Disclaimers: Supernatural belongs to Erik Kripke. Angel belongs to Joss Whedon. No profits were earned and only respect intended. Photo Credits: Background modified from stanford_ located at ..
Author's Notes: This story is the first in a series of crossovers between pre-series Supernatural and Angel. Anyone who has watched both TV series knows; they are set in very different realities. To resolve this I created an amalgamation of the two. For example there will be three types of vampires: Turok-Han – believed to be extinct since the closing of the Sunnydale Hellmouth; Aurelian – like Angel, Darla, Drusilla and Spike; Infirma-Lamia – meaning weak vampire, the vamps of Supernatural lore. For demons there are both 'home grown' aka the evil, twisted spirits that either escaped or were released from hell who appear as black smoke when not possessing someone or 'foreign dimensional' aka the beasts and monsters who arrived on earth through a portal or gateway (such as a hell mouth) some time in the past. Otherwise I will try to follow canon for Angel up to its series finale and for Supernatural regarding pre-series references.
I would like to thank Emillie and Mirany for their work as my betas. They were of great help smoothing out the rough edges. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault.
Stanford's Hunters***Stanford's Hunters***Stanford's Hunters
Sam Winchester settled his backpack strap a little higher on his shoulder and straightened his jacket collar in an attempt to prevent any more rain from sliding down his neck. He probably should have realized he would get caught in one of the scattered showers predicted for tonight and worn his hoody. Most other students were smart enough to stay in the refuge of the library until the rain passed, but Sam didn't see the point in waiting around when his backpack could protect his books from the light yet persistent drizzle. He cut across the vast campus at an easy jog; running probably the only aspect of John Winchester's required training which never bothered him. Once he found the right rhythm and pace Sam could run for hours.
During the last seventeen months, Sam used his runs to familiarize himself with every path, back way and alcove on campus. He even went so far as to investigate the claims of Stanford's status as 'most haunted' university in the United States. For the most part all he found were stories and legends passed from the upperclassmen to the incoming freshman in a perpetual cycle. The remaining harmless recordings (spiritual echoes created by moments of extreme emotion; oblivious to the passage of time) were not worth the risk of exposing his complicated past to his new friends.
Friends were Sam's main concern since his father cut him off from the only family he ever knew. The occasional terse text from Dean let him know his big brother was still alive, but it simply did not compare to the irritating yet reliable and often overprotective companionship which had served as an anchor all his life. Despite the undeniable aching absence Sam could not make himself call Dean even now. Sam felt certain if he heard his brother's voice the wave of homesickness would overwhelm him, reducing him to the whiny bitch Dean so often accused him of being. The two awkward messages Sam left on John's voicemail in a futile attempt to explain why he needed to leave were never responded to. His father's implied rejection fueled enough of Sam's anger to guarantee he didn't reach out to John a third time.
New friends quickly became a lifeline in Sam's strange new world. Luis Jackson and the Warren siblings, Zack and Rebecca, all helped Sam navigate through a novel reality far different from the run-down motels and constant grinding fear of his old life. Yet more than anyone else it was, Brady Johnson– his first roommate in the freshman dorm – who connected with Sam, becoming his best friend. Brady never cared where Sam came from or who he was before Stanford. As Brady put it during their introduction, "College is one of life's rare opportunities to remake yourself into whoever you want to be; something I intend to take full advantage of."
Their shared desire to escape their unmentioned pasts and forge a better future united the two young men with unique determination. They became almost inseparable during their freshman year. Though the gods of campus housing saw fit to bless each man with individual rooms for their sophomore year, they still spent much of their free time in each other's company. Unfortunately, something changed two months ago. Sam did not know what happened, but ever since Brady's 'obligatory visit to the parents' over Thanksgiving break, his friend's behavior changed radically. Brady drank excessively and consumed hard core drugs in amounts which left Sam wondering how much longer his friend could possibly survive. Brady also crudely dumped the young woman he only weeks before professed to love, and set out on a mission to sleep with every available female on campus, while showing no regard for their feelings. If all those things were not enough, Brady's grades were suffering to such an extreme, academic probation seemed inevitable. Not that Brady appeared to care with his talk of dropping out of Stanford's pre-med program.
