𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚍 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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piscesnebula2024-01-02 04:08 pm
technophobics) wrote in piscesnebula2024-01-02 04:08 pm
technophobics) wrote in piscesnebula2024-01-02 04:08 pm
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"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."
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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."
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Sam's tired slump has become an all-encompassing thing that weighs heavy on not just his tone but also his eyelids and the frown that creases his features. There was a time when Sam could be surprised, shocked even, at the new reality of monsters and mayhem he'd been forced to participate in, but that youthful outlook died when he started drinking demon blood and his brother did a tour in hell.
Sam's careful and gentle despite all he's gone through. He has a nurturing streak that life hasn't managed to kick out of him yet and a dedication to knowledge and the task at hand that sees him through these kinds of situations.
Sam can see some of the same in Spencer, but being vague and non-commital about the truth never did him any favors. Since Jess, and since the shit with Azazel, he knows the value of honesty even if that honesty is a bitter pill to swallow.
"Even if they are," Sam didn't want to stick around the town any longer than he had to. He was just fine with sporting another nasty scar. He had more than his fair share. The humor does earn Spencer a smile though, barely there save for the curved corners of his mouth awash in the fluorescent bathroom lighting. "Tell you what. I'll do my best not to ruin your handiwork if you promise me not to get into any trouble with this kind of stuff." Academics never could just leave something alone, that much he knew first hand, and he didn't want Spencer to follow the same path as Henricksen or Jody for that matter. Unable to look away, too committed to not become something of a part-time, their life a casualty to it the same as him.
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It comes quickly and hurried, with wide eyes, because why would he want to get involved with any of this? Reid is a sensible kind of guy (sometimes), and he sees absolutely no attraction in a life spent getting maimed by vampires and clawed by werewolves and attacked by whatever else goes bump in the night. He can see the weight of it on Sam, similar to the weight he sees on his team's shoulders during a particularly gruesome case-- Reid already deals with the worst that humanity has to offer, he doesn't want to add the supernatural to his already full plate.
"I've caught my breath; let's drag this chair to the bathroom so you can sit while I work."
And even as he thinks that, even as he directs Sam, he knows it's not going to be that easy. Part of it is his academic mind desperate for more knowledge, wholly unwilling to leave a topic largely unknown. Most of it is a dawning realization that he's almost certainly brushed up against the supernatural before, and never known it.
How many serial killers have they taken down? (Spencer knows the exact number; he turns that number over in his mind every night before he sleeps.) Were any of them possessed? Were any of the cannibals actually vampires? Were any of the mass shooters cursed? Six months ago one of the killers had an obsession with the moon-- was he a werewolf, and they just never knew?
Can he know about monsters, and not feel he has to help the victims of them?
It's on the tip of his tongue to retract his promise, but he stuffs the urge down. If he does wind up dealing with the supernatural, Sam doesn't have to know. Sam seems like the kind that would feel guilty about dragging someone in, and Spencer doesn't want to lay that on his already burdened shoulders.
Instead, he just wets a fresh cloth, and prepares to start cleaning up Sam's wound once he situates himself.
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Spencer still had a quasi-normal life with as few casualties as was humanly possible for the BAU. They went against the human kind of monster and sure that took a toll, but it didn't destroy any and all possibility of hope the way that his lifestyle did. Sam didn't want that for the guy.
He follows Spencer's direction when he grabs the chair, and straddles the rickety piece of wood with his arms folded across the back. He's endured far worse pain, been taken apart atom by atom, and reassembled in the worst way imaginable. This was a cakewalk by contrast but that didn't mean it didn't ache. The nerves on Sam's back are on fire, the mark is angry and red, and he knows without Reid's help it would've been worse by the time he could get someplace where someone could help. He's grateful, and that shows in the care he's taken with the guy, even though he knows this association could easily end with him in the back of his patrol car.
"Don't worry about warning me. Just get it done, better not to count down. No need for bedside manner, Dr. Reid."
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Not right now.
So he nods once, sharp and quick, and starts cleaning the dried blood off of Sam's back. When it's just old blood dripped down on pristine skin, it's fine. It's easy. But when he gets up higher and gets to the source, the broken skin is inflamed and raw, and it's not easy to look at. Everything in Spencer wants to say nope and call for a medical professional. But he takes a breath, holds for a few seconds, and steels himself.
