Devon left her computer lab at 12:33. She had gotten two steps out of the building when something grabbed her. She didn't even have time to scream before she was ripped to shreds.
Rachel left her computer lab at 12:46 and found the remains by stepping squarely on the brain.
She stared at the blood and gore, mouth open. What the hell? What was all that? She refused to believe what she was seeing.
Then her eyes got through to her. She knew what it was. It was a body. Horribly mangled, yes, but a body.
She pulled her phone out of her bag, taking deep breaths to calm her palpitating heart. She pressed the buttons with fingers that shook so badly she misdialed the first three times she tried. Finally, she got the number right.
"911, what is your emergency?"
The news vans showed up within ten minutes of the police arriving.
Sam and Dean had just wrapped up a vengeful spirit that had been haunting the tourist trap named after her. The Belle Boyd house was smack dab in the center of town; Belle Boyd had been murdered by the Union troops she'd been spying on during the Civil War. The hamlet known as Front Royal was, with 13000 people, the largest town for forty miles in any direction. The biggest store within town limits was a K-Mart, which Dean and Sam had gawked at. That business had gone belly-up almost a decade prior, but here it still thrived.
Sam fiddled with the radio dial - the town was so out-of-date the motels didn't even have televisions - and paused when he found something other than static. It was on one of the pauses that he first heard about the murder. A talk show was discussing it, and Sam had to concentrate to be able to understand their accent. As he and Dean had learned quickly, the place made up for its lack of geographical Southness with an overabundance of redneck culture.
"Earlier today, a local girl got a grisly surprise outside her college. Rachel was just leaving her programming lab when she found her roommate torn to ribbons. Police have picked her up as the most likely suspect and she's being questioned now."
"Now, Billy, I don't believe Rachel had anything to do with it."
"Why's that, Joe Bob?"
"I know that girl. Rachel's been an honor student her whole life, dual-enrolled college credits, made it to the national spelling bee. She's a good girl."
"Good girls go bad, Joe Bob. Over to Stan with the weather."
Sam turned off the radio and opened a new internet tab just as Dean came out of the bathroom. A quick search told Sam all he needed to know. "Get packed," he told Dean. "New case. Girl comes out of computer lab and findsher roommate shredded."
"You sure it's one of ours?" Dean asked.
"Look at the photos, Dean." Sam turned the laptop around. "That look human to you?"
Dean studied the article for a moment. "Guess not. All right, let's get out of this hick place. If I see another Confederate flag, I'll punch the dude."
"You and me both."
Rachel twisted uncomfortably in the metal chair. Her hands, cuffed to the table, made it even more difficult for her to crack her back the way she needed.
"Just tell us what we want to know," the detective across from her said wearily. They'd been locked in this room for hours already, and he wished she would just break. They had her at the crime scene covered in the victim's blood. They knew Rachel didn't like living with the vic. Motive and opportunity meant the case was open and shut. Phoning it in had just been an attempt to shift suspicion off herself.
"I have," Rachel insisted, shifting again.
"You know what those shifts are called?" the detective asked her. He leaned forward. "They're called tells. Every time you shift, you're lying. You're a bad liar, Rachel."
"I'm not lying," she insisted. "My back hurts."
He laughed. "You expect me to believe that? You're nineteen."
"And I have metal rods in my spine, my hips are degenerating, and I haven't had a day without pain in five years."
"Yeah. I totally believe that."
"You wanna see the scar?" Rachel challenged.
"Yes, actually."
"Then lift up the back of my shirt. It's right there, bright pink and shiny. Straight down the middle."
He stood up and circled behind her. She couldn't help tensing as she felt his hands on her. She hadn't actually expected him to look. She had always hated this ritual, hated never being believed, hated having to put her body on display to prove she was actually hurt.
He tugged her shirt up to reveal her back. Just as she'd promised, the scar ran down the center of her back, the skin puckering around the incision site from so many years before. He jabbed a finger right in the center and Rachel gasped, arching forward, clenching her teeth shut tight to keep from screaming, her eyes closed to hold back the tears.
