Sam's heartbeat stopped for half a second before he realized who it was who had seized him. He smiled behind his assailant's hand which was still clamped over his mouth and leaned back into the broad chest of the man. He recognized the scent now that he was standing closer.

"Jerk," Sam said in a muffled voice. Dean spun him around to face him. He looked tired, but seemed to be perfectly fine. He cracked a grin at Sam and said, "Bitch," before pulling him into a tight hug. He didn't care that they were out in broad daylight in the campus grounds. Nobody was outside as far as Sam could see and he was so far from giving a shit about what people would think anyway.

"Miss me?" Dean whispered with a soft smile.

"Do you even have to ask?" Sam replied. Grudgingly, he let go of his brother and stood back to get a better look. He knew Dean had only been in the jail cell overnight and it wasn't as though he had been expecting him to suddenly drop twenty pounds and grow a beard. Dean looked tired, his eyes dark and slightly red. Sam realized that, due to his worry over the murders and Sam's safety, Dean probably needed sleep badly and a night in jail probably hadn't helped.

"What're you doing over here?" Dean asked, nodding in the direction of Stanley Hall. "This doesn't exactly look like the kinda place you'd wanna be alone…especially now."

"I didn't exactly have much of a choice," Sam said. "Everyone's leaving and most of my friends are dropping like flies. And you were…well, I kinda was under the impression that you were being prison raped so…"

Dean chuckled softly. "It's kind of impossible for that to happen when there's only one other person in the entire prison." Then becoming serious he added, "Why's everyone leaving?"

"There was another murder," Sam said quietly, not meeting Dean's eyes. "It happened last night…in my dorm room actually."

"WHAT!?" Dean yelled so loudly that several birds went flying out of the tree he'd been hiding behind, twittering furiously. "Please tell me that you weren't in there Sam."

"Well, I'd love to tell you that," Sam went on bracingly, "but that would be a lie and I'm trying to be a little more open with people."

"So that's why they let me out," Dean said, shaking his head and grinning ruefully. "Who was it?" He added.

"Natalie," Sam said with a heavy sigh. "It…it was that one urban legend…you know, the one about the girl who doesn't turn on the light so she doesn't know that her roommate is being murdered until she wakes up the next day and finds her dead."

"Jesus Christ, Sammy!" Dean cried. "Are you alright?"

"I don't think so," Sam answered slowly. "I mean…I'm trying real hard to not concentrate on everything too much. If I do, I feel myself start to lose it and that…that's bad right now." He looked Dean straight in the eye and saw to his relief that his brother didn't have the same simpering concern that most other people had. "We've got a job to do," Sam went on determinedly. "I'll have time to think about things later. I wanna stop this son of a bitch before he gets anybody else I care about."

Dean was silent for a moment, looking off at the campus buildings in the distance. He turned to Sam and smiled and said, "Damn, Sammy…and I thought I was supposed to be the stoic strong one."

Sam rolled his eyes but grinned. "Let's get outta here," he said, glancing back at Stanley Hall. "As Scooby Doo as this sounds, this place give me the creeps."

"I thought you were gonna go all Nancy Drew and break in," Dean said, also looking back at the derelict building and frowning.

"I was," Sam replied with a chuckle, "until you jumped me." Dean laughed but said nothing and the two of them turned and began to walk back towards the main area of the campus. It was still strangely silent, with the exception of the leaves rustling in the chill breeze. Sam could just imagine all the other students packing their belongings and waiting in their dorm rooms until they were absolutely sure they had to leave. Nobody would want to risk running into the killer. In a way, it made him glad. He and Dean could be alone together and after what Sam had been through in the past few days, all he really wanted right now was some quiet time.

"Sammy," Dean said softly after they'd been walking for only a few minutes, "you're shivering." Sam stopped walking and realized that Dean was right. He hadn't been allowed to go back to his dorm due to the investigation, so he was still wearing only the thin t-shirt and sweat pants he used for pajamas. He'd been lucky to have at least gotten his shoes out from the crime scene.

