Archive of Our Own

Of all the little diners and dive spots he’s visited over his career as a hunter, Dean has to admit that this newest hole-in-the-wall is of the nicer breed. While the walls are painted a shade of orange that had nearly given him a migraine when he’d first stepped through the door, the jukebox in the corner crooning sweet songs he’s familiar with and the blisteringly hot coffee had won him over. 

The blond waitress currently bringing him a free refill of said coffee doesn’t hurt, either.

Next to him, Sam slaps a newspaper down. “Found a few things of interest somewhat nearby. A group of backpackers disappeared on a standard hike, a guy found dead with arrows sticking out of him— guess what, silver-tipped— and a string of unexplained animal attacks.”

Dean raises his eyes at the waitress and smiles, flashing every one of his white teeth, until she blushes bright red. Biting at her lip, she flusters. She busies herself by tucking her hair behind her ears, turning and running. Dean hopes she returns with a napkin with a string of numbers. 

The newspaper thwacks again, this time on his arm. Dean jolts.

Sam raises his hands, exasperated. “Hello?”

“I heard you, Sammy,” Dean grumbles. “I just don’t exactly see what grizzlies have to do with our line of work.”

“It has to do with us when the bear is sawing people straight in half. And when eyewitnesses swear that it went from walking on four legs to two.” Sam presses his lips together and tilts his head, pleading his case. 

It’s a good case, too. Dean’s been getting bored of the myriad of spirits and specters as of late. Those types of cases tend to involve more downtime, nothing but research and book-diving until you get just the right piece of the puzzle, find just the right name, the right grave, the right bones. 

Don’t get him wrong, he’s no slouch at that. No, not at all, but he has to admit Sam takes a liking to the whole process more than he does. The type of case this is more likely to be— a real, physical creature promising a real, gritty fight— that’s where Dean shines.

“All right, I’ll bite,” Dean relents. He leans forward to peek at the map Sam’s got sprawled on the table. “Doesn’t seem too far. That close to your old stomping grounds?”

“If you want to drive an extra five hours, sure,” Sam mumbles. “From here, it’s probably a little over two hundred miles.”

“Not too bad. This place got a name?”

“Beacon Hills, California.”

---

California’s one of those places that Dean has a clear mental picture of: golden beaches with sunsets that reflect off the clear blue water, big bustling skyscrapers, landscapes of steel gray and sea salt rather than leaf-green. 

This town, Beacon Hills, doesn’t fit into that predetermined picture.

Honestly, it reminds him of northern states. Of Wisconsin, of Vermont, of Maine. The trees are lush and full, the view off the I-5 not the dusty desert brown he’s accustomed to in dry states such as this. He’d been expecting sand and rock and cacti, hell, maybe even a tumbleweed. Not cows grazing just off the side of the freeway.

He figures he shouldn’t be too surprised by the scenery; he’s been to California once before. But to be fair, during that trip, he had a lot more to worry about than the state of the roadside foliage. 

As always, the first step out of the Impala onto the paved road of their small town of the week is downright luxurious. Dean stretches and grabs the gas nozzle as Sam heads inside the station to ask for directions to the nearest motel.

The tank had been damn near completely empty. While his beloved car drinks her fill, Dean heads to the trunk, flipping the false bottom to check their provisions. Their current job is at the very least animal-adjacent. Dean eyes the hunting rifle stuffed in the back critically.

A cold wind caresses his face, and something in his gut alerts him to turn into the breeze. That’s when he sees the kid staring, eyes wider than dollar coins, at the prolific stash of weaponry behind him.

Internally, Dean swears. Externally, he gives a small smile and a nod, subtly maneuvering himself to cover the crosses and rosaries and salt-crusted iron horseshoes. “How you doing,” he calls casually.

The kid shamelessly steps forward to more closely examine the scene. “Hey,” he responds. He can’t be more than high school age, cheeks still slightly round with baby fat and sort of at odds with the short buzzcut style he’s sporting. “So what’s up with all that?”

Dean closes the trunk surreptitiously, quickly flashes the only badge he’s currently got on his person, and hopes the kid doesn’t look too close. It’s a convincing fake. It’s just not the agency he needs it to be. “I’m here with the National Park Service.”

The doorbell of the gas station jingles as Sam emerges, a small brochure in hand. He takes one glance at the kid and at Dean’s expression, and immediately clues in on the situation. Sammy’s good like that.

"Can I help you?” Sam asks.

The kid shrugs. His eyes rove over the trunk, then jump between Dean and Sam. “I mean, we just don’t usually get a lot of people driving through. I was kinda curious. You guys seem cool. Checking on the wolf population? The numbers are up for the first time in a while.”

Dean aims for a disarming smile. He’s not too sure how effective it is. “Yeah, that’s part of it. We figured we should take a look at how the local wildlife’s been affected.”

The kid nods and drums his fingers on the trunk of the Impala, tapping every single digit with each step. Dean’s eye twitches. “Cool, cool. Dude, this is one sick car you have.”

“Thanks,” Dean responds, words clipped. He’s keeping track of each spot the kid gets his grubby mitts on. “I’d kinda prefer if you didn’t—”

“Woah, man, did you do this yourself?” The kid peers over the radio through the open passenger window. “This radio cannot be as old as the rest of this car. I don’t believe it.”

“Hey, listen—”

Then, the kid honest-to-God folds himself over the window, doubled in two as he sticks his entire upper half in the car. “I’ve got an old car I kitted out, too, but it’s not nearly as neat as this, I gotta tell you.”

