Sam finds out about dean's sick and twisted feelings for him. His sick and twisted thoughts about him. But it can't be, it's gross and so wrong. So sam tries to shake dean out of it.
It's not funny, dean. Quit it! But dean is serious. How the fuck could this happen? And then sam realises. It's a love spell, or potion, or curse. And sam has to reverse it, cure it, break it. So he reads every book he can lay his hands on, that has even the slightest chance to have something helpful written on its yellowed pages. He finds a couple possible solutions, but none of them work. His beloved books fail him.
He turns to the internet, desperate. Dean is getting worse. He can't avoid him forever, he is everywhere. And lately, he seeks out sam's company more than ever. Making more and more inappropriate jokes, touching sam's arm and the nape of his neck. It's weird, but doesn't even come close to the way dean's eyes bore into his back, fixate on his face, follow his fingers as they fly across the keyboard. It's unnerving. Dean was always a little possessive, a little intense. But since sam learned about his...condition, he lost all boundaries. He's obsessive and very clearly horny, and it scares the shit out of sam. He pretends not to notice, tries to act like nothing happened. He doesn't want dean to get suspicious and learn what sam has been researching day and night for almost two weeks. But it's getting harder, with dean's eyes always on him. So demanding. So hungry.
In the end, when his computer fails him as well, he has to talk to dean about it.
He doesn't take it well.
What the fuck, sammy? Does he really think dean would be so stupid to let himself be...cursed, or whatever? How can he say that? Does he not know how much dean sacrificed for him? How he basically raised him? Does he not deserve to get something in return? Does he not have every right to sam? Didn't he earn it??
Somehow his fingers end up around sam's neck. He freezes, staring at his brother like he's seeing him for the first time. Dean meets his eyes, just for a moment. It is enough to see the weird shine of sammy's eyes, and he releases him from his grasp. Turns without a word and disappears into his room. The door bangs shut behind him.
And sam knows it's worse than he thought. The mark makes it worse, somehow, distorts it, intensifies it. Dean isn't just in love with him, he believes he owns him, believes he has the right to take what he wants. And it's just a matter of time before he breaks, and it's all over. He won't just snap out of it, sam has to fix him somehow. He needs to find an expert, someone who can figure out how to break the spell.
But after dean's outbreak, he can't risk him knowing what he's planning. He has to play along, just for a little while. But he can't give in too easily, dean will get suspicious. So he, too, locks himself in his room. He gives himself two days to mull it over. Or at least to make dean think that's what he's doing. He wants to help dean get better as soon as possible, but he's gotta be smart about it.
When he emerges from his room, he has a plan. It's not good, and dean will never forgive him for it after he comes back to himself. He won't forgive himself. But he has to help dean, and he needs his brother to be willing, to not question his motives when they go on a hunt tomorrow. On a hunt to fix dean, and finally leave this nightmare behind. If he's lucky, dean won't even remember it.
He finds dean sitting in the kitchen. It's late afternoon, so it wouldn't be so weird to bring out the whisky and start drinking. But dean would question it if sam did that. It doesn't matter in the end, because his brother is way ahead of him, nursing a beer in his hands, four alrwady empty bottles in front of him. He doesn't lift his eyes when sam sits down across from of him.
Sam knows he has to focus. It can't go wrong, or else he might never get the chance to help dean. His hands shake slightly when he pours himself from the bottle. It's important he paces himself, he doesn't want to get too drunk. Just enough to loosen up a bit, both for his and dean's benefit. Still, he downs three glasses in quick succession before the shaking stops in his limbs and he can finally breathe normally. Dean still hasn't looked at him, but it's clear from the way his knuckles whiten around the bottle, that he is anticipating a dress down from sam. But no matter how tempting, sam has other plans.
My apologies to anyone who's ever waited for me to update an AO3 chapter. I have been distracted by Additional Hobby outside of working hours. Chapter shall arrive once the moon and stars have aligned appropriately and deem it so
Just. At first it's a lot of swearing. Just, expletive after explitive, accompanied by endless pacing. Sophie watches him, watches him stare out the window, intermittently.
Then, fiercely, he accuses Sophie of lying. "Keefe's an idiot, but he's not that stupid. He'd never do that. He cares about you too much. He'd never leave you, his heart is tangled up in yours."
"I think that's why he left," Sophie said, her voice achingly soft. "He thinks he's dangerous, and he's too tangled up in my life."
