piscesnebula | all you have is your fire [ reid + sam ]

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all you have is your fire [ reid + sam ]

and the place you need to reach/ don't you ever tame your demons/ but always keep 'em on a leash

And just like that, Winchester decapitates the other unsub.

Spencer has seen death. He's shot an LDSK in the head when he had no other option. He's seen bodies stacked on top of each other, rotting in the ground, mutilated beyond recognition. He's seen unsubs killed, by their own hand or by law enforcement.

Those two decapitations are possibly the most gory active violence he's seen. Spencer has to fight hard not to gag, and all Winchester does is mutter a little ew like he just touched wet bread, or stood on a spider. Spencer's lucky that most of the gore didn't hit him, but he can feel blood from the headshot drying on his cheek. Winchester hurries toward him with a piece of torn flannel to press against his arm, and while Spencer shrinks back, he clamps the cloth to his forearm nonetheless.

He manages to pull himself up to sit while Winchester checks the rest of the room. Vampires. That's what Winchester said they were. And while everything in Spencer wants to scoff and call him crazy, he's just seen the evidence for himself. Men with mouths full of fangs, men who took a headshot and didn't die, men whose skin burned in the sun. The victims lacking blood. It all adds up. But in front of him is a man who has one of the longest list of suspected and confirmed crimes in American history, everything from grave robbing to armed burglary to mass murder.

Those men (Spencer still can't call them vampires, even in his own mind) had killed ten suspected victims. Sam and Dean Winchester are suspected of hundreds. Sam's clearly trying to enlist his help.

Spencer stands, and levels his gun at Winchester.

"Put the machete down," he barks. Or at least, he aims for the authoritative bark that Hotch does so well, and winds up somewhere squarely in the realm of stern, but pretty shaky. He doesn't exactly cut the intimidating figure most of his team does. "I'm Special Agent Doctor Reid, FBI. Sam Winchester, you're wanted in multiple states for over a dozen crimes." Including the two men he's just killed right now. "Put the machete down, and turn around, put your hands behind your back."

[Being exposed to the kind of gore that he has and growing up witnessing and to some degree being involved with it gave him an unfair edge. Sam hadn't ever known normalcy, and he couldn't define "normal," if he tried. There used to be a time when he thought it was getting his degree at Stanford, becoming a lawyer, marrying Jess, and having kids. That kind of thing hasn't crossed his mind in a while. Sure, he was shacking up with Amelia but the tension was still there, and he still laid awake at night with too many questions and exhausted any other available time and resources trying to find Dean.

The machete doesn't drop, but Sam still puts his hands up, and the weapon goes slack in his hand because of how he's holding it in an attempt to accommodate him and be less intimidating so that Doctor Reid won't pull the trigger.]

I can't do that, Doctor.

[The words feel a little rough on his tongue. He can understand dedication to the job, to his team, even, but after what he saw here today ignoring the possibility of another attack feels unwise.]

Not unless you've got the stomach to do what I just did. Didn't you hear me? There are people here, probably being treated like blood bags, and another monster out there that's probably not far from the nest.

I knew you were FBI when you pulled out your gun. If you want to arrest me, that's fine, sure - whatever, but I came here to do a job and I just saved your life so the least you could do is let me finish what I started and clear this place out so nobody else has to get hurt.

There's no reassuring thud as the machete hits the floor. Spencer dedicates a hysterical half second to dwell on the irony of raising your hands to show that you're unarmed, except there's a machete still in one of them. His aim wavers slightly, and in the pause between Winchester's sentences, there's the soft noise of his blood dripping onto the floor, the bite in his forearm still bleeding freely.

Unfortunately for his attempt to arrest one of America's most notorious criminals, Winchester's... making sense.

They had observed that the victims hadn't been killed instantly. There'd been signs of extended periods of captivity: malnutrition, weight loss, bruises at the wrists and ankles, not to mention the multiple older bite marks over the victims. The reason he's here is because he'd gotten a lead on Kayla's last known whereabouts and had been concerned for the women still currently missing. There'd been a chance, a small chance, that he might have been able to find them and rescue them, and he'd had to take that chance as soon as possible.

