Chapter Text
I
Sam enjoyed his life. He really did. His very normal life. He had known for a long time that hunting wasn't what he wanted to do. It wasn’t him. It was his father, and it was his brother, but Sam wanted his life to be more than just an endless road trip.
And now it was. He was a student at Stanford. He was going to become a lawyer. He was building a life for himself. A life that didn't involve credit card fraud or crappy motel rooms.
But he knew the past would never stop haunting him. It was those little things. Like the salt on the table. Sam was convinced he would never be able to see salt as just… salt.
Then there were all these habits he had. He was raised to be on guard. Always. Always looking behind his back. Always on his toes. Always ready.
He wished he could be able to let his guard down. He wanted to be free of worries. He wanted to believe he was safe. He wanted to let his guard down. But he couldn't. He wondered if he ever would be able to.
This particular morning, Sam caught himself looking. Searching. It was the newspaper. He had unconsciously been looking for cases. It was another old habit. He had been reading it, as any other person would. Then he had stopped reading and begun searching. He went through the paper without really paying attention to what he was reading, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
As soon as he discovered what he was doing, he stopped. He put the newspaper down and picked up his coffee instead. He took another sip and looked at the newspaper. It was the yesterday's edition of Stanford Daily, a student-run paper at the University. The date was written just above the main headline on the front page.
Just then, Tom, his roommate, entered the common room. He sat down next to Sam and picked up the paper Sam had just put down. With the newspaper still in his hand, he poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Anything interesting?” Tom asked as he sat down.
“Didn't read it,” Sam lied.
Tom didn't say anything, but started reading. They drank their coffee in silence.
Sam had met Tom when he first got to Stanford. They were both pre-law, and had been assigned to the same on-campus student housing when they first got here. They got along well, and it didn’t take long before they became friends.
After finishing at home, Sam and Tom went to the school together. They took the bus to school, the Marguerite Shuttle. Tom got off the bus earlier than Sam did, as he had classes on another part of campus.
By the time Sam also got off, he had already forgotten about the incident with the newspaper the same morning. In fact, nothing indicated that today would be anything other than ordinary. However, when he got inside the classroom, it didn't take long before he realised that this day was going to be anything but normal.
He had sat down in the back of the room, behind a group of other students. He knew most of them by name. They had had this class together for almost a year, after all. It was still about ten minutes until the class started, so they were talking together, waiting for the professor.
Sam didn’t really pay attention to what they were talking about until Johnson joined the conversation. “Did you hear about the murder?” he asked.
“No, what murder?” McCarthy said. She looked at Johnson with big eyes.
“What happened?” Kinsley asked.
“It was terrible. Choked in his sleep,” Johnson said.
“How awful.”
“Yeah. But the strange thing is that there were no signs of someone braking in. The killer left no evidence.”
Felton sat down next to Johnson and entered the conversation. “Are you talking about the murder?”
“Yeah.”
“Awful, really. He was a professor here.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he taught American History,” Willis said. She looked sad. “One of the best teachers I've ever had. He was always so sweet; I don't understand how anyone would ever want to hurt him.”
“I had History with him as well. Can't believe he's gone.”
Sam listened to the conversation, and his eyes grew bigger and bigger. No way. It couldn’t be. Could it? Brutal murder on likeable guy. No evidence. No breaking and entering. Could it be…?
No, no, no. There he went again, assuming the worst. Just because the signs where there, didn’t mean it had to be something supernatural. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation to all of this. One that didn’t involve magic, monsters or other supernatural beings.
That was what Sam told himself. He hated to admit it, but deep down, he knew there were something more going on around here.
--
“Did you hear about Professor Morris?” Tom said with a sad expression when they met up after school.
“Yeah. Tragic,” Sam replied uncomfortably.
Dammit, was the dead professor everything they talked about? Sam wished they hadn’t talked about him at all. It only brought forth unpleasant memories of his time before Stanford. Well, not really memories; it was more of a feeling. The same feeling that told him that there was something off about Morris' death. That sixth sense developed after years of hunting the supernatural.
“Yes,” Tom said sad. “He thought my English class. When I entered his class room today, I half-expected him to be there, lecturing us about how we're always a minute late.” A wistful smile appeared on his face.
Sam felt a stick of guilt. He had been so caught up in his own feelings that he'd almost forgotten that people knew this guy, and probably felt bad for him. He looked at Tom, and it was obvious that he was genuinely sad, not just “Oh, a teacher I walked past in the hallway maybe once or twice died, how sad!” sad.
“I'm sorry, he sounded like a great guy,” Sam said.
“Yeah, he was,” Tom said.
They didn’t talk more about it. Even if he felt a little bit guilty, Sam was glad they didn’t.
--
“Fuck,” Tom said when he picked up the newspaper a few days later. It was one of the local papers. He opened it on the second page, where the main article was.
