SECRETS *ೃ༄
summary: you befriend a mysterious transfer student at stanford. after months of hanging out, you still know almost nothing about him. he disappears some days, showing back up worn down and tattered. you've finally had it. pairing: stanford!sam x f!reader (no use of y/n) word ct: 1.9k content: cw: suggestive ending. sam angst. fluff. soft!sam. secret identity trope. she falls first lowkey. mystery. dean mention?
you meet sam on a thursday.
he's new. sits in the back of the lecture hall, tall frame, but hunched over in his book. flannel sleeves pushed to his elbows, fingers wrapped around a coffee cup that never leaves his hand. he never comes in late, but always leaves early. there’s something about the way he listens, eyes focused, lips slightly parted like he’s starving for knowledge.
you notice him because you’re always the first to arrive. and he notices you, because you hold the door when it tries to slam shut behind you. he murmurs a quiet thanks every time. voice like molasses. eyes that linger.
you don’t talk until week three.
"hey," he says one day when you're both caught in the hallway traffic. "do you know if he uploads the slides somewhere? i missed monday."
you tell him yes. he smiles a soft smile. crooked. not practiced. not perfected.
he introduces himself as sam.
just sam.
—
you two grow closer. shared notes. study partners. he’s brilliant, but reserved. like his brain is a library and you're only allowed to check out one book at a time. he never talks about himself unless you ask directly, and even then, the answers are vague.
he has a brother, older. he travels a lot. his childhood was “weird.” he likes research. hates when people call attention to his height. doesn’t drink much. hasn’t dated in a while. religious? maybe catholic? ambiguous?
you ask him what he did before transferring here.
he shrugs. “odd jobs.” he doesn’t elaborate.
—
there’s a quiet sort of comfort that settles between you. you don’t push, and he doesn’t offer. still, he always remembers how you like your coffee. he walks you home when it’s late. he listens better than anyone ever has.
sometimes, you catch him watching you. like he's memorizing your features, as if he’s scared you’ll vanish if he looks away.
you pretend not to notice how fast your heart beats when he’s near.
—
you don’t realize something’s wrong until the night he disappears. you had left his dorm after a late night studying, forgetting your textbook on his old rug. you couldn’t be bothered to go back, mental and physical exhaustion overtaking you. so, you opted to send a quick text:
hey, forgot my textbook on your floor. can u bring it tomorrow pls?
but he never shows.
you sent another text. half teasing him for sleeping in, half pissed because you spent the entire class looking over the shoulder of the student in front of you.
a day goes by. then two.
you don’t want to seem clingy, but it’s unlike him.
he shows up again five days later. tired. bruised. there’s a thin cut across his cheekbone and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. his under eyes are sunken and dull.
you stare at him in the library, stunned.
"what the hell happened to you?"
he blinks, shrugging his shoulders. "oh. uh. got mugged."
you lift your hand to cup his cheek. thumb brushing lightly over the maroon blemishes. his eyelashes flutter softly. he lifts his own hand, placing it on yours. he tilts his head back, trying to escape your touch. he feels bad, but his pain is seering.
“jesus,” you breathe. “are you okay?”
he nods. doesn’t meet your eyes. "i’m fine."
he’s not.
—
after that, the gaps start to grow. he vanishes for days, then shows up again like nothing happened. sometimes he looks fine. sometimes he looks like he’s been dragged through hell.
he won’t let you question him. he dismisses it, changes the topic, says that he wants to go to bed and he’ll talk later.
one night, you call him out.
"you’re lying to me."
you're standing outside the dining hall, half-finished tea cooling in your hand. he freezes.
"what are you talking about?" he asks softly, eyes blinking rapidly.
“you disappear and come back with bruises. you flinch when people slam doors. you always carry a knife—don’t think i haven’t noticed. and last week, i saw you picking a lock on the back door of the chem lab like you’d done it a hundred times before.”
you had to force your eyes to stay on his. you had to be heard. you needed the truth.
sam’s jaw tightens. the silence grows thick. he shifts his weight from foot to foot. you can tell he’s uncomfortable.
you step forward, voice shaking. “i don’t care if you’re running from something, sam. i can try to help. but if you’re dangerous—”
“i’m not,” he says quickly. “i wouldn’t hurt you. ever.” he shakes his head and he locks eyes with you. he steps forward, a gentle hand mediating between you.