Spencer swallows hard, gaze flicking between Winchester and some manacles on the wall that have clearly been used to hold captives. For a man they've diagnosed with dangerously severe paranoia and psychotic delusions, Sam Winchester sounds... convincingly logical. He really sounds like he just wants to help.

Maybe he can use that. Play along.

Spencer lowers his gun, the muzzle pointing at the floor. "Okay. You're right, there might be victims in here that need immediate medical attention. You keep checking for hidden crawlspaces, I'll go see if there's a basement or an attic." He draws in a deep breath. "Yell if you find something."

"Yeah, and you might want to tourniquet that in the meantime. Nothing hikes their adrenaline like a warm meal and you're still ringing the dinner bell." Sam sighs, doing some mental math in his head, recalling what he got from some of the witnesses, and how the information all played out. "There's a very real possibility one of 'em is a girl, maybe even a matriarchal type figure. So don't drop the guard."

Despite the unique circumstances, two heads remain better than one in a case like this, especially when it comes to vampires. Sam's gotten out of much more significant situations with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and it works out to his advantage that Dean's not here, because Dean wouldn't have been nice about it, Dean wouldn't have appealed to reason. He would've circled back and rendered Spencer unconscious, left him with a note on his lapel outside the place of whoever answered the text messages at his behest when he skimmed his phone.

This was better, and Sam continues, no creaky floorboards, no hollow walls at least not until he makes it around to the back of the house.

"Hey, uh, Doc?" Sam's got his flashlight brandished, the further back he gets in the house the darker it remains. He holds his gear in a practiced, militant way, the same way that Spencer might enter a place too, one wrist over the other, going room by room to clear them.

Closer to the back of the house there is a room, tarped off, windows blacked out and boarded over, it looks like it was supposed to juncture the California room and the garage but had been made it into a den or mancave with some quick effort from the local contractor. "Think I've got something over here."

A warm meal. He's still talking like vampires are real, which is insane. But it's not, is it? Because Spencer's just seen men who took bullets like it was nothing and had mouths full of fangs.

It's rare that he's speechless, but here he is, unable to think of a single thing to say. So he just nods, a sharp dip of his chin, and makes his way toward the rear of the house. He stops briefly to take his tie off and wrap it around his forearm as best he can, and resumes the search for a basement or attic. He's not having much luck, and that's when Winchester's voice rings out.

Spencer catches up, as quiet as he can make himself, and digs a flashlight out from his pocket. He's not usually the one clearing rooms, so he fumbles a bit to find that practiced stance of holding both gun and flashlight -- it doesn't escape his notice that Sam's got a military precise stance of his own, so precise that Morgan would probably weep in joy to behold it. John Winchester had done time in the Marines, and it had been suspected that he'd taught his sons a lot of what he knew. It's... strangely fascinating to see the proof in action.

What he's found is definitely something, though, so Spencer advances in first. The smell of blood is thick in the air, metallic and cloying, though there's very little to actually be found.

And there, chained to the wall in a corner, is Tara Kennedy, the latest missing victim. From a glance, Spencer can't even tell if she's alive. He holsters his gun long enough to check her pulse, which is slow and thready but there. He thinks about calling an ambulance, but he doesn't know if there's more unsubs in here -- the smarter move would be to call his team.

"I'm calling for backup. The average drive time between the hotel my team is at and here is ten minutes, so you've got ten minutes to explain to me what's happening and why you're here," Spencer says, still trying out his best Hotch impression. He stands, and starts searching the rest of the room. "And since you're claiming that those two are vampires, the explanation should probably be pretty convincing."

They took bullets like something out of a DC comic and could recover even faster given the right amount of time and blood but it doesn't take a genius to figure that out. Things that take 22s in the skull and still have the same level of fight in them weren't normal, and the teeth marks on the girl that's strung up match the teeth of heads that Sam left on the floor in the foyer.

She's in bad shape, she's been fed off of for days, and she's pekid and cold, if they hadn't gotten here when they did she probably wouldn't have made it through the night.

