( He notices Sam approach. Of course he does, the place is dead silent and his senses are some kind of next-level high alert 24-fucking-7 lately thanks to the happy little brand seared into his arm. It's on display now, more or less. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, plenty high enough to bare it, but it's harder to miss now than it has been in prior weeks. It's angry-red, shiny, it's practically a half-step down from glowing with how fresh and irritated it looks.
Not that he's looking at it. Or at Sam. Or at the blade, or at anything in particular but the middle of goddamn nowhere as Sam posts up beside him.
The question inspires a sound that probably falls under the technical definition of a laugh, but it's ragged and a little wet. Choked, maybe. His answer is nothing at first, but to silently drag a hand down his face.
no subject
Not that he's looking at it. Or at Sam. Or at the blade, or at anything in particular but the middle of goddamn nowhere as Sam posts up beside him.
The question inspires a sound that probably falls under the technical definition of a laugh, but it's ragged and a little wet. Choked, maybe. His answer is nothing at first, but to silently drag a hand down his face.
At length, he nods. Manages a rough: )
Yeah, you could say that.