Hello, there! I know, I know, I've been sort of missing in action on here a little lately. Just a teensy bit. Ha—I actually feel sort of stupid. I mean, not posting anything I've written on here in so long, I feel like my skills have…dissipated. Hehe, I like that word. WELL. This is a sequel to Tell Me What I Can't See, since the back of my mind and my wonderful readers inspired me. I love you guys! If you haven't read the first one, it's recommended that you do, of course; things would just make a LOT more sense, you know? I mean, if you are feeling lazy at the moment and don't want to read over to see what you're missing out on (tehe, I'm just kidding…) just PM me and ask your questions (or leave them in a review) and I'll try and answer as simply as I can. Recap, though: this contains SLASH, and MPREG, and ALL that lovely stuff we couldn't live without! But yes, there is a reason this is rated M. I'm not just being on the safe side; I mean it when I say this isn't for half of you kiddies. I can't say you should turn around if you're under eighteen, since I don't even fit that category myself (I'm so naughty, I know!) but mature eyes only, I guess. Hehe.

A special shout-out to E.M. Morning for listening to my rambling and venting, and my jumbled and confused mess of ideas that I had to sort through. This I hadn't planned on posting so soon, but it's dedicated to you! XOXO. Lol.

Okay, so this is more of a prologue—or maybe I'm just calling it that because it's shorter than usual. Hm… Anyways, I'm shutting up now. Continue on, my dear readers!

It was Michael's dream to have Sam's gift. How many bad situations could be avoided, wonders and questions answered before their time? How amazing would it be to know more than everyone else—instead of being labeled as the (to put it nicely) "slow" one most of the time? His little brother, however, saw it all differently, and Michael could see (but not understand fully) why.

Sam had been lost.

Picked on.

Discriminated against.

Confused.

Insane.

Even though the past was now all behind him, he could remember every minute—second—of it. He used to be very close to his older brother, telling and venting to him everything that happened he wasn't comfortable speaking to anyone else about. Michael had been Sam's one and only friend, and he thought it would last through life. Except, as fate entails and just loves to mess up poor Sam's life even more, he will be living through more lifetimes than he can even count. Quite literally, in Michael's case.

Michael had witnessed all of the hurt this "gift" had caused his baby brother, and he had protected him from anything that threatened his well-being; basically helping and guaranteeing whatever no one else gave a rat's ass about when it came to this fifteen-year-old.

He knew Sam's various situations—as well as he knew the back of his hand—and his sexuality was no big shock to him. Michael, though he didn't realize at the time, was the same way, just not to an extreme. Society claimed Sam's soul to be lost to the Devil himself when it became pretty obvious, and now Sam grasps that it doesn't matter who he crushes on, who he parties with or even has "relations" with; he's damned anyways, being the murderer he is.

Up until this point, Sam's life was dull and complicated, and no one would ever be interested in hearing it. Moving to Santa Carla was what had changed his life in more ways than one could ever imagine. He was accepted, his visions stopped being so sporadic, he had friends, and fell in love. All that unbelievably gushy stuff.

It was like a wonderful surprise—the best accident you could ask for. (You know how moms will say "Oh, honey, you're the best accident that has ever happened to us!" It's a lot like that.)

His new life was entertaining and full of new joys Sam had never experienced before. Smoking, drinking, drugs, sex… Although, he could immediately knock most of the things off that list because he didn't necessarily enjoy them.

But everything comes at a price, right?

David and his "gang," as people commonly referred to them as, weren't the only vamps in town. Sam and Michael had to kill people, on a regular basis and without emotion, or one would surely become very quickly depressed, which was a dangerous thing when life was eternal for you. Around the brothers, their friends had lives a lot like the beach girls on reality TV, what with all the drama, conflict, and wild emotions raging from being stuck in a hormonal body.

Hm. Take Marko, who may be Sam's most complicated friend, as a great example.

Short recap of him in general: bitter and sweet, sharp, unpleasant and fun (depending on the day), sexy but self-conscious (you can thank Paul for that), tough and stubborn but still feminine (just plain contradicting), and just…the most diverse person Sam has ever known. Now, Sam can't tie that to being a teenager and all right away, since he honestly doesn't know how old any of his friends are—except David—but it sounds better than labeling someone bi-polar automatically.

