"I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, "This is what it is to be happy."

― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

"Hey, so what do you say we get a few beers back at my place?"

He couldn't keep the shock from his face, he felt in melt.

"Seriously?"

"Oh…," the smile lessened and he said, "I, uh, sorry. I'll just go, then."

"No, wait up. I never said no, I'm just kind of surprised. Uh, where do you live?"

"A few blocks from here."

"Okay, let's go—"

"Whoa, whoa, what about the drinks?"

"I'll pay for them."

"You just always carry around this kind of cash?"

"Well, I am going to be a lawyer."

"Ha! Okay, drinks are on you then."

As they walked, he suddenly felt at peace. Suddenly he was transfixed by the autumn leaves floating on the silver, moon lit pavement. That insignificant moment meant something-the small moments that were so easy to miss around him, were so fragile and beautiful. That was what people needed to preserve-fragility and innocence, love for the small things one had to admire from afar with patience.

He realized he needed to keep pace or he'd lose his bar mate. He walked on, the air was crisp and it rejuvenated him, reminded him of moments in the woods with his brother, or fishing with Bobby. Or nothing at all. The air reminded him he was alive, existing in the moment.

It was nice simply walking with someone he knew meant well—wasn't out for cheat sheets, money…Out to kill him. Unlike Dean, he didn't feel he needed to watch his back. That was a nice difference between them. Dean slept with a gun under his pillow, and he didn't even sleep with a gun in his flat. He decided he was finally learning to live for the small things, something Dean had lost touch with, and he wasn't sure his father had ever been able to appreciate. Yes, that was how he differed from them, perhaps from everyone around him.

For the first time in a long time, being different did not scare or anger him. It seemed to bring him comfort...

"So how do you want to do this, Sam?"

"I…I don't know. I've never, I mean…," as he fumbled for words, his face reddened.

"I can strip first."

"Okay…"

Sam watched in the moonlight, painfully aware of the silence, hoping he could get up the courage to try something new. Vampires and werewolves had never been a problem—why was this?

His throat felt dry, his heart began to race, and he looked around the flat, looking for shadows to distract him. He couldn't find any. Why did he suddenly want to search for trouble when the whole point of Stanford was to put dark, restless nights behind him?

"Hey, whoa, whoa, Sam. Calm down. Everything's alright. Look, if you don't want to do this, I can understand that. The night wasn't wasted even if we are. Sometimes drinks don't mix well with nerves, and if they don't with yours, that's fine. I'll walk you back to your dorm and—"

Before Sam could stop himself, he kissed him. It was soft and warm, and tasted like Blue Moon. Suddenly Sam couldn't stop smiling. It felt amazing.

"Is that a yes? I kinda need to hear you say it."

"Yes it's a yes," he said as unbuttoned his shirt and took off his pants.

"Whoa, dude, what kind of tat is that?"

The smile fell off his face. He'd actually forgotten about his own tattoo. How was he going to explain that?

"Never mind, sorry I asked. Are you okay? You seem kind of…jittery."

"I—I'm sorry. I've never done this with a guy before…"

"That's okay. If you don't want to talk about tattoos, or family, that's fine. I don't care-I like you. You're..you're different-in a good way...You know, I never really told you my name, so why don't we just start with that?"

Sam smiled, "Okay."

"I'm Brady."