Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sam Winchester isn’t scared of many things in this world.

He’d already faced some of the worst creatures on Earth by the time other kids his age could barely pronounce their names, and he’d torn monsters into pieces before most of them were even trusted with a butter knife.

Yeah, maybe he still has nightmares about rawheads after a close call back when he was eight. And he’d never admit it out loud, but just the thought of something happening to Dean makes him feel sick, like his spine’s been ripped clean out of his body. And yeah, he’s fucking scared of clowns—but they’re creepy, okay? Sam wouldn’t be surprised if one day clowns just start going out on the streets and killing people.

But he won’t be scared of college. Not when he worked so fucking hard to get here.

So when he makes his way through the Stanford dorm hallway—a lonely, almost-falling-apart box with the few things he can call his own in his arms—he watches the other kids in their rooms, boxes piled around, parents at the door with proud smiles and teary goodbyes, and he refuses to let his conviction waver.

Because maybe he’s alone. Maybe his father cut him off for choosing a future. Maybe no one helped him move in. Maybe he isn’t rich, or legacy, or sure of what he’s doing. Maybe he’s eighteen, and lonely, and terrified—and that could be scary.

But for the first time in his life, he has his own room. (Well—his and his roommate’s. But still.) He doesn’t have to worry about the next town or the next monster. All that Latin he was forced to learn will finally come in handy memorizing legal terms. His biggest worry will be finals. His clothes will be stained with coffee and ink instead of blood and guts. He’ll finally be able to make friends he doesn’t have to abandon in a week.

So Sam isn’t afraid. He’s ready for it. Hell—he’s been ready for a while.

But it isn’t easy. Nothing ever is with him. Turns out, to make friends, you have to be relatable. People bond over shared experiences and familiarity—he learned in psychology class. But Sam’s life has been anything but familiar. He grew up in a car, spent his childhood chasing monsters. He doesn’t have stories about summer houses or Thanksgivings. He can’t chime in when classmates brag about Christmas gifts or their parents’ high-paying jobs.

His roommate turns out to be some stoner guy who’s only at Stanford because Daddy has enough money to make up for a low GPA. He’s chill, but Sam’s first attempt at bonding ends with him smoking a joint for the first time. And apparently, this guy has some kind of voodoo swamp weed from hell, because Sam took maybe two drags and spent the rest of the night convinced a were-clown was coming to twist his limbs into balloon animals.

He woke up the next morning—in his bed, which is too small for him, feet and hands always hanging off the sides—to find he’d eaten all the jam he’d bought for when he was too late for breakfast, straight out of the jar. And that he’d fallen asleep with his phone still in hand, Dean’s contact one button away from being called.

So yeah, his roommate’s not an option.

Sam makes small talk with a few classmates. He even attends one of those events meant to “build community” and encourage school spirit. But he ends up leaving soon after spending his last bit of cash on a Stanford sweatshirt and awkwardly standing in a dark corner with it in his arms for maybe an hour.

So he throws himself into schoolwork, keeps his grades up, walks with his head down through the labyrinth of Stanford’s hallways without getting lost. He tells himself this is just the adaptation process, but worry chews at the back of his mind—what if this is just how it’ll be, for the next four years?

He’s about to give in and take another chance with his roommate and his weed from the underworld when he sees you.

It’s been almost a month since classes started, and by week two, Sam had discovered this little coffee shop.

A little farther away from campus, it isn’t as student-filled as the local Starbucks. It’s family-owned—fresh scones and just-brewed coffee every morning—and it’s peaceful. It has a homey feel that Sam quickly gets attached to, and it’s way easier to concentrate on his political science essay without the background noise of his roommate fighting with his father over the phone.

Sam has every corner of this place memorized—every hanging plant, every painting on the wall, every regular that walks in—so he’s sure this is the first time he’s seen you here.

You’re sitting at a table on the other side of the café, next to a window just like Sam is. He studies you over the screen of his laptop—the woolly, earthy green sweater, the wired earphones in your ears, the leather journal you keep scribbling in. There’s an iced Americano on the table, along with what looks like a squirrel-shaped pencil case and a Polaroid camera.

Sam doesn’t know why, but he keeps staring. He hasn’t seen you around campus—but then again, Stanford is fucking huge. He watches the way the sun makes your hair and eyes glow, how it reflects back in a spiral of colors. He watches you scowl down at your journal and scratch something out before doodling something else.

There’s something about you—something that feels different. Hazy, almost. Spiraling. But not in a bad way—in the way he’s so familiar with. It’s mystical, almost elemental. He keeps staring.

You look up from your journal, and Sam is sure he’ll get caught being a weirdo.

“Here’s your scone, darlin’.” The old lady that usually serves him snaps him out of it.

He turns to her just in time to not look like a creep, offering her a smile and muttering a small thank you before his eyes search for you again—instinctive, the way thunder follows lightning.

But you’re not there anymore. All that’s left is dust dancing in the air under the sunlight.

And once again, Sam is alone.

So he comes back the next day at the same hour.

He knows it’s a long shot, but he needs to try. He thinks it’s the isolation that's making him obsess over this. Over you. That, and teenage hormones, which keep bringing back flashes of your pretty face as he tries to fall asleep. After feeling like a fish out of water for months, your opal eyes felt like the perfect ocean—somewhere he could finally belong.

Sam always was too idealistic for his own good.

Dean would make fun of him for being so sentimental, snorting something about “chick-flick moments” and ruffling his hair. He would still sneak in some good advice between all the teasing, and Sam knows he would actually be rooting for him right now. Dean always wanted him to be happy—he just didn’t understand why he needed to escape to do it.

Sam tries not to think about his brother, and whether he’s even alive right now.

Instead, he walks into the coffee shop and immediately turns toward his usual table, eyes glued to the floor. He sits down, pulls out his laptop, and only once his half-done political science essay stares back at him, he allows his gaze to drift up.

You’re there—same table, same journal, same shining eyes.

You’re wearing another woolly sweater, this time brown. The light coming from the window accentuates your freckles, and your hair is all tousled at the top. You look like a fawn—unfettered but sage. Your wired earphones are still there, but this time you’re arranging and gluing down a bunch of Polaroid photos in your journal.

Sam can breathe a little easier then. You’re real, and you’re here. He’s not lonely enough to start hallucinating. Good. 

He orders his usual—a vanilla bean scone and black coffee, the same thing he used to order at diners during research hours—and tries to work on his assignment.

It’s useless.

There’s something magnetic about you, a pull that calls him to look up again—in the way the moon influences tides and the planets rotate around the sun. By the third time he writes a sentence that makes no sense at all, he gives up and lets his eyes find your form.

This time, you’re staring back.

Your eyes widen when they meet his—looking for all intents and purposes like a deer caught in headlights. They dart down to your camera for a second, fingers clutching the machine the way Sam saw Dean do with his favorite rifle so many times as children—a grasp for comfort, for safety.

But then you look up again, giving Sam a small smile and awkward little wave before going back to your photos. You leave soon after—not before sending a few more fleeting glances his way, and then looking away nervously when Sam stares back—and he finishes his essay earlier than expected, words flowing through his brain like a river just freed from a dam.

Sam survives another week at Stanford.

It quickly becomes a tradition. Sam walks into the coffee shop, and you’re already there—always sitting at the same table, always facing his way. He sits down, pulls out his laptop, and pretends to work on something. You exchange glances, smile at each other when your eyes meet for a little too long, then look away.

Sam starts to notice things about you—you always order an iced Americano, but switch what you eat every week. Your camera is always by your side, even if it just rests there on the table untouched. You’re clumsy—papers slipping from your hands, your forehead hitting the window when you try to follow a flying bird with your gaze, spilling your coffee all over your journal more than once. One day you don’t have your earphones, and you look the grumpiest he’s ever seen you.