Sam tried to help Brady in every way he knew: moderating when his friend's actions seemed likely to provoke violence, playing designated driver as much as his class schedule permitted, and nagging Brady about when reports and papers were due. Sadly, none of his actions showed any affect on his friend. Sam wondered more and more often if his efforts were helping Brady or enabling him. Sam tried to get Brady to talk about whatever caused the sudden radical personality change, but Brady stubbornly refused to even consider discussing the situation. When Sam insisted, Brady hotly declared, "When you're ready to talk about where your Mommy is and introduce me to Daddy dearest, then I'll tell you what happened to me during my Thanksgiving made in hell. Until then, shut up and leave me alone!"
The sudden verbal attack shocked Sam, and weeks passed before they spoke again. This time, Brady acted at least a bit like his old self, claiming, "I'm still not ready to talk about what happened to me, but it was totally un-cool of me to start yelling. Let me make it up to you by taking you out."
Sam accepted the olive branch and went out with Brady. The party proved quieter then those Brady favored recently. About half an hour after they arrived Brady introduced Sam to freshman Jessica Lee Moore. To Sam, the attraction felt both instantaneous and overwhelming. He really wasn't sure he could recall a single word he spoke to her, despite the fact they apparently talked for hours. If Brady's mocking grin gave any indication, Sam probably made a fool of himself three times over. When late evening became the wee hours of the morning and responsibility demanded he head to his room to steal a few hours of sleep before his early morning Statistics class, Sam left with Jessica's number in his pocket.
Sam met up with Jessica several times in the following weeks. He kept their outings to casual meetings between friends, rather than the budding romance he really wanted. Jessica was smart, funny, and beautiful inside and out; the type of person you could too easily imagine spending the rest of your life with. Sam hesitated to move their relationship into the romantic arena for the same reason he avoided serious romantic entanglement since arriving at Stanford: steady girlfriends expected to be able to ask questions about their boyfriend's lives and get honest answers. They wanted to meet your family and know how you grew up; things Sam simply was not prepared to talk about. The situation left Sam trying to decide if it would be better to be one of those stand-offish jerks who kept their lovers at a distance or come up with some elaborate lie to cover up his past. Neither option held much appeal.
Brady's ongoing mocking because he still hadn't asked Jessica out on a 'real date' did not help matters. Neither did Brady's warning that a chick as hot as her would not stay single for long, so he better make a move soon. Sam knew Brady's cautions were justified. What he did not know was whether Jessica could be the one in a hundred girls who did not care about his past as long as she could be a part of his present and maybe his future. Worst yet, Sam could hear how hard Dean would be laughing if he could see the way Sam kept angsting over whether to ask Jessica out on a real date. Hell, if Dean were here he would already be giving Jessica the full court press with nothing more than, "You snooze, you lose, Sammy Boy," tossed in his direction.
The drizzle increased to a steadier rain, coating the campus in a strange, dark yet shiny sheen. He increased his pace a bit, shoving his thoughts aside to focus on getting somewhere dry. When he heard the first screams, he almost dismissed them as cats. They were coming from the far side of Stern Hall, their impact muted by both the building and the rain. The gravelly inhuman growls following the screams were not so easily explained away.
It took only seconds for the angst ridden college student to be replaced by the experienced former hunter. He raced towards the growls despite knowing it would likely lead to a facedown with a monster. A year and a half ago, Sam walked away from the constant chaos his family's lives as hunters led to. Yet Sam's willingness to protect others – spare them the grief his own family suffered – never went away.
A second, louder growl rumbled by as Sam rounded the corner of Stern Hall, and slowed to get a better idea of what he faced. Though rain clouds blocked the moonlight, enough illumination from the scattered campus lighting filtered through to identify the forms of four or five people cowering away from a hairy, hulking biped with a snout full of razor sharp teeth.
What the hell was a werewolf doing on campus? It must be newly infected or it never would have escaped notice. Sam knew a silver bullet provided the most effective way of dealing with a werewolf, though a silver tipped blade would do in a pinch. Unfortunately, Sam stopped carrying guns when he moved to Stanford. He took a knife everywhere, but the blade currently secreted beneath his belt bore no silver. The four people scrambling back from the werewolf would not survive long enough for Sam to run back to his dorm and retrieve a silver knife from his small weapons stash.
