Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or anything else from Kripke's world. I simply like to play with his toys from time to time. Don't sue me!
A/N: This story is written for Zara Zee who played the game of snaps and won. She asked for a Stanford era Sam and a story to explain why he didn't want to hunt anymore. I hope she enjoys it.
It started off as rumors, but he had brushed them off as the usual myths and urban legends that often floated through the freshman populace at any given college campus, especially now that Halloween was right around the corner.
Speaking of Halloween, that was one holiday that he could definitely do without.
Maybe it was because he had never dressed up and plunged himself into the candy induced haze as a child or maybe it had something to do with the drastic increase in supernatural phenomena on the date itself that always resulted in more hunting. Whatever the cause, Sam Winchester absolutely hated Halloween.
Unfortunately, his distaste for the creepy celebration had earned him many nicknames, most of which made Sam raise his eyebrows in annoyance or huff indignantly. However, if anyone knew - actually understood - the rituals behind the day…
He knew they'd never really get it, but that was exactly what he had wanted, wasn't it? He had chosen this life, the normalcy and tedium of day to day living. Sure, sometimes he missed the adrenaline rush of tracking down something that wasn't supposed to exist, but he would take pushing his pencil across a paper to fearing it was his last night on earth any day.
That being said, Sam hadn't jumped even once when he had heard the newest "spooky" ghost story going around campus for the year, earning himself more than his fair share of practical jokes and scares that did little more than make him shake his head and walk away.
Truth be told, Sam didn't scare very easily in general, not with the upbringing he had had. But that wasn't the kind of information he shared with his new friends. In fact, Sam was reluctant to share too much of anything with the company he kept, especially when it came to his family. It wasn't that he was ashamed of his older brother and father. Sam felt quite the contrary. However, he also knew that the less that was known about them, the better. It was the Hunter's Creed.
Soon, a few days passed and the whispered warnings floating from person to person soon disappeared under the heavy clutter of papers, tests and the usual college stress. Sam had struggled with it his first year, but found himself welcoming the burden as his second year got under way. It meant that he was that much closer to being completely normal. It meant that he was that much closer to living life on his terms.
After about three days, however, murmurs began to resurface and Sam ignored the hairs that were rising on the back of his neck to the best of his abilities. It was hard to do given the new circumstances that came with the tale this time. Apparently, a few women had been found scratched, bruised and shaken to the point of near nervous breakdowns. He rationalized the event, ignoring the nagging sensation in his gut that something more was hiding under the surface.
Statistically speaking, Palo Alto was a relatively safe city, but it wasn't completely crime free. This whole situation was probably nothing more than some psycho out there with a fetish for a pretty face and a little rough play.
Sam chewed at his nail to occupy his mind as it filled with violent worst case scenarios. Each one was just a little worse than the one before it and every one included her.
Yes, Brady had introduced him to a pretty little thing that had his tongue playing twister whenever he tried to speak. Of course, that was only after his mind could finally pull something from the blank slate between his ears to start the conversation. She was beautiful with a genuine smile and blonde curly hair that just begged to be touched. But she was also more than that too.
She was driven, proud and passionate about her studies, although Sam would be the first to admit that he didn't remember her major because he had been more focused on not making a fool of himself when she had finally told him what it was.
But she was even more than that; she personified a certain warmth that reminded him of the home life he had craved since he was a child. She was patient too, managing to calm Sam when the overwhelming stress of his schoolwork started to wear him down.
Sam was smitten with her. Jessica…something. He'd have to remember to find out her last name once he finally worked up the courage to ask her out. It was clear that she was partial to him as well, but the butterflies that worked through his system made it hard to open his mouth and ask her to dinner.
However, it was only two days later when they both sat at a cozy little table in the corner of a mom and pop style coffee shop just off campus. In the dimly lit café, they sat drinking in each other's presence while their lattes cooled in their hands until the recognizable cadence of the evening news broke the story.
A woman had finally been found dead.
Sam could no longer ignore the chill that ran down his spine or the way the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He had walked her home then, her anxiety and fear evident in the little tremors that ran through her body. He had offered to stay with her once they reached her place, but she had blushed and said she would be fine.