You always seem to intuit when Sam has finally built up the courage to approach you, because you’re walking out the door the moment the thought crosses his mind.

You always leave first.

But classes become more bearable because he has something to look forward to. His classmates’ snobby chitchat is easier to ignore when he’s replaying the way you gasped after almost spilling your second coffee of the day all over your camera. He isn’t even upset when his roommate starts a brownie business in their room.

He almost doesn’t even mind what the two of you have right now—this silent understanding, the casual meeting of eyes, the shared smiles. It’s not healthy, he knows it. He’s way too fixated on someone he doesn't know at all. But it’s comfortable, and simple, and safe. He’s afraid it’ll break if he meddles with it, that it’ll shatter between his hands like everything always does.

Because maybe Sam isn’t even worth this—maybe he should be grateful he got to have it at all. Because he doesn’t deserve good things. Because something burns in his veins, something wrong. Something evil. Something that’s always simmering under his skin, no matter how much he tries to wash it away.

But then one day, he arrives at the coffee shop a little earlier after a canceled lecture, and he sees you outside.

Bag hanging off your shoulder, camera in hand. You’re wearing a silly graphic tee and a brown hoodie, and it’s a little disorienting to see you upright after weeks of watching you curled over your journal.

It’s now or never—and he really doesn’t want it to be never.

Because Sam wants to deserve good things.

Your face is pressed to the camera, lens aimed at an old wooden totem nailed crookedly to a telephone pole. Sam’s walked past that pole a dozen times and never noticed, and he marvels at your ability to find the most ethereal things in what others consider insipid.

But then he really sees the totem. And he recognizes it. A hellhound ward.

He first saw it during his first solo research. He was fourteen, and his dad and Dean had decided he’d be of more use left alone in Virginia while they hunted something in New York. He’d been handed a stolen credit card, a shotgun, and—after a tense pause—Dean had pulled him into a brief, awkward hug while their father wasn’t looking.

In a family where physical touch was almost never gentle, Sam had leaned into his big brother’s arms and soaked in as much comfort as he could before Dean let out a fake cough and stepped away, walking out of the room with long strides.

They never talked about it, and Sam didn’t hug his brother again until the night he left for college.

For the next week after that, Sam had spent every day in the library, reading everything he could about hellhounds and reporting anything important to Dean during their daily calls. He found a book that mentioned that exact totem—believed to be used by ancient Greeks to keep hellhounds at bay when a deal with Hades went wrong.

Granted, the totem didn’t work. And by the fifth day of Sam being stared down by motel residents who couldn’t quite focus their eyes but still felt like danger, he’d begged Dean to come get him.

Dean hesitated for a second, but all it took was one snarled order from their father for him to apologize in a whisper and hang up. 

Sam told his dad to at least book a safe motel next time he ditched him, and he was ready to yell when John spit out the usual bullshit. Only Dean’s heartbroken face stopped him from starting a real fight.

Like the one from the night he left.

Sam tries not to think about his father either. He always breathes easier when he forgets.

He shakes his head, walking toward you carefully, all soft steps and deliberate movements—like an ancient hunter approaching a nymph.

That’s when the click of your camera fills the quiet stillness that had been created, and there’s a satisfied smile on your face when you lower it. When the polaroid photo is ejected, you quickly hide it in your shadow and start shaking it. That’s when he talks.

“The Aegis of Athena,” he says, eyes still on the totem where Medusa’s head is carved into the top. “Greeks believed it offered protection and held the goddess’ power to ward off evil. Just like her shield did. Or Zeus’, both of them wear it. Even Apollo used it in the Trojan War.”

Sam flushes. God, he’s being such a fucking nerd.

He’s ready to turn and flee—leave the coffee shop behind forever and go bang his head against the wall until he forgets this ever happened—when you look up at him.

You turn toward him, and suddenly he's pinned in place by your eyes. They’re even more iridescent up close, your freckles even more adorable—like constellations waiting to be named. His mouth goes dry. He can’t talk—thank God— and he can’t move. He just stares, like he’s been doing for weeks.

“That’s the Helm of Darkness,” you murmur, pointing to the symbol carved beneath Medusa’s head. Sam gapes at your profile. “It was a gift to Hades from the titans. It makes the wearer invisible to mortals and even other supernatural beings, which is why I guess they used it for protection here.”

Oh. Wow.

So maybe Sam is a little in love right now.

You turn back to him, and he smiles. You smile too—sweet and soft at the edges—but your fingers fidget with your chunky rings, and your eyes keep drifting toward your camera before returning to his. The totem photo is developed in your hand, and you smell faintly of something floral and earthy—like a patch of lilies of the valley on a meadow after the rain.

“I’m Sam Winchester,” he blurts out, before the moment can collapse into awkward silence.

Your shoulders relax, and you give him your name as you tuck your hair behind your ear. Sam repeats it in his head, packing it somewhere warm and quiet in his brain—careful not to let it touch the rotten parts.

“I’ve seen you at the coffee shop,” you add. “You’re always working on your laptop. Should’ve guessed you’d be a total nerd.”

You wince a little at your delivery, embarrassment pinking your cheeks. But Sam laughs, and the tension slips away.

“Hey, takes one to know one.”

You nod solemnly, and a goofy grin takes over Sam’s face. “Oh, you have no idea.”

You stand there a little longer, smiling at each other like idiots. A woman walking her dog gives you both a puzzled look, and Sam clears his throat.

“So,” he gestures toward the coffee shop. “You going in?”

He’s not proud of how much his heart sinks when you shake your head.

“I’ve got a thing at school,” you roll your eyes. Sam chuckles. He’s about to ask if you mean Stanford when your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen, sigh, and take a step back. “Sorry, I’m already late.”

“Oh. Don’t worry about it. Go.”

You’re a few feet away already when you turn back, nearly tripping over your own feet.

“See you here tomorrow?”

Sam’s grin is immediate. Something bright in his chest flares.

“Sure. See you tomorrow.”

You nod and disappear down the street. Sam watches you go before heading back to his dorm. He doesn’t feel like coffee anymore, and bed sounds good. He deserves it after acing that essay anyways.

Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

But then he gets to the coffee shop, and you’re not there.

Dread rolls through him like a cold front. Your table is empty, no sign of you anywhere. He’s about to leave when he sees his table. On top of it, there’s his usual vanilla scone… and something else. Sam walks closer, grabbing the small white square.

The polaroid photo of the totem. He picks it up.

Behind it, scribbled with black sharpie, it says: 

“sorry, had to leave. railroads at 4:30 pm? if you’re not too mad >_< ” and then your name under it—as if Sam wouldn’t know it’s you—right next to what looks like a doodle you scratched out, deciding to add a tiny spiral instead.

Sam grins. He slides the photo into his shirt pocket and checks his watch.

4:00 p.m.

He thinks he knows which railroads you mean—he’d seen them from the bus on the way into Palo Alto. His nerves coil tight in his stomach as he walks out the door, but he ignores them.

He won’t ruin this. Not this time.

When you make your way out of the woods and find the railroads, Sam is already there.

His back is turned toward the sunset, the golden light washing over him like the gods recognize his beauty and want to embrace him. You don’t blame them.

Before making your presence known, you stop at the edge of the trees and lift your lens toward him. The sun is hidden behind his head, so it looks like he’s the one glowing. 

He looks beautiful. Majestic, even. Like the sunlight that wraps around you during a warm autumn day—not burning, but gentle. The kind of warmth that would make even Helios jealous.

