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Chapter Text

At first, Sam didn't get a roommate. Not because he was the star pupil- Mr. full ride prince with extra-smart-boy privileges. No, it was more so that Stanford didn't have students desperate enough to slum it in the poor people dorms scholars like him are “blessed” with.

 
The building looked like the renovation crew had skipped it entirely. It probably had served some other purpose back when it was built in 1885. When Stanford was originally founded. He could have sworn a cloud of dust blew into his face when he pulled open the heavy glass doors. There's no lounge area like on T.V., and besides an ancient looking table that serves as a front desk, there's only the communal showers, some water fountains and a couple sad-looking vending machines. And a door labeled kitchen, but what are the chances he’ll use that?

The kid that comes to get him introduces himself as Randy, the R.A. (his last name is not Thearae, Sam realizes upon looking at the ID that is slung around his neck, as he is the resident advisor. Which is what the R.A. stands for. Gotcha.) His hair is disheveled, he looks like he might have just rolled out of bed. After the short introduction, he leads Sam over to the ‘front desk’ and gives him a stack of paper work (the rules of the dorm, event schedules, student resources and information, a few other interesting things that Sam has yet to read), and slaps a key in his hand. He gives Sam the grand tour in an accent that sounds vaguely Thai, gesturing vaguely to the kitchen and the vending machines and the water fountains as if this were all something to behold. 
Sam's pretty sure Randy doesn't want to be showing him around right now.

Together, they make their way down the hall and up the elevator to the fifth floor, Randy spouting rules in that same monotonous tone as they approached Sam's new place for the next four years. Or at least until summer break. That prospect alone is enough to make Sam’s hands jittery with excitement. 
The R.A.’s dark head of hair stops in front of a plain wooden door to match all the others that line the hall. His room number is engraved on a more-gray-than-silver plaque stuck to the beige wall beside it.  502. That's home. The rows of doors are making him think, motel, but he immediately puts that thought out of his head. 
Things are different now, Sam. Things will be different. 

Randy doesn't bother to watch him go into the room, just shoots a quick, call the line if you need something, then he's off. Probably to go back to sleep. 
Out of habit, Sam scans the hallway, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone curious about the new neighbor. All the doors stay firmly shut. There's only that same long corridor with navy carpet and a lengthy walk from his room to use the communals. 

So he opens his door. The lock doesn't turn super easily, you kind of have to jiggle the key in the hole a little for it to work, but when the door swung open, that was it. Shouldn’t be too much of a problem, if the lockpick in his pocket has anything to say about it. 

This is home. two beds, a desk, and a closet with a door he couldn't fit through unless he turned sideways. A dilapidated nightstand. Paint that used to be white but is now some nondescript pale yellow color. He drops his bag on the bed furthest from the door out of habit, intent on unpacking what little he decided to bring with him. His entire life now consisted of what he could fit into Dean’s hand-me-down backpack, the one that didn't have duct tape on the straps.  

Three changes of clothes get folded on the closet shelf and a coverless copy of Flowers in the Attic is set fondly on the little table by the bed. A bag of toiletries -mostly stolen from Dean- goes in the top drawer, along with his wallet containing twenty three dollar bills and 2.71 in change. Some loose gum, and his bus ticket (maybe worth framing), and whatever junk he scrapes from the bottom of his bag. A switchblade. A pen. Nothing monumental. 

He makes the decision to stow away anything that he won't be needing in the near future (read: ever again) in the manilla envelope that Randy gave him paperwork in. It was stuffed fat by the time he was finished, and Sam could have laughed at the idea that a manilla folder could contain everything he had left of his old life. Something in the back of his head told him that it wasn't funny, so he didn't.

 Dad had insisted that the two brothers learn how to keep a journal, and Sam had kept his for 5 years. It was nothing special, just a regular spiral notebook that he’d shoved newspaper clippings in and poured his thoughts into until the pages were textured with ink and his jagged handwriting. Whether he was proud of that, he wasn't sure. Into the folder it went. 

