Hᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜsᴀɴᴅ ᴍɪʟᴇs ᴀᴡᴀʏ ( ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ )

[righteously]

Who: Dean Winchester & Co.
When: January
Where: Cadens; Horizon; Nocwich
What: Catch-all for January
Warnings: mark of cain shenanigans, violence, alcohol, self-loathing

I ᴡᴏᴋᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜɪs ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ
ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴄᴏɢɴɪᴢᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀ

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ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ

[righteously]

About a week after the summoned are delivered back to their respective factions, Dean makes the decision to reach out. Taking this long... it's procrastinating in the worst way and he knows it. It's not that he's got any intentions of hiding it, so much as he's just reluctant to deal with it. Reluctant to add to the pile, reluctant to be a bigger problem than he already is.

But he knows Geralt saw it. He knows it's a serious issue.

And hell, who knows, maybe somehow it's a good thing. Maybe it's an opportunity for answers, or maybe they can somehow use it to break the curse. Hell if he knows.

Anyway, he calls the brain trust. Sends out a series of psychic texts to the few in the loop. To Jo, to Geralt, to Cas, to his brother. Calls a meeting for one quiet evening, in the bunker in his domain — it's the most private place he can think of that'll fit all of them comfortably, without the worry about any drunk bar patrons eavesdropping.

While he waits for everyone to show up, he's uncommonly reserved. Quiet, posted up at one of the library tables with a glass of whiskey in one hand, a fresh bottle in front of him. When the last person settles in and the moment seems right, he rips off the bandage in the most straightforward way.

He summons the blade (a facsimile of it, anyway) and sets it on the table.

"It's here."

Out there, he means, in the real world.

Now everybody's in the loop. He's trying to be transparent, for whatever good that does him.

[tobeclosetohim]

If Jo's interest is peaked by the appearance of the blade suddenly on the table, it's only in that it's there again, and it's probably beyond telling that no surprise registers in her expression. It's the first close-up view she's had of it since they were all in Hell Maze. At that point, with everything twisted to the nth degree in every direction and being in the middle of pretending to be breathing past her deaths like they were children's fables and nothing else, she hadn't been all that concerned about it specifically.

That had changed after what Geralt told her.
Dean, and Lucifer, and this knife. All of on the boat.

All of it another upend. This weird, jaw bone knife connected to it all.

"Who do you think it's appearing out in the real world now?" Why would whatever giving them these weird powers, and body changes, want to hand off something like The First Blade to anyone? "Something to do with the curse attached to the Mark interacting with the Singularity?"

[righteously]

Jo's answer is an unhelpful shrug, whiskey glass still in one hand as he raises it aloft.

"Do I look like I know jack about squat? I just work here."

Followed by one particularly hefty drink.

[unwings]

Family meeting is a big deal. Family meeting called by Dean, who's usually content to let problems go on until eternity or apocalypse before he opens the table for discussion of them, are a big deal.

The First Blade hits the table, and Cas abruptly stands, chair screeching across the library floor.

"Dean."

Castiel's eyes root into him, narrowing as if trying to read intentions written in tiny script around his irises. The blade changes Dean, twists him, he's had a need for it like an addict. He can't soon forget the urge towards slaughter that overcomes Dean with that blade in his hand, or the coldness when he'd told Sam 'this is a dictatorship'. That thing is an entire tankard of gas on the fire.

"You're not keeping it with you, right?"

Right, Dean? Because we know what a terrible combination the Mark on you, with the First Blade, becomes? Because we are here among many friends who can help you deal with the effects of the mark, and there is not all powerful foe we need to fight, so there's no fucking reason you need a primeval tool of abject evil tucked under your pillow - r i g h t ?

Nothing good comes from that blade. Nothing.

[righteously]

He swallows his drink. Takes his time. Answers on the cusp of a slow exhale into the glass, which he doesn't fully lower from his lips — yep, it's gonna be one of those conversations, the kind he needs a few of these slugged rapid-fire in order to get through.

"Funny story," he says into the cup, his voice reverberating a little. "I don't really have much of a choice about that. It just... shows up on its own."