This is the kind of moment you’re glad you can capture, immortalize forever with the flick of your finger.

The click of your camera is soft, and you immediately slip the photo into your pocket before approaching Sam. He turns around at the first crack of dry leaves under the sole of your beat-up Converse, his hazel eyes lighting up when he finds you.

“Hi,” you murmur when you’re right in front of him, having to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. He’s so tall. And so freaking pretty too—soft puppy eyes, shaggy hair framing his face, those dimples that made your breath stutter the first time you saw them, that smile.

It’s unfair. Boys shouldn’t be allowed to be pretty and smart.

“Hey there.” Even if Sam is all slender but firm muscle and movie-star features, he stands with a kind of sheepishness that makes your heart melt—his broad shoulders hunched, his hands in his pockets, his laugh just the tiniest bit breathy. It’s cute, and comfortable. Like a place you’ve never visited before but that still feels like home.

Watching so many tragic romance films is rotting your brain. 

You nod toward the railroad that stretches down the valley and slowly melts out of sight. Sam nods, and the two of you start walking along the gravel, the soft sound of cicadas and the occasional critter rustling through the woods helping you unwind.

Come on, you can handle this. Don’t be a dork.

“I meant to ask you yesterday—you go to Stanford?”

And so it starts.

You walk along the railroad for hours, well past the golden hour and into the twilight. You tell him that no, you’re not a Stanford student. You go to a small but prestigious—you have to swallow down the urge to roll your eyes as you say it—photography academy nearby, full of rich kids and pretentious teachers, but the doors it will open for you are worth it.

“The professors are tolerable, but most of my classmates are obnoxious assholes. It doesn’t help that I’m this year’s Amber Scholarship recipient, either," you laugh, and Sam’s expression shifts into something softer, a little somber.

“I know how you feel,” he mutters, and you study him carefully for a moment before deciding not to ask more. You simply blink at him slowly, and his mouth twitches for a second before he’s speaking again. “I’m kind of on the same boat. Some of the people in my classes…”

“I know.” This time you do roll your eyes. “This one girl in my class once told me to fuck myselfie after she wouldn’t let me walk through the door.”

Sam laughs, and when he throws his head back, the sun glints over the curve of his throat. The mushrooms growing by the wood line have never been more interesting. 

“What is she, twelve?” he huffs, and when you turn back to him, his smile is sharp-edged and his dimples flash at you.

“She sure acts like it. But her mom’s the owner of some art gallery in Seattle, so everyone fawns over her. As if she’d ever give anyone else a chance to succeed.” you sigh, kicking a small rock out of the way. “One time I left one of my projects on my desk while I went to the bathroom, and when I came back she had written ‘crappy artist filthy whore’ all over it.”

“She sounds like a bitch,” Sam scoffs, shaking his head. “And like she’s jealous, because you’re obviously more talented than her.”

You blush and whisper a quick thank you as you try not to trip on your own feet.

Get yourself together.

So you exchange more rich kid anecdotes, geek out over more mythology, and you even end up recommending some films to him—you ramble a bit too long about Donnie Darko until you almost slip off the rail you’re balancing on—should’ve known better—and Sam has to catch you before you fall and sprain your ankle. Again.

He helps you steady yourself as you both burst into giggles, but even after you’ve taken a step back, his hand lingers on yours a moment longer than necessary.

Eventually he lets go, and you resume your journey with flushed cheeks and averted eyes. A deer finds you at some point near a lake—they always do—and it follows you back to the edge where the woods meet the asphalt.

You can’t help but pull out your camera, snapping a quick shot of the animal before it gives you one slow look and disappears into the distant fog. You think it’s trying to tell you something—its eyes tattooed onto your irises long after it’s gone.

When you turn back to Sam, he’s looking at you like he’s trying to decipher you. His gaze is charged under the moonlight, but it’s cozy. Warm, even under the blue hue of the sky. Kind, even when it burns on your skin.

You have the urge to turn around and melt into the shadows like the deer, but you don’t. You fight the urge to escape. 

Instead, you walk up to Sam.

“It’s getting late, and I guess you have classes early in the morning, Mr. Full Ride.” Sam snorts, but something vulnerable flickers across his face when the nickname is said with affection.

“I wish I had a retort for that, but you’re right,” Sam sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

His mouth opens, and you can tell he’s about to ask to walk you home. But that feels a little too risky, a little too open, a little too close. So you take a step back, fidgeting with the strap of your camera.

“See you tomorrow at the café? This time I promise to be there.”

Sam looks a little disconcerted for a moment. He blinks—once, then twice, and then he nods. You ignore the flicker of disappointment that glows in his eyes, and try not to think about how it matches the feeling wrapping around your lungs.

“Great. Sleep well, Law Boy.”

That makes him smile—dimples and all. And suddenly the night isn’t so dark, and the stars shine brighter, and nothing is scary anymore.

Like always, you leave first.

You’re already a few steps away when you hear him murmur something, his deep voice washing over you like the heat of a bonfire warms a lonely, cold night.

“Goodnight, Bambi.”

Getting attached to Sam Winchester is like breathing—natural, intrinsic, almost unconscious. 

It’s gentle eyes as he stares at you when you show him your polaroids and narrate the story behind each. It’s his big frame engulfing you in his shadow like a second skin when you walk together to the coffee shop. It’s his warm voice when he rambles about how he’s finally taking a law-related class next semester. It’s the blush on his cheeks when he notices he’s being a nerd.

It’s how safe he is. How much he feels like home. 

You haven’t known what home feels like in quite a while.

You don’t know how anyone could get to know him and not get attached, because it’s only been a few months, and you don’t really remember what life was before Sam Winchester.

Before your afternoons weren’t spent alone in that coffee shop, but instead dragging him to record stores and flea markets for hours. Before you had heard his laughter, witnessed the way it makes his shoulders shake and his bangs fall onto his eyes. Before, when your movie sessions were devoid of his smartass commentary, of the warmth of his body next to yours under the blanket.

Before you had taken him to skip rocks with you on the lake, one chilly November day when he walked out of class with a gloomy face and twitching fingers. 

He’d been quiet, more than usual. No silly grins or smart jokes, and he’d barely looked at you when you met him at the edge of the Stanford campus. But then you handed him the coffee you’d bought for him and blinked, and he’d cracked.

“It’s my mom’s death anniversary,” he’d whispered, nothing more and nothing less.

It feels almost fated, how much you can see yourself in Sam.

You hadn’t asked about it,though. Hadn’t inquired more or offered empty words of comfort. Instead, you’d just studied him with careful eyes and decided he needed some nature time. He’d complained about it at first, but still followed you through the railroad tracks until you reached your destiny. After the third time your rock skipped for longer than his, he was smiling again and his eyes weren’t as stormy.

You’d parted ways, a few hours after sundown, and you still hadn’t demanded an explanation about his family, or why there are small, pale scars scattered through his arms and face, or why his eyes got cloudy when he mentioned his brother. Why he always looks over his shoulder like he’s expecting something to crawl out of the earth and eat him. 

Because you don’t need to know all the details of his past, you know him enough.

“Bambi!” and here he comes, walking toward you with that sweet smile that uncovers his dimples, his shoulders always hunched like he’s scared he’s taking too much space. There’s a sheet of paper in his hand, and he’s wearing his Stanford sweatshirt.

You want to roll your eyes at the nickname he chose one day and never let go of, but at this point, you respond to it as much as you do your name. 

You lower your camera from where you were trying to get a shot of a squirrel munching on a half-eaten donut, turning to look at who has quickly become your best friend. He’s grinning, but there’s a bashful edge to his lips—that look he gets when he wants to brag, but he doesn’t want to sound like he’s bragging. 