Along with the gun that Dean had tucked in his brother's waistband with that look of quiet insistence. A plea. So Sam took the gun, and Dean didn’t say goodbye. Now the metal was the kind of warm guns get when they’re pressed up against skin for a while. Warmth like that could make you forget it was there. He can’t wait for the day where the weight of a gun in his jeans feels as foreign as a mother’s touch. For a day when the press of cold metal against him makes him flinch instead of relax. The gun slid against the paper with a sound like a sigh as Sam tucked it away. 
There was a stack of photos that Sam chose not to acknowledge. A stack that was already in an envelope of its own. Pictures of Dean, Sam, Bobby. Sometimes Dad. He’d even managed to snag one of Mary, from the few John keeps in his wallet.  But mostly, they were Dean and Sam. He doesn't open the envelope. Just puts it away. 

The manilla envelope sits in the dark corner at the top of the closet, and Sam vaguely recalls Randy saying something about dorm room checks every now and again. Note to self, get a lockbox or something. It would be less than ideal if Randy wandered into his room and found a gun and his knife collection just hanging out in an envelope. How detailed do these searches get anyway? He squints at the dim corner. Maybe he should just get rid of it. 

Like hell you will. A voice that sounds something like his brother's chimes from somewhere in his head. Huh. He shrugs and shuts the closet door. A problem for another day. 
And there it was. His own room. The other bed seems to breathe a sigh at the other end of the room. It was quiet, for once. Quiet without the sound of his brother’s breathing, or his father flipping through pages. Nothing human. Just the wheezing of the old building’s AC combatting California’s persistent heat. The first time in his life where he would be well and truly alone by way of his own decisions. He could deal. He could get used to this. 

His stomach gave off a low growl, reminding him of the cafeteria’s food brochure thingy he saw flipping through the stack of papers on the desk. He hasn't eaten since his last Poptart on the bus. And that was about… 5 hours ago? He could eat. 

Sam picks up his few essentials, wallet, key, phone (and key? He has his own key now, that’s pretty sick) and his beat up book. At the door, he feels his hand waiver, his gaze on the carpet. Dad would kill him if he didn't at least put down salt lines. 

Dad never wants to see me again. 

Dean would-

Sam takes a deep breath, drawing air into his lungs and slowly letting it go. Let it go, Sam. No salt lines. No guns. No wards. You’re safe here. 

He doesn't hesitate the second time his hand goes for the door. 

Chapter Text

It took a week before Sam decided it was too quiet. Without anyone else in the room, the silence was… oppressive. The lack of sound is alive, wraps itself around him until he struggles to sleep, like breathing through a wet t-shirt. When he finally closes his eyes he wakes late at night to the silence sitting on his chest. crushing him. It's suffocating.

 He's not a wuss or anything. But if he can't sleep, it'll start affecting his studies- his scholarship, his position at Stanford. All of it, compromised. 

Yeah. That's why he can’t stay here. It's not them you miss, he says, it's the white noise. 

He can't afford a white noise machine. Or a fan. or anything, for that matter. So he decides to make things easier. Moves in with a kid named Tyson Brady, from a little ways down the hall. The paperwork isn't bad, because both of them are on scholarship anyway. He drops off his key at Randy's front desk. Packs what few things he owns back into his backpack and moves to a dorm where the other bed doesn't scream at him about the negative space.

 It's cramped, living with someone else, sure  but it's nothing he's not used to. The tripping over shoes, the humming in the shower, the half-hearted ‘turn that down’s - it's all exceedingly familiar.

His new roommate is cool. Insists that Sam doesn't use his first name, smirks at him from behind a relaxed handshake. Shows Sam the leftover bed. Kicks whatever dirty clothes are on the floor closer to his bed, implying the line between their spaces by clearing Sam’s side of the room without a word.

 Brady is a diligent student, he stays up late reviewing materials and notes. The steady turning of pages, the breath of another person finally gave Sam the respite from the invasive silence that he’d craved. He sleeps hard that first night, just barely wakes for his alarm.

