Nothing As It Seemed - Part II

[jacyevans]

Back to Part I

Sam doesn't sleep; his mind runs about a mile a minute, replaying his most recent vision over and over, trying to make sense of what he saw. This does nothing for his already throbbing head.

Although it was dark, he recognizes the setting right away as somewhere just outside of campus. He doesn't know the girl; of that much he is certain. Her features were clear enough, however, that he would recognize her if he sees her again.

Then again, what would he say? 'Hello, nice to meet you, you're going to be attacked by a demon some day in the near future, would you like an escort?' Yeah, that would go over really well.

This brings him to his second problem. He isn't one hundred percent positive that what he saw in his vision was a demon, but the black eyes and the human form could be little else. Sam desperately wants to pick up his phone and call Dean, ask for his opinion, but that would involve explanations he isn't ready to give.

Sam groans, rolling over and shoving his face into his pillow. "Goddamnit," he mutters. When he opens his eyes, he stares directly at the closed door. He hesitates only a moment then reaches over, digging around in the top drawer of his desk under notebooks and scattered papers. When he finds his butterfly knife, he heaves himself out of bed.

Sam stands in front of the door frame, contemplating the cracks and creases in the wood, the tight corners - the perfect spots to hide protection sigils. There's really no way to lie a line of salt around the door, not with Zach and Luis tramping in and out like a herd of elephants, and that makes his skin crawl, especially with this recent vision. He laughs at the irony. He came to college to be normal and he isn't comfortable without salt around the door. Maybe he can line the window, as long as Zach quits flinging it open.

Okay, the window is out, too. Sam sighs, flips open the knife and reminds himself, as his father has many times before, that sometimes, a little desecration of private property is necessary, as long as it keeps people safe.

Jesus, he's quoting John Winchester as a means of rationalization. Sam groans, banging his head against the door frame.

"Don't hit yourself so hard, Sammy; you'll damage your brain, and all of that hard-earned scholarship money will go to waste."

Sam snaps his head up as Zach strides into the room, Jess in tow, tossing his books on the bed. For one single moment, Zach sounded exactly like Dean, and Sam's head spins as he tries to anchor himself to the here and now.

He swallows, turning back to the door frame. "Don't call me Sammy," he says shortly. Jess glances up at him, stunned.

"All right, don't get your panties in a bunch," Zach says defensively, rummaging through his desk. Sam sighs, running his free hand through his hair.

"I'm sorry. I've just... had a bad day." That was putting it mildly.

Jess comes up close behind him, peering at the symbols that already decorate the wall. Sam glances at her over his shoulder. She eyes his comfortable grip on the knife and covers up her discomfort with an arched eyebrow and her unique brand of sarcasm. "So you decided graffiti would be the best course of stress relief?" Zach pauses, immediately crossing the room to stand at Jess' side, eyes widening at the symbols inscribed on the door frame.

"It's not graffiti," Sam mutters, walking around to the other side of the door frame. He was hoping to have this finished before Zach got out of class, avoiding uncomfortable questions until a later date, maybe never - the symbols are small, barely noticeable unless someone looks hard enough or stands directly next to or behind the door. There's a monumental difference between explaining this to a nervous victim and someone he has to live with for the next seven months.

"They're... sigils. Mostly, they mean protection."

Zach blinks, exchanging a glance with Jess, and Sam wonders if the other shoe has finally dropped. Still, he grins, half tilt of his lips. "Am I freaking you out yet?"

Zach pauses, glancing between the symbols on the wall and Sam closing the knife against his thigh in a practiced maneuver. Eventually, he shrugs. "Nah. No offense, I'm not sure I buy into all this New Age shit, but whatever helps you sleep at night."

Sam exhales with relief.

-----

Sam almost convinces himself, as he tried when he was younger and the visions were too frightening for his brain to accept, that this vision wouldn't come to pass. The girl was made up, a figment of his imagination, the rest a hallucination resulting from sleep deprivation and stress. He ignores the little alarm bells in his mind and the guilty twist of his stomach reminding him that he should be researching unexplainable deaths, omens, anything.

Then she walks into the coffee shop and Sam can't lie to himself anymore.

The shop is full, students sitting alone or with study partners preparing for looming Midterms; books are strewn with coffee cups of varying sizes, the number indicative of the time spent wallowing in exam-induced misery.

Emily grins, handing off a cup of coffee to Luis who goes back to a table covered in scattered note cards and no less than five empty cups. Emily groans, dropping her head to her crossed arms on the counter. "We are never going to get out of here."

"What?" Sam picks up his head from the Latin textbook he has stashed open under the counter. Emily narrows her eyes and he smiles sheepishly. "Sorry," he mumbles.

Emily glances over his shoulder and rolls her eyes. "Like you don't have that shit memorized already," she mutters, and Sam stiffens at the possible implications behind her words. Rarely do any of his friends make any reference to his family, not since Luis and that awkward almost-conversation in the coffee shop, but sometimes, Sam wonders just what exactly they're saying behind his back. Dean always said he was too damn paranoid for his own good.

"Stop worrying so much about what other people think about you, Sammy," he'd say, and Sam would huff, crossing his arms, sulking until Dean slapped the back of his head, telling him to snap out of it. He knows better, always has; the only person whose opinion ever truly mattered is Dean. It's why he never said anything about his visions, the only secret he ever kept, eleven years of holding the truth close to his chest, bursting to get out.

