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Sam tried not to get attached to anyone at school. What was the point? Even if he managed to make friends, they would soon be left behind. He didn’t bother to learn the names of his classmates or teachers because there would always be new ones, and it hurt more to remember than forgetting them all.
But he still tried hard in class. He liked applying himself to challenges that weren’t life or death. He liked it when he was praised for doing a good job. Dad never praised him, and when he did, it was just for following orders. For being more like Dean.
Mr. Wyatt didn’t just praise Sam. He encouraged him. He cared about him. Sure, he didn’t believe the stories that Sam wrote about his crazy life, but he believed in Sam. He gave Sam hope that maybe, just maybe, he could choose his own future.
He was visibly upset when Dean let him know Dad was coming back tomorrow. He let Barry know, who seemed even more upset than Sam. He thought about telling Mr. Wyatt, but his teacher already guessed that something was wrong.
Mr. Wyatt gave him a gentle smile. “Why don’t you have lunch in my class today? I promise there are less food fights,” he joked.
Sam managed to smile back and nod.
Mr. Wyatt walked with him to the cafeteria to grab him a lunch before returning to the classroom, telling Sam a story about one of his more challenging students that had the boy snorting his milk. It helped ease the tension in Sam’s shoulders, but it made the inevitable goodbye even harder.
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Sam admitted, rolling a pea around the tray with his plastic fork. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave Barry or your class.”
Mr. Wyatt smiled sadly. “It will get better with time, Sam. But I’m definitely going to miss having you in class too.”
Sam clung onto that. He knew why Barry would miss him, because Sam defended him and made the bullying slightly more tolerable. But his teacher didn’t have any other reason. It was nice to feel wanted enough to be missed.
Mr. Wyatt hummed in thought. “I have a parting gift for you,” he said, and chuckled at Sam’s obvious surprise. “Based on your stories, I figured your family would pull you away eventually.” He rummaged in his desk drawer before pulling out a canteen and an empty glass.
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Um…I can’t drink.”
Mr. Wyatt’s eyes crinkled. “Not all canteens have alcohol, Sam. This one just has fruit juice.” He uncapped it and started pouring. A deep red liquid came out, so thick that it oozed slowly into the cup. Sam wrinkled his nose at the bitter smell. “I know it doesn’t look that appetizing. But I really think you’ll like it.”
He held out the cup, just filled a quarter of the way. Sam took it, because it was Mr. Wyatt’s gift and that meant something. Even if it looked and smelled bad.
Sam held the cup up to his lips, trying not to breathe the stench in. Squeezing his eyes shut, he knocked it back just like Dad did, figuring it would be better to just drink it all at once. His eyes snapped back open in shock.
It tasted good.
Really good.
“Woah,” Sam said, drinking again to get every last drop. “What fruit is that?”
Mr. Wyatt winked. “Secret family recipe. But I’m glad you like it.”
“Yeah, I love it. Can I have some more?”
Mr. Wyatt grinned and took his cup back to pour more. Sam gulped it down eagerly, feeling energized. Strong. Warmth flowed through his limbs and settled heavy in his stomach. He felt full and hungry at the same time.
When their conversation came to an end, the canteen was empty.
—
Sam was seventeen when he met a friend of Mr. Wyatt’s. He was only at the highschool for a month, but Mr. Johnson was Sam’s favorite teacher. Even after Sam’s breakdown in the boy’s bathroom, the man didn’t pretend to understand what he was going through or brush it off as teenage hormones. He just invited Sam to sit with him in class during his lunch period, telling stories to distract Sam from his problems.
Dean was one of those problems. He didn’t like that Sam kept eating lunch with his history teacher, and Sam didn’t like that Dean was suspicious of every good fucking thing that happened to them. Like everyone who so much as smiled at Sam was actually a monster in disguise.
Mr. Johnson was sympathetic when Sam ranted about it. “I see where your brother’s coming from, but…humans just can’t live that way. If you can’t trust anything or anyone, you’ll just drive yourself mad.”
Sam huffed. “That’s pretty much what I said. But apparently he sees nothing wrong with being just as paranoid as our dad.”
His teacher seemed to pause in thought. “You know what? This calls for a drink.” He turned around in his chair to open a drawer in his desk and took out a small bottle, full of a deep red liquid.
Sam’s eyes lit up in recognition. “Mr. Wyatt’s fruit juice,” he said, no longer scowling. He smiled at his teacher hopefully. “He gave some to you?”
His teacher smiled back. “He knows how much you love the stuff.”