  Brady is nice enough, though not terribly talkative unless he had nothing better to do than chat. Which wasn't often. He was busy. On a different schedule than Sam, leaving for late classes when Sam gets back from his early ones, so they rarely see each other. They give a wave and a ‘see you around’ and Brady doesn't bother Sam more than he has to. Not that Sam didn't want to be friends. He wouldn't mind. But it didn't seem like Brady was interested and Sam is okay with that.

Which is why Sam can tell something is off when Brady plops onto his bed across the room. The bedsprings creak protest, and Brady sighs deep. Doesn't say anything, just lets out that long, deep whoosh of air. Sam glances up from his classical literature homework.

“Uh. What's up?”

“Oh, nothing much.” 

Okay? It's the weekend so it's not super weird that he's here, but normally he wouldn't stay for long. He’s always running out to hang with his friends or get dinner then sequester himself away somewhere with a micro biology textbook. Who takes micro-biology in freshman year anyway? Sam attempts to turn back to his textbook. He was in the middle of wondering whether Bram Stoker was some poor hunter whose journal got published as fiction. 

“So,” Brady starts. Sam looks up, trying to school his annoyed expression. 

“Something going on?” Sam asks, trying to be cordial. 

“Ugh, yeah, there's this project for a major grade in my history class. And of course it's a group project,” The bed creaks again as he sits back against the wall. “The first part- the like concept research or whatever- is due Monday, and I’ve already done my part. No one else has touched anything, not even the syllabus!” 

“How long have you had it?” Sam turns his chair around, abandoning Dracula on the worn desk. 

“The project? Literally the first day of class. It’s been weeks. I've already turned in my part of the slides.”

“Oh, then your grade’s safe, right?”

“Yeah, but-” There's a soft clicking noise as he messes with his phone. Flipping it open, then shutting it again. A nervous habit? A show of irritation.  

“They’ve been calling me. Like, all day. If I go meet them, they’ll just make me do everything.”

“Yeah, that sucks.” 

“I know. Hey, could you bail me out?”

“Bail you out?” 

“Yeah man, just say you'll hang out with me so I can tell them I have plans. I'll buy you a coffee.” 

“Make it dinner?" 

“Done deal. You like Chinese?” 

***********************

Well, Brady’s group wasn't very happy with him. Not that Brady acted like he cared. He gave the half-hearted excuse that he’d promised to hang out with Sam over the phone, acting like Sam was a clingy girlfriend rather than his roommate. The group’s stress was palpable over the phone, a few of the members begging Brady to cancel before he claimed Sam was calling and he had to go. Good luck! He’d said, sympathetic. 

“Good riddance. Their own damn fault.” He tosses his phone on the desk. “My ass is covered.” He pulls up Batman Begins on a very illegal, very pirated movie site. 

Cool.

 Sam hadn’t gotten around to seeing it, but now that he had, he agrees with every good review he’d ever heard about it.

Everything about this- sitting on a creaky bed, watching ill-gotten movies on a bad-quality laptop- it brings to mind every movie night he’d ever spent with Dean. If he let himself relax a little more, he could almost be convinced it was Dean throwing peas from the fried rice at Cillian Murphy. 

But it isn’t. Dean isn't here. So Sam just watches the movie and thinks that it's a good movie and nothing else. 

They aren't really ready to sleep by the time the movie is over. Too keyed up by the action, but too full from the food to actually do much more than talk. They- well brady, really- gush about the movie for a while. While it was Sam's first time watching (experiencing- Brady corrects) the movie, it's Brady’s 14th. Turns out he’s a giant DC nerd. (much like someone else Sam knows.)  Then the conversation winds into comic books and action figures and movie adaptations. Brady likes Dr. Pepper, Sam likes Coke, and while Brady enjoys a good video game, Sam knows only the arcade. 

Brady’s from middle-of-nowhere, Arizona. Sam is from nowhere in particular, (but technically) Kansas. 

