Chapter Text
"I'm telling you, Sam, it's not a haunting." Dean Winchester roughly twisted the key into the lock, pushing the creaky door of the motel room open with a foot. The hinges whined in protest, echoing miserably down the narrow hall.
His brother followed him inside, worn luggage in hand. "Tenured professor throws himself headfirst out of a fourth-story window for no reason, and you think it's not a haunting?" The disdain in Sam’s voice was palpable.
"He's an intellectual. Intellectuals are weird..." Dean paused, shooting a deliberate look behind him at the third member of their party. "...case in point."
Abby ignored the comment as they brushed roughly past the two much taller men and pushed into the dingy room. They'd been dealing with the verbal barbs and annoyed expressions for several weeks now, and they were becoming well-practiced at adopting an attitude of total disregard.
"I'm flattered you think of me as an intellectual, Winchester." They smirked, green eyes glinting behind their glasses. "Especially considering I wouldn't be near as generous if asked to describe you."
Abby had been traveling aimlessly with the Winchesters for over a week since leaving Bobby Singer's place in South Dakota. With no new cases and no leads on other Children, it had been one town after another, winding circles through dusty backroads and spending nights at RV parks. Even besides the boredom, the trip had been less than pleasant--mostly due to the presence of the hunter staring them down across the room. The way Dean Winchester rolled his eyes at every word they said, no one would have believed that it had been his idea for Abby to join him and his brother in their hunt for Azazel in the first place.
Dean's request almost felt like a false memory now: "You're the best chance we have of getting to the bottom of all this demon shit." He had been right, of course–who better than to help track a demon than the Demon’s Bane themself?--but it seemed that Dean had been regretting his decision ever since that fateful day. It wasn't clear if his opinion had changed or if the eldest Winchester's dislike ran deeper. This was nothing new--most hunters did not like working with someone who sullied their profession even as they fundamentally reshaped it, who distrusted their fellow humans but would reason with vampires until they gave up their blood-sucking ways. Maybe Dean was still upset that the Godslayer's true identity had not lived up to his grandiose expectations. Whatever his problem was, Abby was sure they could more than handle it--but dealing with him was still irritating as hell.
"Good thing no one asked for your opinion, then," Dean snapped as he threw open his suitcase. "Now, remind me what your plan is again." He didn’t sound like he particularly wanted to hear it.
Abby settled on the dusty couch in the corner, removing their old black cowboy hat and smoothing back their dark hair. They untucked a thin newspaper from under their arm and spread it on the rickety coffee table, scanning it for the tenth time that day.
"Author and Ethics Professor Found Dead at Crawford Hall, Clark County."
The headline itself wasn't anything out of the ordinary. A teacher and published author at a small Ohio university had fallen headfirst out of his fourth-floor office and was found by a janitor late that night. Sad, but not altogether strange. Even the idea of a professor's suicide didn't strike Abby as all that particularly noteworthy--Sam's doubts aside, the human mind was an odd thing, and, as sad as it was, sometimes people simply killed themselves.
But something about this incident was tugging at Abby's intuition. They'd felt it the second they'd spotted the newspaper at the rusty stand outside the truck stop. This simple story was hiding something--and as soon as they'd arrived on campus, the pull had become impossible to ignore. Abby knew something was wrong here. And they hadn't become the Godslayer by ignoring their instincts.
"We ask around campus, see if the students know anything. Not as cops, though--college kids probably won't talk if they think we're police." They directed this last part to Sam; the younger brother had once been a college student himself, and he'd likely have some idea of the best angle to take. And even if he didn’t, his ideas would surely still be better than his brother’s.
Sam shrugged, neatly setting his unpacked suitcase aside. "Local reporters? Kids love thinking they'll get their name in the paper."
"Fine by me. We'll tag-team it." Leave it to Sam to make things easy, Abby thought with the ghost of a smile.
Dean scoffed, and Abby wasn't sure if his irritation was borne of skepticism or because he felt left out. "This is ridiculous. You're actually going to investigate this?" He sounded incredulous, and Abby was surprised to hear that his ridicule was directed at his brother this time.