Dean’s mouth is agape. He’s fairly certain Sam is laughing beside him. If he bursts a blood vessel, he’s putting it on this kid’s dime. “I’m serious, that’s enough—”

The gas pump clicks. Dean’s head jolts toward the sound involuntarily, and when he turns back, the kid is finally extricated from the innards of Dean’s baby, already preoccupied with the detailing on her hood.

He’s so casual with it. His body’s already angled away, hands disappearing away into layers of flannel. The incessant jabbering spewing from his mouth and the greasy smears he’s leaving on the shiny finish of Dean’s baby is almost enough of a distraction.

Almost.

Unfortunately for the kid, Dean’s eyes are sharp enough to spot the brown leather journal that gets smoothly tucked under an arm.

The bewilderment in his chest drops into his stomach as fiery anger. “Hey!” He shouts, and the kid bolts.

With just a glance at the kid’s form, Dean can tell that he’s not quite as experienced as the two of them in the practice of running for his life, and especially not while lugging around a thick book. The fact that Sam’s probably got nearly a whole foot of height on him doesn’t help him much, either.

Then Dean remembers, as pins and needles shoot up his legs, he hasn’t stretched his legs for more than five minutes since getting off a three hour road trip. And, as the kid rounds corners and leads them down thin alleyways, this is not their hometown.

The kid frantically sprints through the slinking paths between buildings to a busier main street. When Dean skids around the same corner, he’s gone. 

“Son of a—” Dean swears. He sweeps the sidewalks again, but he can’t find him. “You check the other side,” he says to Sam, who nods and jogs across the road.

A small bell jangles as he pushes open the door to the nearest building, an animal clinic or shelter of some kind. Behind the counter, a dark-skinned man in a lab coat pauses from perusing some files to greet him.

“Can I help you?” The vet asks with a polite, if frosty, smile.

“Uh, yeah, just wondering if you saw a kid run by a minute or so ago,” Dean responds. He stomps his foot into the ground, wincing. The pinpricks are just barely fading. “Blue jacket, real short hair? He stole something that belonged to me.”

“No, I can’t say I have,” the vet replies. He tilts his head. “May I ask what exactly he took?”

“Yeah, it was an old book of mine,” Dean says. He considers his next words, but figures it never hurts to pull some heartstrings. “It’s one of the last things I have of my dad.”

“I see.” The vet smiles again. “I’ll keep an eye out,” he says. By every measurable quality he sounds genuine, yet something Dean’s gut tells him that this doctor very much will not be keeping an eye out. Small towns tend to look out for their own.

Dean forces the corners of his own lips up politely, and slams the door behind him with the clang of a bell.

---

Curled behind the counter, a brown leather-bound journal clasped to his chest, Stiles lets out a deep, relieved breath. 

Deaton raises his eyebrows. “You want to explain what that was about?”

---

There’s a rock about the size of a ping-pong ball on the side of the road. Dean, hands curled into fists in the pockets of his leather jacket, kicks it so aggressively it crumbles to pieces as it flies out of sight. 

Sam emerges from the pharmacy he’d been checking. “No dice?”

“No one’s seen anything,” Dean mutters.

Sam shakes his head pensively, staring at nothing, thinking. “Why’d he even take Dad’s journal?”

“Who cares,” Dean replies. “He took Dad’s journal.”

Sam doesn’t respond to that, and Dean finds that that’s another thing he doesn’t care about. He’s too busy planning what he’ll do when he next sees that stupid kid with the stupid hair.

The walk back to the gas station where they left the Impala is quiet. Terse. Sam’s got something zipping around in that nerdy little brain of his and Dean’s not in the mood for idle chatter. 

Dean’s considering if they can realistically get the photos of every high school kid in the area without being put on some type of watchlist when Sam suddenly stops. He scoffs and shakes his head disbelievingly. Something’s clicked. “He figured us out from the wolves.”

Dean pauses and turns to look at his little brother. “What,” he asks flatly. 

“He asked us about the wolf population.” Sam runs a hand through his hair. “There aren’t any wolves in California. Haven’t been for, I don’t know, sixty years or so. Park Rangers would know that.”

Great. So they were found out because this kid out-nerds even Sam. This day’s turning out to be full of impossibilities. “Why does that translate to immediately stealing our stuff,” he grouses. 

Sam just shrugs. Dean’s frown grows. 

“Let’s just find him. Now.”

---

In the safety of his room, Stiles brushes all the random old assignments and empty water bottles from his desk in a single loud sweep. He places the journal he can’t believe he stole—and got away with stealing— almost gingerly in comparison.

He opens the book to the first page. Reads the intro. Notes the name John.

Then he flips the page. His eyes widen. His mouth drops open. He flips again. And again. And again. 

Stiles scrambles for his phone, clicking through his contacts rapidly. It takes an eternity to dial. He paces with each ring. 

Finally, the line clicks. “Stiles?”

“Oh my god, Scott, you’re never going to believe what I just found—”

---

If there’s one thing Dean can appreciate in any part of the world, it’s a good-looking lady. The one behind the front of the Sheriff’s station is probably at the higher end of his usual age range, but he’s never been exactly picky. He saunters up to her desk with his fake badge in hand and a mega-watt grin.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” She asks without taking her eyes off her computer.

Dean’s grin falters. A no-nonsense type, then. “Good afternoon, Officer Watkins,” he says, barely a pause as he reads over her nameplate. “I’m Dean and this is Sam. We’re here with the National Park Service in regards to the recent animal attacks.”

