( There's a thread of tension, brief and fleeting, as Sam wraps a hand around his arm. It's kneejerk, it's impulse, solely because he's so prone to violence these last few — Weeks? Months? In either case, it only lasts a moment, before he forces himself to relax, to go soft. He surrenders the arm without protest, allows himself to be inspected with something like resignation hanging around his shoulders.

When it's released, he wraps that hand around his glass again like it's magnetically drawn.

He exhales. Claps his other hand over the brand, worries at it absently with the rough heel of his palm. )

This thing, this- mark, it's been burning me from the inside out. It's twisted. Geralt, Jo, Cas, my brother... they been... looking for a cure, or- something, and I knew it was a long shot. I wasn't holding my breath, I just... I guess I thought I could keep- fighting it, that it'd take longer, a couple years maybe, not...

( It's disjointed, it's unhelpful, distantly a part of him knows that — but his composure's thin and brittle ice. It has been since before Sam even sat down. )