Last Drop (part 1 of 2)
title: Last Drop
author: monicawoe
artist: quickreaver
word-count: ~14,000
characters: Sam Winchester, Tyson Brady, Jessica Moore, Ruby
genre:gen, R
warnings:dub-con, blood drinking, sam winchester's psychic powers, boy king sam, drugging, gaslighting, demonic possession, telekinesis
story summary: Sam is slowly adjusting to his new life at Stanford University. He’s left his life of hunting behind, and traded it for endless studying and tests, but he’s plagued by dreams of Dean and Dad in danger, dreams of blood and violence.
Then he meets Tyson Brady, who’s always there with a smile and a cup of coffee to get Sam through all-nighters. Sam’s dreams start to fade, but just as he’s getting used to a nice normal life, he stars to develop abilities-powers he can’t control. Brady thinks they’re great, but Sam knows power never comes without a cost.
Notes: Big thanks to my beta Alyndra!
art masterpost here
on AO3
Sam stifled a yawn as he pushed open the door to the Last Drop, Stanford University’s coffee shop.
“Metatarsal, tarsal, phalangeal…” a guy at a table said to himself, flipping over flashcards, clearly cramming for a final. Sam’s was Thursday, so he still had two nights. Plus, it was bound to be essay responses, which he had a knack for if the grades on his homework were any indication.
There were two other people in line, and as he waited, Sam tried not to think about the nightmare he’d had that morning, but couldn’t keep the images from bubbling back up. Him and Dean and Dad in the Impala-the loud crush of the truck as it slammed into them. He’d left Dean a panicked voicemail that seemed silly in retrospect, but the dream had been so vivid, so real-
“Your order?”
“Uh...latte, large, three sugars.”
“You got it.”
“Tarsals: talus, calcaneus…” the guy clutched his flashcards tighter but wouldn’t turn them over. “Calcaneus…” he repeated with a forlorn sigh.
“Navicular,” Sam continued.
“Navicular, right.” The guy at the table peered up at Sam, his expression somewhere between annoyance and amusement. “You pre-med, too, or just a nerd?”
Sam snorted a laugh. “The latter, I guess. I’m pre-law actually.”
“Wow. Smart and good looking.”
Sam’s cheeks flushed.
“Tyson Brady,” he said, holding out his hand. “Call me Brady.”
“Sam,” Sam hesitated for a second, but remembered he’d enrolled here under his real name. “Sam Winchester. Nice to meet you.”
“Any chance you could help me study for this damn final?” Brady asked. “I’ll get you a refill.” He nodded at Sam’s drink. “Or a cookie, muffin, whatever.”
“It’s fine.” Sam sat in the chair across from Brady and looked at his watch. “I’ve got two hours ‘til my next class. Was gonna hit the library to study for my own final anyway.”
“Oh shit-you have one today too?” Brady looked crestfallen.
“Nah. Thursday. Got plenty of time.” Sam pointed at Brady’s textbook. “So what are you stuck on?”
Brady spun the textbook around, settled back in his chair, and leveled an appreciative smile at Sam. “Everything.”
*
The glare from the bright mid-morning sun was blinding, making Sam’s headache that much worse. He’d had barely any sleep, dreams ranging from uneasy to full-blown panic, about fire, about Dean and Dad in danger, about hunts that they’d barely gotten through alive, and after waking up at four thirty with his heart hammering in his throat, he’d given up on sleep altogether, opting to study instead before Applied Physics. He’d had this issue Summer semester during finals too, and now they were approaching midterms. It was normal to be stressed, he told himself. His subconscious just had a particularly disturbing tint to it, thanks to his past. Other students probably weren’t dreaming about fangs and claws and the deafening noise of his Dad’s rifle.