He reaches your side in seconds, long legs skipping through branches and rocks like he’s been running through the forest his whole life. It surprises you how smoothly he moves, how agile he always is, how his eyes are trained to find any obstacle and dodge it before he even steps near it.

Your clumsy self could never.

His breath is visible in the air when he exhales, the slowly cooling winter breeze reddening his cheeks. Without a single word, he hands you the paper he’s been holding. It’s his psych exam, the one he spent weeks worrying and complaining about. The one he swore he would fail. The one he refused to talk about after because he didn’t want to think about it anymore.

A fucking A+.

“We were assigned our final project today,” he blurts out nervously after a second of silence, already trying to brush it off. “We have to watch some movie, and then—”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him down for a hug. 

He yelps at the sudden movement, his arms stiff and his breath held. You don’t care, because you know Sam well enough to know he’s weird about his accomplishments. He likes to get good grades, always tries to mention it casually in conversation, like he wants people to know, to be proud. But then he gets shy, and awkward, and “it isn’t that big of a deal, it doesn’t matter.”

But it clearly does, or else he wouldn’t be showing it to you. 

Whoever hurt Sam enough to make him crave validation this hard and be so scared of it at the same time, will one day respond to you and your very sharp glow-in-the-dark dinosaur pen.

Sam sighs and finally lets himself be held, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on the top of your head. It’s a little awkward, in that way only two kids that never knew much physical affection can be, but you refuse to let it get ruined. You squeeze him until he wheezes, and then you lean back until you can meet his eyes with a beam.

“Congrats, Sam. I knew you’d do amazingly.” He blushes, and this time you know it’s not the cold. His head drops, so you hug him again, hiding your face in the worn fabric of his sweatshirt.

He always smells like coffee and book pages, like warmth and heaven.

“I’m proud of you,” you murmur, and you feel his breath hitch. His hands slide down to your waist, and his face presses further against your hair. This is close, really close. But for the first time in your life, you don’t want to run. “You freaking nerd.”

The laugh that leaves him sounds wet, but when you finally pull away from his chest, his eyes are dry. Those big, gentle, hazel puppy eyes that shift in color with the lighting. The thought of watching them fill with tears brings on a heartache so strong it leaves you breathless for a second. 

“Movie night later?” he whispers, still looking down at you like you’re a miracle. You can see every bump and dip of his pretty face. The thin white line on his forehead, the little mole near his nose you crave to kiss, the fullness of his slightly chapped lips. “For my assignment.”

You have to blink a few times to remember what he’s talking about, slow and hazy, but then you nod, taking a step back and handing him back his exam. Your fingers brush, and you both smile shyly at each other. For a moment, nothing moves—not the dried leaves on the ground, not the clouds in the sky, not even time passes. It freezes, just for you. Just for this moment.

But a moment isn’t a moment if it lasts forever, so eventually you take another step back, and then another one.

“My dorm at seven?” he asks when you’re a few feet away. You nod again, a playful smile setting on your face.

“Yeah, see you there, Law Boy.”

When Sam opens the door to his room, you’re standing outside with a box of cupcakes and a tiny balloon that says: “You did it!” next to a graduation cap. When Sam turns it around, it reads: “Bye bye 8th grade.”

“It was the only academics related balloon they had,” you shrug when Sam raises his eyebrow in confusion. 

He snorts, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have bought anything, this is stupid.” 

You just shrug again, walking inside his room and pulling off your hoodie, throwing it on the chair of his desk. Even after countless afternoons spent here with you—watching a film, doing some science experiment for class you forced Sam to help with, or even just quietly reading side by side—Sam still can’t help but be struck by how perfectly you fit in his space. 

His room isn’t the coziest. He didn’t bother buying color-matching blankets and pillows before moving in, he doesn’t have childhood memorabilia up on the wall or an unauthorized scented candle on his nightstand. 

All he has is a framed photo of his parents he snuck out of John’s diary before leaving, all his textbooks piled up next to his bed, and your polaroid photo of that old totem carefully taped to the wall. 

So yeah, your presence only already makes this place feel more like home. 

He’s about to complain about the balloon and cupcakes again—he’s not actually annoyed, he just doesn’t know what to do with the star that is trying to explode in his core—when you shove the baked goods against his chest.

“Shut it. You got an A, and the cookies ‘n cream cupcakes were fifty percent off. We’re celebrating.”

Sam sighs, but by now he knows better than to argue. 

He watches as you crawl into his bed, and he can’t help but be grateful that his roommate hadn’t shown up in the past two days—probably still half drunk in someone’s basement, if the way Sam saw him stumbling through the party he decided to go to last night is anything to go by. 

It’d been his first frat party, and he’d a good time. Still, he spent half of the night wishing you had been there. But parties aren’t really your scene—or Sam’s, if he’s being honest—and Sam had the feeling you’d rather jump into the freezing lake than willingly walk into a frat house. So he tried to enjoy the free drinks and the group of miraculously friendly classmates he’d found anyway.

He still missed you, of course.

But now you’re here, in his bed, and Sam doesn’t waste another minute before sliding right next to you. He refuses to think about your scent lingering in the sheets later, or how, when he looks down at you, he can see into the neckline of your shirt—and he definitely doesn’t think about how his jeans get a little tighter when your thigh presses against his.

Because he’s mature enough not to get a hard-on from something as banal as that, like a middle-schooler. 

“So,” you get more comfortable against the pillows, your shoulder brushing Sam’s as he places his laptop on top of both your laps, making sure you get a good view of the screen too. He’s not thinking about it. “What are we watching?”

But the position leaves you close, almost pressed against each other. Sam can feel the heat of your body, that flowery smell that clings to your hair, and when he turns to face you, he is once again mesmerized by all the different colors that shine in your irises. 

Like looking into a kaleidoscope—dizzying and hypnotic.

It makes the star in his chest burn a little brighter.

“Ordinary People,” he says, turning back to his laptop to insert the DVD that came with his psych textbook. “Apparently it’s like, a psychological gem or something. Our professor wants us to watch it before next class to discuss it, and then we have to do some essay as our final assignment.”

“I’ve heard of it. Been meaning to watch it for a while.” You nod, curling further into the blankets as your eyes fixate on the screen like the good cinephile you like to pretend you are. 

(You actually are a cinephile—Sam could never watch as many movies as you do. Old ones, new ones, the most popular franchises or the most indie films on earth. No matter what it is, you’ve watched it or it’s in your watchlist. It reminds Sam of his brother, and the angst of it all mixes perfectly with the adoration blooming in his chest.)

He presses play, and the both of you spend the next two hours hovering over Sam’s old laptop. 

He has to admit, the first half has him almost falling asleep.

The pace is slow, and Sam starts to wonder how on earth he’s going to get a whole essay out of it. But you are completely engrossed by it. Your bright eyes never leave the screen, you study every piece of dialogue like it holds a prophecy, you chew on your lower lip thoughtfully like you are Conrad’s therapist. Every so often you hum like you know something Sam doesn’t, and he knows he actually doesn’t. 

To be fair, Sam is a little distracted. Maybe the movie would be more interesting if one of the universe’s most intriguing wonders wasn’t sitting right next to him—with your enigmas and your beauty and your gentle soul.

And the way your tits press together when you cross your arms—but Sam ignores that part, because you’re his best friend and he’s rotten enough without actively disrespecting you.

In the second half, Sam gets it. 

As a hunter—or ex-hunter, he guesses—he’s too familiar with survivor’s guilt. He’s seen it in the faces of the people he saved, in the faces of the families of those he couldn’t. He’s seen it in his brother, in those moments when his mask slips. He’s seen it in his father, when Sam watched him drinking whiskey all night, looking at Mary’s picture until he passed out.

