This hotel is awful. Look, Spencer's not one to judge based on economic situation, but he's fairly certain those bed linens had last been washed about a year and a hundred people ago, there's dubious stains on the carpet, and any surface he touches probably hasn't been sanitized in a while. He is not going to get stitched up in the main room. It makes him grateful that the FBI budget shells out for medium range rooms.
It does make him wonder, briefly, how Sam actually has a hotel room. How does he earn money? They profiled the Winchesters as constantly on the move, with an inability to hold steady, legal employment. Are they stealing the money? Gambling? Doing under the table work?
What a complicated life Sam Winchester must lead.
Spencer reluctantly shucks his sweater and leaves it folded on the tiny, rickety table (which he judges to be likely the safest of the surfaces), leaving him in just a shirt, which he gingerly rolls up to the elbow to bare the bite on his forearm. In the bathroom, he gets started getting the dried blood off, the water running pink in the chipped sink. Under the white lighting, his cheekbones look hollow, the permanent dark smudges under his eyes downright skeletal.
"What else is real?" he asks Sam, chewing on his lip. "Your file mentions everything from shapeshifters to ghosts to werewolves. It's all assumed to be delusions, of course. But... that's not true, is it?"
no subject
This hotel is awful. Look, Spencer's not one to judge based on economic situation, but he's fairly certain those bed linens had last been washed about a year and a hundred people ago, there's dubious stains on the carpet, and any surface he touches probably hasn't been sanitized in a while. He is not going to get stitched up in the main room. It makes him grateful that the FBI budget shells out for medium range rooms.
It does make him wonder, briefly, how Sam actually has a hotel room. How does he earn money? They profiled the Winchesters as constantly on the move, with an inability to hold steady, legal employment. Are they stealing the money? Gambling? Doing under the table work?
What a complicated life Sam Winchester must lead.
Spencer reluctantly shucks his sweater and leaves it folded on the tiny, rickety table (which he judges to be likely the safest of the surfaces), leaving him in just a shirt, which he gingerly rolls up to the elbow to bare the bite on his forearm. In the bathroom, he gets started getting the dried blood off, the water running pink in the chipped sink. Under the white lighting, his cheekbones look hollow, the permanent dark smudges under his eyes downright skeletal.
"What else is real?" he asks Sam, chewing on his lip. "Your file mentions everything from shapeshifters to ghosts to werewolves. It's all assumed to be delusions, of course. But... that's not true, is it?"