Now it was time for Sam’s second class, and he still felt half-asleep. His headache had only grown worse, and he hadn’t had any coffee yet. He could hurry and grab one along the way, but the Last Drop was in the opposite direction, and his stomach was so queasy he wasn’t sure he could handle it anyway. Sam sighed, trying to ignore the intense pressure in his temples, and pushed on, turning right at the courtyard, towards his Sociology class. The fresh, autumn air helped marginally, grounding him and chasing away the nausea. The seasons never really changed here the way they did further north, and Sam ignored the stab of nostalgia for the sound of fallen leaves crunching beneath Dean’s boots, the smell of apple cider donuts-little snippets of happy memories from years that were otherwise bloody and sad.
The headache came again, a sharp lance of pain this time, strong enough that Sam staggered, slumping against the nearest tree; he caught himself, just barely, with his hands, fingers digging into the rough bark as he clenched his eyes shut. The moment he did, his mind filled with images, and the pulses of pain became a backdrop, a rhythm splicing each of the scenes together:
A bright light bursts forth from a cold, stone floor; the heat and pressure inside of him are blinding but it’s worth it; blood spills, forming a circle; a woman in a white dress with eyes to match cackles; and Dean is...Dean is gone, he’s...
And just like that, the reel ran out, the images cut off, and Sam had to force his eyes back open, the bright cloudless sky a torment instead of a welcome sight. He pushed himself carefully off the tree, and took a slow breath, then resumed walking, keeping his focus on putting one foot in front of the other.
He made it to the Sociology building, through the door. The pain lingered, a ghost of what it was, but there nonetheless. He was cutting it close, he realized, glancing up at the clock. Class was starting in two minutes, and the seats filled up quickly. The classroom was packed full. Sam went to his usual row anyway.
“Saved your seat,” Brady said, pulling his bag off of the chair next to his.
Sam smiled at him weakly and sunk into the chair, eyes instantly drifting half closed. He should’ve gotten a coffee on the way.
“Want a sip?” Brady asked, pointing at his coffee. “Brand new, I already had a large this morning.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” Sam mouthed, trying to keep his voice low as the professor started his lecture. He opened the coffee and had to suppress a moan at the taste. The Last Drop might be overpriced, but their coffee really was damn good.
You okay?Brady wrote on his notebook, pushing it towards Sam.
Didn’t sleep well,Sam wrote back.
Too much fun?
Nightmares. Sam pushed the notebook back and tried to focus on the lecture. The coffee and Brady’s poorly hidden glances helped him make it through. Brady liked to watch Sam. And he probably thought Sam couldn’t tell the way he was staring at his hands, and at his lips.
Sam noticed. He’d been trained to notice all kinds of things most people wouldn’t. But he didn’t mind this kind of attention at all.
“Any questions about the midterm?”
Sam’s head snapped up and he considered. Most of the material had been clear, but he knew he still had to memorize some things. He’d have to spend most of tomorrow in the library, but that had been his plan all along anyway.
“Professor?” a woman in the next row up asked, hand held high.
“Yes, Miss Moore?”
“Could you clarify what Mumford means when he says: This metropolitan world, then, is a world where flesh and blood is less real than paper and ink and celluloid?"
“Well, given the context of the work he was probably referring to- What do you think he meant?”
Miss Moore-Jessica, he remembered from the class roster that had gone around on their first day as an attendance sheet-listened intently, and her mouth curved into a half-smile as she answered, “Well, I think his premise is based in a falsehood. He’s claiming a single human experience, that all people who live in cities feel and think the way he does.”
Sam was impressed by her answer, as was the professor, based on his expression. “He's saying that a city inherently makes people less connected to their bodies and to an ordinary human life, certainly, but-"
"I'd argue cities bring people closer together because of the lack of space,” Jessica said, “Flesh and blood literally living closer together doesn't lead to an experience devoid of it-quite the opposite."
"Miss Moore,” the professor said, a touch more sharply, “we can talk about this more after class. Maybe consider this as a potential topic for your essay later this semester.”
Several people groaned.
Dude. Brady wrote. Close your mouth. You’re drooling.
Sam’s cheeks flushed, and he slammed his mouth shut. Brady snickered into his fist.
“The essay isn’t due for two months-after the Thanksgiving break,” the professor said, “And no, you can’t get out of it, but you can pick a passage from any of the books we’ve read so far. You’d do well to pick something as interesting as Miss Moore has.”