He’s felt it himself, when he thinks of his mother burning up in the ceiling of his nursery.

So if his eyes get a little glassy, he thinks it can be excused. He moves his hand to quickly wipe away the stray tear that makes its way down his cheek, when he catches sight of you.

You’re tearing up, a lot more than he is.

Sam can’t help but let out a wet chuckle, and you turn toward him just to laugh too, just as wetly. You press your forehead to his shoulder, and Sam wraps an arm around your shoulders in comfort. 

The action is risky, and it makes your whole body go rigid for just a second, but then you’re pressing closer to him. 

The movie goes by quickly after that, and Sam wonders if he’ll remember anything for his class discussion that isn’t how soft your hair feels when it flows through his fingers, or how your hand keeps playing with the edge of his sleeve, or how your tears dampen the fabric of his sweatshirt, right over his heart.

As the credits roll, you shut the laptop down and sigh, your head still resting on Sam’s chest and your eyes still focused on where the screen used to be. 

“Honestly, fuck Beth.”

It takes Sam out—he was expecting some in-depth debrief, or maybe for you to go into one of your over-analyzing rants. He laughs, and your body shakes on top of him with the force of it. 

“I don’t know, she was in a lot of pain too,” Sam argues, and you shake your head firmly, finally turning to face him.

“It’s no excuse. Your personal pain doesn’t give you the right to take it out on your kids.”

And fuck, Sam still has no idea how you always know exactly what to say to make his breath catch. He might assume it’s just coincidence, but the way you blink down at him tells him you know more than he imagines.

It’s late—the moonlight slipping through the window, the dorm quiet and heavy with the sleep of exhausted students, the streets dark and empty. There’s no way Sam is letting you leave now. Or ever.

So he keeps his arm around your shoulders, playing with your hair and watching you melt a little at the touch. He loves these moments—when he lets himself be brave, and he discovers new adorable little details of you.

When he’d let himself hold your hand for the first time, and he’d seen how you flushed at the difference in size. When he’d taken the risk of grabbing your camera without your permission and snapped a candid picture of you—he’d been sure you’d be mad, but instead you giggled and then blushed when Sam said he was going to keep it. 

When he’d first insisted on walking you home, and then you’d invited him into your small apartment and offered a glass of wine. You had ended up handing him a dinosaur-shaped mug, you drinking from a Garfield-shaped one yourself. 

“I broke all my wine glasses.”

“Of course you did, Bambi.”

When he’d asked how come you own an apartment at eighteen, your eyes had dimmed a little and you pressed yourself against the cushions of your couch, like you were trying to disappear. “It’s not mine, it’s my dad’s. This is his only way of parenting.”

Still, the wine had been good and Sam’d ended up seeing your room for the first time—a full-on gallery of your polaroid pics, multiple posters all across the walls, your record player and an acoustic guitar in the corner. Your personality was clearly imprinted on every inch of it, and Sam had the passing thought that he’d love to be surrounded by it at all times.

And now he can add playing with your hair to the growing list of discoveries. He does it all through your post-movie discussion, he continues as the conversation jumps around—like it always does. You go from discussing the advantage of therapy, to Freud, to the myth of Oedipus, and somehow circling back to movies.

“Barbie movies are a masterpiece, Sam.” Your smile is big—not your shy one or the one you give people on the street. This one is toothy and carefree, passionate and blinding. The kind you only show when you’re talking about cinematography or photography. It’s Sam’s favorite, because it’s almost always aimed at him. 

“You like children’s movies, Bambi?” Sam teases, pulling on your hair softly and watching you blush, a small sound blooming from the back of your throat. He resists the urge to pull again.

“I love Barbie movies,” you correct him, pouting a little. “They have the silliest plots, but they’re the best kind of movie little girls can grow up with. They all basically fail the inverse Bechdel Test.”

Sam laughs, but only because your giggle makes the star glow so fiercely, he either laughs or combusts. “What the hell is a Bechdel Test?”

His grin grows when you just stare at him with bewilderment, like just the idea of Sam not knowing some niche film-nerd term is the worst kind of sin. 

He wishes that could be his worst sin. 

Your eyes are wide, and so close. You’re so close, laying next to him in his comically small bed, with your pretty lips parted and your prismatic eyes all over him, calling for him, and he could fall down into their rabbit hole if he only got a little closer—

“Are you serious?” You smack his chest, and it brings Sam back from getting lost in your wonderland. You are trying to pretend to be offended, but your shoulders are squaring up and you’re propping your chin up in your hand—like you do when you’re ready to go on a little rant, delightfully explaining to him every film term he has never heard of any chance you get. “The Bechdel Test is basically a way to measure the representation of women in a film. A movie needs to feature at least two women who talk to each other about something other than a man to pass.”

“Isn’t that like—every other movie?” 

Oh, that just makes you double down, sitting up even more and your eyes burning onto Sam’s.

“You’d be surprised. Haven’t you noticed that in most movies, especially action or sci-fi ones, there’s always just one girl.” Sam thinks about his brother’s movies—cowboys, explosions, mobsters, car chases—and yes, he’s noticed. “And when they talk, they usually talk about the men in their lives. Y’know… ‘Daddy taught me how to fix cars, and my brother showed me how to skate, and I work at my grandfather’s shop because it’s his dream, and my boyfriend is so hot even if he’s an asshole.’”

Sam laughs at your silly voice, head dropping forward, his shaggy hair just brushing your cheek. When he looks up, you’re grinning down at him. “That sounds familiar, yeah.”

“That is a failed Bechdel Test.” You tap his forehead with your finger. “Women have no depth at all and they’re only there to help the male main character go from A to B.”

“And I guess Barbie movies are the other way around?” he murmurs, a little distracted by the way you’ve started playing with his bangs, twisting the locks on your finger. 

“Yep.” He looks back at you, and you’re even closer now, and Sam can make out every single detail on your face. You’re so fucking beautiful. “There’s mostly one or two important men in each movie, and their whole plot revolves around Barbie and her friends. I couldn’t tell you one of their names if I tried.”

“Aren’t they all Ken?”

Your eyes widen, and your smile glows in the dim light filtering through the window, and what has Sam just brought upon himself. 

That night he gets introduced to what you call the Barbie Cinematic Universe. You go on for hours, going through every detail—from the animation, to the characters, to the groundbreaking messages it sends—and every movie. Tomorrow morning, Sam won’t remember a single name of any fairy or weird animal companion, but he will remember the excited twist of your lips and the bright sound of your voice. 

He keeps his fingers on your hair through all of it. He runs them gently through the soft strands once you get sleepy enough to lay your head on the pillow, and his hands grow gentler once your breath finally slows down next to him. He stops only once he falls into the arms of sleep too. 

The breeze coming through the small gap on the dorm window is cold with winter, and your body unconsciously presses closer to the human-sized heater resting next to you. Sam’s warmth floods you when he somnolently wraps his arms around you, and your freezing fingers find their place on his sweatshirt, your face nuzzling against the crook of his neck. 

A thought makes its way to Sam’s drowsy, nightmareless brain—this moment, right here, is worth every bit of leaving the hunting life.

It’s hot, a lot hotter than your room usually is in the mornings.

“Damn, Sam. Didn’t think you had it in you, man.”

This is not your room. The blankets are scratchier and the mattress is smaller. There’s a pair of arms around your waist and a solid chest against your back, and that voice is not from anyone you know. 

“Shut up, dude. You’re gonna wake her up.” 