He removed his finger and Rachel slumped forward, panting. Tears streamed down her face. She would be one of the unlucky few who continued to have problems with a spinal fusion years after the fact.
He pulled her shirt back down and sat across from her again. She forced herself to sit up straight. She'd be damned if she let him intimidate her. "Satisfied?" she asked, proud of how her voice barely shook.
"Yes. Now, tell me what I want to know."
"I have nothing else to say," Rachel said, exasperated. "I already told you. I came out of the building. I stepped on something. I looked down. I called 911. That's it. That's all that happened."
"And I suppose you just happen to have someone who can put you somewhere else at the time Devon was killed."
"A roomful of people, actually. Devon left fifteen minutes before I did, and she was alive. My TA and twenty people who were also in the lab can vouch for that."
"And can they vouch for when you left?"
"The TA can. We have to print something out before we leave, and it's time-stamped."
"I'll follow up with him." The detective rose and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Rachel slumped forward, grinding her teeth. Her back was on fire, pain radiating out from where the man had dug his finger in. Rachel knew it had likely only been a light poke, but her nerves were so sensitive that leaning against a wall could put her in tears.
That wasn't to say she was a wimp, or that her pain tolerance was far below average. In fact, she could tolerate pain better than most; hell, her appendix had been bursting and scarring over every six months for close to five years before she even realized her abdomen hurt. Once they'd gotten her appendix out, several of her health problems had cleared up, but the doctors didn't believe that she hadn't noticed appendicitis. They had run all sorts of tests before giving up and sending her home.
But touch the middle of her back and she was done. She twisted again, trying to get that crack that been eluding her, but gave up when the door opened once more.
The same detective as before walked in, but this time he was accompanied by two men. One was slightly shorter than her older brother - maybe 6'4" - and had brown hair that curled down beneath his ears. He was looking at a file with dark brown eyes. The other was about three inches shorter and had his dark hair cut very short. His light green eyes took in every detail of the room.
"Your story checked out," the detective said, "but these nice FBI agents would like to talk to you."
"Can we get her uncuffed, please?" the taller man asked. The detective scowled as he freed her. Rachel had no idea what she'd done to piss him off so much. The agents waited until he'd left to sit down.
"Rachel, I'm Agent Deacon," the taller man said. "This is my partner, Agent May. We have some questions, if you don't mind."
"I don't really have a choice here, do I?" Rachel said. Something was off about these guys.
Deacon looked down and smiled. "No, I guess you don't."
May leaned forward. "Did you notice anything strange when you walked out?"
Rachel stared at him. "Other than my roommate smeared on the ground?" Her voice shook again. With everything that had happened, she still hadn't processed what she'd seen.
May laughed outright. Rachel frowned. Something was definitely wrong.
"Can I see your badges?" she asked. Her dad had worked with the FBI before, and she'd met some of them. She knew the type of people who worked for the FBI, both from experience and from her father's stories, and they didn't laugh or answer facetious questions during interrogation.
May and Deacon pulled out their badges from their suits and flipped them open. She reached for May's. She didn't have much experience with the badges, but they certainly looked legitimate. She missed the look passed between the agents while she examined the badge and ID card. It looked real enough, but something was still screaming at her.
Of course. "Why would the FBI be called in on a murder?" she asked, wiggling again. She felt her spine crackle.
Deacon said, "It's not the murder that concerns us so much as it is the way it was committed."
Rachel nodded. She didn't think people got pulped on a regular basis.
She also didn't think these guys were on the level, but she couldn't really ask to call their field office. She handed May his badge back.
"That was very thorough-" he began.
"But I forgot to ask about the field office, I know," Rachel said. "Not like I can really trust whatever number y'all give me if you're fake, and I don't have a phone on me, so."
"If we're fake," Deacon repeated.
"If you're FBI, I'll eat myself," Rachel said flatly. "I'd be surprised if you were law enforcement at any level."
"Oh, really? And why do you say that?" May asked.
"My dad worked for the feds. My mom works for county. You think I don't know fake fibbies when I see 'em?" Rachel was slipping back into how she spoke back home and swore at herself. She knew she was tired when she lost track of how she spoke.