"Abby felt like it was something," Sam said, a defensive edge to his voice. "We're already here. If it's nothing, we'll leave. And I..." He paused, looking uncomfortable, before continuing softly, "I kinda need a break from all the demon stuff, anyway."
Dean was quiet for a moment, and Abby knew he was remembering the events of the week before. Sam's disappearance, his possession, and the subsequent exorcism--it had taken a lot out of all of them. Even Abby had to admit that it had been difficult on them, and they had no familial attachment to Sam. So surely the memory of his brother screaming in agony as a demon was forced out of his body was enough to make even Dean show some restraint. A simple run-of-the-mill hunt, with no soldiers of Hell or freaky psychic visions, would be like a vacation at this point–a vacation that all three of them sorely needed.
Dean seemed unsettled at the memory, although he was trying to hide it behind his usual veneer of disinterested machismo. "Fine," he said finally, not meeting Sam's eyes. Instead, he leveled a disgruntled glare at Abby as if they were the cause of all of his and his brothers’ problems. "I just thought a simple haunting would be too boring for the spectacular Godslayer," he hissed, voice dripping with sarcasm.
Clearly, he'd been expecting that one to sting, and usually, it would have--but today, the indifference came easily. He’s trying too hard. Instead, Abby stood from the couch, picking up their hat and replacing it on their head.
"After listening to you try to talk to women?" They headed for the door, not bothering to see if either of the brothers was following their lead. "Nothing is too boring."
Abby didn't stop to bask in his outrage. Let Dean be Dean, they thought as they returned their focus to the task at hand. Winchesters be damned–they had a hunt to get to.
------
Time passed differently when you were on the road with no destination, so it was nothing short of fantastic luck that they'd arrived in town on a Friday. Classes were letting out for the weekend, and that evening, the local haunts were packed with college students ready to blow off steam.
The three hunters decided to begin their search at a lively bar just off campus- one large enough to attract the sort of in-the-know students they were looking for but not so large that said students would be too wasted to talk. Even so, this one was surprisingly crowded; even owing to being the end of the week in a college town, they had trouble getting through the door.
"At least there's no shortage of folks to talk to," Abby said under their breath, dipping their hat ironically to a tipsy co-ed with pink-streaked hair as she stumbled past them into the night.
Sam and Dean had walked in ahead of them, clearing a path for their smaller companion, but now Abby had taken the lead, scanning the darkly neon-lit room with a practiced eye. Boys in bright jerseys and borderline offensive t-shirts mingled with girls in a rainbow of crop tops and skinny jeans, the entire scene slightly blurred by the ever-present haze of cigarette smoke and neon beer signs. There were probably a thousand stories in this room. The trick was to find the one that wasn’t a total waste of time.
Abby was well aware of how out-of-place they looked among the preppy clientele--with their grey turtleneck and faded men's jeans, they didn't fit the profile of a weekend bar-hopper--but they knew this would lend a sense of legitimacy to their role of the campus reporter. And anyway, it was far safer than trying to appear trendy and failing. The world of youth was a jungle, and the inhabitants could smell an imposter from a mile away.
Abby wished Dean had taken his act as seriously. While Sam had at least tried to look natural in an old flannel shirt, Dean had taken a completely different route; with his leather jacket and cheap cologne, he was obviously more interested in the women at the bar than he was in their fact-finding mission. And just as Abby had anticipated, he wasted no time leaving them and Sam behind once they were through the door.
"Just where do you think you're going?" Sam snapped as Dean approached the flashing liquor signs and inebriated women at the bar.
"Interrogation." Dean turned back with a glint in his eye that Abby found highly irritating but that women seemed to find hard to resist. "I want to ask the blonde over there a few questions."
Abby shrugged, forcing themself to remain unbothered. "Just don't hit on anything that isn't legal," they said flippantly. "We'll find you when we're done."
Sam whipped his head around to stare at them, allowing Dean the chance to slip away into the crowd of miniskirts and margaritas. "He's just going to goof off while we work?" Abby found his indignant expression interesting; Sam usually bore Dean’s lack of helpfulness with a dignified resignation.