*
Sam pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing the lingering pieces of nightmare away. Nightmares he’d been having for months now, fractured glimpses of the same horrible whole. He could still see it, even when he was awake, like the horrors had been burned into his retinas-afterimages of blood in a circle; a woman in a white; and Dean being torn apart by unseen claws, screaming in agony, and-
“Need a pick-me-up?” Brady asked.
Sam looked up at him, faked a yawn that turned real halfway through. He’d gone to bed early, to make sure he’d get enough sleep. After jolting awake from the nightmare, he’d been at the library since 4 am, studying.
Brady held out a big cup of hot coffee. “Extra foam, just like you like it.”
“Thanks, man, you’re the best,” Sam said, gratefully. He opened the lid and blew over it, letting the caffeine scent drift up his nostrils. He felt more awake just from the smell. The first taste was even better. “Is this some kind of...is there salted caramel in this?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s this new flavored turbo-shot thing they’re doing at the Last Drop. Figured you could use one.”
“Got that right,” Sam said, feeling considerably more awake by the second. “I owe you one.”
“Don’t mention it. You got me through biology spring semester.”
“You knew most of it.”
“Yeah. Most wouldn’t have gotten me an A, and you know how my parents feel about Bs.”
Sam nodded, trying to imagine what it would be like if Dad cared as much about Sam’s grades as he did hunting. Dean pretended to care, sometimes, but why should he? Life at school was about as far away from hunting as it could be. Sam was happy here, though. He missed Dean every once in a while, but he didn’t miss hunting. Not even a little. The stress of upcoming tests was pleasant in comparison.
“You did fine on the midterms, you’ll do fine on the finals,” Sam said.
Brady scoffed. “Easy for you to say. You memorize everything the first time you read it. I...don’t.”
“So read it again. And again.” Sam slid his stack of blank flashcards across the table, towards Brady. “Maybe make some more of these.”
Brady groaned theatrically, but plopped down across the table from Sam and they both studied silently for another thirty minutes. Sam felt his brain getting faster with every sip of coffee, and easily finished memorizing the clauses he needed to. He was awake now, completely awake, and didn’t have class for another two hours. “I’m gonna hit the gym,” he said, feeling the urge to get rid of some of his excess energy.
*
Sam ran with boundless strength. He increased the speed, increased the slope, but never quite hit his limit. His lungs didn’t ache, his muscles moved smoothly and his feet flew over the band with ease. His mind drifted, as it tended to do, to the worst parts of his childhood-like running was somehow purging them from his mind, smoothing them over. But instead of his usual memories-the hunts, Dad when he was angry, Dean furious at him for running away-he saw bits of his newer nightmares. They unspooled, slowly, one frame out of a hundred held like a still-life and he ran until they faded: the circle of blood, gone; Dean screaming, back arched with gaping open wounds running down his chest and stomach, gone; a light bursting from the ground to the Heavens flooding everything away until there was nothing left at all. Until everything was gone. Sam let his own mind empty, let the white noise of that light wash away and focused on his body-the even breath in and out of his lungs, his heart beating steadily, and the tireless strength of his muscles. It occurred to him distantly then, that he felt he could go on like this forever and never stop.
After half an hour he stopped, did a full free weight circuit and still felt like he could keep going. He decided to do one more round of pull-ups, watching the rest of the weight-room as he went up and down at a slow, controlled pace.
A guy on the weight-bench near the mirror had an impressive number of plates on his barbell. Sam added them together, two forty-fives, two twenty-fives and a ten times two plus whatever the bar weighed-
The barbell slipped in the man's grip, and fell, the man let out a cry of surprise, as it came crashing down towards his chest and Sam, without thinking about why or how, reached out with his mind and tried to push it back up.
"I told you to wait for me!" another man said, running up to his friend in a panic. He grabbed the barbell and together they lifted it back up. "Never bench press without a spotter!"