Casting a look over his surroundings, Sam nearly gave a shout of joy at some worker's negligence in leaving tools behind. What looked like the poles and canvas for a large tent were carefully folded beside the wall, tucked between some bushes. Sam scooped up a hand full of tent stakes offering prayerful thanks when he determined they were made of sturdy metal, not plastic. He ignored the tent ropes; useless against a creature as strong as a werewolf. The lump hammer poking out from beneath the canvas, however, was also confiscated. Sam would have preferred a larger sledgehammer but at least it gave him a weapon to wield.
A cry of pain accompanied by a guttural roar pulled his eyes back to the conflict. One girl split off from the group and ran towards Wilbur Hall. Surprisingly, the werewolf did not charge after the weak, fleeing individual but stayed with the group. One of the men in the group tried to warn the creature off with a dead tree branch. The werewolf's responding snarl sounded mocking enough to leave Sam wondering how much human intelligence remained in its monster form. Sam charged towards the beast even as it broke the waving tree limb in half and pinned its wielder to the stone wall by his throat. Swinging at the werewolf from behind, Sam's newly acquired hammer hit hard against the monster's right ear. It stunned the creature into releasing its grip on its intended victim.
Sam wasted no time following up his initial attack. He mentally reviewed everything he ever read, or his father mentioned, about werewolves even as he took another swing at the monster's head. The upright posture and large snout with plentiful fangs identified the werewolf as Lycanthropus Exterus, which meant the larger of the werewolf species. Sam would have to avoid its powerful arms; known to rip limbs off when toying with its prey. He managed to hit the beast's head a second time before it got its arm up to block a third blow. While the creature appeared dazed, it was still far from beaten. Sam chanced assuming its confusion was real and body slammed the werewolf to the ground. Swinging the lump hammer from a different angle, he again scored against the monster's head. Then, Sam half straddled its chest, placing most of his weight on the knee bearing down on the creature's vulnerable neck.
Sam placed one of the metal stakes against the werewolf's flailing arm and with two powerful blows, staked the creature's arm to the ground. It wasn't the smartest way to battle a werewolf, but without the aid of silver and only a three inch blade with which to either decapitate or cause massive bodily harm, his options were limited. Immobilizing its strong arms became his best chance at killing the beast. A second stake pierced the forearm, but the monster bucked wildly beneath Sam, nearly dislodging him. Its free arm raked across Sam's side, tearing through cloth and fresh. Sam kept his focus on nailing the third stake through the werewolf's palm. He kicked at the free arm when it came up for a second swipe. He regretted his action when it caused him to slide out of position, giving the creature a chance to catch its breath. It was a game changing moment as the werewolf's free claws latched onto Sam's jacket and flung him like a rag doll into the hard brick of Stern Hall's Twain section.
"Sam! Please be okay, Sam," entreated a familiar voice as frantic hands ran over his body checking for injury.
Sam hissed in pain when one of the hands found the gouges in his side. Sam forced his eyes open to locate the werewolf. It growled and snapped at Sam from a dozen feet away, its unpinned arm reaching towards him futilely. Surrounding him were the four remaining students he just saved: the voice pleading for his safety belonged to none other than Jessica, the woman so recently occupying his thought. A redheaded woman Sam didn't recognize crouched deathly pale beside her, and Luis Jackson knelt at Sam's other side, ready to help him to sit up.
Zack Warren stood over the group holding his bloody, limp arm, eyes still on the flailing werewolf. "Thanks, Sam. You saved my life." Zack's voice shaky from a potent mix of fear and adrenaline.
"Not yet," Sam denied. "It's down but not out. I need to finish it." With Luis's support, Sam rose to his feet. His left side ached from impacting the wall while his right side throbbed where the monster's claws tore his skin.
"Sam, you're bleeding," Jessica pointed out. She tried to staunch the flow by pressing the remnants of his shirt to the wounds, but Sam shrugged her off.
"We can deal with me later," Sam insisted as he tried to shake off the lightheadedness of his sudden rise. "What happened to the hammer?" Sam's quick visual surveillance spotted two far flung tent stakes but no lump hammer.
"It went flying when you did," Luis volunteered. "I think it landed somewhere in the hedges. Let me get it." Seeing a freakish fanged monster hulk out of the shadows towards him caused Luis to redefine the meaning of terror. He knew certain, painful death loomed seconds away. Then Sam came charging out of the darkness, swinging a hammer and tackling the beast. If Sam wanted to keep beating that thing until it died, Luis would happily help him do so.
"What is it?" asked the unnamed redhead.