Sam heads straight for her and cuts down the rope she's been strung up with, she slumps into his arms as dead weight, almost unconscious.

"Hey, hey. It's okay. I got you. I got you." Sam moves her hair from her face and takes a long look at her cataloging injuries that gave way to the judgment call that she hadn't turned, and she didn't take in any blood. A lot of the bite marks are old, so they hadn't gotten her to agree to be changed or hadn't gotten around to doing it themselves yet. "Just hang in there for me. Tell me about who took you, how long have you been here?"

Her words are slow. Drawn out and dry from dehydration, she's almost through with the first four leading into an obvious warning when Spencer goes on and Sam turns his head away from her to address him. "You can't do that, you'll just be putting them in danger too. I said I'd come with you so do me a favor and help me get her out of-"

Sam's words are cut short by a grunt of pain, nails are in his skin, blood is trickling down from his shoulder staining the blue and white plaid shirt he's wearing crimson. Behind him, another girl, a victim who'd gone through the change and is freshly reconfigured is standing there behind Sam with blood-crusted lips and dark eyes, teeth fully exposed from the gum line for seconds that feel like hours when those razor-sharp pearly whites make contact with Sam's back as he throws his body over Tara to give her a fighting chance. He's got more fight left in him than she does, and he's not sure that she could survive another feeding.

The other girl, whoever she was, bites into Sam's flesh through his canvas jacket and drinks like he's a living reservoir and Sam, steeling himself against the pain scrambles to adjust so he can grapple for his blade and get the right angle. A losing battle, there was no possible way for him to behead her at the angle, not even with the height difference he had on her.

Edited 2024-01-31 18:04 (UTC)

Winchester just goes ahead and starts dealing with the injured victim himself, which is a wildly bad idea since he's not a trained paramedic (as far as Spencer knows), but before he can raise any sort of protest, Tara has roused just enough to start speaking, and he doesn't dare interrupt. The bizarre thing is, Winchester's so gentle with her, and experienced, like he reassures victims all the time-- but that's the exact opposite of what his very long criminal record says.

Maybe this is how he lures his victims close. This could all be a ploy; a tactic to take easy victims from other predators, like a scavenger finishing off nearly-dead prey. With the Winchester's record, Spencer wouldn't put anything past them. So he's half expecting this soft-speaking and gentle handling to end up with Winchester using that machete to take Tara's life, and Spencer's too busy being frozen with overwhelmed indecision that he can't even make a preemptive move to stop it.

And that's when another vampire attacks.

Cai Liang. He recognizes her from the photo Garcia had found. Another missing person thought to be attached to this case. Her dainty features have been overtaken by bloodshot eyes and dried blood smeared around her mouth, and as he watches, her teeth elongate into needle-like fangs, and oh, god. It's real. Vampires are real. He's not just seeing things.

Cai lunges for Sam and Spencer can hear her draining his blood, and before he knows it, his training is kicking in. He holsters his gun, because that's not going to do anything and he'd just risk hitting Winchester or the other victim. Instead, he tackles Cai with a shoulder to the face where she's bent over, ripping her fangs from flesh, and shoves her back. She's strong enough that he gets the sense she only goes stumbling back because he managed to take her by surprise.

"Miss Liang, it's okay, you're okay," he says hurriedly, hands raised, desperately trying to get through to her. "He's-- helping, he's not a threat. You've been missing for weeks, and I'm so sorry it took this long to find you, but--"

"I'm so hungry," she moans, not hearing anything he's saying.

"We'll figure something out, just-- you can't kill anyone here, okay?" Spencer tries, pleading, trying to get through to her. "I don't know if... if you have to drink blood now, but you don't have to hurt people. Please. Just come with us, and I promise we'll help you, okay?"

And all of that is for nothing, because Cai lunges, then. Spencer only manages to dodge by sheer luck, and it's pure instinct that has him yanking the machete from Winchester's hand. Cai snarls and lunges again, nothing but death in her eyes, going for Winchester and Tara again. Spencer swings as hard as he can, a double-handed grip, and blood sprays in a wide arc as Cai's head separates from her neck and lands on the ground with a thump.

