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Summary
The thing about drugs is. The thing about Sam’s body is.
Well, look. You’ve got to be pragmatic about these things.
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There’s a moment, just a moment, where Sam thinks they’re going to fuck. And then Brady grins, digs out their dorm keys, and a tiny ziplock bag.
Sam does a bump. Does another bump. Pockets the bag. He lurches forward, slightly unsteady, pushes Brady back up against the wall and Brady’s keys back into his hand, and then he kisses him, hard. Brady kisses back, messily, free hand pulled tight in Sam’s hair, and Brady’s bitten Sam’s lip or maybe Sam’s bitten Brady’s lip, because there’s the taste of blood in his mouth, hot and metallic.
And then Sam pulls back, wipes his nostrils clean, and goes back to his dead girlfriend’s funeral.
They leave Palo Alto right afterward.
The summer fades to gold.
And then Dean’s back.
All the shit Brady had gotten him to take, to put into his own dirty bloodstream, for what, a trial run? To see how easy he was to manipulate? Child’s play. At the heart of it, Sam’s wrongness, something hungry in his blood, something that just wanted more and more of itself. Something put there before he was born, signed and sealed, six token months of sobriety almost like a taunt, what could have been.