a cloth. A busted lip. A bruised rib, maybe. Not the end of the world, but it definitely seems like he's been beat all to shit.

He doesn't even say anything when he walks in. Just shoots her a look that darkly reads, you got a minute? For once, he's not here for the candy. )

[nadine_he_loves]

Oh you're definitely in the right place.

[Nadine turns from stocking the shelves in the front of the clinic, leave the box of jars on a counter. Dean doesn't look great. Not at death's door or anything, but he looks like he just stumbled out of a bar brawl that went bad.

But Dean's right, she isn't one to press. And she knows he does the same thing as Geralt, he goes into the desert and tangles with things and probably deals with bandits and whatever else is out in no-man's land. It doesn't surprise her that he's shown up actually needing to be patched up.]

Come on, in back, let's get you on the table. Anything special I need to know? Possible poisons or a rusty blade or anything?

[righteously]

( Dean walking through the city with some bloodspatter definitely isn't unusual. Looking as beat up as he is, maybe slightly more so, but even that isn't strange enough to stand out much. What's stranger than any of it, really, is just the feeling he puts off. The vibe he's wearing is serious, it's discontent, a little hard, a little cold, a little... off. Melancholic, maybe?

In any case, he follows Nadine wordlessly, through the doorway and toward the back. When he comes here, it's usually for candy and a little casual flirting, maybe supplies now and then. He hasn't spent much time in the actual patient quarters, and his eyes track around the room in a manner somehow both absent and studious at the same time. )

Didn't look rusty, just... douchey. ( He mumbles unhappily, settling a palm gingerly over the side of his chest. ) Wouldn't mind you taking a look at the ribs, though. Not sure if they're busted or just bruised.

[nadine_he_loves]

I'll take a look at whatever needs it. Take your shirt off and get on the table.

[Nadine nods to the exam table and then turns to gather the basic things she needs. Luckily she never has trouble keeping her shelves stocked with supplies. Enough people she knows make trips into the desert frequently, and bring her back all sorts of ingredients.

Filling her medical bag, she grabs her wheeled table tray over and sets the bag down.]

I'm going to guess you just need a basic cleaning and patch job, and something for the pain. But I'll be able to tell if you need anything more.

[While they haven't really talked since the events during the afflictions, this is a professional visit and Nadine is in professional mode.]