"What else is new? I don't need his help, anyway," Abby said, pulling a small notepad and pen out of their pocket. "You forget that I've been doing this alone for years.” They couldn’t resist the barb, and they looked up, smirking. “You guys are just a cheap accessory."
Before the offended-looking Sam could reply, Abby tilted their head towards the door, where two new kids had just arrived, to a chorus of drunken shouts and cheers. "Shouldn't take that long, anyway. I think I've found our first interview."
------
There couldn't have been two more perfect marks.
The boy introduced himself as Curtis and then proudly showed the back of his letterman jacket for further proof. His female companion, with her bright makeup and brighter outfit, had given her name as Jen ("You know, like Anniston? That old actress?"). They were rowdy, vivacious, and clearly weekend regulars; at the flash of IDs faker than Jen's eyelashes, they had their drinks in hand within seconds, and their place in the social hierarchy of this strange ecosystem was confirmed.
When Abby and Sam had approached the pair, they'd initially received only disbelieving looks, but when Sam drew closer, Jen's attitude suddenly changed. She became suspiciously receptive to any and all lines of conversation. Such a change in a woman’s demeanor after meeting a Winchester was nothing new–they’d seen it happen many times before now–but it still always caught Abby off guard, just how quickly and unconsciously the brothers could turn the tide with a well-timed smile. They didn’t understand it, but if it worked, it worked, and they weren’t going to fault Sam for an innate ability that was so advantageous to their cause, even if it was slightly off-putting.
Curtis didn't seem impressed for his part, but when Abby offered to buy him a beer in exchange for a short interview, he could not resist the pull. Abby smirked as the boy's eyes lit up at the proffered drink. I may not have broad shoulders and a sharp jawline, but I do have a wallet full of 20’s.
Five minutes later, the four of them were seated at an out-of-the-way table, chosen for its relative calm in the sea of drunken voices and clinking glasses.
"Yeah, we both had Professor Cox for Ethics and Morality," Curtis said, popping open his beer and taking a massive gulp.
Sitting across from the jock and the ditz, Abby just couldn't resist. "Required course, huh?"
"Duh."
Sam momentarily suppressed a smile, glancing at Abby with an amused expression that made them proud of their subtle jab. Then, stepping back into his self-appointed role as the serious one, he asked in a more subdued tone, "Any idea why he would have wanted to kill himself?"
Jen shrugged, looking genuinely puzzled. "Who knows?" she said coolly, sipping her Tequila Sunrise. "I mean, he was tenured...had a wife and kids...his book is, like, a really big deal." Suddenly, she paused, straw in hand. She looked at Curtis, who looked extremely bored, and raised a sharply manicured eyebrow. "Then again..."
Abby raised their pen, preparing to write a note that would never see the local paper. They bent forward over the table in a gesture of exaggeratedly youthful interest, fixing Jen with a rapt stare.
Jen smiled, her eyes wide as she followed Abby's lead of total, if feigned, fascination. "...who's to say it was suicide?" She looked from Sam to Abby and back again, and took a long sip of her cocktail, letting the bombshell hang in the air.
Sam and Abby immediately exchanged looks, and Abby smirked, clicking their pen. Kids were easy if you just knew how to speak their language.
Curtis scoffed, his disbelieving tone threatening to break the atmosphere they'd managed to create. "Jen, come on."
"Well, what else could it be?" Sam countered without missing a beat. Abby found themself impressed by his acting skills; he managed to keep his tone light enough to keep the conversation from turning tense but with enough seriousness to make it clear that he wanted to hear Jen's thoughts. Sam wasn't such a bad partner after all.
Jen shifted in her chair, looking around as if nervous about being overheard. "Well, you know about Crawford Hall, right?"
Abby shook their head, watching Jen curiously. "Not really. Enlighten us."
Curtis rolled his eyes, pushing the half-empty bottle back and forth between his hands. "It's a bunch of crap, a total urban legend--"
"--we happen to be in the business of urban legends," Abby interrupted, smiling wolfishly. They turned back to Jen, raising their pen over their blank notepad in an invitation to continue.