Sam turns his head as Emily laughs, catching onto the tail-end of her conversation, and grabs onto the counter in a white-knuckled grip. He immediately recognizes the girl Emily speaks with, shoulder-length brown hair, brown eyes gleaming as she laughs. Her t-shirt is green with a small yellow floral design on the right side, yet he can't help but see her in white, the color splashed with bright red.

She turns to Sam, eyebrows raised with amusement. "Hi."

Sam unglues his tongue enough to say, "Uh. Hi."

Emily rolls her eyes and gestures between them with her hands. "Sam, this is Jennifer. Jennifer, this charming and talkative young fellow is Sam." Sam tosses her a baleful glare over his shoulder.

"Nice to meet you," Jennifer says, smiling, "Now where's my coffee, bitch?" she says to Emily, voice throaty and lively and nothing like her terrified screams.

"You don't work here anymore, bitch," Emily counters, holding her hand out, palm up and open. "You're a paying customer now."

"Aw, come on, Em," the other girl wheedles, "Just one. No one has to know."

Emily raises an eyebrow, gesturing with her fingers. Jennifer pouts, digging into her bag for the cash, then snatches the cup from the counter. "You suck."

Sam watches her stalk away towards a table near the door, heart thumping in his chest. He stares as she sits down, opening up one of her books, teeth biting at her lower lip as she makes notes in the margins.

"She's single." Sam startles, turning to Emily, who wiggles her eyebrows. "You want me to hook you -"

"I'm good, Em, thanks," Sam says quickly.

Emily glares. "Fine, see if I ever offer to help get you laid again." Her lips slide into a grin as she turns to help the customer at the counter.

He arches an eyebrow, glancing from Emily to Sam bemusedly. "You two need a minute?"

Emily giggles. Sam huffs, pretending to turn back to his Latin with a roll of his eyes, but the wheels in his head are already in motion.

For once, fate smiles down on him, because Jennifer stays until closing, the last person to leave. She only stands as Emily heads out to her car with a wave and a wink and Sam starts wiping down the tables.

"Sam, right?" Jennifer asks, and Sam nods. "Nice of Emily to stick around and help you clean up," she comments wryly.

Sam chuckles. "It was a busy night. I told her to go; she was exhausted."

"Such a gentleman."

"I try."

Jennifer laughs quietly and shakes her head then begins gathering up her books, shoving them into her bag. Sam opens his mouth without thinking, heart racing at the thought of her walking out into the dark alone.

"You know, I could walk you home." Jennifer's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, and Sam backtracks, practically tripping over his words, "If you, ah, want, I mean." Smooth, Winchester. If his brother could only see him now... no, scratch that. Better he doesn't, because Sam would never hear the end of it. Dean would be laughing his ass off.

Jennifer's lips slide into a smirk, but she looks more amused than offended. "I guess I wouldn't mind the company."

Sam breathes a sigh of relief. "Just let me grab my bag and lock up."

As soon as they're outside of the confines of the coffee shop, Sam isn't sure what to say. This isn't a date or even the precursor to a date, but he still feels that same awkward flutter in his stomach. Sam never had that easy confidence with women, able to say two words, give them a smile, and have them falling all over him. That's Dean's forte, and he's always envied his brother for it.

Jennifer breaks the uncomfortable silence. "So, you volunteer to walk all of the girls home?"

"It's in the job description." Under saving people and hunting things.

"Damn it. And here I thought I was special."

Sam grins, but his smile falters as he catches a strange shadow out of the corner of his eye, and a cold chill races up his spine. His eyes could be playing tricks on him. Maybe. Maybe not. Sam doesn't take the chance. He steers Jennifer to the opposite side of the street with a hand against her lower back. When she raises questioning eyes to his, he lowers his hand slowly and shrugs.

"Just... thought I saw something."

Jennifer raises her eyebrows but doesn't say anything.

When they reach the door of her residence hall, Jennifer turns to Sam for a moment, tilting her head to the side. She bites her lip, regarding him with a question in her gaze.

She doesn't ask. Instead, she shakes herself and says, "I wasn't kidding, you know. About what I said before." Sam stares at her blankly, and she back smiles impishly. "You're a real gentleman, Sam. Someone taught you well." Jennifer stands on her toes to kiss him on the cheek then waves as the door to her building closes.

"Yeah, someone did," Sam whispers to absolutely no one at all.

-----

Sam continues to walk Jennifer home every night. He keeps up conversation, his eyes always tuned for shadows that aren't just shadows. He falls back on his hunting instincts almost too easily but tries to think of it as just another routine to add to his repertoire. Dean would be bored stiff by the monotony.

The only thing that would make Sam's life perfect is if his brother were here with him.

Jess groans, slamming her book shut, yanking him from his thoughts. "I quit. Language of the common people, my ass."

Sam chuckles, flipping the page of his textbook, scribbling notes as he goes along. Contrary to what seems to be popular belief, Pastor Jim might have made sure he and Dean were practically fluent in Latin from the time they were young, but List the five most common exorcisms would not be a question that appeared anywhere on his exams. A little extra cramming never hurt anyone.