You know. Getting to know each other. 

Brady knew since the beginning of time he was going to be a doctor, the kind that does bio engineering. Sam can't remember for the life of him how they got on the subject, but Brady had a 'theory'. 

"I swear, man," He'd said over a container of some garlic heavy chicken, "in the future people will be amputating voluntarily to be like freakin’ Cyborg." A chuckle. "And I'm gonna be the one stacking the bands, you know?" 

Sam only rolled his eyes. It was an easy no when Brady asked if Sam would like to be his first customer at the low low price of free. Because now they’re friends, and friends get bionic implants complimentarily. Sam rather likes his extremities, thank you very much.

Then it’s Sam’s turn to spill his life-long heart’s desire. 

“So what do you wanna be when you grow up?” Brady asks, taking a swig of his 2nd can of soda. Sam scoffs. 

“No idea.” 

“None?” 

“Not in the slightest.” It’s the truth. Despite his desperate animalistic scramble to get here- clawing his way to the perfect grades and perfect test scores through the blood and shotguns and the dying- He never actually thought he’d make it this far. Didn't think about what would happen after he scraped his knees raw crawling to safety, only that he had to get there. He’s been floating since then. Important decisions could wait until after he came off his high to encounter a non-life-threatening kind of stress. 

“Wow.” Brady whistles. 

“What?”

“I just didn't peg you for the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of guy.” 

“Hah, I’m not usually. Is it that easy to tell?” 

“Dude. You put hospital corners on your bed every morning. You’re so type A it’s painful.” 

“We-we've talked for all of five minutes. What could you possibly have me pegged for?” 

He pauses, pensive, leaning back to get a better look. His hand floats to his chin in a mockery of the thinker pose, eyes squinted. 

“An English major.” 

Sam takes a second to stare at him in disbelief. “Seriously?” 

“What? It's an accurate guess,” he reasons, “You’ve got the flowy hair and the literal only thing you keep on your nightstand is that book that you read like- a million times a day-”

Sam is laughing now, chuckles bubbling up from somewhere they haven’t in a very long time. 

“Bro. Tell me that isn’t an accurate read.” 

“Ha! Alright, alright. I guess I’ll consider it.” 

Brady nods, like he’d just given life-changing advice. “You know something?”

“What?”  

“English majors get lots of chicks, too.” 

*****************************************************

They’re well into the early hours of Sunday morning before the two of them agree it’s time for bed. They don't bother to gather up the game controllers strewn across the floor, just stuff the empty takeout containers into the trash and roll into their respective beds. 

Sam can hear him now.

 Long breaths drawn inwards. 

Four counts. 

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

A heavy exhale, quieter than the intake.

3 counts and a beat of silence when the breath is held.

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

Hold. 

The lungs inflate again. 

 He imagines the slowing of the heart, the soft twitch of limbs as someone else dreams. He’d never conceptualized it, but the thought process- the sounds that soften the load of silence. 

It puts him right to sleep. 

Chapter Text

School is great. It's amazing, really. He hasn't been this free since he spent a week in a cabin with himself, his Funyuns,  and Bones the dog.  

There are so many things to do. Everywhere he goes he has his choice of activity and class and food and whatever. It's intoxicating how many choices he has.

 If he wants to do homework, he can. If he wants to eat, he can. If he doesn't, he won't. If he wants a salad, he won't be forced to have greasy pizza or soggy gas station taquitos instead for the umpteenth time. With any luck, he’ll never have to put a gas station anything near his mouth-ever again.

Growing up with a drill sergeant for a father, Sam doesn’t remember a time when he wasn't sore. Training every morning, sparing every evening, with hunts that popped joints out of place and made you feel like you’d been run over by a bus. Can’t forget about the oodles of punishments, either. He’d done over 300 pushups once, when he was feeling particularly mouthy. So being normal and not in a constant state of being a giant walking bruise is…strange. 