"Okay, well." Jen lowered her voice, leaning over her drink as if it were a campfire at a Girl Scouts Halloween camping trip. "Thirty years ago, there's this girl, right? And she's having an affair with some professor. He broke it off, and she was heartbroken. So then..." She took another dramatic pause before delivering her revelation, her voice an impassioned hiss. "...she jumped out the window and killed herself."
Abby had to suppress a triumphant grin. Bingo. Haunting. Take that, Dean Winchester.
Sam pounced on this declaration without hesitation. "Do you know what her name was?"
"No. But they say she jumped from room six-six-nine." Jen's mascara-heavy eyes widened further so that she looked like a frightened housecat. "Get it? You turn the nine upside down, and--" She hooked her thumb and forefinger into a 9 and slowly flipped her hand over.
Abby frowned, continuing to take half-formed notes. The Number of the Beast. Interesting. And troubling--but not for the reasons Jen suspected.
Before they could follow their train of thought, Jen continued, directing her following words at Sam. "So now, she haunts the building. And anyone who sees her?" She attempted her best Rod Serling impression, voice wavering theatrically like a ham radio star. "They don't live to tell the tale."
Sam glanced at Abby at this final pronouncement, but they didn't need to meet his eyes to know they'd found the jackpot.
"If no one lives to tell the tale, then how does the tale get told?" Curtis sneered, flicking at Jen's straw in a ploy for attention unique to annoying college boys.
"Curtis, shut up!"
Abby looked down at their notebook, their mind returning to the number they’d written. 669/6. The Number of the Beast was associated with demons, not ghosts; it was a deeply religious number and not one that often showed up in real-life ghost stories. Urban legends, sure, but actual hauntings rarely involved the Number unless a demon was behind it. And there were no other signs of demonic activity anywhere that they could sense.
This meant that either the room number was incorrect or one hell of a coincidence. Or, somewhat more concerning, this really was just an urban legend.
Abby closed their notebook and pocketed their pen. It didn't matter. This otherwise looked like a textbook haunting, Number or no Number. With any luck, they and the brothers would be wandering the countryside again, looking for a new case and arguing over cheap burgers in no time.
------
When Abby and Sam presented their findings to Dean at a beer-soaked corner table, he was less than impressed.
"You dragged me away from a delightful young professor of human sexuality for this?"
Sam crossed his arms, glowering. "Dean, we're on a case. This is what we do. You weren't exactly helpful back there, anyway, and now you're upset because you think we didn't find anything?"
"You found a teenage ghost story, big whoop." Abby was surprised at the amount of agitation in Dean's voice–he sounded genuinely upset with his brother. He brandished his beer in frustration. "You made us stop here; you're gonna have to find something a little more interesting than a shitty urban legend to get me on board."
Sam snorted contemptuously, glancing toward the bar with a scowl. "Something more interesting, like a floozy with lipstick teeth who can't hold her whiskey?"
"Did you just use the word 'floozy'?"
Sam opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could get a word out, Abby kicked the leg of the table, making the two men jump. "Oh my gods. Can you two act like adults for five minutes?" The brothers glared at each other but didn't argue.
"This sounds like a textbook haunting,” Abby insisted, resolutely pushing down a flash of uncertainty. “Let's go check the place out, and then you can have the rest of the evening to yourself to do whatever, or whoever, the hell you want." They directed their derision at Dean, who rolled his eyes.
"I'm taking orders from you now?" He furrowed his brow, pouting like a child who'd just been told to clean his room. "Why can't you and Sam take care of it? Seems like it's your case. Besides," he sneered, "can't the Demon's Bane handle a 'textbook haunting' on their own?"
"I could," Abby replied coolly. "But then, who would keep an eye on you two? And," they said quickly before Dean could argue, "what if we're wrong? Then you won't get to see the embarrassment on Sam's face--to say nothing of mine." They didn’t allow themself to think further about the “what-if”. This is just a simple haunting, Abby told themself. Don’t make it out to be more than it is.