He had reluctantly left and when he'd think about it later, he'd never be sure if it was because he wanted to spend time with her or if he wanted to protect her. However, the end result was the same. He knew then and there that he wanted to be with her and all that it entailed.
His mind was slowly beginning to revert back to his former life as he walked across campus and back to his room. Little bits of information that seemed like just another creep on the prowl suddenly pulling itself into a pattern that seemed like something he probably knew how to stop.
He pushed it away with a bit of effort. After all, he had chosen to go to college to get some sense of normalcy back into his life. If it did happen to be something supernatural, there were countless hunters in the area that would be on this in no time.
However, curiosity got the best of him and by 10 o'clock that same night, he was hacking into police reports and finding names. He grimaced when he finally found the most recent attack. The victim hadn't been a college student at Stanford, but Sam recognized her as a regular attendee of university events.
Her name was Peggy Stevens, a petite woman with a loving, carefree spirit that always had a smile on her face. She was the campus photographer, capturing smiles and good cheer wherever she went. Apparently, that wouldn't be happening anymore.
Sam wasn't spurred into action until another face splashed its way across TV screens on the 11 o'clock news later that night. Another face, definitely a student Sam recognized from one of his classes, had been found dead in the same place as Peggy. The police were baffled; each woman was in good health, but for some reason their bodies had just given out on them.
That's when Sam Winchester finally started crawling the web for more information. His mind was completely focused in a way that it hadn't been in a little over a year. Yes, Sam was slowly letting his hunter's instincts take control.
It took a substantial amount of hacking for him to find anything else of value, but he was starting to compose a neat little list before he gave himself a break to look it over. Five other names had popped up in police blotters throughout the entire ordeal, all of which lived on or around the Stanford campus.
So, Sam did what any solid thinking hunter would have done in his position…
He had played it smooth, appearing outside of classrooms or at club functions he ordinarily wouldn't have attended to get a moment or two with the women that had survived their attack. The more information Sam pulled in, the more he prayed the dots wouldn't form a picture.
However, the next night a string of colorful curses left his mouth in a whispered rush as the Rorschach image indeed started to make itself into a high contrast portrait.
He hadn't thought any of the women had a common tie at first; then again, that might have been wishful thinking on his part. There was no ethnic preference, no age similarities and certainly no feature that was the same from woman to woman. However, with a little more digging, Sam was able to find one well hidden, common thread.
They had all been photographers.
Pieces had started falling into place from there. Actually, it was more like hunches feeding his logic at this point, but he knew he was rusty and took what he could get.
After a grueling search, he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and allowed the information to process. The basis for this one was exceedingly simple. It was an ancient tradition followed by many of the older races throughout the world. Australian aborigines, the Mayans and even Native Americans counted themselves among the practitioners. They wouldn't allow it - the pictures and photography. They firmly believed that photographs, digital or conventional, could steal one's soul.
It was a revelation which made Sam put on his old boots and wipe the dust off of the old trunk he had shoved into the back corner under his bed. He had hoped he could avoid this here, but it was obvious that whatever was happening was getting out of control. The quicker a hunter got on the case, the sooner the deaths would stop. Unfortunately, Sam knew that he was the closest hunter in the area.
He checked twice to make sure Brady was asleep before he crept out of his bed and pulled on his Stanford sweatshirt. Tonight was the night that this creep went down. He swore it with every fiber of his being as witness. He would get rid of this thing before it harmed anyone else.
A shiver ran through his body, despite the sweatshirt he wore to brace himself against the cold. With hands in his pockets, Sam gazed around warily; he may have been rusty, but he knew when to pay attention to the warning bells that pealed loudly in his head. Even after a careful inspection of the street, however, he couldn't shake his paranoia.
Heavy footsteps ricocheted from the brick walls around him, but he knew the steel toe in his shoes would offer him some sort of protection if he needed it. Unfortunately, the cumbersome shoes were rapidly becoming a decision he regretted. His sneakers would have allowed him to jog, effectively avoiding unwanted attention as well as assisting him in his sudden desire to get to his destination as quickly as possible.
He was mentally berating himself and his decision when the noise first assaulted his ears.