The machete drops from suddenly nerveless fingers a moment later.

The reality was that once Liang fed there was no help for her, no fixing what she was or what she had become. Fighting the thirst was an uphill battle and even the bloodsuckers that tried the straight and narrow often failed in moments of great stress. It's not something that Sam can tell Reid, not now, and not without some distance between him and this place but the reality is that Reid might not want to hear any of it. Taking a life, even the life of a monster, isn't an easy thing to do and if he hadn't grown up in this world he wouldn't be doing it himself. He preferred to lean into the saving people part of things, and the research behind it. That's what kept him sane through everything, after multiple attempts at running away or trying to find something better.

Sam's got Tara still in his arms, she's weak and she's pale but her pulse is strong and he does what he can to keep her fighting, moving her in his arms to get a better handle on her as he slides her up into a seated position against the wall behind them.

For the time being, they were safe and he was going to take that time to make sure she was okay and alert. He pulls a cliff bar out of his jacket pocket and passes it to Tara with a frown. "Here, it'll help you keep your energy up." Sam hasn't bothered to tend to his the wound on his shoulder yet, instead, he crosses the floor to Spencer and slides the machete toward Tara behind him with his boot as a gesture of good faith.

"Hey, Doc. Thanks for the save back there." Sam grimaces and adjusts the canvas jacket over his back, it's chafing the laceration under it and it's slick and heavy with his blood. "We need to get Tara out of here. If you can help me get her to the car we can get her to the hospital."

What they do from there is all his to define. Sam doesn't particularly want to go back into prison or the loony bin not for a case and not for real but he's not prioritizing himself right now. They need to look out for Tara and then, Sam will explain the rest, and take care of Doctor Reid too if he needs it. The questions, the answers, and the interrogation. It's not his favorite thing to rehash but he's a man of his word.

Edited 2024-02-10 06:28 (UTC)

It's not the first time that he's killed somebody. That dubious honor went to Phillip Dowd, a long-distance sniper serial killer that had cornered him and Hotch and a bunch of people in an ER. And then Tobias Hankel, who had been seconds away from killing him in the grave he'd been made to dig for himself. Both had been necessary self-defense, just like this had been, and yet, it still takes everything he has to swallow back the urge to heave.

The problem with his memory is that he remembers everything. And for most people, they might be able to look at the decapitated head rolling across the floor and think with time, this memory won't be so bad. Not for him. If he lives to be 90, he'll recall it as vividly as if he'd done it five minutes before.

He just decapitated someone. God.

Winchester's voice sounds like it's coming from the end of a very long tunnel, distant and hollow. Spencer sucks in a breath, and gives himself three seconds. Three seconds to freak out and feel horrified at what he'd just done. And then he rubs a hand over his eyes, and kicks himself into action.

"R-Right. Sorry." He hurries to Tara's side, because she looks like she's about to collapse any minute now. On auto-pilot, Spencer wraps an arm around her waist, and starts guiding her out of the dilapidated house, gently coaching her on where to step and where to avoid so that she doesn't trip or fall, constantly reassuring her that she's doing great. The sunlight feels like a slap to the face when they get outside, like he's just spent days in that dark house instead of what couldn't have been more than half an hour. Tara keeps her head down, and Spencer's gaze lands on the car he'd pulled up behind -- his own car is one of the PD's, an unmarked cruiser, and the car in front of it is probably Sam's.

For now, Spencer's just going to go along with Winchester's plan. Get Tara to the hospital. He doubts Winchester is going to consent to be treated by the hospital, so Spencer's going to need to make sure he doesn't die from blood loss. He may be a serial criminal, but he still doesn't deserve to die like that.

His team is going to have so many questions.

Sam can't even remember his first kill and that would resonate with him if he ever bothered to reflect upon it. There were some doors you shouldn't open and some halls you shouldn't trek down and when it came to his childhood that door was bolted shut and the hallway behind it was more or less left to diminish. The way he was raised, the lifestyle he and his brother had to live weren't for the faint of heart, and whatever normalcy he'd been able to snatch for himself then was long gone. As dead as his dream to be a lawyer and live a peaceful picket fence life with Jessica.