That voice you do recognize, even through the haze of your sleep. Something tells you you’d recognize it everywhere, even in madness. Even if one day he becomes a stranger, you’d know.

You fell asleep in Sam’s room, and now his roommate is here to witness it.

You blink your eyes open, sitting up on the bed as embarrassment reddens your cheeks. You hear the other guy laugh, and you feel Sam sitting up as well. You rub the last bits of sleep from your eyes before facing him. 

His hair is tousled and his cheeks flushed—whether it's from the cold morning or the mortifying situation, you don’t know. Still, he’s looking at you a little like a puppy who was just robbed of his favorite stuffed animal, lost and a little heartbroken. 

His lips are puffy with sleep, everything around you smells like him, and he’d also taken off his sweatshirt at some point in the night, leaving him only in a tight, white shirt that wraps around his biceps like a second skin—

Your eyes snap to his roommate when the guy laughs again, and he quickly puts his hands up in mock surrender.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just here to pick up some clothes.” The guy chuckles, and you know it’s not ill-intended. Still, something hot and prickly washes over you.

You have the urge to say that you were just watching a movie, that nothing else happened. But nothing you could say would make this look any better.

“Are you high?” Sam raises an eyebrow, scrubbing a hand across his face. 

“Am I ever not-high?” That makes Sam snort, and you are clearly not needed in this conversation.

You try to get out of Sam’s bed, your legs tangling in the blankets and your head almost banging against the wall, even clumsier than usual this early in the morning. 

“I’m okay,” you reassure Sam when he tries to jump out of bed to help you. You fix your hair with clammy fingers, giving both Sam and his roommate a forced smile. “I’ll go, I have class in a little while.”

You turn around, opening the door to Sam’s dorm and slipping out after checking that the hallway is empty. You can’t help but feel like you’re making the walk of shame, even if nothing shameful occurred. Still, you’re glad no one comes out and catches you.

Once you’re a few feet away from the door, you remember that you left your hoodie back at Sam’s. You consider just asking him to bring it next time you meet at the café, but it's pretty cold today, and you don’t feel like getting sick.

You walk back to his room, your sleep-ridden brain deciding to just come in without knocking. The door is only an inch open when you hear—

“Who would’ve thought our Sam was such a playboy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb, casanova. I saw you with Jess at the party on Saturday, you two looked pretty cozy in there. And now you got another girl on your bed? Respect, dude.”

Sam says something back, but by then you’ve closed the door and ran down the hallway toward the exit door. The icy breeze bites your skin and waters your eyes, but you ignore it and make it back to your apartment in just minutes. 

You’re soaked, you realize when you walk through the door, a poodle already forming on the carpet at your feet. It had started raining and you hadn’t even noticed.

You don’t let yourself think about the implications of the burning on your chest, or the sting of your eyes, or the desolation that fills you when you picture Sam and this Jess together at some party.

You knew Sam had started to talk with a few people from his political science class, and you were glad he was making friends. But he had never mentioned a girl, not even in passing. And there was a moment, just a second as you woke up in his arms, when you thought… Maybe this could be it. Could be more. 

Get over yourself.

So you don’t think about it. Not when you take a hot shower to wash away the cold of the downpour that sank into your bones as you ran home. Not when you make some hot cocoa and put on Dead Poets Society just to make yourself more miserable. Not when Sam calls, and you ignore it. Not when you stare at your photo wall, and multiple shots of him stare back at you.

It doesn’t matter. Whatever feelings are trying to sparkle in your chest will have to be smothered. Sam is your best friend, the only person in this world that feels like home, and that has to be enough. It will be enough.

Sam is admittedly a little scared when he finally sees you again. 

After you fell asleep on his bed and you two ended up cuddling for the whole night, you had gone MIA for a whole day. He was worried sick—at first of having fucked up somehow, having finally ruined the one good thing he had been able to keep. Then, another kind of worry. The one he has felt ever since he was eight and read his dad’s hunting journal for the first time. 

He couldn’t help but fear that something had found you. That some monster had followed him all the way to Stanford and now he’d lose you to the darkness he tried so hard to escape. He couldn’t imagine a pain worse than that. 

That's why, when you called, he immediately agreed to meet at the coffee shop. He had been hanging out with some friends near his dorm after class—casual chitchat about classes and winter break plans. Jessica was there, too, laughing at his friend’s idiotic jokes and rolling her eyes when they suddenly started wrestling each other.  

Sam was having a good time, but he gave them some quick excuse and ran to his room to grab your forgotten hoodie as soon as you whispered his name through the line. It surprised even himself how much of a priority you had already become in his life.

So now he’s standing outside the café, fidgeting with the frayed edge of your hoodie while he waits. He’s scared you’ll be mad—even if he can’t find a reason why you would be. He is even more scared of you being sad, or hurt. Or just tired of him. 

He’s absolutely terrified of you being tired of him.

He doesn’t even hear you approach, his back against some chain link fence, a pair of wired earphones you gifted him a week ago in his ears. His mind is somewhere else, the rotten part of his brain slowly taking over the small spot of grace that had been building in him in the past few months—

A blinding light, right into his eyes.

It takes him a few blinks, but when his eyes function again he sees you—your opal eyes sparkly, smile gentle in that way that’s so heartbreaking, your dear camera in hand as you hide the photo you just took of him inside the pocket of your denim jacket—and all the tension leaves his body. 

You still believe that he’s good, he can see it in your face. Your slow-blinking eyes make him feel like you have taken a peak directly into his soul and decided he’s worth keeping around. You’re just as kind and beautiful as always, even if you look the tiniest bit blue.

“Hiya, Law Boy.”

Even the stupid nickname sounds like the most lovely song. “Hi, Bambi.”

You roll your eyes, and Sam has to resist the urge to pull you into a hug when you smack his chest and snatch away the piece of clothing he’s still holding tightly in his arms. He knows better than to ask about the photo, already used to you taking shots of him that you keep secret.

“Thanks, dummy.” You point toward the café, and your smile is like a balm spreading all over Sam's sore soul. “Coffee and bookstore?”

He scoffs, but he’s already holding the door open for you. “You only want to go to the bookstore so you can drag me to the vintage store across the street.”

You grin, bumping his shoulder with yours as you walk past him. “Maybe, but I actually need to go to the bookstore this time. Mr. Marks keeps bugging me about getting that book he’s been recommending to me since the start of the semester.”

Sam remembers. The professor you once described as “hot, but gives psychopath vibes.” Sam had laughed, but he couldn’t help the pang on his chest when you called another man hot.

He’s so fucking pathetic for you.

“Plus,” you turn back to look at him, walking backwards toward the counter as you beam. You’re gonna fall. “you love the trinkets section as much as I do.”

“No, I only put up with it because you love it.”

That shuts you up, and also makes you trip on your own feet. Sam’s cheeks flush when he feels the weight of his own words, still swiftly wrapping a hand around your wrist to keep you from hitting your head on the coffee bar. 

It’s in moments like this that he wishes he could be as smooth as his brother when it came to this.

Yes, Sam is witty. He’s quick with words, and he has interviewed locals and witnesses more times than he can count, and his English teacher used to describe him as “remarkably eloquent.”

But girls have always been more complicated. It’s easy to flirt back when some pretty girl he just saved walked up to him to “show her gratefulness.” Or to smile and sweetly kiss some girl from a school Sam knows he will eventually leave in a few days. Or to share quick, whispered banter with a faceless girl at a party.

He’s not by any means the playboy his brother so proudly claims to be, and he’s not the casanova his roommate seems to believe he is—but he can flirt, sometimes. When it’s in passing, when it feels right but Sam knows it won’t go further than a dreamy few moments. 