Sam could feel the weight in his mind lessen and then vanish completely as the barbell settled back onto the bench's holds. He got off the pull-up bar and stood there with rubbery knees, trying to figure out what had just happened. Shaken, he headed to the locker room, took a shower, and tried to focus on the cooling water, not the long-buried memories he'd done his best to forget. He had done something to that bar, he'd kept it from crushing that guy's ribcage, just like when they were kids and Dean-
But no, he wouldn't think of that. Or Dad's reaction and what he’d said to Sam.
Maybe it was all just in his head. Maybe he hadn't really done anything. Sam considered: he'd been running on too little sleep and too much caffeine for days now, maybe he just thought he'd slowed the barbell. But no matter how often Sam gave himself that explanation it never felt any less like a lie.
*
Sam’s finals were easy. He got through his first with nearly an hour to spare and the second was even easier. Jessica gave him a surprised but appreciative glance as he passed her row and Sam felt his cheeks flush again. Brady, on the other hand, still looked miserable. Even more lost when Sam gave him one last look before leaving the room.
*
Sam wasn’t a fan of bars, having spent way too much time at them way too early. But Brady had a-according to him-high quality fake ID, and insisted on celebrating the end of finals at the bar closest to campus.
“So how’d you do?” Sam asked Brady in greeting.
Brady shrugged. “We’ll see. At least it’s over.” He waved the bartender over. “Get my buddy here a drink.”
“He got ID?”
Sam considered for a moment. “It’s fine, I’ll just have a coke.”
Brady gave him a scandalized look and turned back to the bartender. “A rum and coke.”
The bartender looked at him and something passed between them, a silent agreement that Sam didn’t entirely understand. Maybe they knew each other, or maybe Brady was a good enough customer that the bartender considered Sam’s lack of ID a worthwhile risk. Whatever the case, the bartender pulled a bottle of rum from the bottom shelf and mixed a drink for Sam, pushing it towards him.
“I didn’t think the Sociology final was that bad. There was one question where-“
Brady shook his head. “Talk about something else, man, anything else,” he said, an edge of desperation turning it into a beg.
“Okay,” Sam thought for a second, weighing how trustworthy Brady was against how badly he needed distracting. “At the gym yesterday I...I think I kept a barbell from falling, just by thinking about it.”
"You did what?" Brady asked, laughing as he took another drink of his beer.
"I don't know, it was just-it felt like I was keeping the barbell from crushing him-like I-I was holding it." Sam didn't know why he was telling Brady about what happened at the gym. He probably shouldn't have, but he trusted Brady. He'd tease him, sure, but he wouldn't call him a freak. Probably.
"Well, try it again. Do something to that bowl of pretzels," Brady said, pointing at the mostly empty bowl.
"I don't think I can just-" Sam started.
"Come on. Here, I'll make it easier," Brady said, scooping the rest of the pretzels-all but one-up into this hand.
"I don't think that's how it works. I think there has to be-danger, or something."
Brady nodded, clearly more amused than anything else. "Not gonna even try to move the bowl, huh."
Rolling his eyes, Sam glared at the bowl, but couldn't even figure out where to start.
After nearly thirty seconds, Brady leaned in right next to Sam's ear and whispered, "Come on, Carrie, you can do it!"
Sam burst out laughing. "Seriously?"
"Well, you've got psychic powers, gorgeous long hair," Brady trailed his fingers over Sam's hair, pausing by his neck, "...and I'm betting a pretty shitty childhood, based on what little you've said."
Sam's laugh faded. His pulse was racing from the jarring mix of pleasure from Brady's touch and some of the worst moments of his childhood resurfacing, unbidden. "It wasn't all bad."
"Well neither was Carrie's, but she still burned everybody down in the end, didn't she?" Brady sat back, and pulled the bowl away from Sam. He picked up the last pretzel and held it out to Sam. "But then, they had it coming."
Sam took the pretzel, crunching it thoughtfully. He could still feel Brady's breath on his ear, his fingertips against his neck. He thought about kissing him, then, imagined pressing his lips against Brady's.
And Brady reacted, flushing, looking at Sam with wide eyes. He brought his fingers to his lips, stopped just short of touching them. "Did you just...?"
