ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛᴇᴏᴜs ᴍᴀɴ ( ᴊᴇɴɴɪғᴇʀ ᴀɴᴋʟᴇs ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
righteously) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2022-11-28 07:39 am
righteously) wrote in abraxaslogs2022-11-28 07:39 am
Sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴍᴇ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴀɢᴏ → ( ᴏᴘᴇɴ )
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
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
I ᴋɴᴏᴡ, ɪᴛ's ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴ' ғᴏʀ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ
no subject
A silent moment passes. Dean spends it considering — not with his head, but with his gut. After a beat, the decision makes itself. He swings a leg over his saddle and dismounts his horse.
He's not making a real move yet. He doesn't even seem particularly antagonistic. There's a slow, deliberate casualness in the way he ambles forward a few steps, just past Karen's shoulder, giving her an absent pat along the neck as he goes. )
Look, pal... whatever you think you're doing here, I promise you, it's a bad idea. This is not a fight you wanna pick, so how 'bout you gather up your friends, pack up, and head on home before something stupid happens.
( This is, in his opinion, a pretty solid effort at being perfectly reasonable. They get one — one good chance to solve a problem before it actually becomes a problem. They can take the L and walk away.
Or they can stick around, and in doing so prove they're something that actually needs to be dealt with. If that's the case, well... he's more than willing to step up to the task. )
no subject
At this juncture, he's hoping the damn cats come leaping in.
Geralt stays atop Roach. His eyes flick from the man to his comrades to Dean. He rides forward without a word, drawing up next to Dean. If this is happening, then it's happening. But he won't be the first to strike. Dean seems to have the same thought. So far.
This here's ours. The axe hefts, and Geralt finds himself releasing one hand off the reins. The man is addressing Dean now, no longer looking at Geralt. You can ride on through if you leave that one with us.
Oh. Good. That's promising. He closes his fingers around the hilt of his sword. ]
no subject
Leave that one with us.
Dean shoots Geralt a fleeting look, like he's appraising the guy — but there's no real consideration happening in it. It's not really a question. If anything, that glance is just for a little bit of showmanship to make his answer all the more impactful when he turns his gaze back to the murder hobos before them. )
Yeah, that's not gonna happen.
( Aimed absently toward Geralt, but plenty loud enough for those guys to hear: )
You screw this guy's mom or something? ( A beat, and then an oh-so-inclusive add-on. ) Or dad?
( Whichever, what with them both being on the table and all.
It's not a real question, he's just being antagonistic. Geralt doesn't even get much space to answer before Dean's rolling along, inching his sword subtly out of its sheath. )
I don't actually care what your beef with him is. Walk away.
no subject
Also narrows the list down none.
Either way—Geralt clearly doesn't recall the human confronting him. He can see the instant the man realizes that. Insult to injury, Geralt supposes. Not being remembered.
He falls in beside Dean—doesn't bother telling him that he can (should) leave. In the back of his mind, Geralt recognizes the curse mark combined with a potential fight might prove...unpredictable. But there's nothing he can do about it. He already knows Dean will not leave him to fend for himself—even though a few humans wielding rusty blades hardly constitutes a threat—and these men will not walk away.
And sure enough, in the space of a hair, the axe comes flying at his face. ]
no subject
Part of him is glad they don't take it.
The second that axe goes flying, something in him knows none of them are coming out of this alive, and that feels good.
Maybe a couple of them rethink their choice when they realize the fate of that axe. It certainly doesn't meet its target; it slams into a quickly Signed shield thrown up immediately, bouncing off harmlessly and clattering into the dust at Geralt's feet.
A few months ago, this would be a whole moment. He'd be proud, he'd shoot a look at Geralt that practically screamed a boyish: look at that, I did the thing! That training they struggled through actually means something.
That doesn't happen now. Now, he thinks only of the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, and of the fastest way to get his sword down somebody's throat. He goes straight for the ringleader. It's not exactly subtle, it's not exactly strategic, and a couple of them move immediately to head him off at the pass. He's not even remotely deterred. It just means he's throwing down with two of them instead of one, and that should be harder than it is. It should take more effort for another human to manage them. But it doesn't.