Dean thought about this momentarily, the annoyance on his face slowly giving way to stubborn agreement. Finally, he downed the rest of his beer with a flourish and announced, "Let's go check out this Crawford Hall, then."
-------
It turned out that Crawford Hall was one of the most central buildings on campus. Stately, if a bit dated, it stood at the end of a round drive lit by flickering streetlamps, and the hunters were surprised to see that it appeared to be open. There was no crime scene tape, no chalk outline, nothing at all to indicate that just days before, a man had fallen to his death from the fourth floor. Looking up, they could even see that there were no windows roped off or boarded up–no signs at all of an apparent suicide.
Getting inside the building wasn't a problem–they admitted themselves easily just after nightfall and found it cavernously empty–but upon reaching the fourth floor, they realized the offices were closed for the weekend. No professors or campus staff were in sight, and the late Professor Cox's office was locked tight. It was not exactly a shock, but it still presented a slightly agitating setback.
"Think there's anyone working this late?" Sam examined the nameplate on the door thoughtfully.
Dean glanced down the hallway, looking bored. "Janitors, maybe?” He fidgeted with his watch. “Look, I'll stick around five more minutes, and then--"
A voice echoed toward them from the stairwell, making them all jump.
"Looking for me?"
------
The man was friendly, with a casual demeanor, bright hazel eyes, and an easy smile framed by boyish dimples and tousled copper hair. He couldn’t have been taller than 5’8”, and Abby wondered if his surprisingly small stature had allowed him to sneak up on them so silently, without so much as a single footstep as a warning.
Abby tried not to make snap judgments about strangers. But they distrusted this man immediately.
"Now you, you don't look much like an electrician." He looked them up and down, one eyebrow quirked. There was a tone to his voice that they found off-putting; it was suggestive, not suspicious, and this was something that they were wholly unprepared for.
And besides, it was a weak line--they'd forgone their trusty black cowboy hat and long coat for an old work jacket and jeans, just in case they were spotted and needed a ruse. Sam's "checking the wiring" plan wasn't the most creative, but it was believable and had always worked before.
"Is that supposed to mean something?" Abby crossed their arms and feigned confusion, hoping in vain for an apology, or at least some recognition of what he was implying. They weren’t used to being flirted with and didn’t enjoy it.
He simply smirked, eyes narrowing mischievously. Abby felt a hot flush of anger creeping up their neck.
"So, you think we can get into this office?" Sam interrupted, knocking on the door pointedly.
The man's eyes left Abby's, snapping instead toward Sam with a glint of dangerous amusement. "Sure," he grinned, the sort of grin that signaled a huge mistake had just been made. "Just gotta find the key."
Slowly, deliberately, he checked his keyring once, then twice, inspecting each one with the thoroughness of a surgeon checking his scalpels. Abby had the distinct impression that they were being screwed with, and the Winchesters clearly agreed. Sam shuffled his feet impatiently, and Dean crossed his arms, glowering.
At long last, the janitor gave up, appearing deep in thought, before finally sighing loudly. "Well, isn't this a pickle," he said, exaggeratedly flicking through the keys in his hand. "Looks like that one's disappeared. Weird." He shrugged, unbothered.
"Well, do you know where it might be?" Sam prodded, sounding like he was trying and failing to keep his patience in check. Dean's scowl only deepened.
"Dunno. Fell off somewhere?"
Abby took a deep breath. "Listen, I know it's late, and I'm sorry" -- Sam and Dean shot them an incredulous look -- "but we really need to get into that room."
The janitor's focus landed on them again, and Abby had to fight not to break eye contact. It felt as if he were looking right through them. Abby held his gaze, noticing how his eyebrows furrowed almost imperceptibly as if he were trying to decide whether to continue the obvious ruse.
Suddenly, he snapped his fingers, making Abby flinch. "Oh, you know what?" His face broke into another slappable grin. "I think I remember seeing the damn thing downstairs in the office. C'mon, field trip!"
Dean scoffed, disbelieving. "Thanks, but we'll just wait here."
