Yawning widely, you reach for another stack of books, pulling them across the library table you decided to occupy. Nearly every inch of it was covered with paper, pens, books, or a snack of some form. Pulling one book from the stack and putting it right in front of you, you push the others just slightly to the side, still within easy reach, you prop your head on your elbow and flip open the book, observing pages carefully, then flipping to another one. Normally, the books you read were purely fictional. Mysteries, fairy tales, love stories, the occasional sci-fi, stories of the paranormal. If you were really interested in a topic, you'd drift over to the non-fiction, and for pure entertainment value, the occasional graphic novel when the moment struck you.

But today's book was fairly out of the ordinary. It was photography. Although well-done photography had always fascinated you, it had never really been something you had fawned over. But earlier today, on whim, your eyes had landed on the Humans of New York book and you had read the entire thing from front to back, unable to tear your eyes away from the pages and the stories of the people that filled them. Which made you return to the photography section and select several, including pictures of "ghosts", which made you pick more paranormal books. Everything from ghosts to dragons, demons, fairies, witches, Sasquatch, wendigoes, and more.

Staring at a picture of a 'ghost' descending a set of stairs in an abandoned home somewhere on the plains, you sighed heavily. Last night had been one of the worst dates of your life. You hadn't known the guy before the date; your roommate had met him through her boyfriend (they were in the same frat) and had thought you two might hit it off. You should have known it would be a disaster when he first texted you. Here you had been, expecting your first date to be at a nice restaurant, maybe a fun event like the art festival downtown next to the botanical gardens. Instead, he suggested you meet at the bar down on Cedar Street. And not even a classy one, like the gastro pub out on the edge of town. The sleazy college bar that promoted it's "glow stick weekends".

It wasn't like you didn't appreciate the occasional crazy night out, but it usually came after a ridiculous final and nearly having a mental break from studying too hard, not a first date. No first date could be good that included having to scream at each other to hear one another. And what was even worse was trying to decide what to wear to the first date. You didn't want to wear anything that looked too desperate, but you also didn't want to wear anything that screamed, "I prefer staying at home reading than being here with you people," even if it was true. Eventually, you had borrowed a dress of your roommates, a little short but not too short, silver, sleeveless. You had spent hours doing your hair, makeup, nails, and talking with your roommate about good conversation topics. Campus sports, top music on iTunes, and the next date party, all good topics. Politics, finals, and religion, all bad topics.

You shouldn't have even prepared for the conversation, because no conversation actually happened. It was more like he talked to you while you drained drink after terrible drink and pretended to care about rush and the philanthropy battle against one of the other frats. Instead of complimenting you on your appearance, he talked about how hot the girl was two seats over from you. He had clearly not worried as much as you had about his own appearance. Pastel shorts that had splotches of food on them, a white button up shirt that appeared as if it hadn't been cleaned in a while, Sperry's. Essentially, the classic "Frat Boy" look, only messier. He had been drunk when you walked in. And after you had been basically ignored the entire time, his eyes only landing on you about once or twice the whole time, you had been ready to walk out when he threw up at your feet. You left without any plans for a future meet up.

And furthermore, you had woken up with a headache and slight buzzy feeling from the alcohol. Not enough to be considered a hangover, just enough to be annoying. And so rather than sit in your dorm room, pouting for the rest of the day, you had dressed comfortably for the cooler weather in jeans and a sweater, gathered your bag, a bottle of water, and a large package of trail mix, and made your way to the library. So now, despite how shitty the date was, instead of being purely angry, you were disappointed and tired and depressed. Just once you'd like for a guy to pay attention to you for something other than homework.

You caught movement out of the corner of your eye and couldn't help but sit up a little bit straighter. He was sitting at the table next to yours, but facing the opposite way, giving you the perfect view of his face. And what a perfect view it was. His hair was longer than you normally liked, but on him it was perfect. His eyes were a gorgeous hazel, with long, thick lashes. And when he opened a rather worn journal, flipped a few pages, and laughed softly, his smile was perfect too. When he looked up from the journal to meet your eyes, you looked back down at the book quickly. No reason to be creepy about it.