That gets her attention, and she looks up, scrutinizing the ID he’s holding. She glances between him, Sam, and the badge, before turning her focus back to her work. “Go down the hallway to your right, the final door down,” she says, gesturing half-heartedly.

“Smooth,” Sam whispers to him as they pass. Dean roughly checks him in the shoulder.

They knock on the door of the office they’d been directed to. “It’s open,” comes a man’s voice.

Beacon Hills’ Sheriff— Sheriff Stilinski, as the plate on his desk reveals— is reminiscent of just about every other Sheriff in every other small town they visit. Graying hair, stern eyes, and a small frame of a wife and kid. At this point, it’s such a staple that Dean wonders if that’s part of the job description. 

“How can I help you boys?” Sheriff Stiliski asks, putting down his pen.

“Nice to meet you, sir.” Sam sticks out his hand. “We’re with the National Park Service in regards to the recent animal attacks. Could you tell us anything about those?”

The Sheriff lets out a deep breath, motions for them to sit, and opens a large filing cabinet. He pulls out several reports for them to look over. “Originally we thought it was a mountain lion,” he starts.

Dean raises an eyebrow at two photos, each with a separate, severed half of a body. “Must have been one hell of a mountain lion.”

“Yeah,” the Sheriff agrees. He tells them about the cases. The injuries that didn’t quite make sense; the sightings that placed the thing at far larger than any mountain lion can ever get; the strange witness testimonies that claim the animal went from four limbs to two, with glowing red eyes that seemed impossibly intelligent.

“If you need more information, I’d recommend talking to Chris Argent,” the Sheriff says, sliding over a copy of the man’s address. “He’s an experienced hunter. I’m sure he’d have more useful insight on the matter than I do.”

“Thank you so much, sir,” Dean smiles. “Is there any way we could get a copy of some of these files?”

“Of course. Anything else?”

Sam furrows his eyebrows, scanning through the file in his hand. “Yeah, just one question. If you thought it was an animal, why was there an arrest warrant put out for one Derek Hale?”

The Sheriff purses his lips. “We had a tip that he was in some way involved. Some of these killings— they just didn’t seem possible to be done by an animal, you know? I mean, how does a mountain lion get inside a locked school at night and kill a janitor on top of some bleachers?”

“I see,” Sam responds. He flashes Dean a look. Standing, Sam extends his hand one more time. “Well, thank you for your time, Sheriff.”

“Happy to help.”

After getting the files they’d been promised, the brothers make their way back to their rented motel room. Papers get plastered to walls and connected by thumbtacks and red string as they connect bits and pieces of information.

“I know we were originally thinking this was some type of shapeshifter, but this honestly might be a spirit.”

Dean looks up from the report he’d been reading. “Why’s that?”

Sam pushes over a newspaper. In bright bold lettering, the headline proclaims: EIGHT DEAD IN HOUSE FIRE. Just underneath, Dean catches the last name and grimaces. Hale.

“There’s a connection between most of the victims of the attacks, too.” Sam pulls more clips of paper and shoves them Dean’s way. “This man was the insurance agent who determined the fire to be an accidental occurrence, and these two had past criminal records for, guess what? Arson.”

Dean mulls it over. “Alright. So one of the Hales is coming back as a malicious spirit avenging them years after the incident. Why does it manifest as an animal at times, a person at another? They have some sort of vicious dog?”

“I mean, it could be. Some cultures believe in guardian spirits. Protectors of the whole house. It’s possible the Hales had some type of entity like that.”

“Like that dragon in Mulan,” Dean muses, and Sam rolls his eyes but concedes the point. It’s an explanation. It could be the case. Could. Except... “Why was Laura Hale killed, then? A family member, a family guardian wouldn’t do that.”

“Maybe they really didn’t get along. Maybe she was in on it.” But even Sam knows it’s weak, and Dean’s already shaking his head as the words leave his mouth.

“The way she took her brother and ran? No shot. She was terrified. They were escaping and leaving the whole thing behind.” New York’s just about as far as you can go, too. Suddenly, a thought occurs to Dean. “Why did she come back in the first place? And why didn’t Derek come with her originally?”

Sam shakes his head and sighs. Dean rifles through his stack of papers, the rhythmic noise satisfying even if their lack of information is decidedly the opposite. 

“I think it’s a werewolf,” Dean offers. “Or, you know. Something similar. It lines up with the lunar cycles; every one of the attacks happened on a full moon. Also checks out with the witness statements of the animal going from four legs to two.”

“No, it can’t be a werewolf, none of the bodies were missing their hearts,” Sam says, but he tilts his head, running through the scenario. “But okay. There’s someone who was close to the Hales who wants revenge for the fire, who happens to be a— let’s just say shapeshifter. Who? And why wait six years? And again, why kill Laura?”

It’s Dean’s turn to exhale deeply. He doesn’t know. There’s nothing substantial. No proof. Just speculation.

“Wasn’t there one more surviving member besides Laura and Derek?” Sam asks, searching through the reports. 

“Yeah, their uncle Peter, but he was real messed up by the fire. He’s at an assisted living unit at the hospital. The guy’s practically braindead.” Dean flops backward in his chair. Sam mimics the movement. 

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Sam sighs.

Dean agrees. But he has enough experience with this type of work to know that sometimes, all you’re missing is one critical piece of information that makes everything fall into place. He stands and grabs his jacket from where it hangs on the hook. 