"It's a breed of werewolf," explained Sam. "Silver is the best way to kill them. It pretty much causes them to go into anaphylactic shock. But without it all I can do is cause as much physical damage as possible." He leaned over to scoop up a stake from the ground.
"Wait, you mean a person until the full moon rises type of werewolf?" the redhead's voice squeaked. "You want to kill him? What about the person inside it?"
Zack looked away from the monster for the first time. "Hell, yes, we kill it! I didn't see it hesitate before trying to kill us," Zack reminded through a bruised throat. "Do you really want it terrorizing the campus again?"
Sam ignored the debate to focus his attention on the werewolf now curled on its side away from them. The thing snarled and jerked its free hand back in an odd fashion. Then Sam realized what it held in its hand: a bloody tent stake. The werewolf was trying to unpin itself from the ground and succeeding.
"Um, guys," Sam interrupted the still arguing redhead and Zack, "I need that hammer now."
"I know it landed somewhere around here," Luis insisted as he continued to search. Luis's words were followed by a defiant roar as the monster pulled the second stake out of its forearm.
"Forget the hammer," Sam ordered. "Everybody run! Run now!"
Sam followed his own advice, urging Jessica away from the nearly freed monster. Sam stayed at the rear of the group, making sure none of the others lagged behind. A distracted part of his mind noted the redhead, who moments before argued against killing the werewolf, now lead the retreat. Glancing back confirmed the werewolf had freed its left arm from the last stake. The creature rose to its feet, still a terrifying sight despite its limp and bleeding arm. Sam's small hope that the beast would flee to lick its wounds the way a true wolf would was crushed when it howled its rage and charged in pursuit. "We need to get inside!" Sam urged. If they couldn't outrun the werewolf, a sturdy shelter became their best chance of defense.
The redhead suddenly veered left towards a small grounds keeper's shed. She reached into a vase, pulled out a key and unlocked the door, pushing inside with Luis on her heels. A dim yellow glow of electricity spilled out the door way seconds later as Sam pushed Zack and Jessica ahead of him. The instant the door closed, Luis began shoving a metal shelf over to block its entrance. Sam turned to help, relieved to see his friend keeping a cool head. He perused the small room, finding a large supply of fertilizer and weed killer lining one wall, and a deep sink below a window, dominating the far wall while hook boards full of tools covered the remaining space.
The entire shed shook as the werewolf began its assault on the structure. The snarling and banging scared most of the group into cowering in the center of the building. Sam noticed the way the wood started to splinter beneath the werewolf's wrath. It would only take minutes for the creature to break through. He resisted the urge to berate the redhead for not taking shelter in one of the sturdier residence halls; it just would have put more lives at risk. Sam tried to block out the snarls and growls enough to focus on the landscaping tools. The hedge clippers proved too unwieldy, while the pruners were too small to be effective and the chainsaw would more likely hurt him than the werewolf. He passed a long handled edger to Jessica and a garden fork to the redhead. Both tools were long enough to hopefully allow the girls to defend themselves while staying out of the werewolf's reach. Zack received a short but sturdy shovel he should be able to wield one-handed. Sam guessed from the way Zack's right arm hung it was likely dislocated. Luis, the only other able bodied male, seemed to be coping with the recent shift in his reality surprisingly well, so Sam handed him one of the two machetes.
"What's the plan?" Luis asked in a grave voice.
"I'm going to climb out the back window and try to lead it away," Sam replied. "You guys just need to stay inside the shed until I come back with an all clear or the sun rises." Luis's eyes widened in his dark face as he realized the implications of Sam not returning before sunrise. "If the werewolf looks like it's going to get in, remember decapitation is the surest way to kill it. No matter what, don't hesitate or hold back." Jessica listened just as intently as Luis, but Zack and Redhead were more focused on the clawing beast on the other side of the wood frame. On impulse, Sam pulled a permanent marker out of his pocket and began writing directly on a shelf. "Pastor Jim will know what to do with . . . my remains," Sam forced the words out in a rush. "Dean," Sam hesitated. What the hell could I possibly say to Dean to make this okay? Nothing. "Tell my brother I'm sorry about how I left. I needed to try to find some other way to live."
"No!" Luis denied firmly. "No way are you going off on some suicide mission so I have to tell your family you're dead. I say we stick together and make a stand against this thing." Despite the sound of cracking wood and the clatter of metal tins and tubs falling off the shelves, Luis met Sam's eyes with steady determination. It made Sam realize how lucky he was to end up with such a friend, and doubly determined to see his friends get out of this alive.
