It's not the first time that Spencer's got stitches. That honor goes to when he was five and he'd hit his head on the edge of a table when he'd walked into it while reading. It is, however, the first time he's gotten stitched up without local anesthetic, and the pain is--
It's not the worst pain he's ever felt. Far from it, actually. But it's nauseating in a whole new way; the pinch and tug of the fishing line through his skin, the anticipation of new pain with every descent of the needle, the way he can't do anything else but watch his skin get sewn together. He breathes a shaky sigh of relief when it's over and the surprisingly neat line of stitches are getting wrapped with bandages, and he can't help a scratchy little laugh.
"You're right. Life would be a million times easier if the profiles were right about you."
He shakes his head in mute refusal against the offer of the whiskey. He's not habitually sober, but he's wary of anything that might prove addictive, and the last thing he wants to do is start to mentally associate alcohol with a lessening of mental trauma regarding the supernatural. Habits like that are nasty to break, even if it means he has to deal with the pain without a chemical crutch.
The offer of a small break, however, is welcome. He'd confirmed earlier that the wound on Sam's back had at least stopped bleeding, so he can take five minutes to breathe. Spencer washes his own hands, surgical style, and ponders on the exhaustion in Sam's voice. The little, maybe unintentional nickname that had made him feel a tiny bit better. The way Sam's shoulders slump in his reflection in the mirror, all 6-foot-something of him drooping in the aftermath of a rough day.
How many rough days like this does Sam have? Does he usually win against the supernatural? Does he usually save the victims? Or do does like this all come with caveats?
"Demons?" Spencer's lips slant in something that looks dangerously like the petty annoyance of an academic. "Really? On a metaphysical level, the ramifications are alarming. Does that mean Heaven and Hell are real, too?"
no subject
It's not the worst pain he's ever felt. Far from it, actually. But it's nauseating in a whole new way; the pinch and tug of the fishing line through his skin, the anticipation of new pain with every descent of the needle, the way he can't do anything else but watch his skin get sewn together. He breathes a shaky sigh of relief when it's over and the surprisingly neat line of stitches are getting wrapped with bandages, and he can't help a scratchy little laugh.
"You're right. Life would be a million times easier if the profiles were right about you."
He shakes his head in mute refusal against the offer of the whiskey. He's not habitually sober, but he's wary of anything that might prove addictive, and the last thing he wants to do is start to mentally associate alcohol with a lessening of mental trauma regarding the supernatural. Habits like that are nasty to break, even if it means he has to deal with the pain without a chemical crutch.
The offer of a small break, however, is welcome. He'd confirmed earlier that the wound on Sam's back had at least stopped bleeding, so he can take five minutes to breathe. Spencer washes his own hands, surgical style, and ponders on the exhaustion in Sam's voice. The little, maybe unintentional nickname that had made him feel a tiny bit better. The way Sam's shoulders slump in his reflection in the mirror, all 6-foot-something of him drooping in the aftermath of a rough day.
How many rough days like this does Sam have? Does he usually win against the supernatural? Does he usually save the victims? Or do does like this all come with caveats?
"Demons?" Spencer's lips slant in something that looks dangerously like the petty annoyance of an academic. "Really? On a metaphysical level, the ramifications are alarming. Does that mean Heaven and Hell are real, too?"