Disclaimer and Notes: See Chapter 1
Chapter Two
The room was as familiar as it was alien. A large bed, covered with one large blanket. Two pillows, as though two persons were supposed to sleep in it, two night stands, one with a framed picture he couldn't make out clearly. It seemed inviting and cosy, as if it was just waiting for him to lie down and sleep. He felt like he was a visitor in his own dream – Goldilocks in the bears' house – which was strange enough but at the same time it felt, like he was dreaming after all. One of those dreams in which you knew you were dreaming but couldn't do anything about it. You want to wake up or at least find the meaning of it but everything it does confuses you more and more until you wake up, your thoughts all scrambled and your body tense and covered in sweat.
That's what it felt like when Sam entered the room.
He glanced around, looked at the poster just above the head board and chuckled. Kittens, of course it was kittens. Women loved kittens. It was like an unwritten law or something. And since Sam studied law, he really should know about law, right?
His eyelids felt heavy and pleasantly tired like after a long, satisfying day of work and he let himself fall backwards onto the bed, facing the empty ceiling.
And he stared.
Something was not right.
A feeling, deep inside his body. So deep, it actually felt like universes away but at the same time, so close he could taste it on his tongue, feel it under his skin, hear it without listening. And he could see.
A fire, hot and unyielding. It started above his head, widening in circles and in the middle of it he swore, he could see the shape of a body, a delicate face, eyes open in unspeakable terror and framed by golden curls of long hair.
He screamed.
Actually, it was more like a gasp. At least that's what he hoped in this moment when Sam found himself sitting in his bed, his blanket draped around his legs like manacles. Breathlessly he struggled them away from him, crawling backwards until his back hit against the metal frame of his bed.
Taking deep breaths to control his violently beating heart he scrambled out of the bed. Since sleep wouldn't come back anytime soon he'd have enough time to get some more research done. Ever since the accident, which had been more than three days ago, he had tried to avoid digging in deeper. It had been a trick of light. And Mrs Robster had fallen down the stairs, that's what it had been. Nothing more.
Yeah, sure.
Switching on his computer he settled his tired body on the chair and watched the operating system screen boot while contemplating over the statement he had given the police then. It wasn't really unusual the police had been informed about the incident. Sam knew Campus policy. Every accident was meticulously documented and extensively investigated. But that didn't explain the questions he had been asked. Did you see anyone leave the place? Did you hear anything that could have been a dispute? Did you see any apparent sign of a struggle?
The laptop screen came alive showing the usual windows background, green hills and a blue sky, and he clicked a few buttons to connect with the campus wi-fi. Only seconds later the Google site opened and he started his usual searching routine, typing in the words 'library', 'stanford' and 'death' which got him about seventy million entries about dead poets whose books were stored in the Stanford library. The next try got him about sixty trillions more car accidents on the campus area.
A few hours later he had come up with over a dozen deaths occurring within the building over the last 25 years. Rubbing his gritty eyes he leaned back and stretched his aching neck. One look out the window told him he had been sitting in front of his desk for a few hours already. The distant chirping of birds accompanied the brightening sky and the first sounds of passing cars on their way to bring their owners to work. His head was thrumming with a dull ache he only just started to feel consciously and for just a moment he debated taking something against it, condemning the thought rather fast when his stomach grumbled viciously.
"Breakfast first," he decided and packed up his laptop and notes.
Since the day promised to be nice and warm – as did about 99% of Southern Californian days – he settled for walking and got himself a latte with soy milk to go at the nearest Deli (he absolutely could hear his older brother wince at his choice of drink and chuckled under his breath). A sharp feeling of longing filled him, for just a second, but it was quickly replaced by something even more painful. Resentment, anger and hurt.
Two years. It had been two years since he'd last seen Dean. Even three years since he'd last seen his father. His fingers curled around his paper cup and he startled when the pressure of his fingers let some of the hot liquid gush out of the small drinking hole.