The janitor shook his head, looking not the least bit apologetic as he said, "Sorry, bucko. Can't do that. You're here after hours; gotta have a chaperone. Walk's not that long." He started toward the stairs, waving them on cheerfully. "C'mon, it's great cardio!"
With no plausible way to refuse, the hunters were forced to follow their increasingly annoying chaperone as he led them back downstairs to the first floor. Tired and growing more agitated by the moment, they waited outside his office, a tiny room no bigger than a broom closet, while obnoxiously loud banging noises sounded from inside. When he shuffled out a few minutes later and announced that the wayward key had been in his pocket the whole time, Abby thought Dean was about to combust.
"Always the last place you look, right?" The strange man's eyes gleamed with sharp humor as he took in Dean's stormy expression and Sam's clenched jaw. Laughing as if he found the entire ordeal uproariously funny, he turned for the stairs again and took them two at a time. Seemingly unaffected by the sudden trek, he was energetic and light on his feet, in sharp contrast to the worn-out hunters now trailing him by several yards. Abby was panting when they reached the third floor for the second time, and Dean could barely contain his rising fury.
"So, how long have you been working here?" Sam took the initiative and asked the first question as the only one who wasn't out of breath. He was obviously trying his best to keep from laughing at Dean's attempts to conceal his exhaustion as he hauled himself up the last flight, Abby stubbornly trudging along behind. Their legs felt like lead. They were tough for their size, and they refused to let anyone see them sweat, but they’d never had strong lungs, and the pain in their chest was nearly blinding.
Despite his small stature and the multiple trips up and down several flights of stairs, the janitor seemed to have energy to spare. "Been mopping this floor for six years."
Abby opened their mouth to ask for the man's name--they hadn't seen a nametag--but let out a sharp gasp instead as they stumbled on the last step. It was just a simple stumble, but their lack of oxygen had affected their balance, and suddenly, they were reeling backward, the concrete coming up fast to meet them.
Dean started, hand outstretched to grab theirs, but he didn’t get far before their fall was stopped--not by the hard stairwell, but by a different hand.
Abby hadn't seen him so much as step forward, but somehow the janitor held their arm in a vicelike grip. There was a sudden ringing in their ears, dizziness on the edges of their vision, and their arm felt like they were being burned by a red-hot iron, as if the man's hand were made of fire. It was a phantom pain, real but intangible; before they could cry out, it was gone, leaving nothing but confusion and absent shock in its place.
For a moment, the eyes that met theirs seemed to flash golden in a trick of the stuttering fluorescent light before settling back to hazel.
“I’ve gotcha,” he said casually. His easy tone of voice conflicted with the look of complete alarm overtaking his face. His eyes were wide and stunned, brow furrowed; he looked like he’d just seen a ghost–or worse.
“T-thank you,” Abby stammered as they reoriented themself, adjusting their crooked glasses. They were too shaken to feel embarrassed. When his hand left their arm, there was a pulsing itch in its place, a warning light blinking red. I didn't even see him move.
When they glanced up, they saw that the janitor was looking at them strangely, his expression unreadable. There was an odd darkness in his eyes that they found highly unsettling, the set of his mouth calculating and intent. He looked at them like a scientist appraising a recently discovered species, with a look of mingled awe and curiosity on his once-casual face. They could have been imagining it, but he almost looked frightened.
Suddenly, without so much as a ghost of transition, he smiled, his demeanor changing so quickly that it was nothing short of disturbing. "Careful there," he said casually, face brightening like nothing odd had occurred, like he hadn’t just stopped them from falling so easily that it was almost as if he’d known it would happen. His eyes flashed cryptically. "Wouldn't want to see you get hurt."
To Abby's ears, it was impossible to tell whether it was meant as a flirtation or a threat.
They completely forgot about asking him his name.
Amazingly, Sam and Dean didn't seem to notice anything unusual about the man's behavior. Dean simply offered a quick, "You okay?", and with a nod of confirmation, their near-accident was forgotten. But as they made their way back down the hallway to the locked office door, Abby noticed that the janitor's stride, formerly confident and breezy, seemed stiff and slightly out of step.