However, the longer you sat flipping through your books, the more you noticed the way he'd glance over at you, and then back down at his own stack of books. He had nearly as many books pulled from the shelves as you did, which was surprising considering most guys around here hated reading. They'd grab one book, struggle through extracting information from the text, half-ass their citing, and get the rest of their sources from online and use an online citing generator to do the rest of the work for him. But him, he had ten, fifteen books, a ratty journal, and a newer notebook that he appeared to be halfway through, meaning he wrote quite a bit. He had his head propped on his left hand, yawning occasionally. Jesus.

When he glanced up again, you stood quickly and walked past his table, as if you had just happened to look up and were passing by the way that he just happened to have been seated. His eyes followed you as you ducked around a bookshelf, letting out a sigh of relief and…desire? Immediately you began berating yourself. The last thing you needed to do was fall for a guy that was gorgeous and in a library. Chances were he'd end up being a clear version of the guy you were supposed to have a date with last night that went so terribly. Guys that aesthetically pleasing weren't interested in girls like you, unless it was for help on homework.

Letting your fingers trail across the books, pausing every now and then to stand on your tiptoes so you could peek through the books (again, a little creepier than you wanted to be), you ducked down quickly when his cell phone rang. "Okay, so you're creepy and you're spying now? Now wonder you don't have a boyfriend."

"Hey Dean. No, I haven't found anything yet." A pause, a heavy sigh, "Yes, I've been looking. But the book that I'm looking for isn't on the shelf which means that someone else here has it or it's missing, because it's not showing on the online system as having been checked out. Yeah, it's called Morte Pecorum. So until I figure something else out, you'll have to keep talking to people." Another frustrated sigh, "Yes. I know. Bye."

And then dropped the phone, rather heavily on the table and groaned his head in his hands. He really did look exhausted. Slipping quietly out the far end of the bookshelf and dropping back into your seat, you picked up the stack of photography books to add to the stack of paranormal books you had already flipped through. Pushing them away, your eyes caught on to the dusty red one towards the middle of the stack. Doing your best to pull it out without upending the rest of the stack, you froze with it in your hands. Morte Pecorum. Whatever it was that he was looking for, you had it. Which meant you held all of the power it took to get him to talk to you. So why was it, when he stood up and stretched, then walked over to stand in front of you, you hid the book in your lap?

"Hi, sorry to bother you," he said softly, glancing around to assure he wasn't interrupting anyone else's study sessions. "I noticed that you had a few paranormal books over here, and I'm working on a paper for one of my classes and was wondering if you would mind if a borrowed a few? I promise I'll bring them right back."

Instead of speaking, you nodded shyly and gestured for him to take whatever he needed, pulling a notebook in front of you and ducking your head so that your hair fell around your face like a curtain. So now you were hiding? Fantastic. As he took a stack and went back to his table, you dropped your head to your own and muffled a groan. Now you appeared socially inept. Good job, dummy.

But for whatever reason, instead of looking at you like you were weird (like you would have done to yourself), he smiled equally as shyly and looked back down at the books, flipping through them with a serious expression taking over. Suddenly, a plan popped in your head. Definitely more of the type of plan your roommate would come up with than you, but you were willing to give it a shot. So standing quickly, you gathered all the books you had pulled, expect for the paranormal books he didn't take and the red one you knew he was looking for, and dumped them on a reshelving cart. Then you took the left over books, gathered them in your arms, grabbed your bag with your spare hand and draped it over your shoulder, tucking the trail mix and your water bottle in its opening, pushed in the chair, and walked confidently across the few feet that lay between his table and yours.

You put your books down at the spot across from him, dropped your bag on the floor beside the chair, and sat down, grabbing your notebook and flipping it open; you glanced up with a grin. The confusion on his face shifted slightly, though he still hesitated to say anything.

"Wh-?"

"Well I figured if we were just going to spend the rest of the afternoon staring at each other, it might be easier for both of us if I just sat across from you."