Sam drank it without hesitation. It had been so long, he forgot just how powerful the taste was. He sighed blissfully when heat curled in his chest and creeped into the rest of his body, giving him the same full-hungry feeling from years ago.
But hunger was winning this time. He sucked hard on the mouth of the bottle while tapping the bottom of it, desperate to swallow anything left. Mr. Johnson chuckled at his enthusiasm, gently taking the bottle back from him with a sideways smile.
“There’s more where that came from, Sam. Don’t worry.”
—
Sam was in Stanford, finally pursuing the life he wanted, when he met Mr. Az.
Mr. Az was one of his law professors. Sam practically worshiped the man since the first lecture, won over by his passion for justice and his charismatic personality. Even the biggest slackers straightened up to listen when Mr. Az opened his mouth.
But it was getting hard to focus in Mr. Az’s class. Headaches would come on suddenly, deep and throbbing, blurring his vision if he didn’t put his head down and close his eyes. He started having dreams, even when he was awake, about people dying. Visceral, horrifying dreams that left Sam reeling, feeling devastated over something that never happened. They were just dreams. Nobody who died in them actually existed.
That’s not how it felt to Sam though.
He was feeling helpless. Out of control. Frustrated, because no amount of painkillers or prescription drugs was helping, and talking things out with a counselor only made him more agitated. They all boiled it down to stress, typical college student stress, but it was more than that. It almost felt like…like something was calling for help. His help.
But he was powerless. He could only watch them die in his dreams, until every night Sam was watching someone die an awful, gruesome death. Until he started waking up screaming, begging the monsters to stop, berating himself for not stopping it.
It was torture.
It was making him miserable.
Jessica tried to kiss him, and Sam jerked away because he saw her in a white nightgown, bleeding and burning on a ceiling. His friends tried to talk to him, but Sam shut them out, terrified that they would be the subject of his nightmares next. His grades started slipping and Sam just couldn’t care – not when he was in pain every day, popping Adderall just to fend off sleep a little longer.
There was a knock on his door. Sam groaned and trudged over to open it, thinking his roommate left his key again. His eyes went wide to see Mr. Az standing there.
“Sam,” his professor said softly. “Can I come in?”
Sam let him in.
Mr. Az gestured for him to take a seat, so Sam sat on his bed while his professor leaned against his desk. “I know what you’re going through, Sam. Your friends wouldn’t understand, but you don’t have to hide it from me.”
Sam was taken aback. “Hide what?”
“The headaches. The nightmares. The fear ,” Mr. Az said, breaking off into a whisper. Sam felt compelled to listen, even though his mind was struggling to figure out how his professor could possibly know. “I’ve seen it before, Sam. And I know how to help.”
Sam shook his head. “I’ve already tried everything–”
“Not everything,” Mr. Az said, lips stretching into a smile. “I’ll make you a deal.”
This was weird. Sam thought he might be hallucinating, so he stood up and reached for the older man, shocked when he was able to touch his arm. Mr. Az gave him a knowing look before rising up, resting a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Something about his eyes was comforting, like Sam had finally found someone with all the answers. Even if he was going about it in a strange way, he could trust Mr. Az to help him.
Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “What kind of deal?”
He dropped his hand, but the older man just moved his from Sam’s shoulder to the back of his neck, leaning in close. It was an unexpected flicker of heat, warmth spreading across Sam’s face as the air shifted. He tensed under the man’s touch, wetting his lips when they started to feel dry. Mr. Az’s eyes caught the motion.
“I promise to help you. To make the headaches go away and show you how to deal with the nightmares,” he said, every word pulling Sam in deeper. “But only if you promise to never hurt me.”
The last part had Sam frowning. “I wouldn’t hurt you or anyone else.”
Mr. Az sighed. “I know, you’re too good for that.” It almost sounded sarcastic. “But I mean it, Sam. Helping you is going to be a difficult process and you may lash out at me. I need some insurance.”
Difficult process was a vague way of putting it, and a part of Sam wanted to back out. Wanted to play it safe when he didn’t know what Mr. Az’s methods would be. But the rest of him didn’t care why or how.
He needed help. He needed to believe someone could help him, and most of all, he trusted Mr. Az. He was raised – no, trained to trust no one, and it was his training telling him to make a run for it. But something else was telling him to stay. Something far deeper, deep as the blood running through his veins.
Sam inhaled slowly. “Okay. I promise.”
Mr. Az’s eyes brightened, appearing almost gold in the light. “You’ll take the deal?”
“Yes, I’ll take it.”
The man’s thumb brushed over his skin. A slow, firm swipe over the top of Sam’s spine that made him shiver, the deep thing inside of him throbbing in response.