"There you go, guys." He unlocked the door for the three of them, stepping back to let them through and reaching inside to flick on the light. Abby gave him a wide berth as they walked past, still unnerved. Their arm was still tingling slightly, and they didn’t like the way his eyes followed them into the room.
They forced themself to shake off their unease. We have work to do.
Abby stood in the doorway momentarily, taking in the silent room with a quick, practiced eye. Nothing seemed overtly out of place; at first glance, it had all the hallmarks of a successful professor's office. Heavy oak desk neatly arranged with pens and lecture notes, bookshelves filled with a variety of pretentious-looking books on philosophy and ethics--it was boringly academic and suspiciously clean.
Dean was looking around, too, an unimpressed grimace on his face. Clearly, he still wasn’t entirely on board with this hunt.
Apparently unworried that they were being watched, Sam reached into his jacket and pulled out an EMF reader. Abby shot him a look, but he didn't seem concerned.
It didn't go unnoticed. "What the heck's that for?" The janitor tilted his head toward Sam's silent device, frowning slightly.
Sam had an answer ready. "Just gotta find a wire in the walls," he said easily, beginning to walk the room's perimeter. It wasn’t a great excuse, but surprisingly, it seemed to work.
"Huh...wow." Their guest shrugged. "Well, to be honest, I'm not sure why you're wiring up this office. Not gonna do this guy much good now."
Dean looked up from his examination of the desk. It appeared he'd found a bowl of nuts and was helping himself. "Yeah, why's that?" Despite the mouthful of pecans, Abby was pleased to see that he was finally taking an interest in gathering information. Sam looked less pleased; he glared at his brother with sudden disgust as Dean popped a cashew into his mouth.
The answer that came was shockingly nonchalant. "He's dead."
Abby gaped at him, expertly feigning surprise. "Really? What happened?" They weren't thrilled at the idea of carrying on a conversation with this man, but there was no such thing as too much information when it came to working a case. And anyway, they were on alert now.
"He went out that window." The janitor nodded towards it, completely unbothered by the subject. "Right there."
Abby glanced at the window, noting how off-puttingly normal it felt. Their sense for metaphysical energy wasn't miraculous, but after years of dealing with rogue deities, it was sharper than that of most hunters--and worryingly, the entire room felt clean of supernatural activity. There was no humming in their ears, no lights dancing at the corner of their vision, no electricity in the air or tingling of the skin. Even their arm no longer felt warm.
Sam paused in examining the EMF reader, looking up. "Were you working that night?" he asked.
Again, the nameless man's reply was blunt, easy, and apathetic. "I'm the one who found him." Abby did not miss the glint in his eyes when he said it.
Sam and Dean's eyes snapped towards him. They'd apparently caught on the same empty, almost proud, tone of voice that Abby had noticed. It was good to know they were paying attention--the siren in Abby's head was starting to go off, but they still couldn't feel any energy. And that frightened them.
Abby was careful not to let their growing unease show. "Sorry to hear that," they said, deftly matching his attitude as they forced their hackles down. "Does that mean you saw it happen?"
He shook his head. "Nah, didn't exactly see...it. I just saw him come up here, and, well." Here, he fixed Abby with an enigmatic stare that only sent their former anxiety crashing back. "He wasn't alone."
Dean picked up the bowl of nuts and dumped a few more pecans into his mouth, disregarding Sam's glower. "Who was he with?"
He shrugged. "Some girl. I told the cops about her, but I guess they never found her." His eyes never left Abby, even when Sam slapped Dean's arm and snatched the bowl away.
Shaking off the janitor's persistent stare, Abby drifted over to the desk, where a glossy hardback book sat, bookmarked to the back flap. An author's biography, complete with an austere monochrome photo--so this was the late Professor Cox's magnum opus. Abby picked it up and examined it, thinking.
A female student in a professor's office after hours. Not exactly principled, but not entirely unusual under normal circumstances. Their sudden foreboding may have been unfounded, even judgemental. But something about it piqued Abby's suspicion, and when they glanced at the brothers, they saw from his troubled grimace that Sam had the same idea.