Tam doesn't tell her that's not what he meant, because she might not see how much Keefe loves her, but everyone else definitely does. "But he wouldn't," Tam says, fierce.
"He did," She says, and she holds out a letter.
Tam doesn't read it.
He swears some more. Paces endlessly.
"We've gotta get him back."
Sophie rolls her eyes, and he sees how red-rimmed they are. She's more upset about this than she's showing. "No kidding."
Without another word, Tam wraps his arm around her shoulder. "We'll get him back," He states, his voice fierce. "I promise."
She nods, her eyes dull inside.
She doesn't believe him.
Anger flares in his chest, hot and sharp. Idiot, he thinks. He's smarter than this, Tam presses his fingers into his forehead, making his headache duller.
Sophie sniffles, heavily. Tears are running in thin lines down her face, again, and Tam can tell she's almost cried out.
"What's he thinking?" She demands, and Tam doesn't say anything. "He's such an idiot, doesn't he know that--"
Tam watches her face fall, her voice cut off sharply. Her eyes well up in tears and he doesn't think he has anything to say. Instead, he thinks angry things and imagines up the image of a blond idiot who cried too much.
Tam vows, that once he gets Keefe back, he's gonna deck him for hurting the girl he loves so gosh dang much. Then hug the crap out of his best friend and demand answers.
And maybe, just maybe, hold him tight enough that Keefe would never forget how much this stupid group of people loved him.
Could I request some cold calculating bamf Jaskier, like using poisons etc :O Thank you
CW: slight mentions of animal cruelty and domestic abuse. also straight-up murder.
Geralt doesn’t notice at first. It’s only when Eskel points out, one winter at Kaer Morhen, that the Count of Ironwick recently died in his sleep, apparently, that he starts to think that maybe something’s up.
It’s because he’d recently passed through Ironwick, before he headed to Kaer Morhen. Hell, he’d even taken a contract from the count himself, and the man had seemed in perfectly good health. Sure, Geralt can’t say he mourns the count’s death - the man was an absolute bastard, making his citizens pay way more taxes than was considered reasonable, only to spend it on concubines and golden trinkets - but it is suspicious.
But he decides it’s none of his business. It never is - he’s a Witcher, after all, and Witchers aren’t supposed to interfere with human politics. If he was, he would’ve run a sword through the bastard himself, but that is neither here nor there.
So he brushes it off.
---
The Alderman of Salthold dies a few days after Geralt’s passed through town. His cause of death is a topic of heavy discussion in the surrounding towns, for the next few weeks - which is how Geralt found out in the first place. Apparently, the man had tripped over a rug in his room, and had fallen from his fifth-story window.
A suspicious death altogether. When Geralt asks Jaskier what he thinks, the bard merely shrugs. “Don’t really care,” he says while he continues scribbling in his notebook. Got what he deserved either way.” His face darkens, and Geralt frowns. “I’m sure the horses in his stables are happy to have him gone.”
The shadow disappears from Jaskier’s face, and he smiles up at Geralt, changing the subject.
---
The Baroness of Crowside falls ill on the second day Geralt and Jaskier spend at her court. She seemed in pretty poor health when they arrived, but nothing to warrant her sudden and untimely death, a few days later. Sure, he’s glad to know that her heirs will at least pay Geralt for ridding the town of a pack of Barghests - because clearly the Baroness wasn’t planning on paying him or any of her servants - but it sure is... suspicious.
---
He starts to notice this pattern more and more often, after that. People meeting their untimely death after it is revealed to Geralt and Jaskier that they’re horrible people who do horrible things. He finds out after a few months that it’s not just nobles this is happening to; he just knew about those because they’re public figures, so their death is more noticable.
No, this is happening nearly every time they pass through a town and see someone hurting others or hurting animals, or something of the like. The farmer that malnourished his cows is found a few days later trampled by the very herd he starved; no one mentions the fact that his throat was cut. The healer in town who was using his position of power to take advantage of people dies in an explosion in his laboratory, even though he was highly-skilled and very experienced. The smith who beat his family gets crushed under the spare anvil he’d suspended from the ceiling, even though the metal chains were strong and brand new.
Suspicious death after suspicious death, in nearly a quarter the towns they pass through, only days after they left, sometimes even while they’re there, still.
It’s embarrassing that he doesn’t put the pieces of the puzzle together until he wakes up in the middle of the night in their modest campsite, and finds Jaskier gone.
He looks around, frowning, straining his ears to listen for any sound of the bard. The worry grows when he doesn’t hear a heartbeat, footsteps, or soft humming. Which means that Jaskier isn’t nearby.