"Crap!" he murmured and wiped the stain quickly away before it could spread. Great way to start the day. A Headache, bad memories and coffee stains.
When he finally reached the library it was way past nine already when he entered the large hall to find a young woman sitting on the chair that merely three days ago had been occupied by the now very dead Ms Robster.
"Good morning," Sam greeted her and she looked at him in panic.
"'morning", she replied, her eyes round as saucers.
"Uhm, sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."
"No, it's okay." The young woman straightened her back and sat up straight. "I'm new and... in case you want to ask me anything regarding books or... you know... where to find them..." She motioned towards the general direction of the book departments and simultaneously shrugged her shoulder and shook her head. "I won't be of any help, I gotta admit."
"No, don't worry." Sam smiled encouragingly. "I know my way around."
"Oh," she replied smiling sheepishly. "So in case of questions..."
"You can find me in the media microtext center."
She quipped her eyebrow. "We got a media microtext center?"
In response, Sam offered another smile and was about to walk away when she stopped him.
"Oh... uhm, the only rule I know so far: No coffee allowed." Her eyes locked on the lukewarm cup of coffee.
"I'll be extra careful. Promise!"
Reluctantly, she nodded again. "Okay. But if someone's asking, you hid it pretty well."
"Deal!"
With his cooling coffee he made his way to the pompous stairwell and climbed into the third floor. The rooms were smaller and with barely any daylight to make up for the bad quality of the screens. It smelled different from where the books were and he almost regretted his decision to do some deeper research. While the internet proved to be a valid and reliable source of information he never had gotten the hang of those creepy machines that presented you the newspaper of the past on those antique monitors large enough to slay you with their weight. The whirring sound made his hair in the neck stand up and his fingers on the control stick were sweating after only seconds.
Still, the available categories were much better organized and within just twenty minutes he had found out much more about the history of the building. It never hurt to be informed. It was a lesson he had learned by himself. Winchesters normally shot first and got their information later. That's how things were done and Dean and John Winchester lived the philosophy like Catholics lived the bible. One more thing that distinguished him from his family.
Thanks to his morose thoughts he had stopped seeing what was on screen until the picture of a young man appeared. "Young man dies in library fire."
It was just a small paragraph. Sam could remember the incident clearly and to freshen up his memory he swiftly browsed the article.
"Steve Benton, rising star of the Stanford Cardinals, was killed yesterday in a fire in the local library. The cause has not yet been established but it is assumed that an electric charge is responsible for the unnaturally high operating temperature. According to friends and family he was in company of his girlfriend, whose remains have not been found."
The article was suspiciously little detailed, which, of course, made Sam's alarm bells ring even louder.
Steve Benton.
The date of the fire was only two months ago and the repair works had supposedly lasted ever since though Sam could not remember meeting any workmen in the house during that time. Maybe they were faster than he had thought and any evidence of the calamity was long gone. Still, he'd have to ask for the exact spot.
The coffee cup, now cold, still stood next to the screen and Sam sighed soundlessly. He definitely hadn't changed a bit since his arrival. Lost in his investigation he usually forgot everything around him and if his brother hadn't reminded him once in a while of eating or drinking or even sleeping, Sam would have probably died of "dehydration by extensive reading" a long time ago. Of course, now that his brother wasn't around any more...
Another soundless sigh and he rubbed over his eyes that hadn't lost their grittiness a bit since morning. Well, no surprise here. Blinking owlishly, he opened them again and sat straight up when the silhouette of a person, sharp against the hallway light, was reflected on the pitch black monitor and Sam spun around, taking the coffee with him.
The cap exploded from the paper cup and the milky brown liquid formed an ugly puddle but Sam was more surprised by the person, who, he could have sworn, had first looked like the large male build of a footballer. Now though, Sam saw nothing but the young woman, who was leaning against the door frame, smiling.
"You know that coffee in the library is strictly prohibited, right?" It didn't sound accusing, more amused and when she came closer, her gaze wandered to the traitorous speck of coffee he had gotten on his t-shirt this morning. "Books or t-shirts could get hurt."