Sam is mildly impressed with Spencer, a gangly federal agent that had all the federal but none of the agent at face value. He was swift and exacting with the machete and looking at him it's clear that's the reason he's so shaken and not because he just killed a vampire or found out vampires are real, like some. He has a heart, and it's not all procedure, some feds relied heavily on rules and forgot core ethics but this one seemed to have those core ethics roped in tight like Mandevilla through all the regulatory jargon.

"It's okay," more than actually. Sam can empathize with the position he's in and his eyes often over a tense jaw. He follows behind at a distance too close to make a hasty escape but he's anxious, his hands are pins and needles and his shoulder aches something awful.

"We can call an ambulance if you want, but they'll have questions." Questions that neither of them will be able to answer truthfully. The presence of other law enforcement might also expedite Sam's transition into handcuffs. "Or we can take your cruiser and get her set up, and then while she's being checked out by professionals you and I can have that talk."

Edited 2024-03-04 16:59 (UTC)

They'll just have to go for the second option, because Spencer does not relish the questions they'll be asked.

Where would they even begin? With the fact that he hasn't immediately arrested one of America's most prolific and psychotic criminals? How about the fact that he just killed one of the victims? And then drove said prolific criminal to the hospital without handcuffs?

His only explanation is that vampires are real, and saying that would get him thrown in a psychiatric hold just about a split second after Winchester got arrested.

If he goes with option two, the questions are going to be even worse, come to think of it. But... it seems like the better option. So. Option two it is. Spencer gently helps Tara into the cruiser; she's mostly limp in his grasp, the shock and the pain of her captivity settling deep into her bones. He's seen it countless times with abductees. Whatever energy they had to withstand the torture, it all just evaporates as soon as they know they're safe. So he gets her into the back seat, and holds the door open for Sam.

"Can you stay in the back seat with her?" he asks, tentative, still worried about asking questions even though he's just seen Winchester do everything he can to save the victims. "I'll drive. There's a spare jacket in there, see if you can keep her warm and conscious. The hospital isn't far away."

Questions Spencer couldn't answer without giving his team the first-hand experience. Sam's frown deepens, and his face looks more grave aging ten or so years compared to the innocent shock and dismay on his face when he'd first run into Spencer on the job. It's never easy having to pop that bubble, that odds were stacked against people with forces that most considered fiction.

Sam has no problem going along with the plan, despite his immense discomfort with being in the back of a police cruiser. Right now, she needed the body heat and the extra attention. So instead of commenting he nods, his lips pressed together firm, and gives Tara's pulse another check once he's settled into the backseat beside her and had time to cover with the jacket.

"I'll let you do the talking at the hospital, if you're up to it." Better that the actual fed throws their weight around, it means less work for Sam and less for his usual contacts to do on the other side to verify the fake credentials. "You good to drive?"

It's rattling, but Spencer looks like he's got a good head on his shoulders and a great aptitude for functioning under pressure.

Edited 2024-06-11 00:46 (UTC)

As he starts up the car, Spencer's mind is racing.

Psychotic delusional killer or not, Spencer has just witnessed a single-minded devotion to saving the victims of these vampires, so he's pretty certain he can trust Winchester with Tara in the back seat. At least for a little while. Whatever delusions the Winchesters have are geared around being the saviors and protectors of innocent people against the forces of the supernatural, and--

No. It's not a delusion. At the very least, these vampires weren't delusions, so it stands to reason that everything else the Winchesters have claimed also weren't delusions. A bank being infested with a shapeshifter? A police station being swarmed by demons? The grave robberies to stop rampaging ghosts? All of those might be real.

So while his brain quietly explodes and tries to run down a dozen different paths at the same time, Spencer pulls out of park and starts driving to the hospital. Nobody has ever accused him of being a good driver -- Morgan never lets him drive on account of the fact that he's "too safe" apparently and can't stop quoting government reports about road safety -- but he steps on the gas a little this time, as much as he feels is safe, flicking on the sirens when they get closer into civilization and crowded traffic. He uses the phone connected to the dash to call ahead to the hospital, identifying himself as an FBI agent who will be arriving with a trauma victim, so that they're prepared when they arrive. He flicks a glance in the rear-view mirror a couple of times, checking that they're both okay.