"Making a stand won't work," Sam explained. "Once it gets in here, we will have no room to fight or maneuver. It will have us trapped and will eat our hearts at its leisure. I've been killing these things since I was nine years old. I know how to fight it and what its weaknesses are, but I have to go now before it breaks through." As if to emphasize Sam's point, one of the wood boards cracked. Seconds later, a brown snout poked through and growled. Jessica snatched a spray bottle of weed killer, squirting the chemicals right at the werewolf's sensitive nose. The monster yelped and whined for the first time, pulling its snout out of the hole before attacking the door again with a bit less fervor. Sam looked at Jessica with new respect. "Good thinking."
"Sam, I'll call your brother if we need to," Jessica promised, "but I really don't want to. So if there is anything else you can think of that might help, tell us now."
"Pray," the word slipped out before Sam could stop it in a tone of half joke, half desperation.
Jessica took Sam's utterance at face value. She stepped up to Sam, placing one hand on his neck and the other on the hand holding the machete. "Heavenly Father, thank you for sending Sam to us in our moment of need; bless his blade to cut sure and clean through the monster who hunts us; bless Sam so he may return safely to us."
"Amen," Zack and Luis both replied; Luis in the loud declaration of his Southern Baptist upbringing, Zack in a more reserved tone dictated by his Presbyterian background.
The gesture shocked Sam, but it also made him feel surprisingly better. Without another word, Sam stalked to the sink and forced open the window. "Make sure you block the window behind me," Sam instructed Luis as he climbed onto the sink and readied himself to slip out the window.
"Make sure you don't get killed," Luis answered back. Sam nodded his acknowledgement before sliding feet first out the window. Luis immediately closed and locked the pane, while Jessica handed him a broken fence section to block it. The pounding and crashing continued to herald the destruction of the shed's door for several more seconds, before the group heard Sam's muffled taunts answered by the werewolf's howl. The scramble of feet pounding the wet earth was quickly drowned out by the rain tapping the shed's metal roof. "Don't you dare get killed, Sam," Luis warned towards the darkness again. The others waited silently as the rain continued to fall.
Stanford's Hunters***Stanford's Hunters***Stanford's Hunters
When Sam first slipped out the window of the landscaper's shed, he contemplated vague plans of drawing the werewolf's attention, leading it somewhere secluded like the Mausoleum or the mostly neglected Cactus Garden and defeating the monster; preferably by way of a swift decapitation. The first part of the plan worked well enough. Sam only needed to shout at the werewolf to get its attention. Once the beast saw Sam, it quickly gave up demolishing the shed in favor of chasing the human who foolishly crippled its arm. Sam led it away from the other's shelter, but it quickly became clear he would never reach the Mausoleum before the werewolf overtook him. Despite his head start, the werewolf easily gained ground. Sam could feel the constant movement of his pace pulling at the gashes in his flank. His blood flowed easily from the wounds, saturating his cloths and sapping his strength. He tried to buy time by dodging around obstacles, but he knew he needed to find a place to make a stand soon while he still maintained the energy to stay on his feet.
Sam could hear the monster's hoarse breathing close behind. He felt the lightest tug on his jacket and spun, swinging the machete before him. Though the blade cut a deep line across the beast's chest, Sam nearly lost the weapon when its edge caught on one of the werewolf's ribs. Its reactionary shove at Sam didn't knock him down, but it did leave him off balance. His follow up swing at its neck narrowly missed, though he did manage to kick its injured arm and elicit a whine.
The werewolf stepped back, as though to retreat, but then launched forward, tackling Sam to the ground. Sam tried to get the machete up, even felt it dig into the creature's side to no effect. The creature seemed oblivious to anything but making its next kill. Sam struggled to hold its snapping jaws at bay while he fumbled to recover the blade pinned between them. The werewolf lunged for Sam's throat. Hot breath and slobber hit Sam's neck as his arm, braced against the monster's throat, held its fangs an inch away. "No," Sam cried in defiance. He knew his life hovered seconds from its end.