Annnnd another big drink down the hatch.

Yep. Spontaneous magic summoning in the heat of the moment. Geralt got to see it first-hand. So, that's fun.

ᴅɪᴇsᴇʟ ᴀɴᴅ ғᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀs

[righteously]

The first time Geralt parks his bike in the bunker's garage, Dean notices the tank's running low. Doesn't say anything, doesn't think to, it's just an absent automatic Car Guy observation that gets filed away in the recesses of his mind.

The second time, he notices the gauge is on empty.

And the third time.

Weeks later, they're down in the garage screwing around with another completely unnecessary but undeniably zen lesson on Car Stuff (how to change a tire) when he spots it again. He can't shake the itch this time, so he tosses the lug wrench back into the tools pile and says, "You know these things take gas, right? Fuel?"

Geralt's blank stare is painful on a spiritual level.

This is how an Impala and a motorcycle wind up pulling up to the singular gas station in the Horizon, which is bizarre enough already, but to really put the cherry on top: they're not the first ones there. There's a god damn van beside one of the pumps already. As he steps out of his car and shuts the door, he can't help but mumble, "Did they open up a freakin' dealership up here or something? How long's the Mystery Machine been in town?"

[gynvael]

There are two things his motorbike does not require to run: keys in the ignition and fuel. Which apparently distresses Dean. He has keys now—hasn't a clue why they're needed, but he has them—and. Fuel, soon. Gas? Regardless.

Geralt only knows that the domain which sits by the temple is a gas station because Kyle called it as such when describing his own. Stables for cars, he supposes. He cuts the engine, glances over to say something to Dean, and—

The van, he sees second. The first thing he sees is the damn red phone booth strapped to it.

Mm. He knows that shit machine.

Geralt leaves Dean's muttering unanswered. Instead, he walks up to the van and slaps his palm against the passenger window. May as well make the introductions.

"Nero."

[vengeanceinside]

It'd be impossible to miss anyone else driving up without the obnoxious roar of another car, sleek enough that Nero clocks it for the usual kind carrying around rich douchebags. He ignores it, for the most part, with only a single peek over the hood of his van (which rumbles in annoyance, even though it's been turned off.) There's always smoke in the driver's seat now, and Nero's just let it linger there. Unconscious desires or whatever. It's not like he's lonely.

(Wanda and Himeka are great, but no one else is Nico.)

Weird thing was, and only thing worth mentioning, was Nero had been sure he was the only one using this place.

"Hey!" The word's a bark as he leaves the nozzle drizzling into the take, rounding his van with a scowl. "You better got a damn good reason --" His brows raise, and his frown smooths out. The Devil May Cry script, sculpted out of blue neon light across the side of the van, buzzes and blinks, almost in recognition. "Geralt. The fuck. What're you doin' here?" He peers further towards the Impala, (which, he can admit, is a hell of a car, but not really what he expects Medieval Grandpa over here driving.) Nah, he's got company.

It never occurred to him Geralt might have friends.

"Hey. Nice wheels. Can't imagine you're teachin' the old man how to drive in that thing."

There might be an edge of annoyance in there. Even if he can make fantasy muscle cars in the middle of his mind palace, he's not dumping his van. For one, you can't fit a jukebox in that thing.

[righteously]

Look, if you're gonna be realistic in the Horizon, you do it right or you don't do it at all. Cars come with keys, cars take gas, there's a gas station, it's the little things. It's about the process, and he'll die on this hill.

He's not expecting Geralt to full-on slap the guy's window, though. Apparently these two know each other — not all that surprising. For as much as he seems like a hermit at times, Geralt's got connections all over the damn place. Dean's learned this over the last year.

His eyebrows raise nearly up to his hairline at the guy who emerges. A beat later at the supposition, Dean scoffs softly.

"Not on his life," dude doesn't even know about gasoline yet, like hell he's getting behind the wheel of the Impala. Instead, he nods his head further down beyond the trunk, to the motorcycle parked just behind him. "Guy's been riding around on E since dinosaurs roamed the earth. I'm teaching him about the sacred rite of full tanks and gas station nachos."