"I didn't have a chance to get anything warmer," he told Dean in an offhand voice. "My dorm is kind of being used at the moment by the cast of CSI."

"That's bullshit," Dean muttered angrily. "C'mon." He took off at a brisk pace, and Sam had to jog slightly to catch up to him.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, already knowing the answer and, despite the situation, smiling at Dean's forwardness.

"Getting your stuff back," Dean answered. "These fucking cops are so damn incompetent. It doesn't take that long to process a small crime scene, so I'm sure they won't mind giving you your things back. And if they are," Dean smiled to himself, "we'll just have to be a little…persuasive."

"You've already gone to jail once," Sam said, "I'd rather it didn't happen again." They were back on the quad by this point, which was just as deserted as it had been when Sam had run into Paul after the early morning assembly.

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. "It's not the worst prison I've been too," he said with an impish grin. Sam knew that Dean was joking. To his knowledge, Dean had never landed himself in jail up until yesterday evening.

"That reminds me," Dean added as they mounted the steps to Sam's dorm building, "the other guy that was in the jail with me-"

"He didn't molest you did he?" Sam asked with a grimace. Dean laughed as they entered the quiet hallway and headed towards the staircase to Sam's floor.

"I don't think he was taken by my kissable lips and boyish good looks," Dean said, talking quietly. The whole building was just as quiet as the campus grounds had been and the halls were just as devoid of students. The whole place had the atmosphere of a funeral home and it made Sam shudder inwardly, thinking about what lay on the floor of his room.

"This guy was pretty drunk," Dean went on, "but he was an alright guy. I told him what I was in there for, and we got to talking about urban legends and the paranormal and shit like that. Just before they released me, he told me to go and see some woman named Tamara Fawkes who lives in Redding."

"Who's she?" Sam asked as they reached the hall leading to Sam's room. Dean didn't answer. He stopped and held out his hand for silence, so Sam obliged, halting in his tracks and gazing at the door of his dorm room. There was still yellow crime scene tape outside the door, which was closed at the moment. Sam could still make out the bloody finger marks on the wood and he had to look away to stop the lump that had risen in his throat.

"Do you think they'd mind if we just went in quickly?" Sam asked.

"They'd mind a lot," Dean said with a grimace. "If the police tape is still around the door, then that means that crime scene is still open. But there's nobody here, so they must've left a while ago." Dean glanced down the hall and then pulled his hand inside the sleeve of his jacket. Gingerly, he ducked under the police tape and had just reached out to open the door with his covered hand when the double doors at the end of the hall burst open, causing both of them to jump.

Sam whirled around and saw to his immense relief that it was just Reese. She was walking briskly down the hall towards them and the look on her face told Sam that she wasn't in a good mood at the moment.

"I can explain!" Dean began, ducking back from under the police tape, but Reese held up a hand.

"Calm down, honey." She said. "It's not you two I'm pissed at right now, although coming back here and trying to break into an open crime scene doesn't exactly look good on either of you at the moment."

"I just wanted to get my clothes," Sam said in a small voice.

"I know, Sam, but you've gotta look at this from the point of view of the police. Your brother goes to prison as a murder suspect, Natalie is killed in your dorm room on the very same night and now you're both snooping around here like the god damn kids from Scooby Doo." Sam and Dean glanced at one another, both feeling suddenly very foolish. Of course they could see Reese's point, and Sam mentally kicked himself for not being more concerned over what it would look like to a bystander.

"They still think I killed Natalie to spring Dean, don't they?" Sam asked wearily.

"Yep," Reese said bluntly. "Though they don't got a reason to anymore. They finished processing this crime scene about fifteen minutes after the assembly was over and from what I heard the preliminary lab results just came in."

"What did they say?" Dean asked.

Reese bit her lip and glanced around the hall. She gave both Sam and Dean a square look before saying, in a low voice, "Look, I know this is really personal for you right now, but I really don't like the idea of the two of you playing detective." She took a deep breath and then continued, her eyes blazing, "But the fucking police force in this jurisdiction have their heads so far up their asses that they're hair's turned brown, so I might as well tell someone who has some common sense." Reese glanced at the door, shook her head and then went on, "They couldn't find anything."