May and Deacon looked at each other and shrugged. "Let's talk elsewhere," Deacon suggested.
Rachel got her bag back from one of the uniforms and followed the two men outside to a black car. She looked at them, eyebrows raised. "You really think I'm stupid enough to get into a car with two men I barely know when nobody knows where I am or when I'm supposed to be somewhere?"
The men traded looks. Rachel's frustration grew. "Tell me your names, at least."
The short man started laughing. "I like this one, Sammy."
The tall man twisted his head, obviously annoyed. "I'm Sam. Dean's the short one."
"You're just freakishly tall," Dean retorted.
"So - and this may be none of my business, I just want to get the lay of the land - are you dating or just close?" Rachel was surprised by her boldness. She was usually much quieter; on any other day, just being around two men would be enough to send her running, but she had used up her anxiety reserves for the day. All that was left was a burning curiosity.
"We're brothers," Dean said at the same time Sam asked, "Why does everyone think we're sleeping together?"
Rachel smiled. "Because you're closer than friends and look nothing alike." She pulled out her phone and turned it on.
"Fine. We've established that. Now will you please get in? We skipped lunch and we're starving."
Rachel hesitated. Stupid, she thought as she opened the door and slid into the back seat. She had barely buckled herself in when Dean started driving. She noticed neither of them wore seatbelts.
"So how did you know we weren't FBI?" Sam asked.
"Like I said: I know FBI when I see them. Your hair's too long, you both have a sense of humor, your aliases were from Queen, of all things, and you don't seem incompetent," Rachel said bluntly. Sam started laughing.
Dean just shook his head. "Are you drunk?"
"When would I have had time to get drunk?" she asked. She was feeling pleasantly vague.
"You're acting like you're drunk," Dean shot back, "slurring your words like that."
"I'm just tired. It's been a long day." That was only half the truth, but she'd be damned if she told them the rest. Dean pulled into a Biggerson's and parked.
"Let's talk in here," Dean said. "It's only four. The place is empty."
They got out of the car. Rachel stood up and finally felt the middle part of her back crack. Dean and Sam turned to look, Sam's hand already on the gun strapped to his hip. "What was that?" Dean asked.
"Relax. That was me," Rachel said. They looked at her.
"Explain?" Dean asked.
"My back's messed up." Rachel left it at that.
"But...you're young."
She smiled. "Welcome to the wonderful world of lifelong problems. Now, if you don't mind, I haven't eaten today, either."
Dean locked his car door and Rachel followed them in to the restaurant. Once they all had their food and were sitting in the corner furthest from the counter - Rachel with her back to the wall, just like she always did - she started rummaging through her bag and pulled out a medicine bottle. She shook two into her hands thought a moment, and added one more. She threw them into her mouth, popped the top off her drink, and swallowed half the cup.
Sam had reached for the bottle. "Methocarbam," he read.
"Painkiller," Rachel explained, "and the very definition of 'a bitter pill to swallow'."
"So you're telling us that you're on prescription painkillers," Dean said, an edge to his voice, "and you didn't think to tell us?"
"Is there a reason I should have?"
"Is there a reason you're taking three times the dose you're supposed to?" Sam asked, voice also hard.
Rachel rolled her eyes and grabbed the bottle back. "I have a high tolerance. Two is the minimum, and after that chair, the whole bottle probably wouldn't help. Now, talk. Who are you and why are you impersonating fibbies?"
Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You've probably realized that what happened to your roommate couldn't possibly have been done in ten minutes."
Rachel gulped. Her burger, which had looked so delicious just moments before, suddenly sickened her. She put it down. "Yeah." She kept getting caught up in what was happening so she didn't have to think about stepping on her roommate's brain and finding her splattered on the concrete, but she couldn't hide from it forever.
"Well, here's the thing: it couldn't have happened in ten minutes by a human. There are other creatures that can do that."
"What, like a wolf?" Rachel asked. She suddenly remembered the time her dog had gotten attacked by a fox.
"No," Dean said. "Did your parents ever tell you monster stories?"
"Yeah, of course."
"Well, those monsters exist."