"Honestly," she huffs, continuing on her rant, "Of all of the languages Stanford offers, what the hell possessed me to take Latin?"

"Christo," Sam mutters, smirking; the remark is almost entirely lost on Jess. His smile falters and he sighs, shaking his head.

Jess kicks, her foot connecting with the back of his chair. He raises his eyes, arching an eyebrow. "Are you making fun of me, Winchester?"

"Amat victoria curam." Jess' eyebrows rise to her hairline. "Victory favors those who take pains," he elaborates.

She tosses his pillow at him; he catches it in his lap, laughing. "Fuck you. If you screw up the grading curve for the rest of us again, I will kick your ass."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, giving her a mock salute.

Jess shifts to the edge of the bed, legs swinging. Her eyes slowly move around the room; he sees the question about to fall from her lips when her gaze lingers on the protective symbols inscribed on the door frame, and Sam stiffens. She continues, pushing the words down, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

When Jess finally hesitates and heads towards the foot of his bed, all of the tension comes rushing back. She points to the single picture hanging on the wall above his dresser. It was the first thing he unpacked, hung up with careful, shaking fingers - an exact copy of the picture his father keeps tucked into his journal, one of precious few that survived the fire.

"Are those your parents?" She asks slowly, awkwardly shoving her hands into her pockets, as if she knows she's already on shaky ground.

Sam bites back the initial, snappish answer that rises instinctively to his mouth. Instead, he closes his books, clears his throat and nods. "Yeah," he says, voice slightly hoarse.

Jess steps closer, eyes narrowing as she takes a closer look. Sam doesn't follow her lead. He knows every detail of the picture by heart, every crease and tear with a story behind it - like the bent upper right-hand corner from a mirror's edge in a particularly shitty motel on a particularly terrible hunt for a Black Dog in Poughkeepsie, New York. Dad dragged them out into the pouring rain then Dean was sick with a hacking cough and a fever that kept him bed-ridden, miserable and bitching for a week.

"Your mom is beautiful," Jess says, voice hushed. He takes a moment to marvel at her use of the present tense - is, not was, like Mary Winchester is still alive, like she hasn't been dead since before Sam could walk.

He knows precious little about his mother. He pestered Dean consistently, but John remained shockingly tight-lipped. After a while, Sam learned to stop asking.

"Was," Sam says quietly, standing to meet her, "She died when I was a baby."

Jess finally turns from the picture to look at him, shaking her head slowly. "Doesn't change anything."

Sam almost laughs, but he doesn't feel like letting Jess in on this particular inside joke. He was normal once - mother, father, older brother, happily fucking ever after. Mary's death changed everything.

Jess' lips quirk and her eyes shift back to the picture. "You look more like your dad though."

Sam groans. "Thanks Jess," he mutters, running a hand through his hair. Her sudden burst of laughter is half shock, half confusion.

"Wow, I didn't know that was an insult." He sees the questions burning behind her eyes and wonders if he should acknowledge any of them. He stares at the faces in the photo instead, his mother and father, young, happy, carefree. No knowledge of the supernatural or the things that lurk in the dark.

"We should get to class," he says instead, tearing his eyes away.

Jess waits for Sam after the exam, one leg bent against the wall across from the door, arms over her chest; she doesn't even need to ask to know he aced the test. The smirk that pulls on his lips against his will says all the words he doesn't. She scowls, slapping him in the arm with her notebook.

"I hate you," she mutters. He smiles, but can't gloat for long; he still has three other exams to pass.

Sam sits in Ava's room that night, note cards of various colors scattered about her bed. A pattern begins to unfold the longer he stares. Sam lifts up a pink one, forehead crinkling. "You color-coded your English notes?"

"It's the only way I remember anything specific. I'm a visual learner." Sam arches an eyebrow and a blush forms high on her cheeks. He chuckles. "Bite me," she mutters, tossing a pink one at Sam's shoulder. She misses. "Like you don't have any weird, anal retentive habits."

Sam bites back the automatic retort of, 'Nope, I'm perfect,' because while she would know he was only kidding, he can think of roughly a million habits she would find both anal retentive and weird off of the top of his head. Check and double check for salt around every door and window, a weapon under his pillow while he sleeps. Habits that ensure protection and survival - habits that he blatantly ignores in the face of everything he knows exists in the dark, and he wishes his skin would stop prickling at the reminder.

"- and Milton and Shakespeare had a big, cross-generational gay romance. Apparently, Will's great in the sack, but the iambic pentameter kink gets obnoxious after a while."

Sam's head snaps up, and he stares at Ava dumbly, too caught up in his own thoughts to be sure he heard her correctly. "What?"

Ava laughs, tossing the green note card she holds in her hand to the side. "Just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Seriously, Sam, you get lost in your own head more than anyone I know."

"Give thy thoughts no tongue."

"Cute," Ava says acerbically, rolling her eyes. Sam flashes a grin and picks up the card she discarded, glancing down at the notes in her looped, sloping handwriting.

"Sam?"

Sam lifts his head, because the tone of her voice is questioning and hesitant in a way that has nothing to do with Milton and Shakespeare. "Yeah?"

Ava leans across their notes and kisses him, firm press of her lips against his. Sam stares at her, startled when she pulls away.