He nods his head at Nero's van. Offers up a mild, only somewhat dubious, "Shaggin' wagon, huh?"

[gynvael]

Dean might catch that they more than just acquainted. There's a rare familiarity in how Geralt leans back against Nero's van—unfazed by the bizarre shit that's attached to and is inside it—and an even rarer edge of fondness when he indicates towards the younger man.

"Nero. Also kills monsters. Hard to put down. Like me."

The most extended introduction Geralt has granted. Normally he stops at a name, if that. Congratulations, Nero.

In retrospect, it's only fitting Dean and Nero cross paths. They share a certain...likeness. (In annoying the fuck out of him.) Possibly, it says more about Geralt than it does about either of them, that he's chosen both Dean and Nero as some of his closest companions. Very few could convince him to indulge them in what he considers a superfluous excursion across the Horizon to pump nonexistent gas.

ᴘᴏsᴛ-ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ

[righteously]

The group talks. A few illuminating little factoids surface, not very many of them pleasant — one of them particularly perturbing. It calls back to the thought running through Dean's head a few weeks back on their unsuccessful hunt, to something he's been marinating on ever since with increasing intensity.

"Hold up," he says as their gathering disperses, reaching out to grasp Geralt by the arm. "Can I talk to you in private?"

He nods his head off toward the halls, and leads them to a place more private than private — his bedroom, where he gently shuts the door and settles his hips atop the surface of his writing desk.

"What you said back there, about Lucifer thinking I can't die..." He starts slowly, his eyes fixed on some thoughtful nowhere-place on the wall — until he drags them up to level Geralt with a serious look. "I need you to do something for me."

He's been asking a lot of Geralt recently. He's been asking a lot of Geralt since they met, it feels like. Favor after favor, racking up debt. Normally he'd feel reluctant about adding to the pile. In a way, he does. But this... it's the most important thing he's asked for yet.

"I need you to promise me that if I do go off the rails, if we can't find a way to get this thing off... If it starts turning me into something-" Something he doesn't want to be. A monster. A danger to the people he cares about — they care about. "You figure it out. You find a way to put me down, because Sam and Cas won't. Push comes to shove, I can't count on them to do what needs to be done. Chop my head off, burn the body, shove me in an iron box and chuck me into the friggin' ocean, whatever it takes."

[gynvael]

Dean's footsteps echo in the corridor. Geralt waits for the man to catch up, follows him into his room.

He sits on the bed. In a sense, he can feel what's coming. That is, perhaps, the strange irony. How both Lucifer and Dean have pulled him aside because he's the one person close to Dean who will not hesitate. But where Lucifer misread what he will and will not do, Dean understands him far better.

"I know," he says simply. He will. It's a promise, but it isn't. This goes beyond what he'll do for Dean. He'll do it because if it needs to be done, then it needs to be done.

He wants to protect Dean. He'd like nothing more than for all of this to resolve without a drop of blood shed. But there are others he needs to protect, as well. Perhaps that's what separates him from Sam or Castiel. He doesn't know, mostly doesn't think about it. Their relationship with Dean is complex, rooted in a history he will never fully grasp. Doesn't want to, either. His own are tangled as it is.

He pauses. "Lucifer's understanding of the curse comes from his centuries upon your world. We're realms away. We don't know what holds true here."

[righteously]

"You're right," he agrees mildly. This isn't Earth. There's no Cain here. For all they know, this might not even be the real Mark — though the fact that Lucifer could sense it kind of gives that some credibility. Still, things may not work the same. The bottom line is, they have absolutely no goddamn way to know. No way to predict how this is gonna go, no way to prophesize the outcome. The only thing they have to operate off of is precedent, and that precedent don't look so good. "But unless something new crops up, safest bet's to operate under the worst case scenario."

And that worst case scenario is he falters. The mark takes him over, he becomes a killing machine that needs to be buried, and damn near impossible to kill. The thing is, unkillable and unstoppable aren't the same thing. If anybody can figure out how to get the job done, it's Geralt.