"Dean," Sam said. Rachel blinked at them mutely, wondering what kind of crazy she'd accidentally waded into.
"What? It's true. She asked for the truth."
Dean and Sam started bickering. Rachel watched them silently, mind whirling. She'd never believed in the supernatural. She'd never been able to make herself believe in ghosts, or werewolves, or God.
But that was because she'd never seen any evidence for any of them. Devon had been shredded in less than ten minutes, and the chunks were too uneven to have been done by a machine. Rachel pushed her food away from her so she could prop her head in her hands. The restaurant and the sound of the brothers' argument faded away as she dropped into her mind to think.
What could have done that to Devon? Not a person, not that quickly. Besides, there would have been footprints, and Rachel couldn't remember any. She remembered the scene, pushing away the emotions it brought with it - she could go to pieces later, when she was alone - and really thought about it from every angle. It would have taken a chainsaw to cause that much damage, but even that would have taken more than fifteen minutes. For Rachel to have seen nothing when she came out of the building, the guy would have needed at least a three-minute head start. The only thing she could think of that was able to shred a body in ten minutes was a wood chipper, and that would have turned everything into a fine mist, not left chunks lying around.
"Okay," she said, the restaurant abruptly coming into focus, "say I believe you. You guys just tool around the country looking to fight these things?"
Sam and Dean looked at her. "You believe us? Just like that?" Sam asked, a note of disbelief in his voice.
Rachel frowned at him. "I can't think of anything that causes that kind of damage in ten minutes."
Dean smiled. "Oh, Sammy. I like her a lot. And yes, that's what we do."
Rachel nodded, absorbing that information. Pushing thoughts of her roommate from her mind again, she asked, "So what is it that killed her?"
"We don't know yet," Dean said.
"Okay, so … um … what's out there?" Rachel's curiosity was taking over again now that her mind was clearer. She pulled her burger closer; the worst thing about her painkillers was that they left her starving for days afterward.
"How about you eat and we'll talk somewhere more private," Sam suggested, jerking his head at a family that had just come in. He and Dean had already finished.
Rachel polished off her meal in record time, thanks to the mix of painkillers, curiosity, and having not eaten for over a day.
"All right. Let's go check in to a hotel and we'll tell you all about what we do."
Rachel nodded. Her back cracked again when she stood up (thankfully less loudly this time), joined by her right knee groaning in protest. She hid her wince and followed the men out.
"That's an interesting bag," Sam said as Dean was unlocking the car.
Rachel smiled. "I made it last year."
"You made that?"
Rachel laughed. "You think something this poorly made would be in stores?"
"You did really well on the embroidery, though."
"Thanks," Rachel said, blushing. The painkillers were at full strength now, and she was becoming more like her usual self. They climbed in the car.
"So. Rachel. When you found Devon, did you smell anything weird? Like rotten eggs, or sulfur?" Dean asked as he started up the car.
Rachel thought a moment. "I don't think so, no."
"Any black smoke?"
"No."
"Did anything strange happen earlier? Lights flickering, people acting strangely, anything like that?"
"Well, I got really angry out of nowhere," Rachel said, frowning.
"When?"
"Right before I left the lab."
"So right around the time Devon got killed," Sam said.
"I - oh, geez. Yeah," Rachel said.
"How mad did you get?" Sam asked. "Irritated-mad or mad-mad?"
"Psychotically mad. I almost tried to throw the computer across the room," Rachel replied.
"And it just came out of nowhere?" Dean asked. "Nobody was picking on you or hitting you or anything?"
"No," Rachel said. "Nothing happened at all. I was just irrationally angry."
Dean and Sam looked at each other and shrugged. "Probably just a coincidence," Sam said. "Here looks good." Dean pulled into the motel Sam had pointed at. Sam went to check in while Rachel and Dean waited in the car.
"You're handling this better than anyone ever does," Dean said.
Rachel shrugged. "I was wondering when the next crisis was coming."
Dean turned around to look at her. "What?"
"It's been three years since my last hospitalization and two since my last major life change. That's longer than I've gone in my life without something going horribly wrong. This is in a different shape than I expected, but it's the same principle."