A few seconds in, one of them seems to be coming to the terrifying realization that their numbers advantage may not actually be much of an advantage at all. Before this fight's over, he'll make an unsuccessful attempt to flee. He'll be the one Dean thinks about the most after the Mark is cured and gone. )
no subject
He turns, in time to take a pile of yowling fur to the chest. The cat sends him rolling across the dirt.
When it rains, it fucking pours.
Dean, he trusts, can handle the men. He'll have to, because Geralt's currently wrestling with the animal's snapping jaws, pinned down by a powerful paw. Claws dig into his leg. He's lost track of the bandits, of Dean, though he can hear the scuffle nearby.
If fortune shines, the men might be smart enough to flee now that they've two hunters and a wildcat in their midst. But he's rarely that lucky. ]
no subject
A couple of the men, as turns out, are smart enough to flee. They're just not fast enough.
One ducks Dean's sword and spins to bolt in the opposite direction. Dean stabs him through the calf, rips his sword out, then slits his throat with it from behind. In the same move, he brings it backwards to plunge into the gut of the one trying to grab onto him from behind. The ringleader, now furious and riding on adrenaline, grips his second axe and snarls out he killed my brother!
Dean yanks his sword out of a dying man's gullet, and grinds out a blunt: )
I don't care.
( He does not stab this one. No, this one started it, this one made a move on Geralt, this one gets to die last. He gets to watch all his buddies go down first, and so rather than slashing at him, he punches him square in the nose with the hilt of his sword. It crunches, breaks, and the man hits his knees.
In the meantime, the fourth bandit intends to get the hell away and almost succeeds. He makes it all of ten yards away, only to have a whizzing dagger sink right in between his shoulder blades. He grunts. Drops to his knees, futilely grasping for the knife handle he can't reach. A second later, he falls to his face in the dirt.
The only one left still breathing is the leader, nursing his broken nose, gasping. Dean hauls him up by his shirt. Presses his back into the surface of a large rock.
And then proceeds to bash his face in. Over. And over. Well after he stops fighting it, well after his fingers stop scrambling to claw at Dean's forearm. Well after he slumps, slackens, and goes still. )
no subject
He shoves the limp carcass off. Turns around to see Dean—
At first, he doesn't intervene. It's not the brutality that surprises him. Not quite. It's that the man isn't moving, has long lost any semblance of a face. That he's been dead some time. And Geralt realizes—that's it. What's unsettled him. Because instinctively, he'd expected Dean to help. Certainly once the men were down, once they were no longer a danger. Nearly any time they've argued, it's over Dean's inability to not step in to protect him, even when they both know Geralt doesn't need it.
Right now, Dean's hardly noticed he was attacked at all.
Geralt steps forward. Someone else might've hesitated, but he doesn't. Just places a hand on Dean's shoulder. ]
Dean. [ He doesn't say anything else, but his expression is more than a little concerned. ]
no subject
It's like an addict scraping the bottom of the barrel of their stash, hoping to pull out every microscopic scrap to get their fix because they know they won't be getting more any time soon. Blood spatter graces his knuckles, it dusts his face like freckles. Every time he slams the bones of his fist into that battered face, he feels the echo of satisfaction resonate within him — just a little less every time, but still enough to keep him coming back for more.
Until a hand grips his shoulder, and he tenses, rigid, half expecting (hoping) that it's one of the other men that somehow managed to drag themselves up from the ground to go for another round.
But then he registers who it is. Registers the look on his face.
And falters.
Turns his eyes back to the mangled corpse and really sees it for the first time since this whole thing started.
Slowly, his arm lowers. More slowly, he releases the body — it slides roughly down the rock, slumps in a crumpled heap on the ground. Dean stares at it for another handful of seconds, detached, as though he's waking from a daze. )
I- I think...
( A flickering glance around.
One body. Two bodies. Three bodies.
I think they're all dead. )
no subject
He frowns. He's seen worse scenes. He's made worse scenes. And he more than understands Dean was defending—him, really. He doesn't give a shit about the bodies. What he cares about is that Dean looks as though he's awoken from a dream to find himself surrounded by corpses he doesn't recognize.
He's seen Dean go through a lot. But he's never seen the man lose himself in a fight. ]
Come on. [ He offers Dean a hand up. ] Leave them. We should go.