He already knows that Winchester's probably not going to allow himself to be looked at by the hospital. But he needs to get that cut on his back seen to. Is there any chance Spencer could convince him to get treated? Do the Winchesters live life on the grid long enough for conventional medical aid, or do they do everything themselves?

It's not long before he's pulling into the entrance to the ER, the sirens having already drawn a couple of nurses outside. Spencer takes the lead to get the attention off Sam, bundling Tara out of the car and in through the entrance. He gives them a rapid-fire explanation of her situation and probable medical issues -- blood loss, dehydration, malnutrition -- and lets them take over, where they take her into a curtained off bay to examine her. Spencer returns to the car, and ducks his head so he can look inside.

"You'll need stitches," he says, hands wringing, worry at the edge of his eyes and the corners of his mouth. "Has your injury clotted yet? If not, you'll really need medical attention."

Single-minded was right, and while Sam would be the first to say that the circumstances he was raised in were far from normal he has continuously tried to do the right thing with the cards he's been dealt. Something he's trying to do, even now, with the cards stacked against him.

Spencer cares, that much Sam can see from where he's sitting in the backseat of his car. Tara's barely holding on, and Sam's making casual conversation - asking the kinds of questions that are easy to answer, the kind of questions a person asks as a first responder to test the level of cognition in someone else.

Sam doesn't mind getting stitches, but filling out that paperwork would leave Spencer with more questions and fewer answers. Charlie set up his health insurance fraudulently, and it's not like any of what he had was legitimate. She was an exceptional hacker, but that was without the resources of the FBI.

"Yeah, kind of hard to do it myself without a mirror."

It's a bad joke from Sam, rooted in reality, and when Tara groans he turns his attention back to her muttering softly in the backseat and offering up some bottled water.

"I think so. It's still wet, but it's not soaking through anymore." Spencer's concern for him is something genuinely surprising to Sam. It's not often that any of the people he runs into on hunts ask about him or his injuries, being seen as some marble-statued warrior went with the territory.

Once they pull in, Spencer mentally sets a timer.

He gets Tara out of the backseat and into the ER, where the nurses take over. He makes sure that nobody gets a good look at Sam's face, even though he doubts any of them have memorized the FBI's Most Wanted photographs. He has to call his team, and he has to call them now. The longer he waits between Tara's admission and calling his team, the weirder it will look.

But he has to figure out this Winchester situation first.

Once Tara is safely in the ER, Spencer turns his attention back to Sam, pulling them outside to stand outside the ER doors. Nobody's paying attention; the paramedics are too busy gossiping or seeing to patients, the patients themselves are too busy relishing their freedom from the inside of the hospital. It's a relief to know that he's not actively dying -- Reid's wound feels about the same, actually, not freely bleeding anymore but still raw -- but it still needs to be seen to.

"Are you... do you, uh..." Reid falters. He's so bad at this Not Playing By The Rules Of The Law thing. He used to be afraid of touching produce in the store for fear he'd get arrested for stealing. Navigating how to briefly participate in the life of Sam Winchester is even more complicated. "Will you get treated here? Because you probably should. But can you? Legally? Or would you prefer, um, seeing to your own injuries?"

His phone is burning a hole in his pocket, silently judging him for withholding information from his team.

"Because I might actually pass out if I have to stitch you up in some bad hotel room," Spencer jokes, with an awkward little rush of laughter. "I'll do it if I have to do. But it wouldn't be pretty."

Sam's got his own mental timer going but for Tara's sake. Getting her checked in is important to him and he flits around nervously while he waits and Spencer debriefs the medical staff.

Logically, he knows she'll be fine, but the ordeal she's been through warrants another check-in later. Once she has her wits about her he'll come see how she's doing with everything. It's a tough pill to swallow, knowing just how stacked the odds are against them all. Most people were better off left in the dark.

"I can stitch myself up."