But now, he has the chance at something real. Right now, there’s no rush, and no danger, and no car waiting for him outside to take him far away. And he doesn’t know how to do real.

Sam has wanted real. He’s spent most of his life looking at his father—alone and bitter, consumed by grief and anger. And he looked at his brother—so afraid to let anyone in, so scared of his own shadows, that he’s convinced himself that he’s not made for it—and Sam knew.

He knew he wanted to be different, he knew that he could be different. 

He wants real, and he’s so close. So fucking close. 

So when you hand him his Iced Gingerbread Oatmilk latte (yes, he made the mistake of letting you choose today’s drinks) and your fingers brush, he feels his cheeks warm up but he doesn’t mention it.

He holds the door open for you again when you exit the café. He takes the side next to the road as you walk side by side down the street, shielding your body from the passing cars. He even lets you pull him along when you catch sight of a raccoon holding a candy cane some kid probably dropped. 

But he doesn’t tell you.

You drag him through some remote park, only a few old people feeding pigeons and a couple of lonely runners passing by. It adds at least fifteen more minutes to your walk to the book shop, but you always take the scenery routes everywhere—always walking through some block covered in street art, the woods, or even just back alleys that apparently are "incredibly photogenic. Your law brain just wouldn’t get it.”

And it doesn’t. Sam thinks they are dank, desolated, and he’s seen too many creatures get ganked by his family not to believe there is at least some monster guts in the walls. Still, he won't argue with your creative vision.

“Everything okay the other day?” he can’t help but ask, rolling back onto his heels as you stop in the middle of the greenway. “You kinda disappeared on me.”

You hum lowly, but your eyes stay in your camera as you set up another shot. “Yeah, just got caught up watching films. Y’know how it is.”

He does, but he also knows that when your voice gets this raspy, and when your fingers drum around the lens like this, it’s because you’re not telling him the whole truth.

Not lying, because Sam can always tell when people are lying to him. He grew up around too many lies not to learn how to catch them a mile away. You’re just nitpicking what you choose to share with him. And he would usually be okay with that—it’s not like he doesn’t also carefully keep pieces of information from you, when he talks about his brother or his childhood—but right now, he wants to demand that you tell him.

Because you’re not really looking at him, and it might kill him. 

So Sam opens his mouth, if to insist or to confess he will never know, because you’re speaking before the words he was about to vomit can leave him.

“Look!” You point somewhere behind him, and Sam turns around with a defeated sigh. 

A few feet away, there’s some old building Sam guesses used to be some kind of monument, but no one really comes to this side of the park anymore, so now the walls are covered by ivy and all the writing on it is unreadable. 

But on one of the sides, there's graffiti. Two butterfly wings—beautiful teal hue, lines meticulously done, craftsmanship impeccable. It almost looks like it doesn’t belong in this abandoned patch of greenery. Not even the plants growing all over the little house dare to touch it.

“Go!” You push him forward, and when he turns back to look at you, the blue is gone from your face. “Be a good muse, Sam.”

All he can see is pure, bright happiness—the kind only your love for your art can bring. You giggle, and run toward the old building, and Sam follows behind you immediately. The way you grin at him when he moves to stand in between the butterfly wings is everything he needs—because your eyes are on him again, and he’s your muse, and god it feels heavenly.

You bring your camera up to your face, and Sam awkwardly tries to find a good-enough pose (he’s been getting better at it, after so much practice) until he finds something that won't make him look like he’s being held at gunpoint. 

His eyes are on the horizon as he waits for the familiar click of your flash, but it never comes. 

Instead comes a shadow.

Big, engulfing, soul-sucking. Sam catches it from the corner of his eye, and he knows. The familiar tingling on the back of his neck and the way his breath hitches tell him that whatever this thing is, it’s supernatural.

And it’s trying to get you. With the expertise that only comes from years of indoctrination, Sam knows that the thing is here to get you. 

So before it can reach you, before Sam himself even knows what it is, and with the kind of impulsivity that’s so common on his brother but that he hates so much on Sam—he jumps in front of it.

He doesn’t have a knife, or a gun, and his fists aren’t even clenched. He hears you scream his name, your hand reaching for him, but he doesn't stop. He won’t let whatever this is get you. Not you, never you. 

The next thing Sam feels is cold. Pure, deep-cutting, unbearable cold. Your name is on the tip of his tongue. He wants to scream, tell you to run, to hide, to stay safe. But then—nothing. He feels nothing. 

And just like that, Sam Winchester dies for the first time.

It’s ten in the morning.

You were just with Sam, trying to take a picture of him, when some shadow creature creeped out of the woods and engulfed him like smoke. You saw the exact moment when his eyes went blank—a blueish gray color you never want to see again—and his mouth slack, and he was plummeting to the ground in seconds.

You reached out for him, and everything got hazy. You couldn’t quite focus your eyes, and your head felt like it was going to implode, but you still tried to catch Sam. You tried to save him, even if you knew he was dead. 

Sam was dead, and you were looking right at his corpse.

And then, the next second, you were in your school’s hallway, the digital clock on the wall blinking at you.

Tue, 10:00 AM

You don’t get it.

It had been Tuesday when you woke up this morning. And you had come to class, stood in this exact same spot for thirty whole minutes before finally deciding to give Sam a call, you had been attacked, and then Sam had died. 

Now you’re here again, and your head is pounding, and your vision is still splotchy, and Sam just died. 

Sam is dead, but maybe he isn’t, because the stupid clock is saying it’s ten in the fucking morning. 

Someone says your name, and you immediately recognize it. Not because it’s your professor and you hear his voice every day, but because he called for you already, hours ago at this exact same moment. 

“Hope you finally decide to buy a copy of Everyday Hero this week. Jefferson, the author, is a good friend of mine. I’m sure you’ll find inspiration in his words.”

You know all of that already—not only because he’s been repeating the same speech since the start of the semester, like you already don’t have it memorized—but because he did again just this morning, before you decided to call Sam.

Before he had died right in front of you, saving you.

Because whatever that creature was, it had been aiming for you. Its bright, golden eyes were focused on you from the moment it materialized, its murderous energy—darkness, nothing but a cloud of pure darkness—directed only at you. 

You had seen it through the lens of your camera, and you had seen it when you dropped it right onto the rocky ground. But maybe you’re giving the thing too much credit—you don’t even know what it even was. Maybe it was just some kind of feral monster, trying to get its claws around any soul it could reach. 

Whatever it was, you need to find Sam and warn him.

So you turn around, your professor still mid rant that you still remember from this morning—or last morning?—so you’re not missing any new information. You walk like a lost spirit toward the exit, face empty of emotion but pace quick with desperation.

Everything is the same. Everything is the exact same from when you lived through it hours ago.

The same dude with his back against the bending machine, the same girl putting up posters about some student club, the principal of the academy waving to students like he’s royalty. The same squirrel runs past you when you walk through the campus gardens, the same group of rich girls laugh when you trip on the exact same branch, the same blue butterfly is resting on the sidewalk as you wait for the bus.

The same blue from the graffiti. 

As you stare out of the window into the skyline, you think you’re going insane. There’s no other explanation, you’re losing your mind. Because the same man is snoring in the last row of the bus, and the same baby starts crying when the driver hits the brakes too harshly, and the same old lady gets off the bus when it stops near the coffee shop.

Only that this time, you don’t go with her. You stay rooted in your seat, leg bouncing restlessly as the bus takes off again. 

How are you going to explain all of this to Sam? Will he even believe you, or will he just think you’re insane? Will he look at you like you’re psychotic when you tell him that you—

You don’t even know what you did. If you went back in time, or if you had a very vivid vision of the future. But whatever it had been, will Sam run away when you tell him?