[ Will the city fuss over some dead bandits? Unlikely. There's a nest of sand cats that'll come soon to feast. No one will look too closely when these men have undoubtedly terrorized merchants for months. Doesn't mean Geralt is interested in lingering. No reason to push their luck.
He can sort out the situation with Dean on the ride back. ]
no subject
He's silent as he slings a leg up over the saddle, and as they steer themselves away from the scene of the crime. Casts only one look back as they trot away, just in time to see a large cat slinking out from an outcropping to sniff at — and probably taste, though he's too far to tell — the fallen corpse against the rock.
The gears are still turning in his mind.
They started it.
Did he mean to go that far?
They were hunting Geralt.
But they were also trying to run away, a couple of them.
They were bandits, murderers.
They were human.
Did he go too far?
Does he remember choosing?
Should he feel guilty?
Does he feel guilty?
Should he feel satisfied?
He does, a little.
What the hell just happened?
Would he do it again? )
no subject
Want to tell me what happened?
[ Can Dean tell him what happened? Does he know? Truth be told, Geralt isn't certain what to make of it, either. It's Dean, but it isn't. That's where the problem lies. Today, they left behind four dead men of no consequence. What about tomorrow? He will not pretend he's made a principled judgement, that his reasons for having yet intervened are anything except personal. The deaths of a few bandits weigh little on him. Dean means more. That's what it comes down to.
Still. He has to ask himself where he'll draw the line, how long he'll let it spiral, before he does something.
Maybe he can't know until it happens. ]
no subject
( It's a murmur, slow and stiff and unhappy — and self directed; someone without Geralt's hearing probably wouldn't have been able to pick up on it clearly. There's a furrow to his brow, a downturn to his lips. The shadow of something contemplative and dark has settled in as the horses clip off at their steady gait back toward town. Dean thumbs the edge of his sword blade absently, tracing the pad of it back and forth just light enough that it doesn't cut, as though the touch-sense will somehow help clear up the memory.
Two, three seconds pass with not much else gleaned, and he shakes his head in frustration.
He speaks to the trail in front of them, eyes pointedly ahead, without so much as a glance Geralt's direction. )
I know they threatened you. I know they made the first move, and then it was like... tunnel vision. Hyper-focus.
( Another beat passes, and then he finally tears his gaze over to look at Geralt properly. )
They had to go, right? ( Did he make the right choice? ) They wanted you dead.
( Did he screw up? Is he seeing this wrong? Not thinking straight? It's common sense, right? If it's us or them, it's always them, mark or no. )
no subject
It isn't what you did, Dean. [ Or who he did it, too. They did want him dead. And if Dean had not taken care of them, Geralt would have. Now, later when they came back looking—it matters not. The corpses aren't the problem. ] But I know bloodlust when I see it.
[ His tone is not accusing, though he's candid as ever.
That Dean is uncertain whether he made the right decision says a lot. Maybe he's just not had the chance to see Dean in these circumstances—but for Geralt, he's never seen Dean waver in his choices. At least where defending someone he gives a shit about is concerned.
That worries him. The absence of awareness, or understanding of his own decision. ]
no subject
This fleeting doubt...
It's not good. It's got him a little shaken — which in turn makes him a little defensive, makes him default to anger, because that's his go-to. It's a safe, familiar fallback.
His jaw tenses. He tugs his eyes away again, sets them forward stubbornly. )
Hate to break it to you, but that one's not new.
( A little bit of bloodlust in the heat of the moment's part of the job. It's always been there for him.
...but not like this, not with humans.
He steadfastly ignores that whisper in the back of his mind. )
no subject
Just be careful.
[ That's intended for the people around him, but also for Dean. He's not keen on waking up to find Dean's found himself in shit with the city guards or hell, the army. That is not where he wants this path leading.
It feels, steadily, as though they're running out of time, more and more. And the problem is, he doesn't actually know what the fuck to do about it. Half the time, it seems he's just holding out until the day Dean crosses a line that he can no longer let go.
And maybe a year ago, it'd have weighed on him, but it would not have been a loss. Now it will be. ]
no subject
Something that falters, locks down, and dies in his throat.
They touched on it already once, in passing. That's enough to make him swallow it again for now, but the thought sits at the back of his mind anyway, not quite satisfied.
Maybe it'll surface again in a few weeks, but for now, he lets it go.
They ride home from their first unsuccessful hunt. )