“Come on,” he calls to Sam. “We’re finding Derek Hale.”

---

“This cannot be where this guy lives.”

Sam peers out the window of the Impala, eyeing the dilapidated building surrounded by leafless trees. He digs through the files and holds up the documented photo of the Hale house post-fire. 

“See, how can you see this and think this case isn’t some type of ghost? This is literally a textbook haunted house!” He exclaims. 

Dean has to admit, his brother has a point. The place looks like someone gutted it out and left it to rot. Dirty, dusty windows expose the internal damage, the remains of furniture lying cold and lifeless. Ribbons of torn white curtain frame the glass like grubby bandages. There’s no wind, but they roil and twitch like a bug on its back. 

Yeah. There’s no way this place isn’t haunted. 

Dean reaches into the back seat for his slapdash EMF reader. “Grab the video camera,” he calls to Sam.

“What, you think Derek Hale is just going to let us poke around the remains of his childhood home?” Sam hisses. 

“I think he’s most definitely not home and we can do whatever we damn well please.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but grabs the camera without further complaint.

The door is surprisingly sturdy with the shape the rest of the house is in. Their knocking echoes throughout the skeleton of the estate. “Derek Hale?” Dean yells at the entryway.

Resounding silence answers them.

Dean grins.

Sam scoffs but pushes the door open anyway, video camera in one hand and flashlight in the other. Dean follows suit. He doesn’t have to wait long for the EMF reader to go off the walls, the little Walkman screaming and spiking. A glance over to Sam reveals a similar result on his device.

“Eight people murdered would leave a lot of angry spirits,” Sam comments. 

“You’re just happy your theory was right,” Dean grumbles, and now it’s Sam’s turn to grin victoriously.

They comb through the rest of the house. The readings fluctuate as they walk from floor to floor, but never dip away completely. Eventually, the two determine that there’s nothing else to be found, and they leave the same way they came. 

It’s all great and well that they’ve determined what the cause of all the attacks are, but the next step is figuring out how to get rid of the damn things. And that, Dean thinks, might be a slight issue. “Sam. All the bodies were burned, weren’t they?”

“That’s usually what dying in a fire means, yeah.”

Dean resists the urge to cuff his little brother upside the head. “Yeah, okay smartass, so how are we going to get rid of these ghosts if there are no bones to salt and burn, huh?”

Sam chews at his lower lip. “Hmm.”

Idiot. “Yeah, hmm.”

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

The two whirl around like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Behind them stands a man who can’t be more than Sam’s age, arms covered in a leather jacket and crossed angrily over his chest. His eyes are stony, irate, and his mouth pulls downward in an intense scowl. 

Dean quickly schools his face and reaches into his own pocket for his fake ID. “We were looking for you, believe it or not.” He flashes his best winning smile. “I’m Dean and this is Sam. We’re working with the police department on these animal attacks. Do you mind if we ask you a couple of questions?”

Hale glares. “Yes.”

Jackass. Dean has a feeling he’d either get along incredibly with this guy, or they’d be constantly ripping out each other’s throats. Right now, he’s leaning towards the latter. 

“We’ll only take a few minutes of your time, and then we’ll leave,” Sam reassures. At Hale’s complete and total silence as a response, he presses onward. “Could you tell us about your sister Laura?”

A raise of an eyebrow. A wary look.

Dean gives his own wide-eyed look over to Sam. “Ohhhkay. Do you know why she came back to Beacon Hills?”

The wariness settles back into cold suspicion. Dean’s gut tells him that that might be this guy’s default setting. “Nostalgia,” he bites dryly.

“Why did they think it was you?” 

An eye-roll. “Stupid kids.”

“You were there the night the school was attacked, when the janitor was killed,” asks Sam. “Can you tell us anything about what happened?”

The corner of Hale’s mouth twitches just slightly. He shrugs.

Great. Just great. Annoyance builds in Dean’s chest, and he snaps, “You wanna tell us anything about the night your family’s house burned down, or are you too cool to tell us about that either?”

Hale’s face shuts down. The little emotion on there vanishes like a snuffed-out candle. His jaw clenches shut, and Dean knows it’s not opening again any time soon.

“Dean!” Sam admonishes. He turns to Hale. “I’m sorry about him. Thank you for your time.”

They trudge back to the car. Dean is very aware of Hale’s eyes burning into their backs. As they slump into their seats, Sam slaps him harshly. “What was that? Sure, he wasn’t giving the best answers, but at least he was giving something. We could have gotten more.”

Dean does admit it was tactless. It wasn’t kind. It’s especially not the type of comment you make to someone you need information from.

Sam must see something in his expression. He deflates. “He lost basically everyone in that fire. His only living relative was murdered only a few months ago. You gotta cut him some slack.”

Derek Hale might have been the younger brother to Laura, but Dean thinks about what he would do if he was all the way on the complete other side of the country and he found out Sam was murdered. If Sam was murdered, and no one knew what happened. If Sam was murdered, and the case was cold, the trail completely quiet. If Sam was murdered, and everyone thought that Dean was the one behind it.

 “I know,” he mutters.

All the anger he’d felt at Hale had vanished. Because the kid might have the face of an adult and chin full of stubble, but he’s younger than Sam. Because, in the split-second before his expression had gone as cold as a glacier, it had stuttered. For just a moment, all Dean had seen was vulnerability and regret and a deep, deep sorrow.

“Yeah, I know,” he mutters again as he drives off.