"Yeah, but still. You can't be handling this as well as you seem to be. Nobody handles it this well. Not unless you knew about it beforehand."
"You think I knew about this?" Rachel said.
"I think you knew something."
Rachel looked out the window, lips tight. "I didn't."
Just then Sam opened the car door. "Room fourteen," he said, climbing in. Dean drove around and parked right in front of the room.
In short order, Sam and Dean had moved in. They really only had one bag each, Rachel realized. Modern-day ascetics.
"So," Sam said. "What do you want to know?"
Sam and Dean each sat on a bed. Rachel sat on the desk chair.
"What kind of monsters exist?" she asked.
Dean pulled three beers out of his bag and handed one to Sam and one to Rachel. Rachel hesitated before she took it, and Dean noticed.
"What, you don't drink?" he asked sarcastically.
"Not often," she said.
"Oh, come on," Sam said. "I went to Stamford. Even there we all drank."
Rachel shrugged. "I don't have any friends that drink often - one of my friends has sworn she'll never drink in her life - so I've really only drunk wine with dinner sometimes."
"And there your parents make sure you don't get drunk," Sam said.
"Actually, no. Wine just makes me sick. I don't have a problem with liquor or beer."
"What's the most you've ever drunk?" Dean challenged.
Rachel smiled. "At the end of last school year, a girl on my hall invited me and my roommate over. I did about five vodka shots in less than an hour."
"Oh, so you got smashed once," Dean said.
"No, actually. I filled my coffee mug about two-thirds of the way with vodka and mixed it with some iced tea after that. Then I went and wrote a twelve-page paper."
"And how'd you do on the paper?" Dean asked.
"A," Rachel said. "Like I said, my tolerance to everything is really high. So, what kind of monsters exist?"
They talked for hours about monsters, demons, and ghosts. Rachel was fascinated by everything. Sam seemed more than willing to answer her questions, but Dean was more reluctant, and it was Dean who stood up at eight o'clock and said they should get her back to campus.
Just like that, Rachel was slammed with the reality of her day. She put down her barely-touched beer and followed Dean outside. Sam stayed to do "research", whatever that meant.
She slid into the front seat and buckled herself in quietly, fighting tears. Dean started the car and looked over.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Rachel shook her head. "Nothing."
"Nothing? You're gonna have to do better than that."
Rachel sighed. "Just - just drive. Please."
"Fine." Dean put the car in gear and they started moving.
After a minute or two of looking out the window, Rachel said quietly, "She was my best friend, you know. Devon. We lived together last year, too. She was nice, and sweet, and would kick me in the ass when I got too down about things I couldn't control. I was closer to her than I am to my own family. And I repay her by distracting myself so I don't have to feel it." She took a shuddering breath, tears rolling down her face. "That's what's wrong. She's been there for me through everything, and I'm a terrible friend."
Dean sighed. "No. You're not. Whenever a friend of mine dies, I keep myself busy. You're the same way."
Rachel wiped her eyes. "I just keep thinking - when I walk in to the room, what if her stuff's still there? What if it's already gone? What if her parents are there? What if my RA's been waiting for me? I don't know what's about to happen, and that always scares me." She took another deep breath, feeling her lungs shudder inside her chest. Another reminder she was falling apart.
Dean was quiet for a minute. "You'll deal with it. Whatever happens, you'll deal with it."
"Yeah," Rachel said. There was nothing else to say.
"Take out your phone," Dean said suddenly. Rachel did so, looking at him quizzically. He gave her his number and Sam's. "Call us if anything happens," he ordered. "Another murder, or if lights start flickering."
Rachel laughed. "Dean, these buildings are old. I'd be more worried if the lights stopped flickering."
Dean smiled. "Still."
"Okay." Rachel looked out the window again, lost in her thoughts once more. Dean kept an eye at her as he drove through the city.
"Where do you live?" he asked as he neared the campus.
"Frat complex," she said absentmindedly.
"You live in a frat?"
"No, I live with a frat. Several of them, actually."
Dean shook his head in disbelief. "Your school is weird."
"I know."