"I-I'm sorry," Sam said, standing, nearly toppling the barstool in his rush.
"Don't be," Brady said, grabbing Sam's shoulder. "Don't go."
Sam stopped and met Brady's eyes, his embarrassment fading when he saw how Brady was looking back at him.
"Have another drink with me?" Brady waved for the bartender and ordered them two shots of something. Sam couldn't hear much past the pounding in his ears. He tried to find something-anything else-to focus on, and stared at the red and green garland wrapped around the liquor shelves, likely intended to make them look more seasonally festive. But Christmas hadn’t exactly been a festive time for Sam. Not since the year he found Dad’s journal.
The shots came, something clear and sharp-smelling.
"To finals being over!" Brady said, holding his shot-glass out.
Sam clinked his against Brady's and they both drank.
After they left the bar, Sam thought about kissing Brady again, for real this time, but couldn't work up the nerve.
"See you tomorrow," Brady said. "No class, so I'm gonna sleep in, but I'll stop by in the afternoon. See you at the Last Drop?"
"Yeah," Sam wished Brady didn't live off campus. Wished he could at least walk him back to his dorm or something. "Okay."
"Night," Brady said, giving Sam a quick hug. He pulled back, gave Sam a soft shy smile, not at all typical for Brady, and then pressed a kiss against Sam's cheek. It was chaste as anything and brief as a heartbeat, but the warmth it left behind lingered, spreading through Sam’s whole body. Brady stepped away, nose and cheeks red from drink and something more. He held up his hand in a wave, turned on his heel and left.
"Night," Sam echoed, watching Brady leave. He felt light-like he was walking on air, like he really was psychic and could make anything float: bowls, barbells, mountains. And he still wanted to kiss Brady.
*
Brady didn't come to the Last Drop the next day. He wasn't there at two, when he usually was, wasn't there at three or four. Finally Sam called him, but he didn't answer. Following his gut, Sam went back to the bar, and sure enough, he found Brady there, sitting at the end of the bar with a nearly empty glass of beer and two empty shot glasses. He looked awful.
Sam next down next to him and didn't get so much as a hello. But he could tell it had nothing to do with last night. This was something much worse. “What’s wrong?” Sam asked. Brady might not want to talk about it, but he clearly needed to.
“Nothing,” Brady sniffed, rubbing at his reddened nose. “My parents cut me off.”
“What? Why?”
“They saw my grades.” Brady sniffled. “Told you about my Dad and his success matters more than anything crap.”
“Wait you mean the final? I thought you said-“
“B minus is equivalent to failure in my dad’s book. So, he said I need to focus more and that living off campus was clearly too distracting. He’s not paying the rent anymore, I gotta find a spot in the dorms.”
“I’ve got a double room to myself, maybe you can move in with me?” Sam said, getting excited by the idea. Though he liked having a room to himself, he missed having company, and Brady was the closest thing to a friend he had here.
“You don’t want me as a roommate. I’ll just drag you down.”
“No way. It’ll be great. We can study together and keep each other going. It’ll be good.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, I do.” Sam smiled at him, tried to make it as reassuring as possible.
“Sam, thank you, seriously, man.” Brady rubbed his nose again and gave Sam a weak smile back. That solves one problem. But Dad cancelled my credit cards, bank accounts, all I’ve got left is the shitty pre-paid card that only works on campus. Two hundred a week. How am I supposed to live on that?”
Sam didn’t tell him how he and Dean had learned real early to make do on far, far less, for far longer than a week. “You could...get a job?” Sam suggested, unsure of how Brady would react. “Something part time and easy. Might not pay much but you’d have a little extra cash and it’d be all yours.”
Brady’s eyes lit up at the last bit. But only for a second before they dimmed again. “Yeah, but they’re gonna pay, what, twelve an hour?”
Sam let out a huff. “Yeah, if you’re lucky. But there’s tips and free coffee. Maybe even pastries?”
“Well that’s something.” Brady said, even though he sounded far from convinced.
