Chapter Text
There’s a new student in his Comparative Literature class. He notices them first because of the eyeliner—sharp, dark lines that wing out like they belong to a hawk, not a person. It’s striking. Almost theatrical. Not like anything he’s seen much around campus.
At first, he thinks they’re a girl.
They’re not.
Someone says their name is Noah—Noah James Luke Graham —and they use “they” pronouns. Gender neutral.
Sam tries not to let his face show anything, but he knows he probably didn’t hide the surprise well.
Gender neutral.
He hadn’t really met anyone who called themselves that before. It feels… weird to say.
Not in a bad way, just—foreign. Like biting into something you can’t name the flavor of.
He grew up in places where “boy or girl” was about as complicated as it got. If someone wore eyeliner like that and had a soft voice, it meant something specific.
At least, it was supposed to.
He’s not proud of the part of him that flinches at the idea.
Jess seems to like them, though. She’s said hi a couple times after class, tried to strike up conversation. She says Noah’s really into reading and is a killer with makeup.
“They could make you look like Johnny Depp in Pirates with just a contour stick,” she said once, laughing.
Sam smiled.
He didn’t know what a contour stick was.
Still, he tried. He really did.
He said “they” even though it felt weird in his mouth at first.
He asked what they were reading when he saw them with some old book that looked like it had been through a war. He even offered to walk with them once after class, just being polite.
They looked at him like he’d grown horns.
“I'm good,” they said, quick, voice clipped. “Actually—I forgot I had to meet someone.”
And then they were gone.
Fast.
Always fast, like they had somewhere better to be. Like he was something to avoid.
It wasn’t just once. He started to notice the pattern.
Every time he was nearby, they ducked out a side door. Took the long way around the quad. Even crossed the street once when they saw him coming. At first, he thought he was imagining it. But Jess noticed it too.
“They don’t hate you,” she said carefully. “Noah’s just... cautious.”
That stung more than he wanted to admit.
It wasn’t like he meant to make anyone uncomfortable.
He wasn’t Dad. He didn’t wear flannel and talk about how the world was black and white.
But maybe he looked like someone who did.
He wondered what they saw when they looked at him.
Maybe it was the way he couldn’t help staring a little too long that first week, trying to figure them out.
Maybe it was the subtle flinch when he heard “they,” or the confused way he’d said “but you’re—” before Jess kicked him under the table.
Maybe it was his guilt, worn on his sleeve.
Or maybe they just didn’t like him.
That was allowed too.
Still, Sam couldn’t help but think there was something else—
Something that didn’t quite add up.
Because no one avoided people that hard without a reason.
And Sam Winchester knew better than anyone that sometimes people ran because they had to.
Noah disappears for a few days.
Not that it’s obvious, not really—this isn’t high school. People come and go on this campus all the time. But Sam notices.
Their usual corner of the library study area is empty.
Their seat in Comp Lit sits unclaimed, and the professor doesn’t say anything—just lectures like always, as if the absence is nothing more than a missed bus or a bad case of the flu.
Jess says she hasn’t seen them either, and that’s more telling.
Jess makes friends with everyone.
If Noah isn’t showing up for her, something’s up.
It bugs him more than he wants to admit.
They come back on a Tuesday.
Sam doesn’t mean to look—but he sees.
The makeup is just as sharp as ever, eyeliner wings so precise they could cut glass. Lips dark red, almost theatrical. Their outfit is layered, like always, sleeves long despite the California heat.
But he sees it. Beneath the heavy concealer, under the cheekbone—something purple and yellow, just barely showing through. Not fresh, but recent.
A bruise.
It’s the kind of thing no one would clock unless they were trained to see it.
Sam is.
He grew up watching for signs. Subtle shifts. Injuries someone didn’t want you to see. John Winchester didn’t teach him much about healthy relationships, but he drilled situational awareness into his sons like gospel.
You see the bruise under the makeup.
You notice the limp someone tries to hide.
You pay attention when someone disappears and comes back with eyes that don’t meet yours.
Sam sees it now, and he can’t unsee it.