They sat in silence until Dean rolled to a stop outside her building. "Thanks," Rachel said. "For everything."
Dean just nodded. Rachel got out of his car and walked up the steps, fishing her wallet out of her bag. She swiped her ID card to get into the building and started up the stairs to her room, but her RA called out to her.
She turned to go into the dorm's lounge a bit reluctantly. All she really wanted was to lie down and hug her pillow and let herself process everything.
"What's up?" she asked Laura.
"We're all gathering down here," Laura told her. "And there's some counselors here, too, in case you want to talk about -"
"Thanks," Rachel interrupted, "but right now I really just need to be alone."
Laura nodded. "If there's anything we can do," she said.
"Thanks," Rachel said automatically, turning back to the stairs.
Devon's stuff was, indeed, gone when she got to the room. Rachel curled up on her bed and hugged her pillow to herself, wishing she'd brought her Rocky and Bullwinkle plushies so she could hug something that had meaning. She hadn't bothered to turn on the light.
She spent the entire night finding Devon again, torturing herself with the memory, alternately sobbing from grief and pacing in rage, restraining herself from yelling only because people were likely already asleep.
"How'd it go?" Sam asked.
Dean shook his head and half-smiled. "I like that one, Sammy. She's something else. What'd you find? We're thinking vengeful spirit, right?"
Sam said, "Yes, and I found nothing."
"Nothing?" Dean repeated.
"This place is old," Sam told him. "The school Rachel goes to predates the country by almost a century. This town was founded a hundred and forty years before the Revolutionary War. There's almost four centuries of people dying here, and no way to narrow it down. Even if I focus on just deaths on that land, we're still talking thousands of people, and specifically suicides leaves hundreds."
Do you have any idea how many people have killed themselves at that school?"
Dean shook his head. "So we have nothing," he said. "I was hoping you'd have good news."
"Sorry."
Rachel got out of bed when the sky started to get lighter. She showered automatically. Her emotions had retreated at around four in the morning, leaving her numb.
She logged in to her laptop. It was only eight in the morning; she had plenty of time to make it to her 9:30.
Her mail was full of spam and notices about what had happened. Most of the emails went into the folder "death notices" - her school had one of the highest suicide rates in the nation - and the spam was deleted, leaving her with just two messages to read. One was the mailer sent out every week about events on campus. The other was from the dean's office to let her know that the memorial would be in the on-campus chapel that afternoon.
She checked her phone to see that her parents hadn't called yet. She was thankful for that; her mother would do her best to smother her over the phone, and her father would try to get her drop out yet again.
She goofed around on the internet for another hour and left for class.
Reminders of Devon's death were everywhere. People wore black. Classes were almost empty. The crime scene was still blocked off. Professors mentioned it at the beginning of class. Students cried.
Rachel watched it all, numb. She accepted the hugs Devon's friends gave her (though she couldn't recall meeting most of them) and said something appropriate when someone told her how sorry they were. She very occasionally had moments of awful clarity, where her emotions broke through the numbness, making her angry and sad for a minute or so until she got herself back under control.
One of those periods happened in the middle of psychology. Her professor was talking about classical conditioning and she was doodling in the margin, just a candle, when anger broke through. She grit her teeth and shaded in the flame, battling herself, but it grew into a rage so complete she couldn't see anything through a red haze.
Her pen snapped in half, breaking through the fog and grabbing her attention. She unclenched her fists and let the pieces drop onto her desk. Her hands were dripping with ink, and her page of notes was ruined. She ripped the paper out before the ink soaked onto the pages below it and pulled a new pen from her bag.
When they left class forty minutes later, Rachel was still lost in her thoughts. She had scribbled down a few notes, but knew they wouldn't be helpful at all. She'd just have to read the book.
Flashing lights caught her attention. Students were knotted around a tree right next to the building, and there were police cars parked with their lights flashing. Curious, Rachel walked over and joined the throng.
"What happened?" she asked the boy next to her.
"Someone else got shredded," he told her.
Rachel felt like she'd been punched in the gut. "Who? Do you know?"
He shook his head. "We're hoping they tell us soon."