It feels important to point something else out.

"If it comes down to that... they're gonna try to stop you. Jo too, maybe. It might mean some burned bridges, and if that's the case, I'm sorry for the headache you're gonna have to deal with after, but..." There's a pause. He chews his tongue. Casts his eyes downward, searching for words that don't sound as selfish as they feel. "My nightmare scenario here... is dragging this out for so long I do something I can't take back, just because they don't wanna let me go. Holding out hope for a solution that might not even exist here, while I'm cutting down the people I love. When- if people think about me later on down the line, I don't want their first memory to be... whatever this thing turns me into. Whatever it makes me do. My job is to protect my family. It always has been. And if it gets to the point that I can't do that... If I can't protect them from myself?"

He lifts his gaze again to meet Geralt's eye, to impress the point.

"Then it's time. That's what I want."

[gynvael]

Burnt bridges are the least of his worries. He's not especially worried about people stopping him, either. What comes will come. At the moment, he's more concerned about Dean taking on the weight of his own death. It doesn't surprise him, now that he's come to know Dean, but—

It isn't what he wants Dean to walk away believing. That he's somehow made things worse by wanting reassurance he'll find some semblance of peace. 

Geralt leans forward, elbows on his thighs.

"Dean." His tone is gentle, but no less blunt. "We've known each other some time. I would bleed for you. But understand, I will always protect my daughter first. If you fall by my hand, she will be the reason. So if you're losing sleep over asking too much of me, know that I would arrive at this decision with or without your blessing."

He pauses, expression softening.

"You're not a sacrifice to be made, Dean. And you are not a burden to be carried. Witchers mourn our losses. Then we move on."

[righteously]

It's a relief, frankly, this perspective Geralt's got. Doing this for Ciri rather than Dean. It feels less like he's asking for yet another favor, and more like he's preemptively granting consent — not that Geralt really needs it.

He's killed friends before. He's put down allies before. It's a slightly easier pill to swallow when they understand, when they're on board with the plan. He's not sure Geralt would lose much sleep over putting him down when the time came, but on the off-chance, at least it's on record.

You're not a sacrifice to be made. You are not a burden to be carried.

The smile he offers up is small and hollow. A little sad, a lot tired.

"Thank you. I know this whole thing hasn't exactly been a party, and it's gonna get worse before it gets better, so... I just want you to know I appreciate it. You sticking around... means a lot."

Here's hoping he lives long enough to make up for it some day.

ᴘᴏsᴛ-ᴘᴏsᴛ-ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ

[outwear]

[ It's much later in the evening when Sam arrives at his brother's door. Knuckles close to knocking, he leans in to listen for a second and in doing so, finds himself another reminder of why he's here at all. Foot nudging a fledgling feather sitting tucked near the door frame, he raps quietly and announces himself. ]

It's Sam. Got a minute?

[ Concern has works its way up his throat and he nudges the feather few inches more — out of sight — before clearing the obstruction threatening his voice and waiting for the door to open. ]

[righteously]

( He's reclined on his bed as he's wont to do, legs crossed, a book settled lazily on his chest which he allows to droop forward so he can see over the top of it. )

Yeah, come in.

( Look, he's comfortable and lazy. He's not getting up. Sam's hands work, he can open the thing himself. )

[outwear]

[ Well practiced in these sorts of moments, Sam doesn't hesitate to let himself in and make himself at home. He grabs a chair (or anything that resembles and works as a chair if none is available at the moment) and takes a seat.

He considers the next step. What comes to mind goes something like this: "So, either you've got a massive cockatoo or—" but Sam decides there's nothing here worth joking much about. Clearing his throat, he hunches over his knees and clasps his hands together. ]

You're molting.

[righteously]

( Yeah, it's probably a good thing Sam avoids saying anything involving the term massive cockatoo to his brother. It would never, ever end the way he wanted it to.

There's a hefty number of things he'd expect Sam to walk in and (rightfully) call him out on. Of course Sam elects the one thing that doesn't come to mind.

