Saddened, Sam walked down the hall, heading for the stairs. His father was right. Dean's death had been his fault, but not voluntarily. Sam trotted down the stairs dejectedly, giving a small smile to the older lady that lived in the lower level of the building. Sam liked her. Once she had invited him over once, offering him stale cookies and nervously showing him her stowaway cat. She had gotten paranoid though, and had shooed him out of her home.
He reached the front door and exited, choosing to sit on the steps, off to the side, that were covered with a light dusting of snow. He figured he would sit there for a few hours until his father passed out, then head for bed.
"Damn," he swore, realizing he hadn't brought anything to occupy his time.
Slumping against the brick foundation, he looked to the street in front of him. He watched as last minute shoppers emerged from the grocery store across the way. He watched as a middle aged man with a brief case patiently waited at the bus stop, sitting on the slightly wet bench. If he strained his eyes slightly, Sam could watch as traffic a few blocks away slowed for a bundled up young woman with a small child in her hands. If she didn't get a better grip, that ice she was going to slip on was going to cause her to drop the little one. She shifted the child closer to her body, before slipping slightly. Sam sighed.
Watching people could be interesting at times, though, he always slightly wished he could be a participator rather than an observer. Looking away, he turned his face up towards the greying sky.
"Happy 18th Sam... I wish Dean was here." Clearing his throat, he quickly wiped away the escaped tear angrily. He didn't deserve to cry.
There was no point crying anyway. He had cried for months after his brother had died. Begging, pleading, and finally threatening any God to take him instead. His brother had been everything good in life, smiling, laughing, and never seeing the evil inside of his little brother. The brother that didn't deserve to live. But no one had answered, and eventually Sam gave up.
Tired of thinking of dark thoughts, he looked down at the cement steps beneath him. Absent mindedly, he began to break small chunks, crushing the hard substance between his fingers into a fine powder. He amazed him that he could do these things, and maybe if it had been different circumstances, he may have loved it. Relished in the fact that he was, as his brother had called him, special. But, instead they terrified him. They could damage, hurt, even kill. It scared him more than he would like to admit. To be frightened of your own self ... well, it was a potent feeling. He yearned to be normal like everyone else. To be able to have friends, or a lover, and not have to worry about hurting them, or being exposed. To be able to play sports, and not have to limit himself. And, above all, still have his brother.
Unfortunately, he couldn't. He had to be careful who he was close to. He had to always be on guard of his emotions, and abilities, because the two seemed to go hand-in-hand. So he lived a lonely life. At least no one else could get hurt. He didn't feel a compulsion to be around others anyway. Well, except for a certain golden-eyed man. He wouldn't mind getting to know that man ... intellectually, spiritually, personally ... physically. Sam blushed a light pink. He knew he shouldn't have those thoughts about his teacher, but it was hard not to. Sam felt such a strong pull towards the other individual. Sam was naturally drawn towards the older man's light, carefree personality. He envied him for it, but he applauded him for it as well. It had to be exhausting to be happy all of the time, Sam mused. Mind you, it would be hard not to be pleasant when you were all shades of beautiful. Silly as it was, Sam would think of the older man frequently. At times, though he was ashamed to admit it, he would touch himself to thoughts of the older man. He would always feel guilty afterwards, often not bearing to look at the professor for a few days afterwards. His fantasies of Mr. Milton, in all honesty, were not always sexual. His reoccurring favourite was where he would be with the older man, completely alone. He would show the other man his abilities, and rather than judge, or hate him, he would embrace him. Softly, brushing his lips against Sam's temple. Sam smiled, lost in his thoughts.
"Sam?" A very familiar voice appeared.
Shocked, Sam tilted his head up, becoming more and more mortified as he realized who it was.
With a curious smile, Mr. Milton questioned, "What are you doing out in this weather without a jacket? It may be a surprise to you, but it's actually still jacket weather. Y'know, because it's cold outside."
"Uh..." Sam stuttered, reddening. "Uhm... needed some fresh air."
"Bad day?"
"You could say that." Sam said with a hesitant smile.
Regarding the young man with barely hidden pity, the older man spoke up, "Yeah, I was told today might be a little difficult for you."
A little surprised, Sam replied, "You... you know about my brother?"
Giving Sam an apologetic look, Mr. Milton answered, "Yeah, sorry. Mrs. Reid is a bit of a Chatty Cathy. She felt that she needed to warn me that you may feel a little under the weather today."
Sam nodded, understanding. Most of the teachers pussy-footed around him, avoiding the weird, sad kid. He was glad to see that Mr. Milton wasn't part of that group.
The older man looked up to the graying sky, before resting his amber eyes on Sam once more. "Well, if going home isn't an option right now, you could come and help me grade some essays."
Sam regarded the other man incredulously, "Is that legal?"
Chuckling, the man fished out his keys from his jacket pocket, "Probably not, but hey, as long as no one knows, then nobody can care. Am I right?" He looked to Sam expectantly.
"I ... suppose."
"Alright!" Mr. Milton loudly exclaimed, startling Sam slightly. "Then let's go!"
Curious as to what the professor's apartment would look like, Sam followed along up the stairs. Sam was shocked to discover that not only did Mr. Milton live in the same building as him, his apartment was only three doors down from his own.
Discreetly, Sam slowed in front of his own door, straining his ears to listen. At first, he could hear the faint sound of old family tapes being played on their box TV. Focusing further, he finally heard the quiet, drunken mumbling of his father. Most of what his father was saying made no sense, due to the slurring, but Sam could still make out a few sentences.
"God damn ... creature."
"He's a monster."
And finally, the last, "Killer."
Stomach flipping, Sam pulled away from the door, retracting his hearing. Following, the golden-eyed man, as he held the door open for Sam.