A familiar growl began to gently roll through the stillness of the night and Sam did a double take as the car rounded the corner ahead of him. A beautiful, black muscle car rolled into view and Sam's heart began to pound in anticipation. He immediately recognized the purr, the sleek lines of the car's body and if he strained, he could almost swear that he heard AC/DC blasting away inside.
However, as the '67 Chevy Impala pulled past, he was both relieved and disappointed to see that the plates on vehicle didn't match the one he had committed to memory. He smiled sadly, recognizing the colors of the plate from his home state and found himself idly playing with the phone in his pocket.
It took him a moment to realize what he was doing, but by then the car was nothing more than a blur of reflected streetlight glare as it rounded another corner and pulled out of sight. However, it was in that moment that a sudden searing heat associated with anger flared through his system.
I can handle this, he thought to himself as he pulled his hand from the cloth confines and continued forward.
He hadn't seen Dean in over a year and Sam would be the first to admit that it infuriated him. Sure, he had been the one to ditch, but they had still kept in touch at first; the weekly phone calls became an after midnight ritual once the week of studying was done for Sam.
The conversations went on more or less like a well practiced dance. They laughed and exchanged stories, Sam doing his best to ignore the gasps and muffled groans of pain that echoed through the phone's speaker while Dean did his best to keep the sounds in check.
A pang of guilt soured his stomach, effectively clearing out all the pent up anger at their current lack of communication. If he had been there, Dean probably wouldn't have gotten hurt. If he had been there, Dean probably…
"Would have pushed me out of harm's way anyways," Sam muttered to himself with a definite note of frustration. He shook his head, bits of moisture shaking loose from his hair and sparkling in the yellow glow of the streetlights.
It was bittersweet living the life he had established for himself and Sam wasn't above admitting that he missed his older brother terribly. Despite never having four walls and a roof growing up, Sam had battled homesickness at first, the tension easing when he talked to Dean.
What he wouldn't give to see him now - to be able to see for himself that he was alive and well. Sam knew, of course, how to look for signs of him - the grave desecrations and police reports of strange occurrences - but to see him with his own eyes would've been an immense relief.
The tinny clanking of an empty soda can rattling down the street pulled Sam back to the present. He scanned his surroundings carefully, only allowing his thoughts to drift again after he was certain he wasn't in any immediate danger.
Yes, Sam missed his brother, but it still stung to think that Dean hadn't even tried to call him in a little over six months. Granted, Sam hadn't exactly enjoyed their last conversation. It had rapidly turned into a recruitment style call - all pleasantries until Sam heard the familiar gruff tone in the background and then his brother's voice had changed completely.
But Sam wouldn't go back now; he couldn't. As much as he loved his family, he couldn't bring himself to be one of his father's little soldiers again; his pride forbid it. He knew, especially after tasting freedom for so long, that he couldn't keep his mouth shut anymore either. He certainly hadn't been in the hunt for the glory, but it was disheartening to think that they risked their lives to hunt down the things that plagued people without so much as a thank you before they moved onto the next town in a blur of confusion and secrecy.
Somewhere in his head, Sam registered the hypocrisy of his current situation and clenched his jaw in response. What he was doing now, he argued with himself, was not the same thing. Yes, he was hunting but he wasn't going to run away once the job was done. He'd stay put and protect his new home.
A shiver ran through him, drawing him away from his thoughts once more as the fine mist that hung in the air clung to his hair and clothes. He fought the urge to pull the hood of his sweatshirt over his head knowing that it would do little more than make him look suspicious. He needed to stay off the radar. He needed to blend in.
With a few more heavy steps, Sam approached his target - the old abandoned movie theater. Spray paint of practically every shade and color adorned the building, a testament to how long the building had gone without proper patronage. Even the marquee above the doors had seen better days. There were no letters spelling out names and theater numbers. In fact, even the white plastic background was out of sorts, heavily stained with age and inclement weather.
Sam glanced around somberly, toeing the sidewalk as he did. This place looked like any other run of the mill building that had been condemned. However, this building and, to be more precise, this spot on the sidewalk was anything but ordinary.