Geralt gets up, gathering his swords, and he walks around the clearing. Finally, he smells lavender and sandalwood, to the south - heading back towards the town they left earlier that day.
He frowns again, quickly following the trail.
Why the hell would Jaskier go back to the town they were in just now? Why would he do that in the middle of the night? And without warning Geralt? What could possibly be so important? Maybe he’s under a curse of sorts, something that’s forcing him to go back. But that can’t be the case - Geralt doesn’t smell the familiar ozone scent of magic anywhere, and his medallion stays completely still against his chest.
Eventually, he reaches the town, right in time to see Jaskier scaling down a wall. Ah, so it’s just another one of his conquests. But... usually he doesn’t hesitate to just tell Geralt about the fact that he’s meeting someone, he’s never been so secretive about it. Not only that, but the window he climbed out of is completely dark and devoid of any sign of life - as is the rest of the house.
And, most importantly, this is the Alderman’s house. Geralt remembers it clearly because he’d been there earlier that day with a Drowner head to prove that he’d done his job. Even then, the Alderman had only paid him a quarter of what he’d promised Geralt, and had insulted Witchers straight to his face.
He remembers the outraged look Jaskier’d had, he remembers the bard asking him why he wouldn’t do anything about it - you’re ten times stronger than him, for goodness’ sake!
And then he remembers the suspicious deaths that seem to follow them wherever they go.
He narrows his eyes, the realization battling in his head with the image of sweet, kind Jaskier, with his sparkling, blue eyes and his easy smile.
But Geralt had seen that smile turn into a sneer, those blue eyes turn icy, whenever someone had insulted either of them, whenever Jaskier saw someone who couldn’t defend themselves get hurt, whenever they stumbled upon an injustice and Geralt had told him that he couldn’t do anything about it because he’s a Witcher, and Witchers aren’t supposed to take sides.
When Jaskier reaches the edge of the woods, Geralt steps out of the shadows. The bard doesn’t even visibly startle when the Witcher suddenly appears in front of him, though his heartbeat speeds up for a moment or two, before calming down again.
“Ah, Geralt! I was just taking a lovely evening stroll.” He taps the side of his head, smiling at Geralt conspiratorially. “Insomnia, you see.” His heart picks up again, and if Geralt hadn’t already known Jaskier was lying, he surely would’ve, now. “I hope I didn’t wake you up?”
It’s then that he notices a bitter twang under the familiar scent of lavender and sandalwood, and he inhales deeply. Poison.
Jaskier starts to fidget a bit under his unrelenting gaze, and smiles nervously. “Everything alright, Geralt?”
He scoffs, but nods. “Yes, I’m fine. But the Alderman isn’t, is he, Jaskier?”
Jaskier’s heartbeat picks up again, and Geralt can smell the unmistakable scent of guilt and anxiety emanating off the bard. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Geralt.”
Geralt crosses the distance between them, grabbing Jaskier by the front of his shirt and pulling him closer. “I’m sure you do, bard.”
Jaskier laughs nervously, hands in the air in surrender. “Geralt, I really don’t-” He pales when Geralt’s hand disappears into the bard’s pocket, reappearing with a small, empty vial. He uncorks it with his thumb, holding it to his nose. He inhales deeply, his suspicions confirmed, and throws it over his shoulder.
“I know poison when I smell it, Jaskier. The Alderman is dead, isn’t he?”
Jaskier’s fearful face falls, his expression hardening into something that sends a shiver down Geralt’s spine - a pleasant one, though, surprisingly. “Look me in the eye and tell me he didn’t deserve it, Geralt.”
“You can’t just kill someone for simply not paying us.”
Jaskier scoffs, rolls his eyes, his hands lowering from where they’d been hovering next to his face. “Oh, please, of course I can. And I have. And I would do it again.”
Geralt studies his face for a few seconds longer, and Jaskier stares right back at him. “How many?”
Jaskier raises his eyes to the sky, lips moving slightly as his fingers twitch, counting under his breath. He frowns, looks back at Geralt. “Just the ones that didn’t pay us, or the others too?”
Geralt blinks. “The... the others, too.”
Jaskier narrows his eyes, continues counting for a few seconds. “Do accidents count too?”
Geralt huffs in disbelief, looking to the side. “Sweet Melitele, Jaskier.” It doesn’t shock him as much as it should’ve - he feels like this is something he’s known deep down for a long time - but it doesn’t horrify him either, this knowledge that Jaskier has just been killing people left and right. If anything, it makes something hot and heavy settle in his gut.