Yes, Sam's life has improved sevenfold, but that doesn't mean it's perfect. And you want to know what has really been kicking him in the ass lately, in terms of bothering him so much there are bags under his eyes?

His isn't close to his brother anymore. Like, at all.

Michael is either by Dwayne's side or fighting with David, and Sam can't even blame their downhill of a relationship on either Michael or Dwayne. Not when Sam has been doing the same thing, hanging out with Marko (whom Michael also isn't very fond of) and fawning over the leader of their group (a group that was more like a high-school clique). Fawning. That also brought up a bizarre, random memory of Paul, who for some reason thought that word was very, inexplicitly amused by Sam's "strange" word choice—he laughed for minutes on end when Sam had accused Marko of "fawning" over Guns 'n Roses' lead singer (another funny story there…but for later). It seemed Sam's life was based off of raunchy humor and incidents, and then the more-than-occasional brooding stages that could last for a whole week before everything suddenly snapped back to "normal."

Normal.

Sam was standing on the edge of sudden death, swaying back and forth between reality, imagination, life. Life is what he would end up choosing every time. Always. Not much was keeping him here, but it was more than enough.

They told him it was possible to die twice. They said that's what happened to Max—not so much Sam's mother's situation. They said the blood left at the scene had been so great the death message couldn't be deciphered. They said it had been days before the bodies had been found, and it had been the mail carrier, smelling the unmistakable scent of blood and decay. They said the cause of death was impossible to determine.

They said, they said, they said.

He'd been there once before, so close to death it was unrealistic. With those sinful thoughts flowing through his head with such depressing vigor that Sam appeared to vibrate with them. He had been willing to do it for Michael, his brother. But would he do that again? Hell no. He wouldn't even think about doing something like that.

As aforementioned…being stuck in a teenager's body for what looks to be forever really sucks dick. And not even in a pleasant way.

Anyways—moving on to the here and now, shall we?

Sam was feeling sorry for himself, of course—and the only way a vampire could truly let out all of their emotions was by, basically, doing what vampires do.

He killed.

It was relaxing afterwards, and the blood tasted so amazing it was sinful. Hell, it doesn't matter how good it tasted; sinful was what it was either way. Sam didn't feel regret the first few kills he went on in his little spree. However, he was doing this excessively. Just the smallest temptation and he would departure from his group and go off on his hunt. David told him people would begin to notice. Sam highly doubted it.

But the platinum blonde had been right.

So Sam just grumbled a little, sighed, and promised David to only kill with the rest of them from now on. It sounded simple, but it was as difficult as being addicted to drugs and then having them confiscated, with no way to get more. Sam wondered if refraining from feeding every night was even harder than that, actually.

That's why Sam's where he is now; bending over on the front porch of his old house to pick up a piece of paper that had been weighted down by a decent sized rock, so it wouldn't be swept away.

Marko said you had a date.

Just wanted you to know that I'll rip his throat out.

David.

Sam tilted his head to the side, sighing, and couldn't help but smile slightly. Oh, David. David thought it was his fault that Sam had wanted to go to his old home, the one his grandfather used to live in, and just hang around there—remember things, possibly. Clear his head, because there was no way in hell he could do that with the five other boys around. David took it calmly (at first), like Sam was just bluffing and he wasn't going through with it. Sam said just for a week—give him a week—and he'd be fine and dandy. He wanted touch with himself, and his "gift," again. It had been one day already, and David was acting like Sam had left him completely.

He didn't even have a date. Marko wasn't lying, though—he was teasing.

Sam was brought out of his thoughts when there was a groan from behind him, from a young and bald man who had been a victim that night. It was an accident, honestly. Did I mention how hard it was to not drink from humans, sometimes?

"Fuck," Sam mumbled to himself, and reached down again to wrap his arms around the man's shoulders (he was lying on his back right behind him, just coming out of it). He slid the much larger adult into his house with ease, shutting the door swiftly.

"You…whore," the dying civilian managed to choke out. Earlier Sam had bitten him, the truck driver, drank from him—but stopped himself. This would be too many missing people. More than usual. Sam had panicked instantly.

"I know, I know I am!" Sam said helplessly, kneeling down beside him. "But please, please, you can't die."

Sam hadn't even gotten his name, so he had no idea what to call him when his eyes started to roll in the back of his head. "No, wake up!" Sam shook him.