She blushes, biting her lip and staring down at the index cards on the bed between them. "I'm sorry, Sam, I didn't-"

Sam kisses her, muffling her protests, and she tugs him closer, fisting her hand in his shirt. Her note cards go flying, fluttering to the floor in blurs of white, green, pink, and blue.

The cards on the bed crackle under Ava’s back as she pulls him down on top of her, and Sam pushes a few more to the floor, wrapping his hand in her hair. He stutters to a halt when Ava begins unbuttoning his shirt.

"Whoa, hey, Ava," he says between kisses, but Ava seems insistent on getting to the skin beneath his t-shirt.

"Eighty degrees and you still wear three layers," she mutters, attempting to shove his flannel off of his shoulders. Sam grasps her wrist gently, and she stares at him, eyes flitting across his face, trying to figure him out from a single glance.

"You really do have to think everything through, don't you?" she huffs, rolling out from under him. Sam tugs on her wrist before she can get up and walk away.

"Hey," he says, pulling Ava back against him, pressing a kiss to her neck. This seems to mollify her slightly, as she relaxes in his arms. "I’m not saying I don't want to," she turns her head to look at him and he exhales, the hair on her shoulder fluttering, "I just-"

"You just what? I want to, you want to," she presses her palm to his face. "What more is there to think about?"

The answer is nothing and everything, but for once, Sam focuses on nothing and leans into Ava, pressing his lips against hers, pulling her back down to lie with him on the bed, letting her hands slide against his skin.

-----

She giggles as she pulls him beneath the bleachers, her hair blowing in the slight breeze. Her lips taste like her cherry lip gloss, sweet and sort of slippery.

Footsteps echo behind them, and Sam pulls away for a moment, ears instantly tuned to the sound. "I think someone saw us."

She rolls her eyes. "It's just the football team, Sam; they probably just got off of practice."

"Bridget-"

Bridget presses her finger to his lips and smiles. "Will you relax? We’re not going to get caught." She kisses him, and she smirks against his lips, "And even if we do," she kisses the corner of his mouth, up to his ear and whispers, "There’s really nothing you can’t talk your way out of, is there, Winchester?"

Sam bristles at the implication that his name gives him an automatic get-out-of-jail free card, but then her mouth is on his again, warm and inviting. He's still a sixteen-year-old boy, and she's a willing girl who's not pushing him away when he slips his hands under her jacket to pull her hips closer to his.

Still, he can’t help but ask as she slides her hands around his shoulders, "Are you doing this because I'm Sam or because I’m a Winchester?"

Bridget giggles, sucking her teeth against his neck, making him gasp. "Does it matter?"

When Sam comes home that night, lips swollen, hair mussed and a hickey on his neck, Dean grins knowingly, slapping him on the back.

He never does find out if Bridget boasts about her conquest; Caleb calls with a new case, a poltergeist in Nebraska. They're gone the next day.

-----

Footsteps. Footsteps pound across the floor, a heartbeat pounds in time with gasping breath, terrified, adrenaline racing -

A body falls as feet trip over themselves, arms pushing upwards to drag themselves up, hand on back pushing back down again.

"Please," a voice whisper-pleads, fruitless as a knife flashes.

Jennifer screams, her blood spilling, pooling dark and soaking into the ground.

Sam wakes with a groan, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. His head throbs steadily, a pulsing drumbeat against his skull making it hard to think, but not enough to chase away the images of Jennifer lying dead, her blood soaked into the cold, dark ground.

He buries his head in his hands, forcing himself to breathe in and out.

"Sam," Sam startles, whipping his head around, wincing at the pain that comes with jostling his head so quickly. He waits for the room to stop spinning before his eyes focus on the face in front of him. Ava. He's in Ava's room.

Ah, shit.

"Sam," Ava repeats, pushing herself up, pulling the sheet to her chest, "Are you okay?" She flicks on the lamp, and Sam groans his contempt. She flicks the light off in a hurry.

"Migraine," he croaks, and she clucks her tongue in sympathy.

"I bet," she murmurs, reaching over to dig through her desk, letting out a triumphant little, "Aha!" when she finds what she's looking for. She hands him the bottle of aspirin, shaking it quietly. "I know it won’t help, but…"

"Thanks," he says, shaking four into his palm, swallowing them dry.

Ava takes the bottle back from him, tossing it back to her desk. She pulls her knees up to her chest and leans back against the wall at the head of her bed. "So, do you always wake up from your nightmares with migraines?"

Sam stills, the tension in his shoulders doing nothing for the pain in his head. He goes with the flow, because pretending to be embarrassed about nightmares is a better option than the truth. "Just… sometimes," he mumbles, glancing down at her sheets before flicking his eyes back to hers.

Ava stares at him; he cuts his gaze away again because her eyes are piercing, like she already knows all of his secrets. The thought unnerves him down to his very core. "What?" he asks, half laughing.

"That wasn't a dream, was it?"

Sam swallows; she sounds so sure of the question, it might as well be a statement. "What are you talking about? I told you, it was just a-"

"Nightmare, yeah. I got the memo, signed, sealed, and delivered." She pulls the sheet up to her shoulders and wraps her arms tightly around her knees. "The problem, Sam, is I know you're lying."