He's done this before. A child's hands carefully sewing up banana skin and fragile orange-flesh. It's not so different to work on human skin, the repetitive slide and tug of the needle an easy enough pattern to fall into. Spencer is diligent -- it'd be easy to want to rush, to get it over with as soon as possible, but he works fastidiously, tightening every knot and centering every stitch. He falls into the same single-minded focus of solving a decade-old unsolved math problem, or having to shoot at an unsub that's about kill someone, or a negotiation crisis stuck in a holding cell with one of the most notorious serial killers in the country. He's good at focusing when he needs to, letting the rest of the world fall away.
Before he knows it, the stitching is done. He sets needle and thread down on the side of the sink, takes the alcohol, and dabs it liberally over the wound with a clean patch of gauze.
When it's as clean as he can make it, it still looks red and angry, but cleaner, now, and hopefully less prone to infection. Now that he's done, his own injured forearm gives a pang of protest, and there's a shakiness deep in his chest that speaks to an anxiety he's ruthlessly suppressing.
"There, all done." It comes out gentle, softer than he anticipated. The same voice he uses with victims, although it's not really that different than his normal voice. "It looks okay, but you should try not to strain it while it's healing. Can you... I don't even know if hunters take medical leave, but you probably should."
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His worldview was narrowed down for you at such a young age and the totality of it proved too a heavy burden to escape. First, he owed it to his dad, then to avenge Dean, but now the hits kept coming and everything just continued to build up. He helped other people, other hunters, sure - but he was lonely. It was a lonely life and now without Dean, Cas, or Amelia, he felt more alone than ever.
When Spencer is done Sam looks over his shoulder carefully at his handiwork. The look on his face doesn't hide how impressed he is with the neat lines and the careful threading.
"You might have missed your calling." The smile that follows the genuine compliment betrays his words but it doesn't reach his eyes. He's too tired. Sam carefully pulls his shirt back on and toes out of the boots he'd tread back into the motel in. "Wasn't supposed to be hunting to begin with, but it's a habit I can't seem to kick. I don't plan on running any more vampire nests any time soon."
Sam heaves a sigh and checks his phone before plugging it into the wall beside the tiny bathroom on his way out. Sure, the motel's not five star but there's two beds, a couch, and the sheets are all clean. "Maybe you should stay instead of hauling ass back to the BAU."
Knowing about each other was a two-way street and Sam realized on their way to the hospital with the victim who Spencer Reid was and what unit he belonged to. "At least wait until morning. That way you're not taking the company car with all of this cycling through your brain. Plus, it'll give you some time to catalog any questions you might have. I'll answer them if I can."
It also gives them both time to rest and recuperate before parting ways. Sam doesn't think it's good sense for either of them to leave with freshly stitched wounds after almost twenty-four hours of being up. Things hadn't exactly gone well for either of them at the nest, or at the hospital. Timely wasn't part of the gig.
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(And when did he start thinking of him as Sam and not Winchester.)
Spencer's really not sure he should be driving in the state he's in. He's been worse -- he's been a lot worse -- but he's lost blood, his arm hurts, and now that everything has caught up with him, he's exhausted. He drove away from the vampire nest and back to the station after the hospital, but the thought of adding a third trip today feels insurmountable.
(He catches on too late that Sam specifically said his unit's name. Is that concerning? No, he doesn't think so. He's successfully proved that Sam Winchester is not a psychopath and didn't blow up a whole police station, so he's fairly certain he has nothing to be afraid of. He is curious how Sam figured out that he was BAU, though.)
"First, we're getting takeout," Spencer says decisively.
He's agreeing to stay the night in a room with one of America's most wanted, and he's mentally lining up questions about the supernatural for him. What has his life become.
Spencer cleans up the supplies in the bathroom, and retreats to the main room again, perched on the edge of one of the beds. He always takes the one furthest from the door -- it's habit, he has to share hotel rooms with Morgan a lot, and Morgan once went on this whole lecture about how the guy with the better gun skills needs to sleep closer to the door in case of break-in and that guy is not Reid. Not that he's expecting a break-in here, unless... the vampires had friends that will get pissed and track them down?
Halfway through scrolling his UberEats app, Spencer looks up at Sam, alarmed.
"Are there going to be other vampires who track us down because we killed their friends?" Pause. "And do you want pizza, Thai, or burgers?"