Will you finally lose him when you try to tell him that he’s going to die, like some kind of cheap psychic trying to scam him?

When the bus announces that you’ve arrived at Stanford, you snap out of your nightmares and force yourself to make your way down to the street. You chew on your lower lip, eyes unfocused as you go through every single bad scenario.

It stops you from noticing the truck driving right next to you, or the big poodle from the winter rains, or the way the driver speeds up, almost intentionally. One second later, you’re dripping with mud water, gasping in shock as the trucker yells something, and everyone on the street turns to stare at you as you wipe the water—and maybe some tears, because what the fuck—from your eyes.

You want to scream until your head explodes, but instead, your body moves on instinct. Your hand lifts up toward nothing, something pulls in your chest, and the world gets hazy again.

But this time, you can see as time rewinds at your will.

The truck reverses until it’s way behind you, the students trying to get to class walk backwards until their previous positions, the bus stops right where it had just dropped you off. And when your hand drops—your head pounding way less than before, your clothes now dry, still standing right where you were drenched—everything starts moving forward again.

You quickly get out of the splash zone, watching safely from behind a newsrack as the truck drives through the poodle just as it had before, now washing down the sidewalk but at least not drowning anyone.

So you can reverse time. You have no idea what that means, or where it comes from, or what to do with it—but you can reverse time.

You probably should be freaking out a lot more than you are. 

Don’t be mistaken, you are losing your mind. Your hands are shaking and your brain is full of static and fog, but you have the feeling you should be screaming bloody murder and ripping all of your hair out.

But somehow, this feels… natural. Like the click of your camera, like your pen between your fingers, like your everyday goodnight look at the moon. Like it’s in your blood, like it was always supposed to be there. 

Terrifying, but yours.

There’s an intense panic flooding your lungs, but it’s not about the powers. It’s about the creature, and the forever engraved image of Sam’s vacant eyes in your mind.

So you run toward his dorm. You don’t even know if he’ll be there, but if he isn’t, you’ll wait. Or you’ll roam around Stanford like a ghost in purgatory until you can find him and make sure he’s safe, make sure he stays safe. 

Finally, you see him. Far away in the distance, that beautiful face you’d recognize everywhere. You’re about to scream his name, still sprinting down between two buildings, when you actually see him.

You were so desperate to reach him, that you didn’t notice he isn’t alone. But now you see them—his friends around him, a pretty blonde girl right next to him. One of the guys says something, and Sam throws his head back in laughter.

His face is bright with joy, his eyes shiny and vibrant and no longer dull and cold. His smile is wide, his body warm and relaxed. He was so pale and stiff when he died.

Sam is alive. Alive and happy and safe. Far away from you, but safe.

And the blonde girl—Jess, you just know it’s her—is laughing too. And she’s gorgeous, luminous with an angelic glow, and she is good. She leans onto Sam as she giggles, and her light reflects on him, making him shine in shades of gold.

Sam had died in a wave of shadows, and here he is engulfed by light.

This is what Sam needs—a normal, happy life. He deserves a warm, glowing fucking life. 

If you go up to him right now, you’ll be dragging him to the shadows forever. If you tell him about your powers, about the creature, about his death, you’ll be robbing him of everything he’s confessed to you he’s ever wanted.

No law school, no pretty house with big windows, no “apple pie life,” as he once called it. No bright future, no happy ending.

Still, you hesitate.

Selfishly, you hesitate to let him go. You try to imagine a life without Sam—without his witty remarks or his gigantic gentleness or his puppy eyes—and it burns. It burns so hard your knees buckle, and you have to hold yourself up with a hand on the brick wall next to you.

A whole life without watching his bangs being tousled by the wind, without forcing him to drink sugary seasonal drinks and watching him pretend he doesn’t like them, a whole life without sneaking in a picture of him every time you can.

A whole life without hearing him call you Bambi in that low, sweet voice of his. A whole life without Sam Winchester and his hidden past and his lovely soul.

The idea brings a heartache so strong that, against every rational part of you telling you to turn around and disappear, you take a step forward, almost convincing yourself that you still have to warn him about the creature. He could still get attacked, and he could still die, and you can prevent it. At the very least, you owe him that.

That’s when your hand slips onto the pocket of your jacket, and there’s something there. Your fingers carefully pull out what you’ve come to recognize as one of your photos from touch alone.

It’s Sam, eyes wide and lips parted in shock as he leans back against a fence, earphones hanging from his ears and your hoodie in his arms. 

The photo you took of him this morning—or this alternate morning? This past morning? You’ll figure it out at some point. 

It had somehow survived your time–rewind. 

You hadn’t really looked at it when you took it, too busy trying to stop yourself from kissing the confusion off of Sam’s face. But now you’re looking at it, and you want to go back to that moment and whack yourself in the head.

In the picture, far away in the background behind the fence, is the creature. 

Same glowing golden eyes, same curling shadow, same heavy presence. Its eyes seem to bore into your soul just from the photo, and somehow, you know.

This is not some feral animal. This is not any mindless, bloodthirsty creature, willing to suck the life out of anything it comes in contact with. This thing wants you.

It came looking for you, and it will come again. 

It didn’t attack him while he was alone, and it only got closer when you appeared. The only reason Sam ended up drowning in its darkness is because he tried to save you, but its poisonous smoke was meant for you. 

This power, this force that runs through your veins and now curls around your spine like gravity—it’s what attracted the monster, and what got Sam killed.

You turn back to Sam—the real one, not the phantom of him that now only exists in your memory and this photograph—and he’s still right there. Still beautiful, still warm, still alive.

And you are the venom that will sink into his skin and stop his heart.

Jess’ hand brushes Sam’s when she turns to tell him something, and her light creates an aureole around him. That’s exactly what he deserves. 

Sam Winchester will stay safe and glowing for the rest of his life, because you won’t be in it.

So you leave. After finally feeling like you belong, after finding the only place that has felt safe enough to stay… you pick up the broken pieces of your heart and let yourself fall back into the intrinsic urge you’ve felt ever since you were a kid and that you had managed to repress since you met Sam, and you bolt.

The ticket out of California is in your hand before you even know it, and it isn’t until you’re inside the train that you realize you don’t even know where you’re going.

But you know it’s far away. Far away enough that Sam won’t find you. Far away enough to keep him safe.

So you put on your old wired earphones and stare out of the window as you leave through the same railroads Sam and you have walked through endless times. You have to look away when the lake comes into view, where you can still see the patch of grass where you two sat down the afternoon he told you about his mother. 

A deer walks out of the woods, and you have no way to prove it, but you know it’s the same one you saw that first day. The day Sam Winchester changed your life.

It stares at you with black, pitless eyes. It blinks, and tears sting in your eyes. It’s disappointed, you know. It’s looking at you with the same message it tried to give you that day, and now you know what it was. 

An omen. A warning. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper into the frosted window of the train as you leave Palo Alto. In the distance, a storm brews over the city—thicker than a winter rain, heavy with misery. The dark cloud covers the sky, rumbling over where the deer and the woods and your best friend stand abandoned. “I had to.”

Lighting strikes through the sky. You pull out your journal and wait for this train to take you to your new life. A new life where you tumble around blindly for answers, not knowing if you’ll ever find any. A life of fake memories and haunting shadows and a Sam-shaped hole in your chest. 

A life where Sam Winchester is still warm, just out of reach.

The words “Welcome to Menlo Park" stare back at you from outside the window as you scribble down today’s date, and the thunder comes—roaring down on you, loud and angry.

After all, old habits die screaming.