He didn't know what being had possessed him to do so, but in his eyes there was only one option, and he stared at his wrists. He wasn't thinking clearly, and his thoughts were all a mess. He could tell himself that as a poor excuse later.

Sam was crying, he realized, when he bit into his own wrists. He was almost mesmerized by the blood that began to flow freely from the wound, and before it could heal up right away he had squeezed his hand over the man's slightly parted mouth, hoping it would work. Sam barely even felt the pain, and within seconds there was no evidence that there had been a wound, other than the blood still clinging to his skin, which only frustrated him.

There was a soft knock at the door, and he just about jumped a mile.

Please don't let it be the cops, please don't let it be the cops, he chanted in his head. There was no reason he'd have the piggies on his doorsteps this late at night, so the worry was irrational, he realized.

It didn't matter who it was, though.

I have to get rid of the evidence, he thought. Easier said than done.

Sam looked all around him for an option, and found only the kitchen, his grandpa's taxidermy room (which had been emptied out, but it was still too out in the open for his liking), and…the basement. Eh, close enough to a dark closet.

He dragged the limp body across the floor, hoping there wouldn't be big blood steaks that led right into the lower portion of the house. He nudged it (him, he had to correct himself) onto the steps, wincing when the (hopefully not) dead man just ended up rolling all the way down and smacking the cold, concrete floor at the bottom.

Another knock, this one louder and more persistent, and Sam decided it would have to do, and softly shut the door. He tried wiping his bloody hands on his clothes as he made his way to the door to answer it. It was so obvious on his shirt because he always wore those ridiculously light colors, but it was the best he could do. (Taking off his shirt was way out of the question to him.)

There was no peephole, and there was no uncovered window he could use to take a look as to who it was, so Sam opened the door with caution, sticking his face by the crack of it warily. He felt ten times relieved when he saw it was only David, standing there with his hands in his pockets and looking irritated. Sam opened the door a little wider. A little.

"Come home." Short and straight to the point: that was David.

"Why?" He was feeling a little on edge. Of course, David (Sam wished, but David had refused to let Sam call him his boyfriend) had picked up on the wistful tone.

"The house if for sale."

"I know."

"What if someone comes and tours it during the day?" Huh. Honestly, Sam hadn't thought about that. He was mostly in a stressed out mood when he made the last-minute and poorly thought out decision to come here. He went silent. David was right. "When you didn't answer, I thought—"

Oh, hell no. No way was the platinum blonde going to bring up the whole "I thought you were with someone else" guilt-trip again. Sam cut him off before he could even finish his sentence.

"What, you don't trust me?" he asked incredulously, feeling offended. "I got your note, by the way. You need to learn how to take a joke."

"I do trust you," said David a little too quickly. "It's those slimy humans that I don't."

"I can take care of myself," Sam mumbled, looking down at the boards that made up the porch with his arms crossed over his chest.

"And I can take a joke," David added defensively. "This just isn't funny to me."

Sam didn't add some sort of cocky reply to that—he wasn't good with that sort of thing. Pity.

David repeated himself. "Come home, Sam."

"I will in a week."

"No you won't."

"What?"

"I said no you won't."

"I heard you, David."

"Good. Now come back."

Sam was silent for a beat. "Fine," Sam grumbled as he caved, his teeth clenched hard and hands curled into fists. Well, he couldn't lie and say that he wouldn't miss David—and he definitely couldn't hold his ground against him. It was even harder than trying to get Paul to believe he wasn't fit to drive after a night of hard-core drinking and smoking. Except David was like this all the time. "But only if I get to have a dog."

David raised an eyebrow at the seemingly random request. Yeah, Sam liked dogs…but it was hard to find a dog that liked vampires. "Fine," he said after a moment of enduring Sam's pleading face. He sighed.

"Yes!" David rolled his eyes, and Sam was hopping with joy. He leapt forward and wrapped his arms around David's neck. His bike was parked in the dirt driveway, and both of the boys were settled on within seconds.

The loud roaring of the motorcycle interrupted the silence of the night, but Sam was used to the sound by now. He rested his chin on David's leather-clad shoulder, his mood and goals suddenly flipped around entirely. Raging hormones, remember?

Speaking of remembering…

Sam could have sworn he was forgetting something.