"It's you." Yeah, clever answer, Sam thought and felt his cheeks flush... again.
"Obviously."
"How come, every time I see you, you make me blush like a tomato," he wanted to know with a friendly smile and leaned down to soak up the coffee with a few tissues.
"I don't know." She shrugged her slender shoulder and walked towards him.
Glancing at his notes she leaned down and tried to decipher the hieroglyphs of Sam's illegible handwriting. Dean used to say, Sam should become a doctor, it'd make his signature right. "So, you're a budding journalist?"
"What?" Confused for a moment Sam dabbed at the last remains of the mess he had made and straightened back up again, making a grimace at the wet, sloppy ball of kleenex between his fingers. "No, just... natural curiosity."
"Ahhh..." she made an understanding sound, then tipped her finger against her chin. "Never heard of the phrase curiosity killed the cat?"
"Good for me I'm not a cat, huh?"
She smiled again, flashing dimples in the delighted expression and Sam had the weirdest sense of deja vu. A large poster of two playing kitten over a large ball of wool, hanging of the head end of a strange bed.
"I guess." She pondered. "Though cats are royal creatures. And they have nine lives. So their curiosity is well fitted."
Silence ensued, while Sam stuffed his notes in his bag and switched off the monitor.
"You're leaving?"
The question came out of the blue and Sam felt stupid. He felt like he had ignored her, that maybe he should be ignoring her. The way she looked at him, her hands hanging loosely at her side, made her look lost. Like a little girl in a huge shopping mall that had lost the safety of her mother's warm fingers wrapped around her hand.
"Jessica."
"Yes?" Her eyes shone hopefully and if Sam hadn't know better he'd have sworn they glinted wetly beneath her eyelashes. But it could have been a trick of light. It was dark in the room – Sam had already switched off the small desk light that decorated most of the tables in this library – and the bright intensity of the outer lights was forming tiny halos of silver bursts around her head like fresh snow flakes in the winter sun.
"Your name, Jessica. I only just remembered."
Her face fell and Sam could have kicked himself for being such a cold hearted bastard.
"How charming, Mr Sensitive."
"I'm sorry, normally I'm not that rude. I just... didn't sleep very well. And... I didn't expect anyone. I'm really sorry."
It took a moment for her to regain her former cheerfulness even though Sam could feel a sudden distance between them. He hadn't meant to burst out her name so stupidly, it just... it had nagged him. The memory of her had come back so forcefully... like a dream he suddenly remembered once again.
"It's okay," she began and leaned her head to one side, looking like she was telling herself jokes about him. "You're a guy."
"Hey!", he feigned hurt and it made her smile once again. And Sam decided, he liked her smile. A lot. "Doesn't mean I can't be nice for a change." Raising the empty coffee cup in which he had stuffed the wet garbage he asked. "Coffee? It's on me."
"No."
"No?"
"I don't drink coffee."
It was then that Sam remembered another detail of his former encounter with her.
"I suppose your boyfriend wouldn't be so happy about me buying you coffee, either."
She smiled again, though this time it was sad and Sam knew felt like an intruder. As if he had asked her something very private. Something, she didn't want to share with others, especially not some rude bastard who had the sensitivity of white bread.
"He's... not around very often any more."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's okay." She winked her hand. "It's just..."
She stopped in mid-sentence, so abrupt it almost made Sam stretch out his hands out of fear she was fainting or worse... dissipating.
"I gotta go." Her long blond hair formed an elegant arc when she turned around and she was fast enough that Sam missed her upper arm by inches.
"Wait, Jessica. I wanted..." His feet slipped on the slippery ground and mildly cursing he grabbed for the table edge to regain his balance. But when he had finally found it, she was gone.
Meetings with Jessica obviously had their own agenda. They always started with him being startled and ended with her vanishing like she had never been there in the beginning. Not even the sounds of her footsteps were audible.