Can't say he doesn't mind. Can’t say he could get used to it either. So he joins the intramural  soccer team on campus. The team goes to games on the weekends, and he doesn't have anywhere to be until late. The team is awesome, no one takes anything too seriously if they can help it. Scrimmages and new friends here and there. It reminds him of his middle school days on the rare occasion he had the chance to play. His love for the sport comes back in full force. 

Sam also goes running as much as he can. He used to hate running. Back when all running meant was that he’d done something wrong for the millionth time. But now, he can think under all the sweat and burning and it doesn't feel so much like a punishment when he decides to do it. 

 He never realized how hungry he was. How starved he was. For normalcy. For socialization. For options. He does everything that he wants and talks to all the people he wants until he's drained of energy, both physically and mentally. He’ll trek off to his dorm room and rock-paper-scissors Brady for the first shower. Brady’s about as bad at that as Dean. Then he sleeps hard, and wakes up early. Starts off the next morning with fresh vigor, and attacks the day like it’s his career. 

Sam works at the library between classes on work-study. An environment he’s very acquainted with. He does his job stamping logs and filing books, answering the rare question about where something is. But mostly, it’s quiet. He spends the abundance of downtime doing his classwork. When that's done (it’s almost too easy to finish before his shift is even halfway over) he digests every scrap of knowledge he can stuff in his brain. There are hundreds of books, maybe thousands, in that library. Though he may not be able to read them all, he might as well try. Every inch of the library is as familiar to him as the back of his hand. He’s a glutton, devouring words and concepts, and he thinks nothing of it.

 There is one section he avoids as much as the job allows. The rows of books on monsters and myth and religion call to him in a voice that sounds too much like Dean’s. Sam rolls his cart of books past them everyday, shelving the returns, fighting to keep his eyes boring into the spotty carpet in front of him. (If it were Dad’s voice, it would be so much easier to ignore.) They’re taunting him, he swears. Spines whisper the names of the things that haunted him, and the things he haunted. He always pushes the cart just that little bit harder, old wheels squeaking under the weight of books and being told to roll faster than a slow crawl. 

He distracts himself when he can. 

There are, of course, other things to occupy his attention at the library. Other than books. 

Maya, the heavily pierced girl that works with him in the library most days, calls them the ‘Sam Club’ . 

She’d flipped black and purple braids over her shoulder, looking as smug as ever.

“I know its been a process,” she said, “but through months of workshopping-”

“Its been like a week since you started this.” 

“Through years of workshopping, I've settled on the name the Sam Club!” Black chunky boots clunk against the floor as she paces behind the front desk, the sound articulated by the jangling of silver bracelets.

“It's classic, reminiscent of the name fan club, with a subtle twist to include our resident genius hunk.” 

Sam turns away from the computer he was cataloguing on to give her an annoyed look. 

“I don't speak brooding looks, Sherlock. Words!”

He sighs. She really is a fan of bad pet names. “A bit uninspired, Watson.”

Unfortunately, the name stuck. Sam had hoped that no name would stick. But alas. 

Sometimes a pretty girl walks up to the counter, asking where to find- well. Anything. Usually the bathroom, or the autobiography section (seriously, was that the only kind of book these people could remember?) or some book for some class that they probably aren't taking. Maya will give an answer, usually a finger pointed at the gigantic bathroom sign, or a curt instruction on where to find it. Nearly every time, the girl will nod like she understood, then ask Sam to show her to it. 

The bathroom girls aren't so lucky, but the smart ones asking about the books get a personal mini tour around the corner to, you guessed it- the autobiography section! Maya usually pokes Sam in the back on his way out from behind the front desk, singing  “Sam club, Sam club~”. Like they’re in grade school or something. No use trying to get revenge, the last time he tried to step on her toes, he felt the wrath of a steel toed boot. so he takes the teasing with grace and subdued (fond) irritation. 

Now, Sam's not one for casual sex. That’s more Dean's expertise. Sam is the kind of guy to really connect with someone, focus his attention and efforts on bettering their relationship, preferably intellectually before they get too physical. Becoming friends first, then growing into something more intimate.  

