It was out of Milky Way Bars.
Fucking Milky Way Bars.
The good gosh dang damn vending machine was out of Milky Way Bars.
Every single day for twelve years, Lucifer Morningstar had gotten two Milky Way Bars every single day from his prized Venco vending machine.
One at the beginning of the day to nibble on in between classes.
...And one to accompany his lunch of Pizza Lunchables and Kool Aid.
But, for some reason unbeknownst to him, his precious baby was out of order.
There was thin, yellow sticky note taped to the front of the dulled, worn out glass.
"'Out of order' my ass, Benedict." The teacher grumbled out, pouting infinitely at the rusty machine gracing the presence in front of him.
This had happened once before.
He knew what he must do.
...After a feeble attempt to sneak one out of Dr. Saxi's desk, the professor was faced with a decision.
A) Run.
B) Don't get the Milky Way Bars.
C) Scream.
D) Exert energy to walk up a flight of stairs to retrieve a Milky Way Bar from another vending machine.
A would require effort.
B was not an option.
C was kind of unproductive.
...And D it was.
It kind of disgusted him.
He set off on his adventure after a long, horribly drawn out meeting with the boss man.
Chuck Benedict was a pretty chill dude.
To everyone but him.
And only when he wanted to change something.
Which was always.
The damn point of having these meetings was to discuss change!
And, when Lucifer suggested anything, Chuck shot him down.
No matter what.
And it infuriated him.
He'd threatened to quit at almost every one of the meetings.
But, he dealt.
With the promise of his fucking candy bars for afterwards.
But now.
At lunch time.
He had no Milky Way Bar.
He blamed Chuck, of course.
This was all a conspiracy against him, surely.
Those new janitors were flawed, easily breaking his precious baby Venco vending machine.
...Well, maybe he was taking it a bit too far.
Meanwhile, back in the scratched perfection in the glass of his reality, he steady strolled down the hallways of a college dorm building.
Because, guess what!
The other goddamn vending machine was broken too!
Gradually, the professor made his way to the next nearest proprietor of his sweet snacks.
The entire hallway smelled like piss or beer.
Both, probably.
Definitely both.
Lucifer refrained from throwing himself down the third flight of stairs he'd been forced to climb up, groaning when he finally made it to a functioning machine. It was at the end of a hallway, barely in the center of the back wall.
He wasn't OCD nor anywhere close to a math professor, so it didn't much bother him.
The red wallpaper was chipping and peeling pretty bad, showing that this was obviously one of the hallways that hadn't been used in those fancy brochures handed out at rich, southern California high schools.
The door on the left was obviously in the middle of something quite intimate from the steady creak of the shitty college dorm room bed springs, while the one of the right was busy thumping to another rhythm.
The floor was pounding, evident sounds of a college party.
The piss and beer smell now made a little more sense, too.
It was a Saturday, and Lucifer couldn't really blame them.
It'd been a while, but he, too, had been a college kid once.
...He had been a lot more like the person on the left.
Not that he was some kind of man-whore or anything.
It's just that the nineties were poppin'.
And gays still weren't accepted.
So, when you found someone to screw, you screwed as much as physically possible.
Brushing off the memories, Lucifer sighed and shoved a couple dollar bills into the machine.
He figured he should probably stock up.
Those janitors were monkeys at best.
"A-Ah… Professor…"
Lucifer's bright blue eyes widened at that, roughly pushing in the almost-faulty buttons with a practiced strength, obvious muscle memory being used.
He scoffed, silently wondering which one of his coworkers was stuck with some student lusting after them.
That was a big no-no.
Sounded tempting, too, considering how nice the dull noises he could hear sounded.
He tried not to jump to immediate conclusions, but he was almost certain he knew that voice.
The professor chose to ignore it, just letting out a shaky breath.
He pushed back all the thoughts in his mind quite easily, having had to practice the task multiple times a day during Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
And, uh, Saturdays apparently.
Again, he focused on his soon-to-be-snacks.
They were pulled down one by one, squealing with the dull spring that sent them dropping haphazardly onto the cold, steel floor of the machine.
It happened right when he excitedly bent down to grab his delicious prizes.
"Oh, shit, fuck yes. M-Mr. Morningstar… Ah, God! Faster!"
The kid sounded like a goddamn pornstar.
Not one of those trashy ones.
The ones that barely get paid anything.
The ones that are forced to actually enjoy it just so they can feel like they got something out of it.
You know, the big sausage pizza ones.
Or the step-dad ones.
Okay, so maybe he did watch too much porn.
But Lucifer knew that voice.
He'd heard it in his classroom just a little while ago.
And now, here he was.
Jerking off.
Thinking about him.
Only him.
At this point, not even Lucifer knew what his feelings for Sam Winchester were. He cared for Sam, he knew that much. He wasn't sure how much, or if it was enough to rule out some lust-filled screw over his desk.
He'd thought about that way too much.
Especially recently, since he was almost completely sure Sam had figured out it was him writing the dumb notes.
And, here we arrive back at the creepy old man problem.
As of this moment, Lucifer now had a few choices.
A) Run.
B) Scream.
C) Jerk off like a perv in the hallway.
D) Knock down the goddamn door and ram the kid into the fucking wall.
He chose to run.
Teacher-Student relations are a big deal.
He knew a few teachers who'd gotten fired, along with a handful of horny twenty year olds who'd been kicked out of Stanford altogether.
And he knew Sam.
He was a smart, intelligent, all around good kid.
There was no way in Hell he was about to damage a future for him.
He couldn't do it.
He just had to be sneaky.
So, yes.
Sam was a good kid.
But, Mr. Morningstar planned to change that.