The answer is as much an admission of guilt as it can be. Sam's sure that Spencer won't be complicit in any crime. Charlie was that good, but conscience being what it was meant that he didn't want to add to the already building pressure that Spencer was under.

"I've done it with worse." Much worse and the scar on his arm and abdomen make that more than clear. He's healed from a large number of things that should have had professional attention but field medicine was part of the life. Just like living on the lam, having no home, and even fewer long term friends.

"But I can wait for you to get looked at." Sam meets Spencer's gaze under lifted brows. "It's probably better that you get seen here. My handiwork won't be nearly as precise."

"No, you can't. The injury's on your back. You'd have to be a contortionist."

And as lanky as Sam is, Spencer sincerely doubts he's circus-level bendy.

Okay. Option One: He calls his team right now. He gets treated by the ER, and he meets up with Winchester later to help with his injury. He plays everything as by-the-book as he can. He likely has to reveal to his team that supernatural creatures are real, and with a lack of evidence they would likely put real thought into having him institutionalized.

Option Two: He doesn't call his team. He makes up a lie that he broke his phone and got Tara here as soon as he could and then went back to check for more victims, meanwhile he's actually helping Sam. He has Sam stitch his wound, too. It's going to look highly suspicious to his team, but this way he won't have an injury on record so he can hide it, and he won't have to reveal to them that vampires are real.

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Spencer darts a look between Sam and the ER, and then back again, and he knows which choice he's already resigned to.

"If I get my arm looked at here, the likely chain of events will be unfortunate. I'll have to play this your way," he tells Sam, looking a little lost, a little reluctant, but largely determined. "We should go. Where are you staying, and do you have medical supplies there? We can't take the patrol car, so we'll have to Uber."

Sam huffs out a surprised laugh, he didn't think Spencer would just out and out call him on it. He had people that would help, if push came to shove, any extrapolation didn't seem necessary.

His shoulders hike high into his ears, and for a moment Sam looks like a kid who got caught stealing from the cookie jar. It's a stark contrast to the world-weary, pensive and brooding, posture that he typically sports.

Spencer's willingness to work with him is surprising, he'd been so sure that he would have to escape on the fly or use his one phone call to pull another Houdini-level disappearing act. The cops generally don't give him the benefit of the doubt, not even when things are obvious and plain as day right in front of them.

For a fed, he had a good head on his shoulders, and it's with some disquiet that Sam realizes because of this that Spencer's life will never be the same again.

"Okay, but I don't have local anesthetic." He's got what he needs to get the job done, but it's a far cry from triage at an emergency room and he knows it. "I'm staying at the place right outside of town. Gimme a sec and I'll get us a ride."

Sam pulls up the Uber app on his phone and punches in the locations. It's a small blessing ride share apps work on the fly, because most of his life he had to rely on hoofing it, hitchhiking, and "joy rides."

Oh. Great. No painkillers.

"I'll meet you there," he decides, because he's already memorized the target location Sam put in on the app. "I can't just leave the squad car here, it'll raise too many questions."

With that, he sees Sam off once the Uber arrives -- within a couple of minutes, it's not surprising there'd be at least a few hanging around the hospital waiting for fares -- and takes the police car back to the local station his team has been working out of. Taking care not to be seen, he gets his own Uber out to Sam's location.

On the way, he allows himself a minor internal freakout. It goes something like:

What the fuck. The supernatural is real. Magic is real. What else real? If vampires are real, are werewolves? Angels? God? Does mental illness really exist or were they right in the medieval era when they said it was demons? How often are people killed because of this stuff? What the fuck???

The whole time, he runs his fingers over a beaded yellow bracelet on his wrist, and that makes it's way into his thoughts too. It had been a gift from a man involved in a case a couple of years ago; he'd called it Orula's Ide. A token for a Yoruban diety, Orula, a being of powerful wisdom and healing. Spencer hadn't believed in any of it at the time, but could there actually be something to it? Had this bracelet ever protected him or guided him?

It's enough to make his head hurt by the time he arrives at the place Sam is staying, but he's feeling... calmer, at least. More open to new knowledge. Eager for new knowledge, even.