Rachel pushed forward through the throng, wanting to see if Sam and Dean were at the scene yet. If they weren't, she'd call them, tell them there was another one.
She finally got close enough to see what was going on and instantly wished she hadn't. The girl's bag was one the ground, clawed but still recognizable. Her coat was laying ten feet away - it had turned into such a nice day Rachel guessed she'd been holding, rather than wearing, it.
Worst of all though, was that Rachel recognized both the coat and the bag. She'd eaten with their owner often enough. She turned and fled.
She managed to control her stomach until she got to a trash can. She threw up until there was nothing left, then dry-heaved some more. Eventually, she managed to take a deep breath and pulled out her phone.
Dean heard his phone chirping and pulled it out of his pocket. He glanced down and didn't recognize the number. He shrugged and pressed the talk button.
"Hello."
"Dean. It's Rachel. It happened again."
"You sure?" he asked, sitting forward and motioning to Sam.
"Yeah."
"I'm putting you on speaker. Tell us what happened." Dean hit the button, put the phone on the table, and ran to the room's closet for his fed suit. He tossed Sam his and started stripping down.
"I don't know what happened," Rachel said. She sounded like she was trying not to cry. "I came out of my psych class and there were cops. I went over and saw - I saw -" She tried to take a deep breath and failed. "Another girl got shredded," she choked out.
"Do you know who it is?" Sam asked, pulling his white shirt over his head.
"Her name's Callie. Callie Angstrom."
"Did you know her well?" Dean asked.
"Y-Yeah. She was one of my best friends."
Sam and Dean traded significant looks as they started on their ties. "All right, Rachel, we'll be right there," Sam said.
"Okay," she managed. The line went dead.
Sam sighed. "Damn. Two friends in two days?"
Dean shook his head in disbelief. "That borders on our luck." He grabbed his keys. "Come on, Sammy. Maybe we can figure out what this thing is."
"Woman in white?" Sam suggested as Dean pulled out of the parking lot.
Dean shook his head. "These are women, Sam. Wraith?"
"Their brains were intact. Werewolf?"
"Hearts were all there. Vengeful spirit?"
"Maybe, but why just those two? Rakshasa?"
"Those are really rare. We've run into, what, one? Ever? What about a skinwalker?"
"Those run in packs, and the heart was there. Maybe a witch?"
"We didn't find any hex bags on the last one, but it might be." Dean parked right outside the tape blocking off the crime scene. "Look sharp, Sammy." They got out of the car and pushed their way through the mass of curious students. Death is the great attraction, he thought. They flashed their badges to the uniform on the perimeter and he lifted up the tape for them.
Sam hid a smile. He still didn't know how Rachel had seen through them, but she was better than most of the police officers they'd met over the years.
"Detective Wilson," he greeted the man who had been convinced Rachel was the killer. "Same as the one yesterday?"
"Yep," Wilson said. "A girl named Callie Angstrom. I'd like to see where Stockton was today."
Dean knelt down to look at the blood on the bricks. "Torn to shreds. Any differences from the one yesterday?"
"Yeah," Wilson said. "The chunks are smaller."
"How so?" Sam asked, pulling out his notepad.
Wilson sighed. "Yesterday, if you remember, there was a hand that was mostly intact, and half the brain was still together. Here, there's nothing bigger than a finger."
"So what are we thinking?" Dean asked. "Killer had more time to pull the body apart before he was interrupted?"
"Looks that way."
"Thanks for your time," Sam said. He moved to the backpack, Dean to the coat. They searched quickly but thoroughly and found nothing strange.
"So," Sam muttered to Dean, "not a witch after all."
"Back to square one," Dean said in frustration. "All right. You go talk to Rachel, see if she remembers anything else from yesterday. I'll talk to whoever found this one."
"Sure you don't want Rachel?" Sam teased.
"Shut up and go," Dean said. "She lives in the third building of the frat complex." He strode off to talk to Wilson and saw Sam leave from the corner of his eye. "Wilson! Who found the body?"
"Guy named Derek Mathison," Wilson said. "Over by that tree."