Noah avoids him, same as always—but there’s something rawer about it this time. More urgent. Their steps are sharper, movements tighter, like they’re carrying too much under their skin and trying not to let it crack the surface.
He wants to ask.
He doesn’t.
Because what right does he have? He’s the guy they’ve avoided since week one. The guy they flinch away from. He doesn’t get to swoop in and play white knight just because he spotted a bruise.
Still, it gnaws at him.
Because he’s been around enough monsters to know: sometimes, people disappear for a reason. Sometimes, when they come back, they’re not the same.
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Noah smile.
Not really.
Sometimes, when Jess gets going on one of her rants—usually about the pretentious guy in her poetry seminar or the way Stanford’s vending machines “actively wage psychological warfare”—he sees Noah twitch a little. Like they’re trying not to laugh. Like they could smile, if they wanted to.
But they don’t.
Even when Jess invites them to her little hangouts—low-key parties, movie nights, sleepovers with her artsy friends—they show up maybe half the time, stay on the edge of the room, and leave before anyone can say goodbye.
Jess insists on including them. “They need community,” she says, like it’s something you can wrap up in a party invitation and hand to someone. Sam admires that about her. How she makes space for people, even prickly ones.
But Noah never really fits.
They hover like a ghost at the edge of things. Always present, never involved. Quiet, observant. Like they’re waiting for something. Or watching for something.
And it reminds Sam of himself. Back before Stanford, back when he was still running jobs with Dad and Dean. Before he even knew what the word “normal” felt like. Back when he didn’t bother learning people’s names because he knew he’d be gone in a week. Back when connections were liabilities, and loneliness was a constant, low-grade hum he just learned to tune out.
He watches Noah now—standing alone on the balcony during one of Jess’s parties, arms crossed, eyeliner smudged from the heat, gaze fixed somewhere far away—and feels a weird ache in his chest.
He knows that posture.
Knows what it’s like to live half in the world and half outside it, afraid to get too close in case it all burns down.
It’s not that Noah seems unfriendly. They’re just... guarded. All armor and angles, like if they let anything soft show, it’ll be used against them.
Sam gets that too.
He used to think survival meant keeping everything locked up tight.
That opening up was reckless. That the second you let someone see you, the clock started ticking on how long it would take for you to lose them.
He doesn’t know Noah’s story. Doesn’t know what made them this way. But he knows what it feels like. And for the first time, the distance between them doesn’t feel personal.
It feels familiar.
Like looking into a mirror from a few years back.
Noah’s absences start stretching longer.
First it was a few days. Then a full week. Then almost two.
They vanish without a word, and no one seems to notice but Sam and Jess—and Jess is trying not to worry, but he can tell she is.
She sends them texts. Leaves messages. Even asks around a little. “They probably just need space,” she says with a forced smile. “You know how they are.”
But Sam sees the unease under her voice. The way she lingers by the library steps after class, glancing around like she expects Noah to materialize out of the fog. They don’t.
Sam tries not to let it get to him.
It’s not his business. They’re not friends. Hell, he’s pretty sure Noah hates him. Or at the very least, wants absolutely nothing to do with him. He’s never said more than ten words to them, and half of those were awkward attempts that landed like bricks.
Still... he worries.
He shouldn’t—he knows that. But he does.
Because disappearing people? That’s a thing he knows too well.
And it never means anything good.
Because people who pull away like that usually aren’t just tired or busy or overwhelmed. People who vanish in pieces are often the ones carrying the heaviest secrets. The ones bleeding under the surface.
And because part of him is starting to wonder if there’s something else going on. Something darker than what Jess’s friends would ever guess.
It doesn’t help that when Noah does show back up, they look thinner. Not dramatically—but hollow around the eyes. Their eyeliner is still sharp, but it sits over skin that looks washed out. Haunted. There’s a new mark near their collarbone, faint but visible for a second before their hoodie hides it.
Sam knows what bruises look like.
Noah brushes past him in the hallway and doesn’t say a word.
Doesn’t meet his eyes. Doesn’t even flinch this time—and somehow, that’s worse. It’s like they’ve already accepted he’s a ghost in their periphery.
