#sam01

LOCATION: amin home

Faintly, he wondered if the trade was worth it. Whipping a rich playboy into shape? It wasn’t exactly the type of assignment he ever thought he’d find himself accepting, but he supposed the benefits had been attractive enough. Either way, Saint pushed the code he had been given into the keypad, not bothering with pleasantries or charm. He’d been around enough of Samar’s type to know that he was probably passed out in his bed (or another’s — though the car in the driveway seemed to point otherwise) at eight in the morning, and Saint wasn’t interested in giving an explanation to the help. 

He headed straight to the bedrooms as soon as he entered, noting that the other man was indeed knocked out, before going back downstairs to fetch a bowl of cold water. Not an elegant solution by any means, but as he returned to the bedroom, Saint thought that he at least deserved some entertainment for the arduous journey that was to come. Wordlessly, he dumped the water on Sam’s sleeping form. 

Annika was traveling between bars with her friends, drunk and decked in green, a road beer in her hand. A pub crawl was the perfect excuse to get drunk before noon, and she had more than delivered. Maybe too much delivered. She was wasted, and as she didn’t feel like walking, and one of those things was easily delivered. 

“You -” she said, turning and pointing a male who was walking the same direction as her group. “Piggy-back ride to next bar, and I’ll share my beer with you,” she said, holding her cup up. 

@mysteriescndlegends

... But instead she chose to heal people with her powers. But in this city, her powers were greatly reduced, making her only able to heal minor wounds.

She felt useless.

"Oh gods... Why can't I use my powers as effectively? What's wrong with Hive City?" She let out a frustrated growl.

As Silas turned the corner, wading into deeper water, the hem of her dress kissing the lips of the waves rolling in to meet the shore, she saw her. She was a mousey girl, the kind of girl who would have poets in tow to compare her hair to flaxen straw with eyes of emerald moons. Or perhaps she was lost, or coming down from a storm, millions of miles away.

“Are you alright?” She called, wading in, letting her feet pad against the dry sand, reuniting as lost friends. 

     His footsteps are soft, nimble as he maneuvers around. Perhaps he's more cautious, as if he's unaware of what he was doing, or why he was doing it. Aladdin didn't have fear, or at least he thought he did. He was told that after he died, during their trial they had found the one who killed him. That helped to bring back some of his memories, but his island life still was fuzzy and he feared it may never become clear.

     Sam Winchester. He knew him, not well, but he knew him enough to feel bad. He was Dean Winchesters younger brother, the man Dean spoke of with such adoration that Aladdin was almost jealous. He'd never share such a bond with anyone by blood, no matter the bonds he created he'd never attain such like they had.

     Aladdin did not resent him. For anything. Not even for killing him. It was a mistake, and even then he could be considered a monster. A magician with exceptional powers he may be, but that does not ignore the fact that he's supposed to be dead. Not even before he came to the island, he was supposed to be dead long ago but thanks to his mothers magic had he been saved.

     Not that he liked that he was saved.

At some point down the line, his creed to throw these posters around town started being less out of concern and more out of pure, unabashed vindictiveness.

He's spent... man, how long was it now? Three months? He lost track of the days specifically, but he's been around long enough to realize that Sam wouldn't turn up unless those scientists-- who were still no closer to getting the snot beaten out of them, frustratingly enough-- decided to bring him here, and the chances of that happening were so small that they may as well have been nonexistent. There was a whole freakin' existence to pick from! And, with only partial offense intended, Sam isn't exactly the most interesting guy in the world for experimentation, let alone in the everything. It soured Max's mood when he thought about it-- so, for the sake of his adorably charming light-hearted demeanor, he tried not to.

Still, while things like genuine unease were lost with his lucidity, he had to worry about the poor guy, from time to time. Sam wasn't all that good on his own, and in a lot of ways (Though still way, way less than Sam--), neither was Max! They were a team! Since childhood! Sam and Max! Not Sam or Max! This whole separation was about as pleasant of a change as losing an arm, and if he could say as much in an obnoxious, misdemeanor-oriented manner, then you can bet your dinner that he will. It was a good distraction, and they had it coming, anyway. That's what he calls justice!

Then again, justice-- the real, passive-aggressive kind-- took more than a pulled trigger and a witty non sequitur, and anything more than that was just too exhausting and too boring for Max to stick with. It's a miracle he's kept this thing going for as long as he did! Three months was way too long for one lagomorph to burn away like this, and he was well done with the weight of all the papers he carried around. His back can share the sentiment.

Max has spent a lot of time thinking about how he could ditch these things without the past few months going in vain, and although he's come up with some pretty creative methods-- some of them even legal-ish!-- he's resolved that the best course of action would be to just drop these things off the nearest, tallest building he could find. The breeze would spread the news for him, and he'd never have to do any of the work! It's flawless-- and he doesn't even have to jump through any hoops to do it! No dialogue trees! No packed inventories! No items combined with other items! Sam would probably complain about how this isn't nearly convoluted enough for their line of work, but Sam, in an oddly relieving way, isn't here right now. He thinks.

... Well. Okay. Maybe there's, like, one hoop he needs to jump through. A single, low, tiny hoop.

He was about to head through the double doors of some office building, but he has to stop when he realizes he can't carry five hundred fliers and open a door way larger than he is simultaneously. Don't let anyone ever tell you that multitasking is an easy feat. Oh, sure, he could justput the stuff down for a minute, but he didn't want to risk the wind just blowing everything away before they were high up enough to count. That'd just be disappointing! Anticlimactic! Sorta pathetic!

Thankfully, though, there's a million answers to his dilemma walking down the sidewalk behind him! He hops back in front of someone's way, turns on his heel to face the as-far-as-he-knows stranger, and somehow, he manages to keep any papers from rustling loose in the process. With at least eighty percent of his vision obscured by the stack of posters in his arms, he can't really make out whoever it is he's intervening with aside from the--

The strangely familiar hat-- hhhuh--

Atop his head, but as long as whoever this is has two arms free and a few seconds to spare, then Max doesn't need to. He just hopes that goes the same way! When you get stopped by a pair of rabbit ears sticking out from behind a leaning tower of stationary, assistance might not be the first thing that comes to mind.