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.

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?"

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."

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. ]

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?"