A werewolf on campus
Disclaimers: Supernatural belongs to Erik Kripke. Angel belongs to Joss Whedon. No profits were earned and only respect intended.
Author’s Notes: This story is the first in a series of crossovers between pre-series Supernatural and Angel. As 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. One of the biggest differences will include two classes of demons; ‘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 ‘cross 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.
Sam Winchester settled his backpack strap a little higher on his shoulder and then straightened his jacket collar in an attempt to prevent any more rain from sliding down his neck. He should have known he would get caught in one of the scattered showers predicted for tonight and worn his hoody. Most of the other students were staying in the refuge of the library until the rain passed. Sam just didn’t want to waste time waiting around when his sturdy, water resistant bag proved more than sufficient to protect his books from the light yet persistent drizzle. He cut across the vast campus at an easy jog. Sam may have bitched about a lot of the different aspects of John Winchester’s required training, but running never bothered him. Once he found the right rhythm and pace he could run for hours. During the last seventeen months, Sam familiarized 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 a main concern of Sam’s 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 steady, irritating, reliable, tormenting, overprotective, teasing companionship which served as an anchor all his life. Yet Sam could not make himself call Dean even now, 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.
Friends quickly became Sam’s lifeline in his 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, unending change and constant grinding fear of his old life. More than any of them, Tyson Brady – his first roommate in the freshman dorm – 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 acted different. Brady drank and did drugs for the first time ever; far more than the occasional beer or bit of weed to fit in at a party. Heavy drinking and hard core drugs in amounts which left Sam wondering how much longer his friend would be alive suddenly became the norm. Brady crudely dumped the young woman he only weeks before professed to love. He seemed to be 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 tied 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 tried again a few days later, 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 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 past couple 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 easy to imagine spending the rest of your life with. Sam hesitated for the same reason he avoided serious romantic entanglement since arriving at Stanford: steady girlfriends expected to be able 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 wasn’t prepared to talk about. It left him 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 mocking him because he still hadn’t asked Jessica out on a ‘real date’ didn’t 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 didn’t know was whether Jessica could be the one in a hundred girls who didn’t 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 combination of dark yet shiny sheen. He increased his pace just 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 growl following the screams demanded Sam’s attention.
It took only seconds for the angst ridden college student to be replaced by the experienced former hunter. He raced towards the growl 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 father’s and brother’s lives as hunters led to. Yet his own 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, slowing to get a better idea of what he faced. The rain clouds blocked the moonlight while the mist distorted what light the path lanterns and buildings produced. Enough illumination 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 could 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 people scrambling back from the werewolf wouldn’t 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 behind some bushes. Sam scooped up a hand full of tent stakes offering prayerful thanks 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 was 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 didn’t 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 make Sam wonder 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 Jessica, 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 sounded 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, despite the sudden rise leaving him a little lightheaded. “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 felt certain a painful death waited 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 didn’t reply, for his attention now focused on the werewolf, who gave up trying to reach the students and 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 felt 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 stake. 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 surprisingly made him feel 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, then slid 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.