"What?" Both Sam and Dean said at the same time, their faces the very picture of disbelief.

Reese nodded. "All they got was what was already obvious. Natalie's throat was slashed and…and she took a while to die. The writing on the wall was in Natalie's blood, but the crime lab didn't find any trace pointing to the culprit. But even they could tell that it was done from the outside, so there's no way it was Sam."

"And they're still blaming him for it?" Dean asked angrily.

"They need someone to pin something on," Reese said bitterly. "To make it look like they're doing their jobs. Just like they did with taking you in, honey," She added, looking at Dean.

"It makes people feel better if they think the police are doing something," Sam said, shaking his head. "It's gonna be a hell of a lot harder for them to put the blame on someone when everybody's gone."

"Which is why they're jumping to conclusions," Reese finished. "My advice to you boys is to just do what all the other students are doing and leave. Not only is it not safe if the killer really is targeting Sam, but if the cops think he's at least involved in one of the murders, the whole student body will be screaming for him to be lynched."

Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He couldn't believe the stupidity of some people sometimes. Reese had said the evidence was all right in front of them that it wasn't Sam, and yet the cops were merely making him the scapegoat to make it look like they were actually doing what they were supposed to do. Dean put a comforting hand on his shoulder and Sam smiled softly. At least his brother was back with him. He wasn't alone in this anymore.

"It's not all bad news," Reese said. "After they finished processing the scene, I managed to get your stuff out."

"How the hell did you manage that?" Sam asked in surprised relief.

"Your friend Mr. Gardener," Reese said with a smile. "He came back here to get his things so I asked him to sneak your stuff out and he went along with it."

"You're a lifesaver," Sam said gratefully.

"I'll only be that if you two do what I say," Reese said dourly. "I really don't wanna see anything happen to either of you, so please just get away from the campus at least. It'll give everyone a little more breathing room."

Sam nodded.

"We were just going to do that after getting Sammy's stuff," Dean said with a grin. "Where is it by the way?"

"I told Paul to wait in the student lounge for you," Reese said. "I didn't think it would take you guys this long to get here, so I waited around but when you didn't show up right away I went to check the grounds and when you weren't there I came back. So it's damn lucky for all of us that you showed up when you did."

"Thanks Reese," Sam said.

"Take care you two," Reese said. "And I mean it. I'd rather not be investigating your murder next." She watched them leave, and Sam had to fight the urge to jog back to give Reese a hug, but he knew that she had a point. The sooner they left Stanford, the better.

"What do you figure?" Dean asked Sam as they made their way down the stairs. "About the lack of trace evidence, I mean?"

"I'm not surprised," Sam said. "How many oogie boogie's leave finger prints and hair fibers behind?"

"So you think it's a ghost?"

"Only one way to be sure," Sam said. "We're gonna have to do some kind of séance. Even with that I think I have a pretty good idea of who we might be dealing with."

"Who?" Dean asked. They'd reached the front doors again and Sam grimaced as he felt the cool breeze sting the skin of his arms once more.

"It's either the ghost of the boy that Michelle and Natalie killed," Sam said. "Or my folklore professor's got something to do with it."

"The guy who looks like Freddy Kreuger?" Dean asked in confusion. Sam nodded and, as the two of them headed across the quad towards the student lounge, Sam related to Dean all that Paul had told him about what he and Natalie had deduced about Wexler the previous evening.

"It makes a lot of sense when you think about it," Sam said as they reached the lounge. "Wexler's got the perfect motive and the means to get it done. That's why I was going to Stanley Hall this morning. I was going to look around and see if I could dig something up."

"Still wanna check it out?" Dean asked him as they entered the lounge which, for the first time in Sam's living memory was practically empty. There were only three or four students mingling around, one of which was Paul who was sitting at their usual meeting place around the fire.