---

As the sun sets, the sky fills with fading orange that spills into dark blue, the light reflecting off of cotton candy clouds. The Golden State really lives up to its name during the fleeting moments when afternoon brushes evening, painting everything in the colors of autumn.

“This is the place?” Dean confirms, eyeing the brass numbers tacked to the front of the house. 

Sam shuts the file he’s holding, nods, and steps out the car. 

Chris Argent answers the door promptly. An older-looking man, his hair is gray and wrinkles line his forehead, but there’s experience written into the sternness of his eyes, the set of his jaw. Dean recognizes it from the expression their dad sometimes wears.

“Mr. Chris Argent?” Sam asks.

The man, Argent, looks them up and down in another motion not dissimilar to their father. “Can I help you boys?”

“Good evening, sir, we’re with the National Park Service, working with the police department in regards to the recent animal attacks,” Sam continues. “Sheriff Stilinski recommended we talk to you. May we come in?”

The man doesn’t move. “I don’t believe I caught your names.”

“Oh, I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean,” Sam says. 

Argent raises an eyebrow. He waits expectantly. 

“Sam and Dean Winchester, sir,” Dean concludes with a smile, and Argent finally pulls open the door.

Dean takes note of the rooms they walk through. While some parts of it look like they’ve been there forever, there are also spots that seem jarringly bare. “So, Mr. Argent,” Dean smiles as he settles into an armchair, “the Sheriff told us you’re a hunter?”

“That’s right,” Argent confirms, although there’s something guarded behind his eyes. Dean can’t read anything more than a hollowness from the man’s face. “My father was a hunter. He taught me everything I know. Call it a family business.” 

The way he says it sounds like it’s an inside joke. Dean can’t help but find the humor in hunting and a family business, too.

“What do you think about the recent attacks? What’s behind them?” Sam asks.

Argent leans back in his chair. “To be honest, boys, I’m not sure. It’s too big to be a mountain lion. Too aggressive for it to be a bear, or a coyote.”

Dean frowns, disappointed. So much for that useful insight. “Have there been any other wildlife attacks in this area over the years, ones that seem more— normal?”

“I’m sorry, my family has only been here several months,” Argent says, shaking his head. “You’ll probably have to check public records for that.”

The feel of the house suddenly makes sense. The empty spots on the wall where picture frames should go, the near-complete lack of personalization. It’s a house, but not yet a home. 

It’s surprising that they found no mention of this in any of the papers they’d browsed. Only a few months back puts the Argents’ move-in date right around the time Laura Hale was killed, Dean thinks. Talk about a bad time to come to town.

Sam furrows his eyebrows, tilts his head. “Really? Were you there when the first victim was killed, a woman named Laura Hale?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t tell you anything about that. We moved in maybe a few weeks after.” Argent says. “I move around a lot for my work, and it interferes with my daughter’s school. Whenever I can, I try to make the moves easier for her.”

Dean grins. “Your daughter a hunter, too?”

Argent’s lips twitch up in an icy smile. “My daughter is none of your concern.”

“So,” Sam coughs. “There’s records of your sister, Kate Argent, living in this town previously. Is there any way we could get in contact with her?”

The smile falls from Argent’ face. His expression turns complicated. It’s a mix of grief and regret, and something more that Dean can’t figure out. “No. I’m sorry. My sister was recently killed.”

Sam looks at Dean, and Dean knows they’re both tracking the same choice of words: killed instead of died. There is someone, or something, at fault. “I’m so sorry,” Sam says softly, nearly at a whisper. “What happened?”

“Same thing that happened to everyone else,” Argent responds. “Animal attack.” His voice is gruff, but it’s brittle. It’s anger and sadness and guilt rolled into one. 

“When was this?” Dean demands. This attack hadn’t been in any of the police files. It seems to be a common pattern with the Argents.

“Just a few days ago,” Argent says. “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard about it. The station is backed up with paperwork, and I know the Sheriff personally. I asked him to keep this confidential for as long as he can. My daughter’s been through enough; she doesn’t need her aunt’s death broadcasted for the world to know.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sam says again. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

The two stand and, after shaking Argent’s hand, make their way to the door. Before they exit, a thought occurs to Dean, a final question to ask. He pivots on his foot to face Chris Argent.

“Hey, sorry, this is kind of unrelated, but would you happen to know if your daughter goes to school with a kid who has dark hair, with a buzz cut, some moles on his face? The first day we got in town, he stole something from us.”

Argent frowns, considering. “I can’t say that I do.” He turns and calls, “Allison!”

A girl with dark hair in ringlets and sharp cheekbones emerges. Her eyes flick between her dad and the two strangers in her house. Argent repeats Dean’s question to her, and she pauses for a moment before shaking her head. “No. Sorry,” she says.

It was a long shot anyway. Maybe if they hadn’t just moved to town, if the girl wasn’t new to her class and school. 

Dean smiles politely. “That’s alright. Thank you again for your time.”

As the door shuts behind them, Dean hears faint conversation between father and daughter. He exhales, annoyed, and stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets, trudging back to the Impala.

“Hey,” Sam says, catching up to him. “We’ll find Dad’s journal.”

“It’d be really useful right about now, is all I’m saying.” 

“We’ll find it,” Sam presses. “We’ll get it back.”

“We’d better,” Dean mutters.

---

(7:01) allison: they came 2 my house. asked abt u

(7:01) stiles: ???

(7:02) allison: names r sam & dean winchester

---

“What time does the hospital open?” Dean mumbles through a yawn. He blearily rubs at his eyes, making no further attempt to get up.