Those words bring Sam's entire world to a screeching, terrifying halt - not just because he left home to get away from all of this, the hunting and the supernatural, demons and monsters and everything that makes him a freak, but because this is the one secret he hasn't shared with anyone. Not his father. Not even Dean.

"The headache, the way you jolted awake. That wasn't a nightmare Sam, so don't feed me the bullshit. I know all of the lies because I've told them before, too. That was a vision."

Sam doesn't know whether to shake Ava by the shoulders and demand she tell him everything she knows or grab his clothes and high-tail for his room. He settles for pulling his pants on so he feels a little less vulnerable as he blurts out, "Who are you?"

"Ava Marie Wilson," she says glibly, "Born October 10, 1983 in Peoria, Illinois to Melinda and Barry. You want my height and weight, too, or did I already give you enough information for a background check?"

Sam narrows his eyes and Ava laughs, punching him playfully in the arm. "What? If you can't laugh about this, your life is only going to get a lot more miserable than it already is."

"I don't think that’s possible at this point,” Sam grunts, rubbing his temples furiously, trying his damnedest to wish the pain - and his visions and this whole insane situation - away.

"You know, that doesn’t actually help," Ava says, gesturing to his hands, and Sam bites back the sudden urge to throttle her instead.

"You randomly dropping a bomb like I have visions too doesn't either. Jesus, Ava."

Ava mutters a quick, "Sorry," he doesn't think is all that genuine and uses the silence that follows to attempt to relax, breathing slowly.

When a stab of pain lances through his head, he winces, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. He picks his shirt up from the floor and throws it over his head. "I have to go."

"Sam-" Ava says, standing with the sheet still clutched around her, but he ignores her, grabbing his shoes and leaving with a slam of the door.

Sam walks into work that night, headache lingering, hoping a couple of cups of free coffee, coupled with the rich, strong smell that constantly permeates the air - one that screams caffeine, caffeine, caffeine - will do what another half bottle of pain killers failed to. His attempt at rest was a joke - the day was spent mulling over Ava's revelation, the images of his vision, and hoping he would see Jennifer tonight. He isn't sure what he'll say, but he has to warn her somehow.

He nods to Mike before walking around the counter and pushing the swinging door at the back open. Emily sits on the counter in the break room with her back hunched and a newspaper in her lap. Sam's eyebrows knit together when Zach lifts his head from her side, nodding to him before returning his attention to his girlfriend.

What the hell is Zach doing here, he wonders, tying his apron around his waist.

"Em, maybe you should come back with me to the dorms. I'm sure Mike would give you the day off," Zach says, though Emily was already shaking her head halfway through his first sentence.

"No way. I'll just sit there and think and... I can't process this right now. I don't want to even..." Her voice trails off, like she completely forgot what she was going to say. "God, I can't believe it. She was in one of my classes. We worked together." Emily shakes her head, shivering. Zach puts his arm around her, face pulled into an expression of concern that looks out of place on his usually happy face.

Sam grows cold, mind numb with disbelief as he gently pulls the paper from Emily's hands. When he reads the headline and the first line of the article, Emily and Zach’s voices fade to white noise.

MURDER ON CAMPUS

Twenty-year-old Jennifer Tango was found dead near the Stanford University campus this morning...

-----

Sam paces up and down the hallway outside of Ava's room. Every so often, his eyes flicker to her door, hand rising, poised to knock. Each time, his hand drops back to his side.

Emily was still reeling over Jennifer's death, not because they were particularly close but, "You don't expect something like this to happen to someone you know. Someone who walked through your door, laughed at your jokes, drank coffee with you." She shook her head, biting her lip. "I guess I'm just not good with death."

"No one's good with death, Em," Sam said, placing a hand on her shoulder. The not even me went unspoken, but she seemed to hear the words anyway, implied in the way she exhaled, body unwinding slightly and the wan smile she gave him as she went back to the register to hand her customer their coffee.

Something inside of him, an instinct deep in his bones - something beyond his visions, honed by years of staring at maps and newspaper articles and learning to follow patterns tells him this will happen again. Lightning always strikes twice. If Ava has answers that can prevent this from happening a second time...

Sam takes a deep breath and knocks.

The door opens, revealing Jess on the other side. She cocks a hip against the door frame, leaning her opposite hand against the knob.

"Hey, Sam," she says, smiling brightly, and even with the wariness twisting his stomach into knots, Sam can't help but grin in response. "What's going on? Sexiled again?"

"Ha-ha," Sam grouses, rolling his eyes. "Actually, I was kind of hoping I could talk to Ava."

Jess' smile slips, her hand twitching as she fidgets against the door. She catches herself, and a moment later, the grin is back again, though not as wide or easy and a lot more strained. "I think she's in the lounge. She said something about a Biology project."

"Thanks," Sam says, letting the genuine gratefulness show on his face. Jess opens her mouth to say something else then shakes her head, smile slipping away before she closes the door with a quiet snick.

Sam frowns and turns, almost walking straight into Becky.

"Jesus, Becky," he yelps, stumbling backwards a step so he doesn't barrel straight into her. It's a strange moment to realize that he's one of the few people that doesn't call her Becks; he never picked up on the habit from Zach. The name seems too private, something steeped in childhood and shared memories.