“I want to hear you say it word for word.”
It should have come off as pushy, but not when Mr. Az was staring at him so intently, like Sam’s answer was the most important thing in the world. Not when Mr. Az smoothed a hand down his back in a way that sparked heat in his stomach, resting on the dip of his spine. Fitting into place.
Sam swallowed again. “I swear to never hurt you.”
Mr. Az’s smile didn’t seem right for his face. But that didn’t matter when Sam’s blood was singing. It was just his training urging him to pull away. The rest of his body stayed, his lips parting on a soundless gasp when the man’s other hand tilted his chin up.
“And I swear to help you,” Mr. Az said, sealing their lips together.
Sam was shocked by the kiss, but excited. He had never felt his blood pumping so fast, never been so eager to surrender to someone else. He tentatively responded, not sure if things would go any further, until Mr. Az grinned against his lips and hoisted him up like he weighed nothing, smashing their mouths together. Sam could only wrap his long legs around the older man’s waist as he was pinned down on the bed, head going fuzzy.
Way better than the headaches.
—
Mr. Az was right. He could and did help Sam.
It freaked him out at first, realizing that he could move things with his mind. But his professor was a patient teacher, showing him how using his telekinesis at least once a day could stave off the headaches for a whole week. Praising him for being such a quick learner. Rewarding him in ways that dispelled any doubts Sam had.
He hardly expected ‘secret taboo relationship with a professor’ to be part of his college experience. But they were both consenting adults, and Mr. Az – Azazel was his full name, the product of a religious upbringing – was a merciless lover, abusing the power he had to bring Sam to his knees and make him forget his own name. The things that such a confident, experienced man could do to him…Sam couldn’t deny that the sex was a big perk.
But they were never exclusive. Azazel said his student’s love life wasn’t his business, so Sam sought out Jessica for a second chance. For a normal relationship now that he wasn’t being tormented by the side effects of not using his abilities.
Things were good with them. Things were really good for a long time, and Sam had hope for his future. Even after his big brother came in uninvited, expecting Sam to throw everything away for a father who wanted him gone, Sam held his ground. He was finally on the path to a happy life.
And then Jessica died exactly how he dreamed it.
—
Sam hated keeping secrets from his brother. Being apart for years and now thrust back together didn’t change that. But he knew Azazel was right; Dean would freak out if he knew what Sam could do. Hell, he would probably hunt Azazel down himself just for showing Sam how to control his abilities.
It was fine. Sam would just keep practicing in secret to help negate the side effects, and Dean would never have to know. Azazel was the only one who could.
But the side effects didn’t get better. They got worse.
So much worse.
He couldn’t hide his headaches from Dean anymore. They were constant, and most of them came with nightmares – visions, he realized. Fragments of suffering that led them to new hunts. Dean didn’t take the whole predicting people’s deaths things well, but at least he learned to trust it. To believe Sam when he said that someone was in danger and they had the chance to save them.
Sam knew he was worried. Whenever he winced and touched his forehead, Dean would be there by his side, ready to catch him if another headache caused him to collapse. Even though they were hunting the thing that killed Mom and Jessica, Dean was also searching for a cure. For something that could alleviate his baby brother’s pain.
It made keeping the truth from him so much harder.
—
They had finally figured it out. They knew it was Yellow Eyes all along, that everything was connected to the demon. Sam’s abilities, Mom and Jessica’s murder, the murder of other mothers just to poison their kids. To turn them into soldiers for some demonic army that Yellow Eyes would probably lead himself.
And the demon was finally here.
Dean had the Colt aimed at him, ready to fire. But the demon just had to flick his wrist to yank it out of Dean’s hand, his body flung to the side with it. Sam didn’t have to make a run for it. One look at the gun, one force exerted by his mind, and it was flying into his open palm. Dean scrambled up just as he turned it on Yellow Eyes.
The demon grinned. “Careful, Sammy. You do that and you’ll break our deal.”
“We don’t have a deal,” Sam said, but didn’t press down on the trigger. Something was telling him not to, no matter how much he wanted to. Something deep inside.
“Oh, yes we do.” Yellow Eyes started prowling towards him, completely unphased by the Colt. That’s how Sam knew he wasn’t lying. “I promised you to help you with your powers, and you promised to never hurt me.”
Sam’s eyes went wide, gutted by his words.
Dean looked at his brother in disbelief. “What the hell does he mean, Sammy?”
