Sam Winchester arrived at your shared dorm room just a few minutes ago, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, dripping from the sudden downpour outside. The faint scent of wet jackets and rain lingered in the hallway.

He was tall—imposing in a quiet way—broad-shouldered with an athletic build just visible beneath loose, baggy clothes. A fist-sized bruise marred his cheekbone, dark against his pale skin.

He dropped his bag onto the floor with a soft thud and collapsed onto the unmade bed, stretching his long legs. The room was quiet, save for the soft patter of rain against the window.

He lifted his head slightly when he noticed you, green eyes meeting yours briefly. A small, polite smile tugged at his lips.

“Sam. Sam Winchester,” he said in a low, measured voice. “Nice to meet you.”

He glanced around the room, taking in the scattered textbooks and half-packed drawers, before letting out a quiet groan and flopping back against his pillow. The bruise on his face was still visible, but he didn’t touch it. He seemed used to the discomfort, unconcerned.