"Get off!" shouted a new voice. Suddenly, the werewolf's solid mass jerked back and away. "You look like you could use some help," offered an oddly calm stranger. The man, no older than Sam, pulled him to his feet with an easy one handed tug despite being half a foot shorter than Sam. With brown hair and a slender frame, he could have been dismissed were it not for the intensity of his eyes as they rested on the slumped form of the werewolf slowly rising from the ground. "My name's Connor Reilly. Do you usually hunt werewolves without silver?"
Sam choked out a small laugh in spite of himself. The simple question let him know Connor was an experienced hunter. He could not have hoped for a better person to arrive on the scene, except maybe Dean. Then again, Dean would likely be scolding him by now for walking around unarmed (anything less than a gun and three blades was unarmed to Dean) and trying to take on a werewolf without his family to back him. "I haven't hunted at all since I enrolled seventeen months ago," Sam admitted. "I was just heading back to my room when I heard this thing attacking a group of students. They weren't going to survive long enough for me to go back to my room and grab my silver knife." The werewolf returned to its feet, glaring at the men. It began pacing back and forth to block their exit while growling menacingly. "I told the others to hide in a landscaping shed between Stern and Wilbur, while I led it away."
Connor's eyebrows rose at Sam's explanation. "Well, I suppose if you are going to be stupid while hunting werewolves you might as well be heroically stupid," he observed in a teasing tone. "I've got a spare silver blade if you're interested."
"Very," Sam gratefully accepted the weapon, his mood immediately improving. He still felt rundown and weak but now he at least had an effective weapon and someone experienced to help him fight. "We could try to flank it," he suggested.
Connor looked hesitant. "With the way you're bleeding, the werewolf will attack you first," he pointed out.
"I know," Sam admitted, "but one of us has to play bait so the other can come at it from its blind side; might as well be me." Sam played bait many times when hunting with Dean and their father. The risk, while not insubstantial, could be marginalized by working with other skilled hunters. Of course, he did not really know if Connor possessed the abilities to back up his apparent confidence, but after the last hour, Sam decided to take it on faith.
"Okay," agreed Connor, "I'll follow your lead."
Unwilling to abandon its hunt, the werewolf kept pacing back and forth apparently hesitant to attack the new challenger, who could fling him about with the same ease he tossed humans around. Sam took a deep breath, focused the remainder of his reserves, and stepped away from Conner. The werewolf immediately stopped, staring intently at its most recent prey. Slowly, foot by foot, Sam widened the distance between the two men. Connor, for his part, remained absolutely still, hoping to lull the creature into forgetting his presence. Unfortunately, the monster was not as stupid as they hoped. While it followed Sam with its eyes, it also kept glancing back at Connor. When Sam calculated that he stood about twelve feet from Connor, he decided to force the issue. With a half turn, Sam began to move sideways; making it impossible for the werewolf to watch both men simultaneously. The monster snarled in frustration, its head swiveling from Sam to Connor. Finally, with one last look at Connor's frozen form, the creature launched at Sam.
Sam convinced himself he was ready for the werewolf's attack right up until the moment it slammed him to the ground, knocking the air from his lungs. Fortunately, his father long ago drilled into him to keep fighting even when necessities like oxygen were taken away. He thrust the newly acquired silver dagger up into the ribcage of the beast. The creature yowled above him, but when it didn't collapse or transform back into its human form, Sam knew his aim missed the heart. For the second time that night, the werewolf was pulled off of him. As Sam gasped for absent air, Connor held the monster by the base of its neck and slammed a knife through its back into its heart. Conner released the body even as it shifted to a more human appearance. Sam scrambled to his feet, mostly to put some distance between himself and the warm, naked corpse of a thirty something year old man.
"We better get out of here before someone else walks by," Connor suggested picking up his blades.
"I need to give the all clear to the others in the shed," remembered Sam, wobbling a bit as he headed back the way he came.
"Sure," agreed Connor. "Any place is better than here right now." He spoke casually but moved closer to the injured man incase he faltered.
It was a slow journey back to the landscaper's building. On the up side, the bleeding from the gashes in Sam's flank slowed to a trickle. On the down side, between the cold January drizzle and the blood loss, Sam self diagnosed a mild to moderate case of shock. The shed looked dark as they approached, the wood around its door battered and cracked. "Luis, it's all clear. Zack, Jessica, you are safe to come out now," Sam shouted from outside the door.
The light inside the shed turned on and both men heard the sound of shelves being moved. When the door opened, Luis greeted them with a machete in hand. "Damn, Sam. You were starting to worry us," he exclaimed. Getting a closer look at his friend, he amended, "Maybe we should still be worried. You look worse than before."