"No," Sam said quietly. "Not right now anyway. If Wexler really is behind it he might be waiting in there and I'm not prepared for a confrontation yet."

Paul was sitting back in his chair, staring into the fireplace looking thoughtful. On the floor beside his chair sat several of his bags and Sam's big duffle bag which was packed to capacity. He looked up as Sam and Dean approached and smiled.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," he said. "Reese was champing at the bit looking for you."

"Sorry," Sam said, taking the chair next to Paul while Dean sat down on the sofa. "I was doing some…how do you reporter types say it? Ah yes, digging."

"Stanley Hall?" Paul asked with interest, sitting up straighter in his seat. "Did you find anything?"

"Yeah," Sam said with a grin, "him." He nodded at Dean who chuckled. Paul looked a little disappointed but shrugged and relaxed in his seat again.

"I don't know how the fuck you're keeping it together," Paul said, shaking his head. "I could barely breathe when I went to get our stuff."

"They'd…already taken Natalie out right?" Sam asked.

Paul nodded. "Yeah, but the blood was still there. And that fucking message…" He shuddered and shook his head. "Anyway, I'm hoping that I'll see Sasha and Brenda before I leave. And maybe Parker, but that's just because I wanna sock him in the nose as a parting gift."

"Give him one from me," Sam said. Paul laughed and then cocked his head to the side. "Are you guys leaving too?" He asked curiously. Sam nodded. "Yeah," he said. "If the cops and the rest of the students don't chase after me with torches and pitchforks then Reese most certainly will if I stay here too long."

"I'll miss you," Paul said sincerely and Sam smiled softly at him.

"Yeah…I'll miss you too," he said. "I still can't fucking believe this sometimes." He rubbed at his temples and shook his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean glance at him in concern, but thankfully he didn't make a move to comfort Sam in front of Paul.

"Try and see Brenda and Sasha before you go," Paul said. "And if you don't…well, I'll say goodbye to them for you."

Sam nodded. "Thanks man." He said, before getting to his feet and grabbing his duffle bag. "Good luck."

"You too," Paul replied with a smile. He nodded at Dean before turning back to gaze into the fireplace. Sam hesitated only for a moment and then he and Dean quickly exited the student lounge. They said nothing as they hurried across campus to the parking lot where they stowed Sam's duffle bag in the trunk.

As Dean put the key in the ignition, Sam looked at him fully from the passenger side. He could see the lines of worry on his brother's forehead and the intensity in his gaze. All at once it felt like Sam was really seeing him for the first time. Before Dean could so much as blink, Sam leaned over in his seat, put his hands on either side of Dean's face and pulled him in for a deep kiss. He could literally feel Dean's breath get taken away as they kissed, harder than Sam could ever remember them kissing before. It was a kiss full of passion and need for something, for security and reassurance that Dean really was there and that they were going to make it through this.

When they finally broke apart, Sam could feel himself shaking slightly. They were still close together now, so close that Sam could see every fleck of color in his brother's eyes. There was silence between them for several moments, broken only by the hum of the engine and the sounds of their breathing.

Then finally, Dean said softly, "We'll be okay, baby. I know we will."

Sam smiled softly and then sat back in his seat, pulling seatbelt on. "Just don't go away again," he answered. "I'm…I'm okay as long as you're here."

Dean smiled but said nothing as he put the Impala in reverse and drove them away from the campus. Sam looked back only once as they headed down the road. It all seemed so surreal that he was leaving under these circumstances. When he'd first arrived here he'd been so determined to put all the demons and ghosts behind him that he could never have dreamed he'd be leaving under a cloud like this.

"Do you wanna stop at the motel first?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded. "I'd kinda liked to get changed if that's okay. Maybe have a shower." Dean nodded and drove them into town, which was oddly just as subdued and quiet as the college campus had been. Then again, most of the people who lived here were involved with Stanford somehow. Dean pulled the Impala back to the motel and carried Sam's duffle bag out of the trunk into the suite he'd been staying at. Sam could barely remember being here, even though it hadn't been all that long ago. He found it cruelly ironic that the last time he'd been here was after a murder just like it was now.