Sam buttons up his shirt. “At eight.”

“So why on God’s green earth are you waking me up before it’s even six?”

“You’re so dramatic. It’s almost six-thirty,” Sam responds, and Dean throws a pillow at him.

Two hours and not enough coffee later, Dean finds himself in the sterile white of a hospital. “Which room is she in?”

“Maybe, I don’t know, let’s go talk to the lady at the desk to find out,” Sam mutters sarcastically. “We don’t always have to break in.” Dean rolls his eyes, but walks up to the front desk nevertheless. 

The woman working there smiles at him pleasantly. “How can I help you?”

“Hi, we’re here to visit Lydia Martin,” Dean replies, forcing his face into an expression just as pleasant.

“Sure thing. If I could just get you to sign in here,” the nurse says, pointing to a sheet. “You’ll find her in the first room to the left.”

Picking up the pen, Dean is fully prepared to write their names as Robert Plant and Jimmy Page when he briefly skims over the previous visitors and pauses. “Hey,” he whispers to Sam, tapping his arm.

“Mm.”

“Look.” Dean points. In neat, slanted font, the name Allison Argent appears multiple times throughout the paper. The first record of visitation is the same day Lydia Martin was admitted. “Guess we got a new cover,” he says, scribbling their names with Argent trailing.

“She’d answer our questions the same if she thought we were police,” Sam protests with a whisper.

”Nah, she wouldn’t,” Dean responds, shaking his head. “Girl’s been grilled by the fuzz for days now. She’ll trust us more if we have a personal connection.”

Sam purses his lips, but doesn’t argue any further. They find the room, and Dean pushes open the door.

“Lydia?” Dean asks. 

The redhead girl perched in the hospital bed looks far too put-together to be mere days recovered from a vicious animal attack. For a second, Dean thinks they’ve entered the wrong room.

“And you are?” She responds, raising a sharp eyebrow. Her green eyes rove over the two of them like she’s picking them to pieces. She forms her words in a way that makes them cut like glass. Dean likes her immediately.

“We’re Allison’s cousins. We just wanted to check up on you,” Dean says. “She’s really worried about you, you know? And she won’t say anything to you, but she kind of thinks it’s her fault.”

Lydia’s nose wrinkles. “Why would it be her fault? She wasn’t the one who made me go out there.”

She’d been found on the lacrosse field, side slashed open and with a bite taken out of her stomach. Sam leans forward. “Someone made you go out there?”

She eyes at him like he’s stupid. “I was looking for my boyfriend. Jackson.”

The name Jackson rings familiar. Involved in two other attacks, just as she was. It’s clear the two of them are close. “Why wasn’t he with you? Didn’t you go to the dance together? Why would he be on the field?” Sam continues.

“I didn’t go with him,” she says primly, head tilted high despite the implication that something is terribly wrong in their relationship. “And he’s the captain of the lacrosse team. He’s out on the field a lot.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “On the night of the dance?”

Lydia raises her own eyebrows, daring him to question her. 

“Alright.” Sam lets it go. “What happened after?”

The beginnings of a frown form on Lydia’s face. For the first time, her eyes lose some of that bone-deep confidence. The bed she’s lying in seems to swallow her up whole. She looks small, and she looks scared.

“Lydia?” Dean prods. 

“I don’t—” she stumbles. She tilts her head down, her red hair falling like a curtain, protecting her. “He saw me. He told me to run,” she says. “My date. Stiles. I couldn’t— I heard— and when I turned—”

Her breath hitches, panicked. Sam rushes forward and grabs her hands, making soothing noises. She flinches, red curtain jolting, and when her sharp green eyes peer through, they’ve lost all their edge. Tears escape and trail down her cheeks.

“He attacked me,” she whispers. 

“Who?” Sam asks, just as quiet, just as gentle, but Lydia only shakes her head. 

“His eyes were red,” she says, closing her eyes. “And I thought I was going to die.”

The room is quiet for a few breaths. Lydia’s are no longer rapid and inconsistent, but they still shudder through her system like coins in a washing machine. 

“We’re trying to find what it is,” Dean says eventually. “We’re going to find it and kill it.”

The corners of Lydia’s lips turn up in a small, but genuine, smile. “I hope that you do.”

”Just one more question,” Dean continues, and he kind of feels bad for the way the kid steels herself, builds herself up so the torrent of fear and terror doesn’t wipe her away. “Allison told us about this kid, I think he’s at your school. Dark hair, a buzzcut, won’t shut up. Mouth is always running.”

The anxiety in her face gives way to amusement. She lifts an eyebrow, and despite having puffy eyes and a red nose, she’s the one smirking as she deadpans, “...Stiles?”

“...Styles? What’s that mean?”

Lydia’s smile becomes larger and her eyes come to life. She chuckles just once, lifting a hand to rub at her face and waiting for him to catch on.

”...is that a name?” Dean stares incredulously. “That’s what you were saying earlier? Someone named their kid Stiles?”

Sam turns away, stifling a laugh. Dean shoves him before turning back to Lydia and thanking her for her time. He wishes her a quick recovery and finds he really means it.

“So now we have a name,” Sam says as they push through the exit doors of the hospital. 

“Yeah,” Dean responds. He still can’t wrap his brain around it. “What kind of a name is Stiles?”

---

(9:12) lydia: I appreciate the constant visits from your family, but you could tell your cousins to work on their bedside manner.

(9:35) allison: what cousins

(9:35) allison: lydia??