"Sam, come inside," Jessica instructed. "We found a pretty good first aid kit in the sink cabinet. Sit down so I can patch you up," she continued in a no nonsense fashion. Sam half plopped, half collapsed on his ass. But Connor and Luis's hands kept him from tipping over.
"And you are?" Luis asked Connor a bit suspiciously.
Rather than take offense, Connor noted the group had been through a traumatic evening and did his best to put on a reassuring smile. He started to speak when the redhead behind Luis beat him to it. "His name is Connor. We're in the same accounting class."
"That's right. Connor Reilly," he confirmed. "You're name is April, right?"
"Yes," she agreed, "This is Jessica, Zack and Luis," she finished the introductions by motioning to the other three.
"Connor's another hunter," Sam hissed out the information as Jessica liberally sprayed his scratches with Bacitracin.
"You hunt monsters?" Zack spoke up for the first time.
"Yeah," Connor confirmed. "I was raised as a hunter, but I've sort of been on sabbatical since enrolling in Stanford. Some girl stormed into Wilbur Hall screaming about monsters. Almost everyone figured it was some prank or maybe she was high. I decided it wouldn't hurt to check it out."
"So, the werewolf . . . it's dead?" asked April.
Connor squeezed Sam's shoulder, indicating he would reply. "That depends. Are we going to have to deal with rants about the sanctity of life if I say yes?"
April smiled awkwardly. "Even the most dedicated vegan has to make exceptions when the life in question is trying to rip your heart out and eat it for dessert," she admitted.
Connor nodded with relief. "Yes, we killed it. I would usually prefer to take a 'capture and contain' approach, but it was clearly cursed and rabid."
"Wait," said April, "are you saying not all werewolves are bad?"
Suddenly, Connor was wishing he said a little less. "It depends on your definition of bad," he hedged. "When werewolves transform they are all predatory but only a few are aggressive. Those few tend to be cursed."
"Aren't predatory and aggressive the same thing?" asked Zack.
"Predatory behavior is a survival trait," explained Sam when Connor seemed to flounder. "It's about getting nourishment to stay health and strong. The average werewolf is just as likely to hunt a rabbit or a groundhog as it is a person. But attacking a group of people without the support of a pack and continuing its assault even after receiving multiple injuries is unusually aggressive behavior. I vaguely remember reading lore about a dark warlock cursing a particular werewolf to become 'mad as a rabid dog with each change; never satisfied until it consumed the heart of its human prey'. Most hunters track werewolves by the heartless corpses they leave behind. So usually it's the cursed ones we are dealing with."
"I actually know an un-cursed werewolf who is incredibly conscientious about locking herself in a safe-room during the three nights of a full moon," offered Connor.
"A conscientious werewolf?" wondered Zack in a dazed tone. "I know I asked, but I think my head may explode if I hear any more weird shit."
Sam chuckled, "Imagine trying to absorb it as an eight year old."
"Eight?" asked Luis. He turned to Connor. "How long have you known about monsters?"
Connor tilted his head in consideration. "I don't think there was more than a year I didn't know about monsters and demons."
"Demons are real too?" asked Zack in a panicked voice.
"Real," confirmed Sam, "but also incredibly rare in most places." Sam could see Zack had reached his information overload point. It was time to change the topic. "Zack, your shoulder looks pretty bad. Why don't you let Luis take you to the hospital?"
"I'll go with you," volunteered April. "I am so ready to get out of this place. Are you coming Jess?"
"I'm not done patching Sam up," Jessica insisted. "I'll meet up with you later." She dug through the first aid kit, searching in vain for one more bandage large enough to cover the forth deep scratch left by the werewolf.
"Maybe Sam should go to the hospital too," April suggested.
"No," nixed Sam, "The wounds aren't deep. I just lost more blood than I should have because of all the running and the wound being wet. With a little rest, I will be fine."
Seeing that Luis and April were both ready to argue with Sam, Connor offered a compromise. "Sam's right about Zack's shoulder needing to get looked at by a doctor. You two take him to the hospital," he instructed motioning to April and Luis. "Jess and I can finish bandaging Sam up in my room."