“It is.” Sam, on impulse, put his hand on Brady’s and squeezed it gently. He immediately regretted it, wondering if it was the wrong thing to do, but Brady didn’t pull back. “And plus,” Sam added, “it’s a start to getting by on your own. To not being dependent on your dad.”
Brady smiled grimly, and his eyes shone with fierce determination. “You’re right.” He clasped his other hand over Sam’s. “Thanks, Sam.”
Sam flushed, felt the heat rising in his cheeks and looked down. “Don’t mention it. I know a little about that.”
“I bet you do. Like I said,” Brady pulled his hands back and finished the rest of his beer. “Carrie.”
Sam laughed, and that made Brady smile sending warmth coursing through Sam’s belly. He took a drink of his beer and decided to make Brady smile more often.
*
“Mmm,” Sam said, “you smell like lattes.”
Brady scoffed and set a big cup on Sam’s desk. “That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? Free coffee with home delivery.”
Sam took the lid off the coffee, blew over the hot foam and grinned at Brady. “That’s definitely a perk.” He set the cup down and walked over to Brady, circling his waist with his arms, hands clasped at the small of Brady’s lower back. He leaned in close and said, voice low, “But that’s definitely not all you are to me.”
Brady gave an appreciative growl and kissed the spot on Sam’s neck that went straight to his groin. The kisses quickly turned to nipping-short, sharp bites that made Sam gasp. He clutched at Brady’s shirt, curled his fingers in hard, and brought his other hand up behind Brady’s head, pulling him in tighter until he found that perfect spot again and got the message, biting down right there.
Sam rutted against Brady, winding their thighs together and steered them towards the bed. They tumbled down together, shucking their shirts as they went. Sam straddled Brady, leaned down to kiss him deep, reveling in the taste.
*
Sam finished the rest of his latte on the way to class. It was cold now, but he couldn’t have cared less. His focus was mainly on the gentle aches left behind by Brady’s teeth-two on his neck, and one much lower down.
Brady was quiet now, but he looked damn pleased with himself, and smiled, turning to look at Sam every time he thought he wasn’t looking.
Draining the last few delicious drops of his latte, Sam threw the cup in the next trash can they passed, as they hurried towards the Sciences buildings. Brady had chemistry and Sam had psychology. Just as they crossed the courtyard, the large tree in the center, gave a loud creak. Sam froze in his steps, and time seemed to slow as the largest, lowest branch cracked and fell, heading right for a student walking beneath it, with headphones in his ears, completely oblivious.
Sam reached out with his mind reflexively and the branch stopped falling.
“Look out!” Brady shouted, lunging forward. He shoved headphone guy out of the way, as Sam stared at the hovering branch trying to understand how he was doing what he was doing. The branch was suspended in mid-air, and Sam could feel its weight, the heaviness of it in his mind, the pull of gravity trying to drag it the rest of the way down, but he was holding it up, a mental bench-press. And then, just like that, he lost his hold, his mental grip slipped and the branch crashed down, landing with a noisy crunch of wood and leaves.
“Holy shit!” the guy Brady had saved said, face pale. “Thanks, man.”
“Don’t mention it,” Brady told him. But his eyes were locked on Sam’s. He’d seen the branch. Seen what happened. And by the look of it, he wasn’t nearly as freaked as Sam was. He looked almost excited.
They hurried to their classes in silence. Brady looked he wanted to say something, but held back and Sam was grateful for that. He didn’t know what to say, or think. But during class he could barely focus. All he could think about was the weight of that branch, how tangible it had felt to his mind, and the look on the face of the person he’d saved.
Brady was waiting for Sam after class, and the moment they got back outside, he pulled him around the corner of the building, out of the flow of student traffic. “That was you.”
“Brady, I-”
“No, I’ve been thinking about it since it happened. There’s no other explanation. Branches don’t just stop falling. It was you, and-it was amazing,” he said, with awe in his eyes. He grabbed Sam by the shoulder. “You are amazing.” He stepped closer with every word. Brady paused less than an inch from Sam’s face and then leaned forward, drawing Sam in until their lips touched. He kissed him, gently at first, then more eagerly when Sam responded, a soft moan escaping him as he pulled their bodies flush together.