With a slow inhale, he tried to process exactly what kind of danger he was probably placing himself in. After all, this was where each woman had been found, including the victims that hadn't escaped their ultimate fate in time. There was no way this could continue. Sam had to put a stop to it now.
His heart pounded away in his chest as he approached the entrance to the building. The doors looked almost pristine, except for a few dings and scratches that glinted if the light hit them just the right way.
As Sam approached, he noted with resignation that there was a thick chain wrapped between the door handles - one with no lock on it. All at once, a weight settled over him, one that he hadn't felt for years. If this chain had been linked together and welded into one continuous loop, there was no way he'd be able to get inside without detection. His right hand immediately ran through his hair, a subconscious gesture that had stayed with him from his childhood, as his free hand reached for the chain.
The chains clinked softly as his fingers brushed against them and after a few prods, it slipped from the door handle. Instinctively, Sam's hands dove for the metal links, but he was unable to stop them before they hit the cement sidewalk and shattered the still of the night.
Sam froze, his body ready to snap with anxiety as the night around him suddenly crystallized with clarity. He turned slowly, fearing he would be able to hear himself moving. He blinked, the silence pressing in on him from all sides, as he strained to see anyone or anything that had probably heard him at this point.
Even though he only saw the drizzle that clung to the air and glazed his surroundings, he still couldn't shake the overwhelming sensation that someone or something had heard him.
Cautiously, Sam turned his attention back to the front entrance and grasped the cool metal handle. The door groaned lowly as he tugged it open, but he did little more than cringe at the sound this time. He knew it was too late to go completely unnoticed. Sam slipped inside the dark confines of the building and pushed the door closed behind him; it slid seamlessly back into place without so much as a sigh.
Sam chuckled bitterly at the door's quiet acquiescence while he waited for his eyes to adjust. He was completely engulfed in darkness, a harsh reality that made him fight the urge to blink furiously to adjust to the gloom. That was a lesson Sam had learned the hard way when he had first started hunting. If it hadn't been for Dean, Sam probably would've suffered more than just the contusions to his chest and the fractured ribs.
Harsh words echoed through his memories as his father chewed him out for his carelessness. Looking back, Sam knew that his father hadn't actually been angry with him that night. He had been scared - terrified.
John Winchester had nearly lost his youngest son that night.
The atonal sound of water leaking from the ceiling drew Sam's mind's ears to what he should have been listening for in the first place. Mentally berating himself, Sam tried to stretch his awareness as indistinguishable objects started to form in front of his eyes. He knew he could rely on his other senses for the time being; however, Sam was nearly reeling with the overload of information his brain was trying to process.
The pungent aroma of mildew mixed with the damp air Sam had managed to drag in with him wasn't helping that much either. It wasn't that unlike the smell of Bonesy - the golden retriever he had called his own for a whole two weeks - after getting caught in the rain and yet it was far more acrid. Unfortunately, it left a bitter taste in his mouth, even with the steady breaths in and out through his nose.
He chanced a few steps forward, the soles of his boots scuffing the ground beneath his feet as well as crunching over a few things Sam was pretty sure he didn't want to identify. Somewhere ahead, he registered the familiar sound of traffic driving by an emergency exit.
I probably could've gotten in that way too, he thought to himself with some remorse.
His eyes slowly began to adjust to the darkness, but even without his vision, Sam would've known he was approaching a wall. The air seemed to swirl in place, a subtle contrast to the air moving near the doors he had walked through moments ago. His hand flitted across the surface of the poster before his eyes had a chance to see it, but once he did he smirked. Of course he would find a poster for Shutter in a theater haunted by a spirit ensnared in a photograph.
At least, he hoped it was as simple as a spirit still bound to this plane of existence.
Sam continued slowly, papers and various debris making the floor a bit of a hazard even though his eyes had adjusted fairly well. His hand skirted the rounded wall of the theater lobby as he walked, ensuring that he wasn't simply walking in circles and getting himself lost.
His hand flew to his face, shielding his eyes from a sliver of light that fell into his eyes. He cussed under his breath and squinted through the shadow created by his hand. What he saw left him momentarily baffled.
One of the theaters was in use.
Without hesitation, Sam charged into the theater. His heart pounded away in his ears as he sprinted, the wall to his left growing shorter following the rows of stadium style seats. He was still running when he first saw the screen.