Or maybe he's just projecting.

Becky taps her foot against the floor, arms crossed over her chest. She clenches her teeth, eyes narrowing. Rebecca may be the more serious of the Warren siblings, but Sam can't remember a moment ever seeing her so angry.

"Becky," he says warily, because clearly he did something wrong, though he has no idea what, "What-"

"You really are completely oblivious, aren't you?" She shakes her head, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, "Men," under her breath. Becky turns and walks back into her room, slamming the door, leaving Sam staring after her, still confused.

When he finally gets his thoughts together, he drags himself down to the lounge and finds Ava sitting alone at a corner table against the wall. Her lips quirk as he approaches, though she doesn't ever look up from the notes she scribbles in her notebook.

"Sam." Ava lifts her head from her textbook, tapping her pen impatiently along the binding. "So, you're talking to me now?

Sam slips into the chair across from her and leans forward with his hands folded along the table. He drops his voice to a whisper because even though there's only one other person clear on the other side of the room wearing headphones, he's afraid the walls have ears. "How do you have visions?"

Ava quirks an eyebrow. She drops her pen and leans back, arms folded across her chest. "Wow, you don't waste any time, do you, just straight for the hard questions. How do you have visions?" She counters with a shrug of annoyance. "I don't know, Sam. I was a kid when they started, barely seven. I thought they were nightmares until I dreamt the kid next door died in a freak train accident. And then he did."

"That still doesn't explain how you knew about me."

"I saw your face when you woke up. I see it every time I look in a mirror after a vision. When you said you had a migraine..." She sighs loudly, slamming her book closed. "I took a leap of faith, okay? I figured the worst that could happen if I was wrong was that you would call me crazy, slam the door in my face and never speak to me again." She smirks, folding her hands in front of her. "Two out of three ain't bad."

Sam clenches his jaw and Ava rolls her eyes, leaning forward on her hands. "Would you believe me if I told you I know you can do more than just see the future? Probably just in moments of stress, right? Someone you love is in danger and suddenly, you're Superman."

Sam's breath hitches in his throat. Distantly, he hears the remembered shot of a gun, oh, God, Dean, and the scratching of a wardrobe against the floor. Their first hunt alone, what should have been an easy salt and burn, Dad off hunting a revenant two states over. Sam ended up trapped in a closet, the doors blocked by an armoire taller than him. Dean was upstairs and alone; the gunshot made Sam's blood run cold because that wasn't Dean's gun. Sam felt a faint pressure at the back of his mind, the wardrobe slid across the floor, and Sam flew up the stairs just in time to find Dean bleeding out - shoulder wound, clean through. Dean asked him later how he got out. I have no idea.

"How did you know that?" He whispers.

"When I was thirteen, my mom almost died." Ava smiles, but this time, there's no sarcasm, no bite, just the easy understanding of someone who knows exactly what he's been going through all these years. "There was an oil fire. I was in my room and I smelled smoke. By the time I got downstairs, my mom was trapped in the kitchen. My parents were renovating and the china cabinet was wedged against the door. You could only open it halfway and then you had to..." Her voice trails off and she shakes her head. "When my mother told the police officer what happened, he called it an adrenaline rush." She huffs a quiet laugh, eyes meeting his across the table. "I told you, Sam. I'm just like you."

And there's the irony, tied up in one tiny little package - Sam came to college to be normal, and instead, he finds his biggest secret laid on display by a complete stranger. Sam tips his head back against the chair, closes his eyes and allows everything to sink in.

"The good news is the pain goes away with time. So do the visions, but - there’s a catch."

Of course there is. When does anything in Sam’s life ever come easy? He pries one eye open with a sigh. "What sort of catch? Ritual sacrifice? Because I can tell you, that much blood is a bitch to get out of clothing."

"You do have a flair for the dramatic, don't you?” She asks sardonically, rolling her eyes. "No, Sam, killing virgins or floppy bunnies is not required. All you have to do is trust me."

"Trust you," Sam says flatly, the thought almost laughable. He can’t remember the last time he trusted anyone outside of his own family, and even then, that faith was shakable, breakable in everyone outside of Dean. Briefly, he wonders how much of that faith shattered when he left for Stanford. Something that feels a lot like grief wells up, a tight band around his throat; he swallows it down.

Ava touches his arm, a light brush of her fingers, bringing his thoughts back to the present. "You know, we can do so much more than just see the future. When you open yourself up to your powers... you can save those people you see in your visions. And the learning curve is ridiculous, Sam. I can teach you. If you’ll let me."

Sam bites his lip, battling between his choices. Stay normal - continue to ignore everything going on around him, and someone else dies - or let Ava teach him what she knows, and he could potentially save lives.

There never was a choice, really.

He takes a deep breath in, watching his normal life fade away before his eyes as he slowly exhales. "Okay. Okay, I’m in."

Ava grins.

-----

Sam endures Becky's glares through dinner. When she "accidentally" kicks him as he gets up from the table with Ava, he is tempted to ask Zach what the hell is wrong with his sister. He changes his mind, sure that will lead to an argument - for all that the two of them bicker, somehow implying something is wrong with Becky will probably result in nothing but a punch to the face.

