[Sam — Lucifer's — eyes brighten. He stands up straighter, the interest visible in the lines of his shoulders, in the way his eyes track the boy. He likes the anger. The outrage. It says something to him. Speaks about the boy in a way that hadn't before.]
That. That spark.
[He steps closer, not turning back. Not yet.
He wants to feel this out.]
An angel of some kind?
... But you don't speak like one. Too young. Not centuries under your belt.
no subject
That. That spark.
[He steps closer, not turning back. Not yet.
He wants to feel this out.]
An angel of some kind?
... But you don't speak like one. Too young. Not centuries under your belt.