He showered in the small bathroom, grateful for the hot spray of the water. He half hoped that Dean would join him, but on the other hand he wasn't sure he had the energy for sex right now, no matter how badly he wanted to feel Dean's skin against his, despite the fact that not long ago it had been Damon he'd been desperate for contact with.

After throwing on a pair of jeans and pulling his school hoodie over a t-shirt, Sam joined Dean in the small kitchenette where his brother was busy looking through the local phone book. Dean looked up as Sam entered and smiled.

"You look a lot better," he said.

"I always look this good," Sam said with a grin and Dean laughed before turning his attention back to the phone book. "Who're you looking for?" Sam asked.

"Tamara Fawkes," Dean said. "That woman that my jail-mate told me about last night."

"Right," Sam said, suddenly recalling that Dean had been interrupted in his explanation by his attempt to break into Sam's dorm room. "So who exactly is she?"

"According to this," Dean said, scanning a small ad, "she's a medium who lives in Redding."

"Great," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "Just what we need right now. An interview with a fraud."

"I don't think she's a fraud," Dean said, still concentrating on the ad. "That guy in the next cell over told me she was legit. Said he went to her after his mother passed away and she pretty much blew his mind with what she told him. Besides," he looked up at Sam with a small smile, "she doesn't advertise the way other psychics do."

Dean spun the phone book around to face Sam, who saw that Tamara Fawkes's ad was squeezed into the bottom right corner of a page dominated by other psychics and mediums whose ads were twice the size of Tamara's.

"I think it's worth a shot," Dean said. "If she is legit, then she'll know that we're hunters and she might be willing to help us."

"Yeah, but if she's not," Sam countered, "It's a three and a half hour drive to Redding from here. I really don't wanna waste that much time."

"We've got no other choice right now Sammy." Dean said. "There aren't any reputable psychics in Stanford besides college Goths who like to play with Ouija boards. If Tamara Fawkes really is a fake then…we'll figure something out from there."

Sam nodded. "Alright. We going now?"

"We're gonna have to," Dean said, glancing at his watch. "It's noon and by the time we get back from Redding it'll be getting dark. So…yeah, I think we should head out now." Sam nodded and Dean slammed the phonebook shut. They got to their feet and headed back to the Impala. As Sam slid into the passenger side, he suddenly felt the weight of all that had happened settle in over him. He needed sleep badly.

As they pulled out of the parking lot in front of the motel, Sam shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. He saw Dean give him a knowing look from the driver's side. Reaching forward, Dean shut the radio off and in only a few minutes, Sam was sleeping soundly.

He knew he was dreaming within moments. First of all, he was back at Stanford, and secondly, he was watching Paul creep quietly through the halls of the faculty building, a place Sam had only ever been once before shortly after coming to school.

Paul was stealthily approaching a polished oak door with a brass name plate on the outside that read "W. Wexler." He gazed at the name plate for a moment and seemed to be hesitating. Then he took a deep breath and put a shaky hand on the doorknob and turned. The door was locked. Paul shook his head and dug in the pocket of his dark jacket for a brief moment before pulling out his student ID card. With a grin, Paul wedged the card between the doorframe and the door. After a few moments of dexterous jiggling with his ID card, the lock clicked.

Smiling, Paul stowed his ID card back in his pocket and, quietly as he could, pushed the door to Wexler's office open.

It was large for a teacher's office and despite Wexler's attempts to keep it organized, it was messy. There were books strewn on several desks, papers everywhere. Bookcases of various designs lined the walls, along with several cabinets and shelves, upon which rested various picture frames and several artifacts Wexler had collected throughout his life. Most obvious of all was the large collection of trunks and cases, which held the various props Wexler utilized in his folklore class.

Paul frowned, gazing around the room, realizing that a search through this mess would take hours and he had, at most, fifteen minutes to spare before somebody came and found him. He had to think like a serial killer with something to hide. If he wanted to hide crucial evidence, where would he put it?