There was a woman and not just any woman. One Sam knew from the football games and even the concerts he had attended on campus.
"Oh, God," he huffed, sprinting slowing to a jog. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her vacant expression, even as his jog became more of a walk and finally he stood facing the screen in shock behind the last row of seats. His words were breathy when he managed to find his voice.
"Peggy."
Milliseconds after the words left his mouth, Sam noticed others wandering aimlessly in the darkness somewhere behind the woman he recognized. His eyes widened as he began to count them. The panic that began to zip along his nerves came only after his tally entered the 20s and Sam realized he was in way over his head.
He was groping for his phone, eyes still glued to the figures milling about absently, when the figure crept into the theater. Had Sam been paying attention, he would have seen the shadow as it slithered towards him, twisting and warping as it moved. He would have felt the sharp drop in temperature as the creature slid into the room and stalked towards him soundlessly.
Sam's phone chirped away at his ear, competing for attention over the steady rhythm of his heart. Even if his ears weren't otherwise preoccupied, he never would have heard the thing behind him as it lifted something dark and metallic from the ground.
The last thing Sam saw was the vacant stare of Peggy Stevens as she turned to look at him before something heavy and cold cracked against the side of his skull. As he slumped to his knees, eyes blurry and unfocused, he struggled to face his attacker which stretched and warped before his eyes and made his stomach churn.
As Sam's eyes fluttered and finally closed, he faintly registered a familiar, comforting voice somewhere just beyond his head.
"Hey, this is Dean Winchester. Lea-"
And that was the last thing Sam heard before his body lost the fight to stay conscious.
"Sam. You hear me, dude?"
Sam felt as if he were trying to swim through taffy; his limbs were heavy and useless as he struggled to move. The strange thing was, the harder he fought to lift his arms, the harder it was to get his appendages to obey. He squirmed slightly in an attempt to get himself back in control of his body.
"Whoa. Easy, Sammy. Just… Just stay still, alright?"
The words bounced around wildly inside his head as they tried to find purchase somewhere within his gray matter. It was painful, the terms pulsing out of time with the cacophony buried between his ears. Sam groaned loudly screwed his face tightly together as the sensation jostled his brain from the inside out. He squirmed again, trying to get his lethargic limbs to cooperate and to ease the agony.
"Sam. Knock it off!"
It was a harsh bark that made his head throb in tandem with his heart, but Sam felt himself respond without second thought. Tension gushed from his muscles and at once, what could only be described as a pick axe buried in his skull became a little more tolerable. He took in a slow, deep breath and the fog surrounding his mind slowly began to thin.
Heat greeted him first, caressing and sliding comfortingly along his aching limbs. He shivered slightly and realized sluggishly that he was somewhere dry, warm and comfortable. He was definitely not in the movie theater anymore.
Sounds of shifting springs and the undeniable rip of fabric burrowed into Sam's head, distracting him from the comfort the warmth surrounding him had offered. The pain worming it's way through Sam's skull intensified and he began to move again; this time, he was successful.
"Nnngh," Sam groaned as his hand started a sloppy path for his head.
"Nooooo," came the curt, patronizing reply. A coolness engulfed Sam's wrist, simultaneously causing him to tense his muscles in an effort to pull away. He heard the sigh followed by the worry ridden chuckle and Sam felt himself relaxing. He knew those mannerisms, but just how did he…
"D'n?" asked Sam, with a heavy slur to his words, as he struggled with the arduous task of opening his eyes.
It took Sam a moment to realize that he had, in fact, opened his eyes because the darkness that greeted him was no different than the inky blackness that lived behind his lids. A petrified numbness trickled it's way through his system and adrenaline surged through his veins, suddenly putting everything around him into perfect clarity.
"Holy shit. I'm blind!"
"Sam? Sammy. C'mon, man. You gotta relax."
A soft glow popped up in front of Sam's eyes and he winced against the new intruder. However, after a few blinks, Sam risked the discomfort and glanced in the general direction that the voice he knew so well had come from.
It was all so familiar - the leather jacket; the hair tussled and gelled just the right way; even the cocky smirk was there.