For a moment, you thought he was going to roll his eyes, but instead, he laughed, clapping a hand over his mouth. Then with a grin he tried, and failed, at suppressing, he nodded slowly. "Fair enough."

You hesitated, and then added, "So I'm not trying to sound creepy, but while I was over there," you turned and pointed at the shelf behind you, "Looking for a book, I heard you mention to someone that there was a book you were looking for. And I clearly have like…half the paranormal section. So I might still have it. Unless you found it in the stack you already took."

"I didn't," he said quickly, his gorgeous eyes flicking to the books. "I was hoping it would be, but so far I haven't found quite what I'm looking for."

"What exactly are you looking for?"

He watched you for a moment, clearly weighing through a couple decisions in his mind, and then with a faint blush creeping over his features, he said softly, "I need to figure out how to kill a siren."

"A siren?" you asked, confused. "Like…A mermaid that kills sailors, siren?"

"Not exactly," he said, leaning forward. "At least, not from what I've found out. I mean, in mythology, yes. But in some other things I've read, I think they can exist on land. Shapeshift. And so I have all of this information, how they bite people and infect them and end up killing them, but I can't figure out how to kill them and it's driving me nuts."

While he was talking, you began nodding, flipping back through your notebooks. Earlier, you had read something about sirens. You had written it down because you thought it would be an excellent point to add to a story about fantasy creatures. Scanning the page, witches, werewolves, faeries…sirens. "Sirens can be killed by stabbing it with a bronze dagger coated in the blood of a sailor under its spell," you read quickly, "I'm not sure how literal that is, but it's a start."

Looking up from your notes, you noted the look of surprise on his face. "What else do you have written down?"

"How to get rid of faeries, dragons, witches, werewolves, what Sasquatch smells like, what groups have stories of sasquatch's existence…Why?"

"Nothing, he said quickly, fighting back a grin. "It's pretty rare to meet someone who likes to read. I'm Sam, by the way. Nice to meet you."

"I'm (y/n). And you too. So if you don't mind my asking," You said cautiously, glancing at his notes, "You don't actually appear to be writing a paper. More of a…hunting guide. So what are you really working on?"

"Hunting guide? What do you…Do you believe in supernatural things?"

The question was so direct it took you by surprise. "Some things, I guess. I've never seen anything personally, but I think things could exist. Why?"

"No reason," he said quickly. Too quickly. "I just find it…fascinating and thought that maybe since you have so much written down about it, maybe you did too. But anyway, can I borrow your notebook for a second? Just to write that down, I mean."

"Sure," you responded brightly, passing the notebook across the table. While he scrawled down your quoting, you decided to come clean about the book. Lifting it up, you said hesitantly, "Was this the one you were looking for? Morte Pecorum? Death of Beasts?"

"You speak Latin?" he asked quizzically as he passed your notebook back. "And no, I don't need it now. You taking notes was perfect. You're perfect."

You felt your heart jump in your chest, and as you started to explain how imperfect you actually were, he stood quickly, gathering books and carrying them to the reshelving cart and you felt your heart drop to your stomach. Of course he wasn't interested. You had helped him with whatever weird kind of homework he was doing, and he was going to leave. If you were lucky, he might offer to meet you here after his next class. That's what all the rest did. Instead, he finished gathering his things and said with a warm smile, "It really was nice to meet you. You have no idea how much you've helped me. Hopefully I'll hear from you soon."

As he walked away, you rolling your eyes behind his back, you started to shut your notebook when in the margins you saw a different ink color. You always used black, this was blue. "Call me tonight. 785-342-2828. –Sam Winchester". Even his handwriting was beautiful. As you glanced up to watch his retreating figure, you couldn't help but grin when he turned around and waved at you. Maybe he wasn't like all the other guys. And maybe you could get used to him calling you perfect. Saving the number to your phone, you covered your face with your hands and giggled.

Sam Winchester. The feeling of his name on your lips was unfamiliar, but tasted so sweet. And almost as if you could feel the future, you could tell. This, whatever this was, was going to be beautiful.