“Home?” Sam asked, voice soft and eager.
“Yeah,” Brady trailed his hand down to Sam’s wrist and dragged him across campus.
Brady was on Sam the second they got back to the dorm. They tumbled into bed, shedding their shirts and pants as they went.
*
Blood tracing a circle on cold grey stone, a woman in white laughing, lightning inside of him, pressure in the air, a building storm, a death knell as the ground cracks open wide and light spills forth, a column reaching up towards Heaven...
Sam jerked awake, sitting up halfway. His racing heart was already slowing, and the last lingering images from the dream crumbled like sand when he tried to look at them more closely.
“Mm,” Brady said, his face turning towards Sam, eyes still closed. He grabbed Sam’s forearm and tugged until Sam sunk back against the pillow, Brady nestling on his chest.
There was something familiar and soothing about Brady’s weight there, and Sam breathed deep, inhaling the scent of his hair and his skin. He drifted back into a peaceful, quiet, empty sleep.
*
Sam was still groggy with sleep as he got dressed, but pleasantly so, the memories of last night a pleasant haze in his brain. He pulled his shirt on, fingers brushing against the bite-mark Brady had left by his stomach.
“See,” Brady said, propped up on his elbow, still in bed, sheets only half covering him. “Now this is when you should be using it.”
“Using what?”
“Your psychic whatever. You should be here in bed with me, floating clothes over to us so we don’t have to get up.”
Sam scoffed. “I can’t do that.”
“Not with that attitude.”
“It doesn’t work like that. There has to be-“ Sam paused as he tugged his shirt down over his neck, “-danger or something.”
“You sure?” Brady sat up further. “Do you know that for a fact?”
“Well no, that’s just how it’s worked so far-“
“I’m just saying that you can do things, and maybe with a little more practice you can learn how to totally control it.”
“And then what?” Sam swallowed, fighting back the voice of his father echoing in his head: ‘Psychic powers, when they’re strong-no human comes by that naturally. They’re either witches or they’re not human.’ So that meant that, by his father’s definition, Sam wasn’t human. Just another reason for him to hate Sam. “Maybe it was just a fluke.”
Brady looked at him, nose wrinkled in confusion. “Why wouldn’t you want this? Do you know what most people would give to be able to do what you can do?”
Sam swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I just want to be normal,” he said, hoarsely.
“This isn’t new, is it?” Brady’s eyebrows crept up. “The gym wasn’t the first time.”
Sam chewed on his lip, fighting back tears. Dean had seen him, sworn not to tell Dad, made Sam promise to never do it again. He hadn’t even meant to.
“When you were younger?”
“My brother, Dean, he was crossing the street and there was a car, it ran a red, and-”
“You saved him?” There was an intensity to Brady’s question, an eagerness as he tried to lock eyes with Sam.
“I made the car swerve. I don’t know how, I just pushed.” Sam hesitated for a second. “With my mind.”
“Just like what you did at the gym," Brady said.
"Yeah, but-"
“You're meant to have this. To save people.”
Sam shook his head. “That’s not what my father thinks.”
“Who gives a crap what your father thinks?” Brady practically spit the last two words, his voice climbing. “You taught me that, Sam. They don’t get to tell us who we are. They don’t get to tell us what’s right and what’s wrong for us.”
Speechless, Sam took in Brady’s fiery expression: eyes shining with anger and unshed tears. And in that moment, Sam understood that this wasn’t just about him, it wasn’t really about his psychic power, it was about the both of them finding a way for themselves-after years of being told they weren’t good enough by fathers with different priorities. It didn’t matter what Sam could or couldn’t do with his mind-Brady understood him. He accepted him. “Brady, I-“
"Practice on me."
"What?"
"Right now.” Brady took Sam by the wrist gently. “Practice on me. Kiss me without touching me like you did that night at the bar, or-or pin my wrists down like you did last night, only without using your hands.”
A pulse of want thrummed through Sam’s body, settling down low. The idea of doing that to Brady-of being able to do that to Brady-was more than a little exciting.