---

High school is just the same as Dean remembers it: full of kids skipping class and making out under the bleachers. He looks over and sees Sam glancing at some of the classrooms, and is sure that he’s got a different set of memories of his school days. What a nerd. 

Dean slams the car door shut, tucking a paper into his pocket. Together, the two of them walk to the front office and Dean immediately zeroes in on the blonde bombshell working the desk. “Hello,” he grins, leaning over the counter. “What’s your name?”

Behind him, he knows Sam is rolling his eyes. In front of him, however, the chick giggles, unable to stop the smile that spreads over her own face. “Heather,” she says breathlessly. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Heather,” Dean responds. He pokes his tongue into view, running it under his canines. Sam elbows him, and he looks away briefly to glare. Right. “I’m here to pick up my nephew, Stiles.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the folded piece of paper. Heather doesn’t even spare it a glance before dropping it into a basket to be lost to administrative paperwork forever. Her pupils flit between Dean’s eyes and his mouth and back up again as she picks up the phone, dialing whatever class Stiles is in.

“You’re his uncle?” Heather asks. Her eyes dip back down to where Dean’s now biting at his lip. “You don’t look old enough to be anyone’s uncle. I haven’t seen you around here before. I’d remember.”

“We’re not in town much,” Dean replies, placing his elbow down and resting his chin on it. “Wanted to surprise him with a visit.”

“How’s he been doing, by the way?” Sam butts in. 

The receptionist gives him barely a glance. “Oh he’s fine. Him and Scott both,” she says. 

“Scott?” Sam tilts his head. The name is another familiar one. Dean quickly places it as a survivor of an attack, then briefly wonders why he’s thinking about work when there’s a gorgeous girl right in front of him.

“You know, Scott. McCall. Those two are basically in-sep-ar-a-ble,” she drawls, dragging out the syllables of the last word and grinning lasciviously at Dean. “You know, your nephew’s on the lacrosse team. There’s a game coming up. I’d love it if you were there.”

“I think I’d love that too.”

Behind them, Sam mutters, “Good God, get a room.”

---

Backpack slung over his shoulder, Stiles rounds the corner, takes a peek into the office, and flings himself back. His face goes as white as the wall he’s plastered up against. He slowly peeks his head out to double-check what he saw was actually real.

He ducks back. “Oh my God,” he mouths silently, face screwing up.

Pulling out his phone, he scrolls through his contacts quickly. The number he dials rings for an eternity, before a quiet voice filters through. “Stiles, it’s the middle of class, what do you—”

“Oh my God, Allison, hi. They’re here. Like here, here. Right now. Don’t tell Scott! Okay. Okay, okay. Here’s what I need you to do.”

---

Dean’s got his phone out, copying down the last digits of Heather’s number, when Sam abruptly slaps his arm. He looks up to see a kid push open the glass doors of the office. The same kid from the gas station.

The kid— Stiles’— eyes are wide. He remembers who they are. 

“Hey buddy!” Dean says, smiling wide enough that the kid can see each and every one of his teeth. “Long time no see. You remember your uncles?”

Stiles smiles back and goes with it, pulling his own mouth in an imitation of a shark’s grin. It’d probably be more intimidating if he just wasn’t so little. “Hiya Uncle Sam, Uncle Dean. How’s Grandpa John doing?”

Dean feels his face drop. He makes his eyes glitter dangerously to make up for it. “Come on, kid.” He grabs the kid by the shoulder and winks to Heather as they walk out.

The second they get to the parking lot, Dean’s grip changes from the kid’s shoulder to the hood of his jacket. Clearly, he’s slippery. Dean’s not risking him running on them again.

“Ow, ow, okay, this is so unnecessary!” The kid complains. “I can walk! If I was going to go out kicking and screaming, I would have done it inside.”

Sam side-eyes him. “Why didn’t you?”

Stiles twists over his shoulder to raise his eyebrows at Dean, unimpressed. “Because you leaned so far over when you were trying to charm the pants off Ms. Reagan, I could see the .45 tucked up against your tighty-whities.”

Sam becomes incredibly interested in the state of the trees on the sidewalk, a hand flying up to cover his mouth. Dean grits his teeth. The Impala is right there. Ten steps. Six. 

“All that in the back of your car, no wonder you couldn’t invest in a better belt,” the kid mutters, and Dean has to take a deep breath at the risk of child endangerment.

They reach the Impala not a moment too soon. Dean throws open the backseat doors, shoves the kid in, and tells Sam to get in the back too. Sam raises his arms in protest, but rolls his eyes and complies. Dean doesn’t trust the kid back there alone, but he’s sure as hell not going to be the one sitting next to him.

“Cozy,” Stiles mutters. He eyes the loose papers and gear slung around the seats. “Could use a cleaning.”

Dean turns around to face the kid. He digs for all the anger and rage in his chest. It’s not hard to find. His face forms into a deep scowl. 

“You know, I’d ask if we’re doing the whole good cop, bad cop thing, but it’s pretty clear we’re already doing that, and I’m like, ninety-percent sure I’ve figured out who’s who. So what else can we do? Scooby and Shaggy? Sherlock and Watson? Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum?”

Dean’s mouth opens wordlessly. He wonders what the hell is wrong with this kid, glancing at Sam incredulously to make sure he’s not hearing things. “Do you ever shut up?” He voices aloud. 

“Mm,” the kid replies. “You’re Tweedle-dum.”

Dean screws his eyes shut for just a second. “Listen. This is how this is going to go. You’re going to give us back our book, and answer all of our questions.”