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"Okay, sure," Sam says with some resignation. He's too tired to sleep, so eating feels like a chore, but he endures the idea the same way that he would if it were Dean suggesting it. Old habits die hard."Do any of the places off Larb or Tom Kha Gai?"
Whatever reconnaissance Spencer and his team at the BAU had done, it would have heralded a lot of greasy takeout, and a penchant for smutty magazines, and classic rock. All Dean's genre of expertise. Sam was the more astute of the two, the more interested in vegetables and healthier options and the more aware of cultures other than his own. Back during simpler times, Dean would call him the 'geek boy sidekick,' and despite what he'd been through he hadn't yet bothered to let go of those little things.
"And we killed the whole nest."
Sam pulls what was left of his shirt after the stitch job from Spencer and tosses it and the bled-through undershirt into a bag to be torched later. He puts some gauze over the wound now that it's had time to breathe, not quite trusting enough of the scratchy bed sheets and dimestore pillows not to cover his basis. He puts some Tegaderm on over the gauze bandage and drags a weary hand through his hair as he does his mandatory sweep of the room for hex bags and bugs. It doesn't take him long, and when he's done he slips his handgun under his pillow and a blade under the mattress just in case.
"If there's more they're not in the state and are part of a bigger network who wouldn't come after you because of what you do. They won't be able to find me, and even if they do most won't bother with following through. No fledglings made it out thanks to you, so, we're in the clear."
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"Okay. So we're not going to have some stray vampires bent on revenge following us. Good," he says, relieved. "They really wouldn't come after me just because I'm FBI?"
That seems a little too good to be true, actually. Or maybe vampires are smart, and wouldn't go after someone whose job it is to track down criminals across state lines.
"That's strange, actually, because law enforcement are the victims of crime at about the same rate as non-law enforcement," he rattles off, still looking for a decent Thai place on his phone. "Home burglaries occur at roughly the same rate, as does assault. The rates obviously go down if a police officer is in uniform, but in plain clothes all bets are off the table, apparently. In fact, if someone was looking to steal a gun, law enforcement would be more of a target."
Spencer breaks off, thoughtful.
"So I guess it's a good thing vampires probably don't need guns."
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"It's about keeping a low profile." Whether or not the statistics follow it on a normal basis didn't apply here. Sam knew the way it all worked and for a species that had supposedly died out in the rumor mill decades ago, they'd managed to elude both hunters and the local feds long enough to get their numbers back up after that particular gossip made it through the grapevine.
"They don't, but there's nothing to say that they don't carry weapons. They might be stronger and faster than us, but they're still susceptible. Dead man's blood, sunlight, and if you can manage there are other ways if you're handy with making your bullets or setting traps like trip wire."
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Interesting. Scientifically, how does that even work? Does it weaken the vampires by way of flooding their veins with dead blood, the opposite of what they need to sustain themselves?
It does make sense that vampires would want to keep a low profile, though. Staying out of the way of law enforcement is reasonable. If the world was alerted to the fact that vampires existed, well. Spencer can't predict exactly what would happen, but America does love an excuse to throw its military around.
"How long have you known all of this?" he winds up asking. A little exasperated, a little frustrated. Mostly curious. "I mean-- I sort of already know the answer. Your dad has a list of similar crimes almost as long as yours, so I can only assume that your dad was a hunter too. Did he teach you all of this as a kid?"
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It is miserable for them, though, and based on what Sam's seen them do to good people and children, he's not above using it if it's a necessary measure. "Well, the garlic and the crosses will just get you laughed at." All stipulations, not real, not worth the time.
Sam rubs an eye and hides a yawn in his palm. His shoulder ached, and the rest of the liquor they'd used to clean his wound was looking tempting as a replacement for Nyquil or something to knock him out for the night.
"My dad and my brother tried to keep me normal, or at least as normal as possible. I went to school... I made good grades, but I was in middle school when I figured it all out and by that point, there was no hiding it anymore, so I was taught to hold my own. Just in case. The days of watching Lion-O on TV and doing the Daily Crossword at the hotel when I got bored became a thing of the past."
That doesn't detail why or who they got brought up in it but that was a story for another time maybe. Reid was smart enough to put two and two together. The incident with his mother, and then with Jess. Sam felt like a man cursed without speaking on the truly tragic loss of the people he loved. People like Amelia, who he realized now with this new injury and Dean gone was better off without him.