Oh, the dream to be normal and to have normal stories of injury and youthful folly. Sam never had that opportunity, when it wasn't his brother raising him he was left alone for hours if not days at a time expected to feed himself, clothe himself, and make it to school. The mundane life and times of a child were things unknown to him, and he'd grown up not only plagued by the knowledge of what his father and brother did but by his very different desires in contrast.
"You could just slap the cuffs on me and call it a day. Get treated by a specialist, not just steady hands and a talent for field medicine."
Sam flashes Spencer an incandescent smirk, one brimming with an acknowledgment to this newfound irony. There's no taking this kind of thing in small doses, it's all or nothing. Some people are better off for it, some people can walk away, Sam's not been able to yet. Not for long.
Sam pulls his shirt off to give his injury some air, careful as he pulls it over his good shoulder and off the gash now red and angry, crusted in shades of red over a deep blue bruise. The shirt goes straight into the bin, one more down for the count, and Sam finds a seat at one of the rickety chairs at the lousy dining table provided outside of the bathroom. The glow from the light casts shadows toward the wall beside the windows and Sam buries his face in his hands to tiredly draw them back and rake them through his hair, dry with sweat and blood.
"Yeah, demons."
A tired laugh follows Spencer's assessment, something youthful in it despite the wear and tear of years and his truth; his failed destiny. A truth he wished he'd never come to know.
"They're real, the other dieties are real. Werewolves, ghosts, changelings, rougarou, witches, and wendigo, if there's lore on it some of that lore is based on truth."
no subject
"You could just slap the cuffs on me and call it a day. Get treated by a specialist, not just steady hands and a talent for field medicine."
Sam flashes Spencer an incandescent smirk, one brimming with an acknowledgment to this newfound irony. There's no taking this kind of thing in small doses, it's all or nothing. Some people are better off for it, some people can walk away, Sam's not been able to yet. Not for long.
Sam pulls his shirt off to give his injury some air, careful as he pulls it over his good shoulder and off the gash now red and angry, crusted in shades of red over a deep blue bruise. The shirt goes straight into the bin, one more down for the count, and Sam finds a seat at one of the rickety chairs at the lousy dining table provided outside of the bathroom. The glow from the light casts shadows toward the wall beside the windows and Sam buries his face in his hands to tiredly draw them back and rake them through his hair, dry with sweat and blood.
"Yeah, demons."
A tired laugh follows Spencer's assessment, something youthful in it despite the wear and tear of years and his truth; his failed destiny. A truth he wished he'd never come to know.
"They're real, the other dieties are real. Werewolves, ghosts, changelings, rougarou, witches, and wendigo, if there's lore on it some of that lore is based on truth."