"Dean," Sam managed at long last.
There was a coarse chuckle and the light vanished just a suddenly as it had appeared. The small snap that accompanied it's disappearance told Sam that Dean had used his cell phone as an impromptu flashlight. A trick the youngest Winchester was infamous for around campus.
Dean's voice cut through Sam's thoughts.
"Heya, Sammy. Long time, no see," the older Winchester brother stated with a strong pat on Sam's knee.
"Ugh," Sam started as he closed his eyes, "What'd you use my head for batting practice or something? And it's Sam."
"Whatever you say, college boy," Dean replied, his voice a little more distant than it had been moment ago. "You had me worried there for a while."
Sam's brow furrowed and he felt the skin along his left temple pull taught at the action. He winced as his mind continued to whir away wildly. Dean had scuttled around, pulling things from the old, wrecked medical kit that both boys had become all too familiar with throughout the years.
"It was you," Sam said a bit shocked.
Dean was back by Sam's head, applying ointment and admiring the few stitches had done as he spoke, "Was me what?"
"You drove by," Sam replied softly and added as an afterthought, "with new plates?"
The thick gauze square was nearly taped in place against Sam's new stitches by the time Dean spoke again.
"You saw that, huh?" Dean asked. The rest of his statement was cut short as his brother attempted to sit up. He placed a hand against Sam's chest to keep him in place as he snarked, "Easy, tiger."
"Shut up," Sam shot back without thought and soon Dean's hands were helping him right himself instead of pinning him to…
…where exactly were they?
"Uh, Dean?"
The Winchesters locked eyes and in that one moment, a million thoughts were exchanged without anything ever needing to be verbalized. However, it was the Winchester wearing the arrogant smirk, softened a bit by genuine concern, that broke the moment first.
"C'mon, Sammy. Don'tcha recognize her?" Dean asked as he awkwardly slipped off his jacket and rolled it into a tight ball. After a few seconds, he propped it against the passenger side door and Sam leaned against it gratefully.
Sam paused for a moment, his eyes trailing the inside of the car he had practically grown up in. He sighed with relief as the overwhelming sensation of safety that the 30-some-odd year old car had to offer crested over him. Even the burning pain of the fresh stitches along the side of his head seemed to dull.
"I gotta say, Sam. Sure took you long enough to get here," Dean started as the familiar jingle of his keys mingled with his voice, "Hell, I thought you'd never show and I'd have to do it all myself. I mean, I did anyways… "
Sam opened his eyes and looked over at Dean who had, by this point, managed to place everything unnecessary into the front seat and was attempting to contort himself into the driver's seat. Obviously, Sam had dozed off for a moment.
"What do you mean it took me forever?"
Sam watched with some amusement as Dean struggled to get himself into the front of the car. However, despite the hilarity of the situation, Sam couldn't help but notice the way his brother's shoulder's stiffened as soon as he was situated. It wasn't until Dean's grip seemed to loosen around the Impala's steering wheel before he white knuckled it in his grasp that Sam realized exactly what must have happened.
"Dean? Have you… Have you been shadowing me?"
"Sam, I just though-"
But Sam wasn't listening anymore. He hoisted himself up, anger flooding his system and overriding the pain and fatigue that had been there moments ago.
"How long?"
"Sammy…"
"I said, 'How long?'"
Seconds ticked by, but the heaviness with each one only made the situation worse. Dean took in a breath and Sam knew he was holding his own when his brother finally spoke.
"About two weeks."
The words stung worse than Sam had anticipated and he swallowed around the lump in his throat a few times before he felt he could actually speak.
"And you didn't think to just… Ask me to hunt?"
A few more seconds passed before Sam couldn't take it anymore. The younger Winchester watched as Dean twisted awkwardly in the driver's seat, as he tried to stop his baby brother from opening the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk.
But Sam was already gone, walking down the same rain drenched sidewalk he had trekked earlier in the night. He knew he shouldn't be, especially not with what was probably a concussion wreaking havoc on his brain, but Sam didn't care. He had left his family once already, because they had babied him to the point of embarrassment.
And with that bitter thought in his mind, Sam vowed to never hunt again so long as he lived.
TrebleMaker