“Please, Sam,” Brady let go of him again, sat on the bed, looking up at him expectantly. “I want you to."
And Sam wanted to. The thought alone gave him a heady feeling. But he pushed it down. “I need to get to class. And you need to get to work.”
“We’ve got time. Twenty whole minutes, Sam.” Brady bit his lower lip and that little gleam of teeth on flesh set off dominoes of memories. Sam exhaled, slow and steady, reaching for the part of him that stopped the branch and the barbell and he used it to grab Brady’s wrists-Brady whose eyes widened, whose jaw dropped open in surprise, in awe.
“Tell me to stop, and I will,” Sam said, increasing the pressure, hard enough that he could see the skin of Brady’s wrists indent.
“Don’t stop,” Brady said, breathless as his hips twitched and he let his eyes fall shut, trusting Sam, giving himself to Sam.
And Sam gave another stronger push, against Brady’s chest this time, shoving him down flat, pinning him to the bed.
Brady let out a breathy chuckle and strained against Sam’s hold, hard enough that Sam had to renew his efforts, but not hard enough to break free.
And then, on impulse, Sam imagined himself biting down on Brady’s throat. The skin by the lower curve of Brady’s carotid, right above his collarbone, depressed, and Sam could practically see the way the blood pooled, artery darkening where his mind was pushing. Brady bucked off the bed, boxers tenting. “Sam, please.”
Sam straddled Brady, put his mouth over that spot and his hands on Brady’s wrists and let go with his mind, shifting that invisible touch down lower, down and inside and he bit down on that spot, pinched the skin between his teeth, held it gently there until he imagined he could taste blood on his tongue. Brady cried out, burying his face against Sam’s chest.
They came together, in a dizzying rush and Sam found himself laughing at the sheer joy of it.
“Told you,” Brady said, eyes red-rimmed and filled with contented wonder. “I fucking told you. All you need is some practice.”
“I like this kind of practice.”
“Good, you’re gonna have to do a lot more of it,” Brady said. “Like every day.”
Sam laughed. “And then we’ll never make it to class on time and you’ll lose your job.”
“What a tragedy.”
“Shower,” Sam said, kissing Brady once more. “We have to hurry.”
“Float me there,” Brady whined.
Sam stood and threw a pillow at his head instead.
*
After an extended weekend morning practice round, on a rainy Saturday, Brady convinced Sam to stay in bed afterwards, before he had to leave for his shift at the Last Drop.
“You look good, Sam,” Brady said. “I mean not just-you always look good, especially to me, but I mean you…” he traced a fingertip gently over Sam’s cheeks. “You look healthy.” Trailed his hand down to Sam’s arm he gave it a hard squeeze. “Damn healthy.”
Sam laughed at Brady’s open admiration. “I’ve had time for the gym in the morning. Would’ve gone today, if somebody hadn’t told me not to go,” he teased.
“It’s more than that though,” Brady said, dropping a kiss on the tender skin just under Sam’s shoulder. “You’ve been sleeping better, eating better, I don’t know.”
“I have been sleeping better.” Sam nodded. “Way better.”
“No more nightmares?”
“No,” Sam said, “I haven’t had any in…” he strained to think, “...in months, actually.”
“Good, that’s great,” Brady smiled at him. “Maybe you just needed to start using your gifts instead of ignoring them.”
“Gifts?” Sam snorted.
“Well, what else am I supposed to call them?”
“Abilities, I guess? Gifts means they were given to me by someone.”
Brady nodded, a hint of a smirk on his lips. “Okay then, abilities. Whatever the case-no more nightmares, and you can do…” his smirk widened as he shimmied closer, leaning close to whisper into Sam’s ear. “All sorts of things with that big brain of yours.”
“Mmhm,” Sam said, mirroring that smirk, psychically tracing a line down Brady’s spine, increasing the pressure as he got lower down, until Brady let out a gasp- of scandalized, surprised pleasure.
“Another round already?”
“I gotta get my workout in somehow,” Sam said, sliding his arm beneath Brady’s waist.
*
part 2