“What?” Sam said curious.
Tom sighed before replying: “There has been another murder.”
“What?” Sam said again, this time less like a question and more just to express his shock. Two murders, only three days apart! It couldn’t be a coincidence. “What does it say?” he asked, nodding at the paper.
Some other students joined them to hear what was going on.
“It was a woman this time. Sonia Mendez. She was choked, just like Professor Morris. Husband didn’t even notice until he woke up the next day,” Tom said, skimming through the article.
Sam grabbed the paper. Woman, 30 years old. Choked. Signs of a struggle.
Another student grabbed the paper and started reading out loud.
“Last night, Sonia Mendez (30) was brutally murdered in her own home. Her husband Federico Mendez (29) found Mrs. Mendez in their bed this morning. Mr. Mendez was taken in for questioning, but the police would not say if he was being charged for his wife's murder.
Marcus Jackson form Santa Clara Police Department confirmed that Mrs. Mendez was choked to death, but would not reveal if they had found any connection between Mendez' and Harry Morris' death.”
It didn’t seem to be any pattern. The victims were not the same gender, nor the same age, and they didn’t know each other. Other than the MO, there didn’t seem to be anything that could connect the two murders. The police hadn’t found any connection between the victims, and if they thought the murders were committed by the same killer, they didn’t tell.
Sam zoned out. No signs of a forced entry. Killed at night. Choked. Did the description fit any of the monsters he had hunted in the past? Or maybe something he'd read about…?
Sam excused himself and went back to his and Tom's room. They shared an old 1998 computer they bought used a year ago. He logged in and went to the search engine. What creature did not have a specific type of victim, killed only by night and did so by choking the victims?
It was hard to find useful information on the internet, and even harder to find reliable sources. He knew that it would be a lot easier to just go to the library.
After a while going through every reliable source of information he knew of, he came up with nothing. Sure, some of creatures could fit the description, but he had no way of telling which one it might be. He didn’t know nearly enough about the crime scene and the victims. If he could just…
No. He was done. He was done hunting. He was not doing this.
Sam deleted the search history and logged out.
When Sam woke up the next day, a Friday morning, he didn’t think about the murders or potential monsters, because he had managed to convince himself that there weren't any monsters. Of course there wasn’t. His behaviour the previous day had simply been an outburst of paranoia. Sam knew that it was common for hunters to developed paranoia – seeing monsters everywhere – after years of hunting.
The fact that the killer hadn’t left any sign of breaking in, didn’t mean they hadn’t broken in. It was possible to break in without leaving any traces, by picking the lock for instance. He of all people should know that.
The fact that both murders had been committed at night, and that they were both choked, didn’t mean that there were any supernatural connections between them. Many murders were committed by night, and many killers choked their victims. There were nothing indicating that this was anything else than a normal murder committed by a person.
Yep. That was it. It made perfect sense. Just a perfectly normal murder committed by a perfectly normal human being.
Sam ignored his inner voice laughing at him.
--
It wasn’t until the third murder occurred that he finally did something about it. Three days later, four days after the second murder, another body dropped.
Sam cursed when he saw the headline on the newspaper. “Stanford Serial Killer Strikes Again” it read. The story made it to front page, of course. A murder was a big deal, and a serial killer even bigger of a deal. Santa Clara County hadn’t had a serial killer in over 30 years.
This time it was just a kid, a twelve-years-old girl. She as well had been killed at night and with no signs of a breaking and entering, and just like the other two murders, she was choked to death. The police hadn’t released any other details about the murder.
The police had stated that they now believed the murders to have been committed by the same person. They didn’t tell what made them change their mind. Sam presumed that it was the similar way the victims were killed. Once is chance, twice is coincidence, three times is a pattern.
Nevertheless, Sam was certain. Yes, he agreed with the police: it was the same killer. He just didn’t believe it to be a person. No signs of a forced entrance. No connection between the murders. No other pattern. It had to be something supernatural. He was certain.
But what was he going to do about it?
He could call Bobby and see if there were any hunters in the area who could take the case. For a minute, he thought about calling Dean. But he quickly decided against it. If he told Dean, Dean would tell John. Sam didn’t want that.
Then what else? Doing nothing wasn’t an option. He could call Bobby. But if it turned out that there weren’t any hunters in the area, what would he do then? More people could die before another hunter got here. He couldn’t risk it.
It took Sam some time to realise that he was out of options. Or maybe he just needed some time accepting that there was only one option left.
To do it himself.
No. His mind instantly rejected the idea. No more. He was done hunting. He swore that he was done hunting.
But it was the only option.
No, no, no. He closed his eyes. He would find another way.
When he opened his eyes again, the young girl from the paper looked up at him with a bright smile. Twelve years old.
Sam made his decision. One more. One last hunt, and then he was done. One more. One last time.