He knocks on the door. "Sam? It's Spencer Reid." A beat, and then, awkwardly, "I promise I didn't bring any police with me." Another pause. "Oh, that just makes it sound like I did. But I definitely didn't."

A mental note is made when Spencer's inability to lie on the fly becomes more apparent to him, but beyond that, all he offers in response is a nod. Never a dull moment in the life of a hunter, and now that this fed has been made aware of the things that lurk in the darkness his life and job were about to get more complicated than they already were.

Sam realizes a bit too late for comfort that he could have just taken off when Spencer said that he'd meet him at the motel. It's not like he had anything of value there, and he would've had a head start of at least fifteen minutes in any direction he saw fit, but something makes him stay. The pale sick look on the agent's face was telling, and Sam, try as he might to steel himself and separate from the emotion on the job has never been able to just let someone suffer through the new reality. Not while also sporting injuries like the kind they had. The burden of truth on a guy like Spencer came with more questions than answers, and so against his own better judgment, he stopped by the local liquor store for some good drinking booze and alcohol to use as antiseptic, quality fishing line, needles, and gauze.

The knock at the door, and the words that follow, shouldn't bring a smile to his face but they do. A wry look of disbelief at his current situation, and the notion that even when he's out manages to find a way back in - with or without his brother.

He opens the door, the TV is playing some old Western black and white, and the southern drawl is a dulcet undertone in the room the light from the television and the desk lamp is the only thing illuminating the dark and dingy environment.

"How's the wing?" Strain from driving probably didn't make it any better. Sam shuts and bolts the door behind him. "I'm gonna take care of you first. You have the choice of the desk, or the bathroom, but I'm guessing you'll pick the bathroom."

"The bathroom," Spencer agrees, because--

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?"

The irony was that this particular motel didn't even make his bottom five regarding flop joints. Sam's seen the inside of some pretty sketchy hotels in bad urban real estate. The life of a hunter didn't pay well and most of the time what money they did make went to provisions and upkeep.

Thanks to Charlie some of those expenses felt lighter but not by much because ethically Sam didn't believe in pushing that envelope too far. He had moral limitations when it came to defrauding the government. Dean never saw that as an issue, but he also had to not only raise him but risk his life early on with all the same conditioning. He considered it part of the perks of being the one to go toe to toe to save the people that would have been prey.

"Yeah, it's all real, Spence." Maybe not the best time for nicknames but he's doing what he can to keep him distracted while he preps the area. He does him the service of not warning him as he debrides it and not wasting time. "That, and the demons that were responsible for what happened in Monument, Colorado."

That much had to be in his file seeing as it was from one FBI agent that later wound up being a casualty after helping them fake their deaths. A lot of good people died there, people Sam would've wanted to help get out and then help disappear. They didn't deserve what happened to them, and even though Lillith's not a player now he takes the blame for that and those casualties knowing that none of it mattered in the long run and that those people, good people, were just canon fodder for a holy war.

Sam's quick about disinfecting the tissue, and when he stitches him up he's efficient, surgeonly, about pinching the skin together so that it'll heal. When he's done, he wraps it in thick tourniquet gauze and then drops his arm, and where he'd been bracing Spencer's wrist with his hand.

"It'd be a whole lot easier for both of us if I was some deranged serial killer playing with nightmare scenarios."

The audible sigh that follows speaks to his exhaustion and the genuine desire for that to be true. He washes his hands, careful to get Spencer's blood off his palms and out from beneath his fingernails and then he offers up the whiskey, for a little relief. Raw-dogging stitches, even with the help of some top-shelf booze as local anesthetic wasn't easy.

"We can take a break before you do me if that's better for you." It might behoove them both to give Spencer a little time to digest everything and adjust to the tightness in his arm before he worked on his shoulder.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

all you have is your fire [ reid + sam ]

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their meetcute is a meetnightmare or a meetchaos

so how did you two meet? well i pointed a gun at him...

accidentally dating someone he absolutely cannot tell jj or hotch about bc uh oh

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very sorry for the delay last month threw me some curveballs

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