A door at the back of the office caught his eye and, trying hard to knock anything over and risk leaving a trail, Paul worked his way through the office. Upon reaching the door, he found that it was locked with a deadbolt. He wouldn't be able to use his ID card for this door.

His eyes traveled once more around the office and, just when he was about to give up hope, he spied, of all things, a small clown statue that sat atop one of Wexler's shelves. For a moment, Paul simply stared at the thing in distaste. He hated clowns, and couldn't imagine why Wexler had a figure of one. The expression on its painted face wasn't exactly comforting either. Then something shiny around the clown's neck caught Paul's attention. It was a key on a silver chain.

Quickly, Paul headed to the shelf and, standing on tiptoe, managed to get the key from around the statue's neck. As he did so, he noticed a picture that stood next to the clown. It was an old photo of several young people gathered around a building on campus…a building that Paul recognized as Stanley Hall in its better days. Paul recognized the young man on the right side of the photo as a young Wexler. This must've been taken before the murder…

Shaking his head, Paul turned back and went straight for the locked door. To his relief, the key fit and he was able to pull the door open.

It was a small closet filled to the brim with various odds and ends, but nothing too incriminating. Paul sighed in disappointment, and braced his hand on the inside of the door. His hand touched something cold and metal…and sharp. He glanced to the side and saw to his horror that his hand was resting on the end of a lethal double bladed axe, affixed to the back of the door on small brass mounts. He gasped, letting go of the door and jumped back.

The door slammed shut in front of him, pushed by the person standing behind it. Paul staggered back, staring in horror at the form of William Wexler, who was standing next to the closet with his arms folded and an unpleasant leer on his face…

"Sam…Sammy wake up!" Dean's voice brought Sam jolting awake. For a moment he simply lay there, looking wildly around. He was sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, only it was darker than it had been when he'd entered. There was a slight drumming on the roof. It was raining.

"Wha?" Sam said blearily. "Where are we?"

"Redding," Dean said. "You were sleeping like a baby…for a while anyway." Dean was trying to hide the concern in his voice, but Sam could tell that his brother was worried. "You…you had another vision, didn't you?"

"For Paul's sake I hope not." Sam said, trying to ignore the cold dread sweeping through him. There was a dull throbbing in his head and he felt suddenly more on edge. The last time he'd had a dream like that, Michelle Mancini had ended up dead. If Wexler really was the killer, then Paul was in deep shit and there was nothing he or Dean could do about it now that they were in Redding.

"Well…we're here," Dean said, nodding out the front window. Sam peered out. It wasn't raining as hard as it had been the night that Michelle had been killed. The sun was obscured by thick grey clouds, making it darker for three in the afternoon than it should've been. Dean was parked in front of a small, one story house with a dark green shingled roof and white lining. A small flight of white wooden steps led up to the front door and Sam could just make out a small neon sign in one of the windows that read "Psychic Consultations."

"Ready?" Dean asked.

Sam stretched, nodded and then unbuckled his seat belt. His mind was still on Paul. Why the hell had he gone snooping in Wexler's office by himself when he knew how potentially dangerous it was? A part of him was having a hard time differentiating what he had seen between a dream and a vision and it wasn't making his headache any better.

He and Dean jogged up to the front door. They exchanged a look before Dean knocked on the door. They waited…and waited. Dean frowned and Sam shrugged. Dean knocked again, harder this time and had just opened his mouth to mutter something dark when the door was opened.

Having never rubbed shoulders much with real psychic before, Sam had been expecting some middle aged woman dressed in gaudy robes with bangles and several scarves. Tamara Fawkes was nothing like this. She was a petite young woman, probably no older than Dean, with long dark hair, skin like mocha and brilliant green eyes. Her full lips curved up into a smile, displaying brilliant white teeth. Despite the chill of the day she was wearing a black tank top and dark, form fitting jeans.

"You're late," she said with a small laugh. "I was beginning to think I'd have to track you down myself."