Molting.

Crap.

He pulls a face, and rather than try to deny it, his knee-jerk reaction is a defensive: )

Why does everyone keep saying that?!

( By everyone he means... literally one other person, but still. He's deflecting. Sort of. Half-deflecting. )

[outwear]

[ Sam's somehow not surprised and he purses his lips, nodding and crossing his arms. That's how it's going to be, he thinks (because that's always how it is) and strengthens his armor. ]

Because that's the technical term. And because you have feathers to lose. And because you have wings. And—

[ He throws up his hands and then moves to sit on Dean's bed. ]

I don't know, take your pick, man.

ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴊᴇʟʟʏ → ᴄɪʀɪ & ᴊᴏ

[righteously]

It's no secret things have been particularly weird and tense around him. The fights he's been picking, the spectacle he was involved in on the Arcanis, he doesn't feel particularly good about it. When the opportunity to do something good crops up — something that doesn't involve fighting anything, no violence, nothing sketchy — he decides to jump at the chance. Ciri and Jo are nearby when the news is delivered, so he casts a quick look between the two of them.

You wanna do this?

And they do.

So here they are, jump-cut through a quick trip to Aquila, and Dean's slowly tugging on a thick pair of shock-proof gloves.

"Alright kids, here's the plan. I'm gonna heft up a chunk of jelly. One of the two of you's gotta be on deerskin duty. When I lift, you slide. We need somebody else on bucket watch to keep this bitch hydrated. Sound good?"

[tobeclosetohim]

"I'll get the tarp," Jo says, going for the skin.

It's basically what the skin is, anyway. The only option toward something like that, which you'd think someone would have something else for by this time, but they worked with what they had. It's a more simple, straightforward kind of work, pages in free hands, and there's something about that lately that's been starting to bug her more since the cruise, but—

Dean is out here, and he actually wants to be doing it,

and she's all for supporting that, especially with everything right now.

[wiedzminka]

Ciri's got a bit of a soft spot for Aquila, and more than a bit of curiosity when she hears giant jellyfish. It's as much in her best interest to keep up her good and helpful name when it comes to the merchants that travel between Aquila, Cadens, and other parts of the continent, so it really doesn't take any convincing on Dean's part. Knowing Jo will come along too is a welcome addition.

Of course, she's noticed Dean's a bit on edge these days, but considering everything else going on, Ciri herself hasn't thought much of it. She heard mutterings of him and Dean getting into a minor altercation with one of the Thorne Summoned, but she'd been below deck at the time and hadn't seen or followed up much when Geralt brushed it off. Something, someone unimportant.

So Ciri shows up more or less entirely oblivious to all the weirdness around Dean, ready to help out a big jellyfish and some potential clients.

"All right, I'll pour the water then."

She scowls at his address of kids, but Dean is Dean, and she's learned better than to try to make any sense of the stupid terms he uses.

"But if the jellyfish gets too cumbersome, I can give you a hand too."

[righteously]

"Thanks," he nods at Ciri, and then uses all of his Masculine Manly Man Manhood Strength to hoist up a flap of dead weight. It's a lot heavier than he anticipated at first blush, and he does his very best to keep the strain out of his voice — with middling results. "But I got it. It's- fine. Let me just-"

Bend the knees, walk the heels out to shoulder-width, hoist again. There we go. Still sucks, but at least his fragile ego remains solid.

[tobeclosetohim]

Ciri's nice enough to offer, even though Jo could pay dollars to donuts on that answer, which is half Dean, and more than half a hundred other hunters. She could count that to the chime if her hands weren't already busy. He denies it and then goes at it, stringing out his words and struggling to do it alone, and Jo throws a look at Ciri. Amused exasperation—men—but somehow, there's a stupid amount of fondness clear in the expression, too.

"You sure you're okay there, Dean?"
Does Jo Harvelle sound concerned? Not on your life.
But far be from her not to see the point of some needling.

Which she does even as she starts dragging the fur under the part of the skin he's stretching.