“I don’t know how many, exactly, but I think... about forty to fifty people.”
“Good gods,” Geralt mutters, his breath catching in his throat.
He can almost imagine it, Jaskier with a poison vial in his hand, standing over an unsuspecting victim; with that cold look in his eyes as he pushes someone through a window; with blood spilling over his hands as he cuts a man’s throat.
“Can... can you fight? With weapons?”
Jaskier frowns, seemingly confused, but indulges him. “Yes, actually. Sword, dagger, crossbow, you name it. Perks of growing up royal, I guess.”
His heart’s hammering in his throat, mouth suddenly dry. “Tell...” He swallows thickly. “Tell me not to kiss you. Tell me not to take you back to our camp and show you exactly what you do to me. Tell me, Jaskier.”
Jaskier’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, his pupils growing ever larger, swallowing up the blue of his eyes nearly completely. “I can’t. I won’t. If you want to claim me, then claim me, Witcher.”
He pulls Jaskier closer, crashing their lips together in a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, yet somehow absolutely perfect. He bends down a bit to grab at the back of Jaskier’s thighs. The bard gets the message and jumps up, wrapping his long legs around Geralt’s waist.
Geralt turns around and breaks the kiss, sucking red marks into the side of Jaskier’s neck as he starts walking back to camp, basking in the soft whimpering sounds Jaskier lets out.
Behind him, in the Alderman’s house, a woman screams.
Hi, everyone! Here’s the next touch prompt, based on #8: To Protect.
As also seen on AO3
To the Rooftop
Raoul climbed the stairs leading to the roof of the Palais Garnier, following the flash of green fabric. As he reached the roof, he found Christine pacing under Apollo’s Lyre. She held out a hand as soon as she spotted him. “Don’t make me go back there. Not after…” she shivered. “He’ll kill me.”
“This is ridiculous. There is no such thing as the Phantom. He is a myth made up by superstitious stage workers and frightened ballerinas.”
Christine pushed him away. “I’ve seen him, Raoul. I’ve been to his home.”
“Then it must have been a dream,” Raoul said.
She sighed and turned away from him. “Do you presume to question what I saw? He only had half a face, Raoul. He lives in darkness.”
Christine wandered towards the edge of the roof. Raoul swore he heard a sigh from somewhere above him, and suddenly felt a chill in the air despite the fact that it was June. She continued, “But his music, and his voice. And those eyes…” She whirled around to face him, her eyes wide. “Did you hear that?”
The rooftop seemed quiet to him. He shook his head. “Christine, what’s wrong?”
She walked back towards the shadow of Apollo’s Lyre and wiped at her eyes. Raoul watched her for a moment before going after her. He rested a hand on her shoulder, and she turned around to face him. When he saw the fear in her eyes, Raoul took her in his arms. As Christine buried her face in his chest, he placed a kiss on the top of her head. “It’s going to be alright.”
After all, it had to be alright. All this talk of a phantom had to be a nightmare, a fantasy concocted by someone with nothing better to do than manufacture excitement.
The rain poured down from the heavens like a vicious onslaught, unrelenting, drenching the ground, the plant life and every being present, though there were only two out in the open who were daring enough to face the weather.
Varsix stood with exhaustion as she panted for breath, exhaustion threatening to over take her body at any moment. But she didn’t give in, not wanting to disappoint but mainly not wanting to fail this training session. They had come to this planet to train all day and by now it was nearing night, the sun setting in the distance, casting bleak rays into the rain of where she stood.
With a huff, she approached her opponent with the swing of a Lightsaber, only to be parried with ease. Her other hand, also wielding a Lightsaber, swung up, parried again. She hadn’t gotten a hit in, but neither had her opponent. They weren’t equal, he was stronger than her, but they were fighting fair for the moment. Both were tired.
It was fair until he swung his weapon straight for her shoulder as she was regaining her footing. It cracked off her shoulder guard, causing Varsix to stumble to the right and fall into the soaking wet ground with a slight splash. It was raining so hard nothing was being absorbed, leaving the floor just one big puddle.
She huffed again, quickly getting to her feet. Her arm ached from the blow, but she didn’t care. She thought it only as a slight insult to the battle, and she was used to it, training in such harsh circumstances on a daily basis.
She had to get better.
She had to prevail. Become a true weapon of the First Order.