“He didn’t know,” Yellow Eyes purred, way too close now. Sam tried to lash out, to smack the smug look off with the butt of the Colt, but his body was frozen. He could only stand there, blood turning to ice as the demon said, “He was in so much pain, Dean, and there I was, his trusted professor offering to take the pain away. The rough sex was just the icing on the cake.” He winked at Sam.
Sam’s hand was trembling.
Dean looked shell-shocked. “Sam…”
“But of course,” the demon went on, stopping right next to Sam. Dean stepped forward, but a raised hand pushed him back with a grunt. “There was a reason the pain was so bad. Why you had to use the powers I gifted you if you didn’t want to be miserable – and don’t get me wrong, Dean, he would have died eventually. Not because of me, but because it would just get worse–”
His hand crawled up Sam’s back. Sam still couldn’t move.
“--and worse, and worse …until your brother decided it wasn’t worth living for.” He smiled at the pained look on Dean’s face. “But that’s what happens when you start drinking demon blood as a child. It doesn’t even need to be consistent – just ingesting a large amount a few times over a few years will speed up the transformation.”
The look on Azazel's face was sickening.
“And your brother here really loved my fruit juice.”
Sam finally turned to face him. “It was you,” he breathed, devastated by the truth. Ashamed that his big brother was right to be suspicious, and Sam had completely fallen for it in his desperation to feel safe . “You were Mr. Wyatt and Mr. Johnson. You – you knew I was too young to know what it was.”
“Not too young, Sammy. Too ignorant . After all,” he turned his cruel smile on Dean, “big brother here wanted so badly to shield you from the truth. Why would he tell you anything about demon blood?”
“You son of a bitch,” Dean grit out. “How was I supposed to fucking know–”
“It doesn’t matter how,” Azazel cut in. “All that matters now is that you didn’t .” His yellow eyes flick over to Sam. “Your brother isn’t powerful enough to kill me, but you are. And you won’t , unless you want to rot in Hell for breaking your end of the deal.”
Sam tightens his grip on the Colt. “Don’t underestimate how badly I want you dead.”
Azazel clicks his tongue. “Sammy, Sammy. Don’t you see?” He grabs Sam’s jaw to turn it towards Dean, and somehow, Sam doesn’t pull the trigger. “If you die, big brother will trade his own soul to save you. And trust me when I say–”
He leans closer, breath hot in Sam’s ear.
“--that we really want to drag your brother to Hell.”
Sam knows he’s right. He hates it, but Azazel is right. Dean would do anything to save him, always has, and now that Sam can’t use his own powers on the demon who gave them to him, they’re out of options. There is no other choice.
Dean doesn’t tell him to shoot. Not now that he knows what will happen if he does. He looks just as lost, just as helpless, and Sam can only think about how this wouldn’t have happened if he listened to Dean sooner. If he told Dean about everything sooner.
Azazel chuckles low in his ear.
“Give me the Colt, Sammy.”
Sam considers giving it to Dean, but Azazel would just take it back either way. His body is rigid, jaw clenched as he slowly hands over the best weapon they have. The only one that can kill Azazel. Dean makes a sound of pure anguish.
“You got what you want,” he snarls. “Let my brother go.”
Azazel smirks. Sam jolts when an arm coils around his waist and the demon grips his hip, hard enough to make him wince. “Oh, but that’s the other thing I want. Remember that icing on the cake?” He yanks Sam’s face up, licking his own lips slowly. “I’m feeling a little peckish.”
“Let him go!”
Sam tries to step back, but Azazel just tugs him closer, using his demon strength to keep Sam in place. “I just can’t hurt you. Doesn’t mean I have to go with you,” Sam forces out, trying not to let his voice shake.
“Not if you want your brother in one piece,” Azazel hisses, grabbing his hair. Sam has no comeback for that. No choice but to submit, painfully, as the demon licks his lips open and shoves his tongue aside, punishing and claiming.
When he’s released, Sam turns towards his brother. Ready to apologize, or say goodbye, or both. But when he looks, they’re no longer in the same room, and Dean is gone. It’s just him and Azazel, and Sam barely has a chance to look around before he’s slammed against a wall, gasping when teeth scrape the back of his neck.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Azazel purrs, biting into his own arm. Sam tenses up at the smell of his fresh blood, unable to stop his mouth from watering. “Let’s get some more fruit juice in you. Open up.”
He tries keeping his mouth shut. But when Azazel pries it open and shoves the open wound in it, Sam’s mind goes blank. His body fills with need, hunger , begging to get a taste that he had been missing for years. Before he can stop himself, his lips are latching on and sucking, moaning as the blissful heat wipes out any thought of resistance.
Azazel hums in approval, petting his hair as he feeds.
“I love it when the bad guys win.”