Sam was finally happy.

For once, there were no salt circles drawn around cheap motel beds, no flickering neon signs buzzing through thin walls, no half-empty bottles of whiskey on cracked dressers—just the soft hum of a dorm room fridge and the faint laughter of other freshmen drifting through the hallway outside.

He’d done it. He’d left. He’d gotten into Stanford, his acceptance letter crisp and real in his hands when he’d first arrived—proof that he could be something more than a hunter, more than John Winchester’s son, more than Dean’s shadow. Proof that he could be Sam.

And then there was you. Somehow, impossibly, beautifully, you. You’d collided with him on the quad his first day, both of you weighed down by suitcases and uncertainty. One awkward laugh, one shared complaint about overpriced textbooks—and that was it. The match was struck, the candle lit. You were his first real friend here. Then his best friend. Then… something that didn’t quite have a name, but it was warm, and soft, and safe.

Now you were lying together on your narrow dorm bed, the sheets rumpled, your legs tangled like vines. Sam’s head rested on your shoulder, the ends of his too-long hair brushing your jaw every time he turned to grin at you. He laughed at your terrible jokes—loud, sharp bursts of laughter that bounced off the cheap dorm walls and made your stomach flip.

You were playing The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild on your old DS, thumbs tapping buttons as your eyes darted across the screen. He watched you with a lopsided smile, chest blooming with something bright and boyish when he noticed your horse’s name—Sammy. You’d named your virtual steed after him, and now every time you whistled for it in-game, he’d chuckle and press a shy kiss to your temple.

Your touches were constant but gentle: his big hunter’s hands curled loosely around your wrist, your fingers ghosting along the hem of his shirt. Sometimes he’d push your hair out of your eyes; sometimes you’d tug at his to annoy him, grinning when he grumbled half-heartedly.

No one else knew—about the way you brushed lips together in sleepy goodnights, about the kisses stolen between lectures if the hallway was empty, about how sometimes, when the nightmares clawed at him and the weight of his old life pressed too hard against the door, you’d hold his face in your palms until the ghosts fled.

In this small, golden hour—your dorm room smelling faintly of instant ramen and cheap cologne—Sam Winchester was just Sam. Not a soldier. Not a runaway. Not a son who left. Just a boy in love, laughing into your shoulder as your DS beeped and your horse named Sammy carried Link safely through Hyrule.

For once, finally, he was happy.