"The fact that you just confirmed all of that with a straight face is even more alarming."
Just, haha, yeah, heaven and hell are real! witches and ghosts and wendigos, too! that's how it is! It's a good thing that Spencer's too mentally and physically exhausted to rattle himself toward another existential crisis, because that might just do it. Werewolves and vampires are one thing, but Christian mythology? Native American, too?
While approximately 20% of his brain is spinning off in a direction wondering how many of the world's mythologies are true, Spencer hisses in an inward breath when Sam pulls off his shirt and reveals the gash on his back. It's pretty nasty looking, to say the least-- Spencer's just now realizing he got off easy with the injury to his forearm. He tentatively picks his way toward Sam's tired slump. There's something poetic about the sight of him in that moment; his rounded shoulders, the brush of his long hair over his nape, skin highlighted by the streetlamp light coming in through the window's curtains. A painting in a rough frame. Hunter, Wearied. Because that's what he and his brother call themselves, right? Hunters?
How often has Sam had to treat his own injuries, or his brother's, in shitty motel rooms? How many scars does he have from ill-healed wounds?
Hovering over him, Spencer almost touches Sam's back, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, and pulls back at the last moment. Suddenly, this all feels unbearably intimate.
"Well, demons aside, I did once spend a summer when I was fourteen practicing sewing up cuts on bananas and oranges. I thought I wanted to be a surgeon for a while, until I watched an actual surgical video and realized I preferred academics. So my sewing skills shouldn't be too rusty." Spencer attempts a tiny bit of levity. "You'll have to be careful with moving your left arm for a while-- otherwise you'll pull too hard at the wound."
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Just, haha, yeah, heaven and hell are real! witches and ghosts and wendigos, too! that's how it is! It's a good thing that Spencer's too mentally and physically exhausted to rattle himself toward another existential crisis, because that might just do it. Werewolves and vampires are one thing, but Christian mythology? Native American, too?
While approximately 20% of his brain is spinning off in a direction wondering how many of the world's mythologies are true, Spencer hisses in an inward breath when Sam pulls off his shirt and reveals the gash on his back. It's pretty nasty looking, to say the least-- Spencer's just now realizing he got off easy with the injury to his forearm. He tentatively picks his way toward Sam's tired slump. There's something poetic about the sight of him in that moment; his rounded shoulders, the brush of his long hair over his nape, skin highlighted by the streetlamp light coming in through the window's curtains. A painting in a rough frame. Hunter, Wearied. Because that's what he and his brother call themselves, right? Hunters?
How often has Sam had to treat his own injuries, or his brother's, in shitty motel rooms? How many scars does he have from ill-healed wounds?
Hovering over him, Spencer almost touches Sam's back, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, and pulls back at the last moment. Suddenly, this all feels unbearably intimate.
"Well, demons aside, I did once spend a summer when I was fourteen practicing sewing up cuts on bananas and oranges. I thought I wanted to be a surgeon for a while, until I watched an actual surgical video and realized I preferred academics. So my sewing skills shouldn't be too rusty." Spencer attempts a tiny bit of levity. "You'll have to be careful with moving your left arm for a while-- otherwise you'll pull too hard at the wound."