“then tell me.”
his eyes search yours. something breaks behind them. they’re glassy. he lets out a long, shaky breath. his mind is racing. meanwhile, you tremble with worry.
“okay,” he says. “but not here.”
—
you don’t expect monsters. you expect “i’m in a gang” or “i’m running from the cops.” hell, you thought nothing would shock you. you thought you’d come up with every possible justification for his absences.
ghosts. demons. vengeful spirits. shapeshifters. all real. and he’s been hunting them since he was a boy.
you blink at him in stunned silence. he's standing in the middle of his dorm room, fingers clenched at his sides like he’s bracing for you to scream.
instead, you chuckle nervously. has he gone insane? “that’s… absurd. you’re crazy.” he just looks at you.
“you think i’m kidding.” his voice is a bit louder now, getting defensive. your faux smile drops and you weren’t quite sure how to proceed.
he pulls a battered leather journal from his backpack and places it on the bed next to you. you pull it onto your lap and flip through the pages. it's filled with drawings. sigils. yellow notes written in a spidery hand. names, dates, locations. photos.
you brush a finger over a page titled wendigo, heart beating faster. it all seemed so sinister. so real.
you look up at him through your eyelashes, lips parted in shock.
“this is real,” you whisper.
he nods once. solemn. his eyes are almost apologetic. regretful. “yeah.”
“and you kill these things?”
he nods again, taking a slow seat next to you.
you breath a hard breath out and close the journal slowly.
“why the fuck would you come to college? aren’t you worried about like— the fucking world ending?”
you’re breathless. you run your hand through your hair and swallow hard.
he runs a hand over his mouth. “to feel normal. to be someone else for once.”
you believe him.
you shouldn’t.
but you do.
“sam…” you trail off, eyes distant. he places a gentle hand on the small of your back, his thumb brushing softly over your shirt.
“hey, listen to me.” he speaks slow and soft, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “i won’t let anything hurt you. you can trust me.”
—
you keep his secret. and in return, he keeps you safe.
he starts staying over at your dorm more. not in your bed, not at first. just in your room, sleeping on on pile of blankets on the floor, boots near the door. you offered to buy an air mattress, but he claims he’s slept on worse. you catch him murmuring in his sleep sometimes. latin, was it? other times, he startles awake gasping, eyes wide, heart pounding.
you let him stay anyway.
you ask him to teach you how to protect yourself. despite this news of monsters laying heavy on your chest— like your world has completely shrunken, you couldn’t help but be curious.
he doesn’t want to teach you, but he does. slow at first. baby steps. pepper spray. salt lines. a silver knife.
you see more of the hunter in him after that. the part of him that sharpens into something lethal when there’s a threat. the way his eyes darken when someone gets too close. the way his hand always finds yours, grounding, when things get loud.
he saves a family in the next town over. a poltergeist. doesn’t tell you until he’s back and sore and covered in bruises.
“you’re going to get killed,” you whisper, pressing an ice pack to his temple. his hand brushes along your arm.
he doesn’t argue. he thinks somehow, that he always knew god wasn’t watching over him. but it was something much more evil. maybe a demon, the devil, even. or maybe death himself.
he watches you. long and careful.
“you still like me?” he asks softly. a teasing smile sits on face.
“yeah,” you breathe. “i do.”
he leans forward then. testing. you feel his cool breath along your teeth. mint. and when you don’t pull away, his lips brush yours. slow, like he’s unsure if you’re really there.
you kiss him back. his touch is like silk. you feel your cheeks grow warm and your body melts into his. your hands reach for his hair as his move to your waist. he’s tender in his touch.
he parts his legs, allowing you to move your body closer. he needs you close. to feel you near him. you tug his hair lightly and a quiet, just barely audible groan leaves his lips.
you smile against his lips. this boy just keeps surprising you.
in this moment, you feel real. and sam, he feels normal. calm. he’s not in fight or flight. now, he’s here. and he’s yours. tomorrow, he might find himself in the middle of vamp nest, or tied up in a basement. but right now, he’s with you. he vows to himself to protect you. and to not become a monster himself.
—
lowkey not a fan of the ending, but it’s getting late. i love soft sam so much nobody understands.
planning on writing some darker, grungier fics i think!
anyway, send me some fic prompts to angel radio!