Nothing worth reacting to.
But Sam watches them disappear down the corridor, backpack slung tight to one shoulder like it holds something precious. Or dangerous.
And he thinks:
Something’s wrong.
He has no proof. No right to intervene.
But the feeling doesn’t leave.
And the worst part is—
He doesn’t know if he’s more afraid for Noah…
…or of what they might already know.
It’s Halloween.
Campus is buzzing with the usual chaos—cheap costumes, bad horror movies, too much candy, and people using “spooky season” as an excuse to wear fishnets in sixty-degree weather. Jess is in full pumpkin-mode, handing out mini Snickers from a Jack-o’-lantern bowl in their shared apartment and blasting Rocky Horror from her laptop.
Sam should be relaxed. Happy, even.
He will have his interview this Monday. The one for the internship that could finally—finally—set him on the path toward law school. Toward normalcy. Stability. A future that doesn’t involve salt rounds or Latin exorcisms.
And it went well.
Really well.
For once, it feels like the life he wants is right there. He can almost touch it.
So yeah—he’s in a good mood. Or, at least, he should be.
But when he sees Noah across the quad, the buzz of contentment falters.
They’re in costume, technically. Black trench coat, silver jewelry that looks antique, and eyeliner darker than usual, smudged deliberately. It wouldn’t be weird if it weren’t so... normal for them.
If it didn’t look more like armor than fun.
Everyone else looks like they’re pretending.
Noah looks like they aren’t.
Sam thinks—they’re always pale, but tonight it’s like they’ve been drained of something. Their eyes flick constantly, like they’re tracking shadows. They keep flinching at loud sounds, jerking like they expect something to come tearing out of the dark.
And Sam isn’t sure what it is—fear?—but it doesn’t feel like stage fright or social anxiety. It feels... sharper.
Like when you’re walking through the woods and realize you’re being watched.
Jess waves them over from the porch, already a little tipsy in her nurse hat and fishnets. “Noah! You look so cool! Come sit with us!”
They smile—small, tense. The barest lift at the corner of their mouth.
It isn’t real.
Suddenly he’s standing in their apartment. It's night. The air smells like burning sugar and something wrong. The lights flicker. There’s blood on the wall—her blood— Jess is screaming—
He sees her burning.
Sees her pinned to the ceiling. Eyes wide and dead and staring straight through him.
He tries to run to her. Tries to move. But it’s like his feet are in cement.
And then she ignites.
Everything is fire and smoke and screaming and—
He jerks back into himself like someone dumped ice water over his head.
Noah linger for a minute near the edge of the party crowd, drink untouched, gaze restless. Then they turn and walk away before anyone can stop them.
Jess makes a soft noise of disappointment.
Sam doesn’t say anything.
And suddenly, the night feels colder than it should.
He wraps his arms around Jess. Smiles when she kisses his cheek. Tells himself he’s being paranoid.
But when he looks out into the dark again, there’s no sign of Noah.
Just leaves rustling in the wind.
It happens in the middle of the night.
Sam’s half-asleep on the couch, textbook still open on his chest, when the front door creaks open with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. He’s on his feet before his brain catches up—old instincts slamming into motion, fight or flight or shoot—
And then Dean is there.
Smirking like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he didn’t just pick the lock to his baby brother’s apartment in the dead of night.
“Heya, Sammy.”
Sam forgets to breathe.
And just like that—everything else is gone. The textbooks. The internship. The plan. Jess, warm and sleeping just down the hall.
They’re gone.
Because Dean is here. And with Dean comes Dad. And with Dad comes the life. All of it. Like a freight train crashing through the tidy, careful house of cards Sam has been building for four years.
He doesn’t think about bruises or flinches or sharp eyeliner anymore.
All he hears is Dad’s on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days.
And suddenly, the world tilts.
Suddenly, he’s nineteen again. Covered in blood. Gripping a shotgun like it’s a lifeline.
Suddenly, all that distance he put between himself and the life collapses.
He follows Dean out the door without really thinking about it.
He doesn’t wonder if Jess understood anything.
Because right now, his past has come knocking.
And everything else gets buried in the noise.