"You saw her go in; did you see her come out?" Sam pressed further, stubbornly ignoring Dean, who was now rooting through the desk drawers. What is he doing?
The janitor cocked an eyebrow. "Now that you mention it, no."
"Had you seen her before?"
He gave Sam an amused look. "You ask a lot of questions for an electrician." He was obviously suspicious, but he didn't seem to care enough to push the issue and moved on easily. "But no, I hadn't...well, at least." He smirked at some private joke. "Not her."
At this, Abby zeroed back in. "Someone else, then?" They had a feeling what was coming next would only confirm their growing hunch. It was a sick world, after all, and no one knew that undeniable fact better than a hunter.
The janitor paused for a moment, thinking. When he finally answered, his voice lowered, and he looked at the book in Abby's hands pointedly. "Look, I don't want to cast aspersions on a dead guy, but..." He raised an eyebrow. "'Mr. Morality' here? He brought a lot of girls up here."
"Did he, now?" Sam looked just as disgusted as Abby felt.
"Got more ass than a toilet seat." There was a darkness behind the janitor's smirk.
Dean, apparently not catching the room's mood, chuckled and pocketed a final handful of nuts, which seemed to greatly aggravate Sam. He threw his brother an icy glare and put the still-silent EMF reader back into his jacket pocket, looking displeased with the lack of results.
Girls, huh. The glance Abby shared with Sam confirmed that he was thinking the same thing they were. So at least part of the legend matches up. Might have something to it after all. Abby studied the photo on the back of the book, struck by a dark thought. A professor who had been taking advantage of his young, female students, hurtling headfirst out a window...couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. They pushed the thought away, ashamed.
Suddenly, Abby remembered the second part of Jen's story, and it bolstered their resolve. "Out of curiosity," they started, putting the book down, "how many floors does this building have?"
"Unless I've been missing a floor all these years?" His attention was back on them as he led the three hunters back out into the hall. Abby started to regret that they’d asked as his eyes bore into them. "Four."
They pushed onwards. "So there's no room six-six-nine?"
"Not that I'm aware of." He tilted his head, quizzical. "Why do you ask?"
Didn’t think so. There never is. Abby shook their head. "Just curious."
He nodded, clearly unconvinced, and finished locking the door. "Right, right," he said, twirling the keys breezily. "Well, if you have any more 'just curious' questions..." He smirked at them, and as his gaze met theirs, the glimmer in his eyes was enough to make the hairs rise on their neck. "You know where to find me."
"Thanks," Abby said. "Oh, this is embarrassing, but..." They tried to sound casual. "What was your name again? I didn't catch it the first time."
The janitor smiled, eyes sparking. His expression was darkly playful, as if he were silently laughing at some joke only he understood. "That's because I didn't tell you."
Sam and Dean appeared behind them before Abby could say anything in reply. "Right, well, we'd better be going." Sam nodded toward the still-nameless stranger. "Thanks again."
"Don't mention it." Abby caught another measure of unnerving humor in his goodbye as he turned and walked back down the shadowy hallway, whistling.
The Winchesters started toward the parking lot, and Abby followed close behind, but they couldn’t stop themself from glancing behind them every few feet. They felt like they were being followed; like any minute, they’d feel his hand on their arm again, that same burning heat and shocking wrongness. It was the kind of anxiety that didn't come from a single odd encounter with an unnerving stranger. It was a cold fear that settled deep in their stomach, a warning that they'd become very good at recognizing after years of tangling with inhuman creatures.
So why hadn’t Sam’s EMF reader picked anything up? Why hadn’t the Winchesters noticed anything wrong? Sam and Dean looked tired but unbothered, like the nameless man really had been just a simple witness. In their defense, there hadn't been a single clue to point toward the existence of something supernatural in Crawford Hall. But something was terribly wrong here, and if it wasn't supernatural...what was it?
Walking out into the cool midnight air, Abby stopped and looked back up at the dark windows of Crawford Hall. They swore they could feel golden-hazel eyes following them as they followed the Winchesters toward the Impala, and they shivered.