But he can't say he isn't sorely tempted from all the attention. Numbers shoved into his pockets and written on his hand (he doesn't ask for that, he swears it), whispers ringing in his ears. ( forget the books, I wish I could check out the guy at the counter. He’s so sweet! Have you seen that scar up his arm? Is it bad I'm kinda into that?) It’s hard to stick to his neat values when they say all that loud enough for him to hear. 

Once or twice can't hurt.

 Didn't hurt. He won’t make a habit out of it.

At night he works at the local restaurant/bar. He's not a bouncer, but he knows how to get rid of unruly customers. And there are plenty of those. Many a night, one of the waitresses will ask him to switch tables with them, twisting their fake wedding rings that don't do much to ward off the more persistent creeps. It keeps him fit enough. He waits tables and mops up vomit night after night, but the pay isn't bad and it earned him enough to buy a new laptop. 

That alone is something he's extremely proud of. He didn't steal it or dig it out of a dumpster somewhere. He might as well have - the quality was so bad- but a few tweaks here and there, and she was good as new. (She? Man he really has to stop talking like his brother.)

And the tech? John was never one for new technology. Why buy a laptop when everything you could ever need was in ye olde 50 pound encyclopedia. The one laptop they did have was one that Dean got with a five finger discount, mostly because Sam had been insisting they needed one. And despite how long they kept the old piece of junk (1998-2004, RIP), it held together for years on duct tape, a prayer, and Sam’s rudimentary MacGyvering. But at Stanford they actually valued advancement. The newest computers, the fastest tech, phones and mp3s and rental DVDs. Sam's swimming in the future. Really great stuff. 

Did Sam mention that he really loves Stanford? Because he does. 

He’d already known that from the first couple of months, even through the adjustments and the moving and the mid-terms stressing him the hell out. But it took one night for the thought to echo clearly in his mind. 

The chimes rang out above the door, letting in a gust of California's so-called winter. He saw the purple streaks in Maya’s braids first, heard the excited chatter and the clang of her signature clunky black boots. She was clinging to her boyfriend’s jacket, a quiet guy named Trevor Castillo, who looked rather plain standing next to the dark eccentricity that is Maya Bennet. Brady trailed in behind them, listening to her prattle on. They haven't seen him yet, but someone recognizes Brady, leads them to Sam's section. They crowd into the corner booth, Brady teasing about having so much space because he’s sitting alone. 

“Yeah, but the whole sitting alone thing isn’t by choice, is it?” Sam says. Brady turns his head in surprise. 

“There's the asshole,” Brady greets, a smirk on his face. “I’ll have you know I am waiting for the perfect girl!” 

“Sam! Hah, nice apron. You clean houses too? ” Of course Maya would comment on the apron. 

“Shut up,” he replies.  He greets Trevor with a handshake, who responds with a polite “good to see you man.” 

They sink into animated conversation, teasing at each other, making plans to see each other before winter break whisks them all to different places. Sam won’t be going anywhere. But the boss, Johnny, pops his head out of the back office, tells Sam that they're slow enough that he can take off if he needs to. In all honesty, Sam should wait out the drop in patrons, he needs all the money he can get. The school doesn't pay for everything during breaks. But the allure of just sitting down with a cup of bitter coffee and hamming it up with his friends has him hanging up his apron. 

It’s stupid — just a couple of college kids eating cold fries and onion rings — but something about the noise and laughter feels … solid. Something he built himself.

For the first time in a long time, Sam doesn’t feel like the hole in his chest is crying out.

The crevice is still there, don't be mistaken. But what was once raw screaming from an open wound is now an echo in a cave made up of scar tissue. It still hurts. He still wishes things could have been different. Just not as fiercely. 

The front window chimes again, blowing in another gust of cold air. The staff welcomes the customer, and Sam feels the air has changed. 

It feels like something new.

 It feels like home. 

Sam really loves Stanford.