"You mind if I crash in your room tonight?" Ava asks, and Sam raises his eyebrows, trying to smirk but barely able to hold on before it morphs into a smile.

"Trying to find another excuse to take advantage of me?"

"I think we've readily established that I don't need any excuses." Ava leers at him and laughs. "I just thought it would be easier than knocking on your door in the middle of the night and worrying about being quiet."

Sam snorts. "Zach sleeps like the dead anyway, you wouldn't have to-"

The only warning he has is Ava's startled, "Sam!" as she whips around, pushing him out of the way. For a girl almost half his size, she's pretty strong, able to practically knock him over. When he rights himself, he sees Ava tumble to the ground, a man on top of her with his hand at her throat. Even in the dark, he can see black eyes.

Sam reacts purely on instinct, isn't even really sure what he's doing or why he's doing it. A pressure builds at the back of his mind, heavy and pulsing like the beginnings of a vision, only this is different, more like something inside pushing, trying to get out. Ava lies on the ground struggling to breathe with the demon's hands wrapped around her throat, and instead of attempting to fumble his way through an exorcism, he throws out his hand.

The pressure that has been building at the back of his head explodes outwards, a driving force coming with pain that brings him to his knees. He tastes blood in his mouth from the steady trickle down his nose, but he still watches, eyes wide, as the demon explodes from its body, a plume of black smoke unfurling into the sky in a scream that never fails to make the hair on Sam's neck stand on end. The man collapses beside where Ava lays on her back, staring up at the sky, chest heaving for breath with her arms still frozen at her sides.

Sam wipes the blood from his nose, crawling on his knees over to where Ava shakily pulls herself to a sitting position. "You okay?" He asks, voice surprisingly steady.

Ava rubs a hand against her neck, staring at Sam incredulously. "Peachy," she says hoarsely then coughs to clear her throat with a wince. "This happen to you a lot?"

"Unfortunately," Sam grumbles, wincing in sympathy. Monsters have a ridiculous affinity for his neck.

"What did you do? To make it go away?"

Sam tries to imagine what happened when Ava hit the ground - the exact moment of revelation when his brain kicked in, instincts taking over where panicked attempts to remember lessons in Latin could not. His head throbs and his body hurts, a dull ache like he ran a few extra miles too many.

"I have no idea," he says finally, and he isn't lying. His body remembers clearly, but in his mind, everything is a blur.

Ava stands slowly, taking a moment to find her footing before smiling at him wryly. "If I had to take a stab in the dark, Sam, I'd say you just discovered your brand spanking new psychic power. Congratulations."

Sam stares at her blankly. He can exorcise demons. With his mind.

What the hell is he?

"Hey," Ava whispers, placing a hand on his arm. She slides her hand up and pushes against his shoulder, standing on her toes to press her lips against his. Sam sinks into the kiss, pulling her close, wrapping his arms tight around her waist.

"You want to tell me what's going through your mind right now?" she asks, a breath against his lips.

Sam sighs, shaking his head against her shoulder. "Nothing."

Ava purses her lips and drops back down on her heels, but doesn't reply.

By the time they reach his room, Sam's head is throbbing worse than after any of his visions. He didn't think that was possible.

"There's something I need to do," Ava whispers, "I'll be back." Sam digs at his forehead, trying to rub away the pain pulsing at his temples.

"Sam?" Sam picks his head up and Ava smiles reassuringly, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. "There's nothing wrong with you." The door snicks shut softly; Sam wishes he could believe her.

He's already half asleep when Ava crawls into his bed wearing one of his t-shirts, stretching like a cat under the covers. He arches an eyebrow, and she shrugs, completely unembarrassed.

"What? They looked comfortable."

Sam rolls his eyes but allows Ava to curl against his side. He drapes an arm around her shoulders.

When Ava wakes him, Sam groans, glancing at the clock, eyes still bleary with sleep. "Timeizzit?"

"Three," she chirps, standing over him already dressed. She is way too chipper for the middle of the night. Sam throws his elbow over his eyes and Ava pries his arm back, slapping his cheek softly. "Come on, lazy bones. Get up," she smirks, "Unless you're suddenly afraid of the dark."

Sam tosses her a glare, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. His head aches, not so much pain as a strange ache pushing at the back of his head.

Ava notices him wince. "You know, we can do this some other time - like normal people, when the sun is out."

Sam laughs a lot more hysterically than he should as he stands. "No, it's fine. I'm used to going out at three o'clock in the morning and doing something stupid." Like hunting and hustling pool and patching up wounds that should be tended to in a hospital.

He rubs his hands over his eyes, telling himself that he made the right decision. Better to know what’s going on in his head than let his power continue to get the drop on him, right?

After all, what harm could it do?

"You never did tell me what else you can do," Sam asks before he can dwell on that question too hard, not entirely sure he wants to discover the answer.

"I can feel out demons. Not a very impressive power, but it usually comes in handy nonetheless. Especially in your case."

"What do you mean especially in my case? Ava!" He calls out to her as she quickens her stride, taking off when he stops, throwing up his hands.

"Practice makes perfect, Sammy," she calls back from ahead of him, and even in the dark, he can see her grin, teeth flashing in the dim light.