"Sounds like a plan to me," Jessica closed the kit and tucked it under the sink. Then she pulled thirty dollars worth of bills out of her pocket and set it next to the sink faucet. When she noticed Connor and Luis giving her strange looks, she defended, "What? This little place kept us alive. It's only fair we help pay for the supplies we used." Apparently, Jessica's short speech pricked a few consciences, because soon everyone pulled out a bill or two to leave at the sink.
The group parted ways once outside the shed, though not before Luis warned Sam, "Expect me to stop by after Ethics tomorrow for a long talk."
Sam smiled wanly, "I'll answer any questions you have for me. Just think long and hard about whether you really want to hear the answers."
***Stanford's Hunters***Stanford's Hunters***Stanford's Hunters***
Connor led them to his dorm, where he and Jess did their best to strategically block the other students' view of Sam's blood soaked clothing. Fortunately, the few students wandering the halls seemed focused upon their own trials and tribulations. No one stopped or even looked sideways at the trio entering Connor's room. Once inside, Jessica urged Sam to remove his jacket and shirts while Connor fetched his medical supplies. Connor also plied Sam with bottles of orange juice and Gatorade to replenish fluids, boast electrolytes and hopefully counter some of the shock.
Sam actually started feeling better almost as soon as he took off his wet clothes and warmed up. "My bruises are going to have bruises tomorrow," he noted. "I haven't felt this banged up since the supposedly minor haunting in Alabama turned out to be two full fledged poltergeists." It was the first time Sam honestly spoke of his past since coming to Stanford. In fact, it might actually be the only time Sam talked openly with anyone beside his brother or father about his hunting experiences. Even on those occasions when they were among other hunters such as Bobby Singer or Pastor Jim Murphy, Dean was always the one eager to share their exploits. Sam more often talked about his school work or the soccer team he managed to join. During his teen years, Sam could only be described as sullen and closed-mouthed in regards to hunting.
"Is it hard to always be hiding your past?" asked Jessica as she carefully replaced the wet bandages from the shed with dry sterile ones from Connor's kit.
"I thought it would be easy," began Sam. "My family is made up of hunters and I was always the odd ball who hated how we lived. I thought I could just forget about my past and start fresh here. But in reality, it is incredibly hard to build even the most basic friendships while keeping the first eighteen years of your life secret. The one close friendship I developed is currently imploding. I'm pretty sure its failure can be blamed on the fact we are both keeping secrets from each other."
Jessica glanced toward Connor for his input, while taping the new bandage securely before putting away the last of the medical supplies. Then she sat on the bed next to Sam across from Connor in the desk chair. She couldn't deny an overwhelming curiosity about what it would be like to know there were real monsters in the world and to spend your life hunting them while others buried themselves in the illusion that such things don't exist.
"My situation is a bit harder to explain," Connor hesitated. It wasn't that he didn't want to tell them about himself. If fact, he felt surprised by how strong the desire burned to share everything with them. From the moment Connor reached out his hand to help Sam up, there had been a connection; almost like the recognition of a long lost friend who finally arrived. Even Jessica felt like a kindred soul of sorts. Not that he was interested in her romantically. She was way hot and all, but from the glances Sam and Jessica were sending each other, it was only a matter of time before they became a thing. Oddly enough, Connor kept thinking how much his little sister Abby would like Jessica.
"Okay, here's the thing," Connor started over. "Even if we put aside the part where I grew up fighting supernatural monsters and demons, my life is really weird even by hunter standards."
Sensing Connor might be feeling pressured to reveal more than he was ready to, Sam offered, "You don't have to explain anything you don't want to. I get keeping secrets until they become so ingrained you don't know how to function without them. You can tell us when you're ready to tell us or not say anything at all. Either way isn't going to change who you are to us."
Suddenly intrigued, Connor asked, "So who am I to you?"
"A fellow student at Stanford," replied Sam, "who also happens to be the hunter who helped me save several lives tonight, including my own."
"Sam's right," agreed Jessica. "I mean, I'm not going to deny I'm wildly curious about both of your lives and what it means to be a monster hunter. That said; I want to be your friend a lot more than I want to know your secrets."
Connor smiled. Coming to a decision, he locked his dorm room door and pulled a bottle out of a compartment under the bed. "I hope you like whiskey, because this is a story best told and listened to with fortification."
Stanford's Hunters***Stanford's Hunters***Stanford's Hunters
Author's note: This is my first attempt at writing characters for either Angel or Supernatural, so your feedback would be especially appreciated.