"Thanks," Dean said, already walking over. When he got closer, he saw Derek had long brown hair tied in a ponytail and brown eyes. "Derek Mathison?"
The guy jerked. "Yeah."
"I'm Agent May with the FBI. Can you tell me what happened?"
"I already told the cops," he muttered.
"Then you won't mind telling me," Dean said, flashing a fake smile.
Mathison shrugged. "My class got out early. I was heading back to my dorm when I saw the blood and called 911. I didn't see anyone around."
"Did you smell anything weird?" Dean asked. "Sulfur, maybe?"
"No," Mathison said.
"See anything weird?"
"No."
"Anything at all strike you as strange?"
"No."
Dean sighed. "If you think of anything, give me a call." He handed Mathison his business card and went back over to the body. What killed you?
Rachel made it back to her room before she let herself begin to panic. Her breathing got faster, tears started rolling down her face, and her mind wiped itself of everything but that two of the most important people in her life had been killed. She rocked back and forth on the edge of her bed, hugging her pillow to her chest, choking on her breath, blinded by fear.
Rachel was so absorbed in her head's drama that she didn't hear the knock on the door. She didn't see him enter the room, holster his gun, close the door, and cross to the bed. She only reacted when she felt his hand on her shoulder. "Rachel?"
She choked again and made her eyes focus. Sam's face swam into view. He was kneeling on the ground in front of her, his face contorted - though if that was a trick of the light because of the tears in her eyes, she couldn't say.
"Y-Y-Yeah," she forced out, still rocking. Her breath became even more staccato.
"Rachel, can you breathe with me?" Sam asked. "Breathe in...and out...in...and out…."
Rachel tried to slow her breathing, but her throat kept fluttering closed halfway through and she kept choking on her own tongue.
Sam was patient, though. He shifted to sit next to her on the bed and put his arm around her shoulders gingerly, prepared to remove it if she cringed away, but she leaned a little into him. "Keep breathing," he told her softly. "In...and out…." She buried her face in the pillow, then pulled her glasses off her face and threw them onto the dresser next to her bed before burying her face again. She never stopped rocking, and Sam never stopped whispering encouragement.
Ten minutes later, she finally managed to get her breathing under control again. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Don't worry about it," Sam said.
"No, really," Rachel said. "You must think I'm some kind of nutjob."
"I don't," Sam said. "You've lost two people in two days. You're allowed to go to pieces."
Rachel wiped her eyes. "Didn't mean to drag you into it. Anyway, what can I do for you?" She turned her attention to him, pushing everything else to the back of her mind.
Sam stood up and moved to sit on the other bed so he could look at her while they talked. Looking at her face now, he wondered how she could look like nothing had ever happened; if it hadn't been for her red eyes, he would have had no idea she was crying just minutes earlier.
"Dean and I were just wondering if you remembered anything else about yesterday," he said.
Rachel shook her head. "I told you everything."
"What about today? They think Callie died about forty minutes before you called us."
"N - wait. Forty minutes? You're sure?"
"Yeah, they're pretty sure."
Rachel took a deep breath. "Remember how I told you yesterday that I got really angry all of a sudden?" Sam nodded. "Well, it happened again. Right around then."
Sam frowned. "Same anger as before? Sudden, irrational, overwhelming?"
"Yeah," she said. "I snapped my pen in half. I was furious."
"Well, that's interesting. I'm gonna call Dean, see what he makes of this." Sam stood up. "You'll be all right for a few minutes?"
"Sure," Rachel said. Sam left the room, pondering what he was going to tell his brother.
Dean answered his phone on the third ring. "What've you got?" he asked.
"Hey, so, remember how Rachel told us she got really mad right around the time Devon got killed?"
"Course."
"Well, it happened again at the same time Callie was killed."
"Oh, not good," Dean groaned. "Do you think she's the one doing this?"
"I don't think so," Sam said. "Not on purpose, anyway. She might just be tapping in to whatever's causing this to happen."
"You think she's a psychic?" Dean asked, lowering his voice.
"I don't know. Maybe. It's worth checking out."
Dean massaged his forehead. "I'll be over there as soon as I can." He closed his phone and started walking.