"Don't call me Sammy," he mutters, feeling like a broken record as he scrambles to catch up. Sam doesn't think he likes the sound of that. Not even a little bit.

Ava leads him through the woods, down a stretch of road, silent save for the sound of her footsteps against the ground. She stares straight ahead, determined and refusing to answer any of his questions.

"You'll see when we get there," she says, and Sam grits his teeth but finally stops asking.

The house they approach is run-down, barely more than a shack, clearly left empty and unattended for years. Ava marches up the stairs and pushes the door open. Sam pauses over the threshold, immediately recognizing the symbols drawn out in black, somewhat messy but still effectively, on the dirty, wooden floor as a Devil's Trap. His brow furrows as he takes a few tentative steps forward. He stops, frozen at the figure pacing around at the center.

"Is that..."

"A demon? Yep." Ava grins, a predator hunting far too poisonous prey and enjoying the challenge. "I can't believe how many demons there are around, Sam. They make my skin crawl." She cocks her head to the side, considering. "You know, you could probably feel them, too, if you opened yourself up and stopped being so squeamish."

"Squeamish?" Sam hisses, yanking Ava back by her arm, putting distance between them and the demon but never turning his back. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Sam, the only way you're ever going to get a grasp on your powers is if you practice using them," she says sounding so pragmatic, Sam might almost be inclined to be believe her. The thought makes his skin crawl.

He shakes his head. "Not like this."

Ava shakes her arm out of his grasp but doesn't step back. "You have any better ideas, Einstein, I'd be glad to hear them."

Sam grasps his hands through his hair, turning away from Ava, the demon always in the corner of his eye. He tries not to think about the two hours she was gone, that her time was spent corralling a demon. She planned this.

Sam spins around, dropping his arms, trying to stall for time, to come up with something better than this. "Where did you even learn so much about demons anyway?"

"Met a hunter named Tim just before I left for college. He was pretty content to spend the night bragging about his accomplishments - especially when a pretty girl at the bar continued to ply him with beer."

Sam only met Tim a few times in passing, but that certainly sounded like him.

"Sam, you told me you would trust me." She steps out of the way, giving Sam a clear view and open walkway to the demon. "So, trust me. Remember what you did when the demon attacked me and just... let it happen."

Sam shoves his hands in his pocket, fighting not to show how freaked out he truly is by this entire ordeal. Years of training have taught him to keep his emotions in check, regardless of the situation. Just keep yourself under control, Sam. Don't let your emotions get the better of you. Somehow, he doubts John Winchester meant standing outside of a Devil's Trap and grappling a demon with his mind every time he repeated that lesson.

Sam stands on the edge of the Devil's Trap, Ava hovering just behind him meaning to be a support but only making his nerves ratchet higher. The demon stares back at them, black eyes glittering maliciously but doesn't say a word. Sam realizes what's been making his hair stand on end since he first saw the vision of Jennifer - the demons are too silent. He knows them to manipulate, running their mouth through holy water and salt being shoved down their throats. These demons don't make a sound.

Sam takes a deep breath and raises his hand, and the demon's expression shifts into a silent grin.

It isn't as easy this time. That push-pull of pressure rises at the back of his mind, and he tries to focus it outwards, to remember exactly how he exorcised the demon earlier - something he thought would be as easy as breathing, muscle memory, like riding a damn bike. Instead, his head feels like it's going to burst, and the demon doesn't even flinch.

He presses his hands to his forehead; when he tastes the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, he puts a hand out against the wall. Ava touches his shoulder and he whispers, "I can't."

The Latin tastes bitter on his tongue, and only then, when the first words of the exorcism leave his mouth, does the demon begin to laugh - loud, pealing laughter like nails on a chalk board that makes Sam wish there was a way to kill the bastard rather than just send him back to hell. The demon laughs even as she throws her head back and screams. Her body slumps to the floor.

Sam rubs a shaking wrist under his nose, wiping the remaining blood away. He kneels next to the girl, pressing his fingers to the pulse point at her neck. "She's still alive. We have to get her to a hospital."

"Because that won't be suspicious," Ava mutters, crouching down beside him.

"Go to hell," Sam snaps before he can stop himself. He's pissed and he's tired and, though he won't admit it, more than just a little scared of the girl in front of him. He wants to get the hell out and as far away from Ava Wilson as possible.

Ava sighs as Sam stands, carefully picking the mostly unconscious girl up into his arms. "Okay, look, I know you're mad, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you the plan, but Sam - this is the only way. And, it was your first time out; you'll do better next time."

Sam's already shaking his head, the girl's head lolling against his shoulder as she groans quietly. "No way. There isn't going to be a next time." He swallows. "Never again."

"Sam-"

"No. Never. Again."

Sam shoves the door open with his foot and creeps down the stairs without as much as a goodnight. He doesn't wait to see if Ava follows. He clenches his hands to control the fine shaking he still feels as he heads towards the main road, carefully placing the girl still unconscious in his arms on the ground so he can dial 911. He waits for the ambulance, making up some excuse about hearing someone scream while he was taking a late-night jog. The paramedic seems hesitant to believe him, but without any evidence to the contrary, he takes the girl and lets Sam leave without any further questions.

If Zach wonders why there's a line of salt around the door when he comes in the next morning, he doesn't question it.

Part III