꩜⊹ ࣪ ˖ scar tissue that I wish you saw
WARNINGS: stanford!sam. characters are eighteen. john winchester's A+ parenting. angsty teen sam. mentions of weed. meet-cute. nerd talk. puppy love. life is strange references.
˙‧₊𐀔 rewind fast forward 𐀔₊‧˙
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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?”
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.
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.
NOTES: Oh angsty teen sam winchester, you're so dear to me</3 as an expert in loneliness-induced obsessive crushes, I feel for both of them. they don't know they'll match other freaks, I love them.
if you have any thoughts or feedback, please feel free to leave a comment! it makes my sick little brain so happy. I love you all, and see you again soon!
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