“Yeah,” Stiles muses, nonplussed. “No.”

A beat of silence. Dean looks at Sam. Sam looks at Dean. Stiles smiles. “I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve here,” Dean starts.

The kid tilts his head. “From what I understand of the situation, I have something you want. I don’t have it on me— you can check my bag if you want— and I’m the only one who knows where it is. Besides that, I caught the two of you impersonating federal agents. The National Park Service doesn’t know we don’t have any wolves up here? Yeah, right. That’s jail time. Plus, you’re literally kidnapping me right now. That’s even more.”

They surrounded this kid with nothing but fuel and a fire, and he stuck an open hand over the flame, demanding a deal. Dean would be impressed if he wasn’t so goddamn annoyed. 

Luckily, Sam isn’t nearly as pissed off as Dean is. He smiles reasonably, probably even finding some amusement in the whole thing, and asks, “So what do you want?”

The kid shrugs. “I’m not gonna talk here. And I have questions for you guys, too.”

Sam’s eyebrows raise. “But you will talk?”

“Buy me food and yeah,” Stiles says. For a moment, no one says anything. He bristles. “I’m serious!” 

He rattles off the name of some restaurant he claims is the best in town, and Dean is seriously wondering how his awesome, badass job of fighting evil spirits somehow turned into babysitting an attitude-ridden know-it-all, but starts driving anyway.

Two attitude-ridden know-it-alls, he amends, checking the backseat through his rearview. 

---

“So like, did you guys decide to become super scary monster killers because your last name’s Winchester, or was that just, like, straight coincidence?”

“Coincidence.”

“Boo. If my last name was Winchester I’d make sure to have a sickass job to go with it. Imagine being called John Rifle and working at, like, McDonald’s. Come on.”

“Your name is Stiles, I don’t think you’ll have this issue.”

“Wow, okay—”

---

In fairness to the kid, the place he takes them to is actually a pretty classy joint. The walls are plastered in random street signs and band posters, and despite it being almost two in the afternoon on a weekday, there’s a sizable amount of people chatting away. Dean thinks this might have been the kid’s plan, to drag them out in public to ensure they couldn’t do anything too drastic.

It’s not a bad move at all. The kid is irritatingly smart.

Just as he did in the Impala, Dean refuses to let the kid sit alone. He finds a table in the corner and very pointedly stares at Sam when he tries to park his ass in the same side of the booth as Dean, who eventually sighs and gives up. The kid, for his part, doesn’t seem worried about the fact that he’s boxed in. 

Dean settles into his seat, turning his glare on Stiles. “So where’s the book,” he asks flatly.

“Dude. Chill.” Stiles leans back and drums his fingers on his legs. “We literally just sat down. I’m not talking business until I get my grub.”

Ten minutes, three orders, and an immeasurable number of calming breaths later, a heaping helping of burgers and curly fries arrives at their table. The kid perks up immediately, grabbing at his drink and noisily slurping through the straw.

“Great.” Dean smiles sarcastically. “Where’s the book.”

“Oh, I left it at home.” The kid says through a mouthful of burger. At Dean’s disbelieving look, he sputters, “Dude, my backpack is full of textbooks. You think I have the room to lug around a thick ass journal too?”

“Why’d you take it.”

“Okay, wait, I’m pretty sure I said I have questions for you guys too, and that’s the only way I’d talk. It’s my turn to ask stuff.”

Dean inhales. He holds up his fingers as if measuring something, then presses the index and thumb together, leaving no space between. “Kid, I’m about this close to not answering any questions at all.”

“Hardy-har.” The kid rolls his eyes. “Fine, you guys each get a question and then I get one. That way it’s fair.”

“How is that fair?” Dean exclaims. They’re paying for his food, he’s the one who stole from them, and he’s single-handedly causing Dean’s blood pressure to go through the roof.

“Sorry, it’s not your turn to ask a question,” the kid says, straight-faced.

Sam’s grinning. He’s having the time of his friggin’ life. “Why’d you take the journal?”

The kid makes a face like it’s obvious. “Because you guys were clearly not Park Rangers and I wanted to make sure you guys weren’t like, serial murderers or something. Like, guys. Seriously. You don’t hunt deer with sawed-off shotguns. Hide those better if you’re going to cart them around at all.”

“How in the hell does that equal stealing our stuff?!”

“Oh my God, dude, it’s still not your turn!” The kid polishes off a fry. “So if you guys aren’t Park Rangers, why’re you here? I’m honestly not convinced you’re not serial murderers.”

“We really were just curious about the recent animal attacks,” Sam says, shrugging like it’s no big deal at all. “We wanted to find out more about them.”

“Okay.” The kid makes a face. “You could’ve literally just asked around. Everybody knows about the stuff that’s happening, it’s not like it’s a big secret. Like, you’re baiting a serious prison sentence for no good reason.”

“So you know all about the attacks,” Dean reiterates, raising his eyebrows. “What’s behind them, then?”

The kid points a fry at him. “I’m pretty sure that was two questions, but whatever. And come on, it’s basically no mystery now.” At their confused expressions, he elaborates. “Guys. Seriously? It was all over the paper.”

The one time they don’t stop for breakfast, and they miss out on something incredibly important. Dean had wanted to grab a bite, but no, Dean, we have to get to the hospital right when it opens at the asscrack of dawn.

The kid slings his bag onto his lap, rifling through an assortment of loose papers haphazardly stuffed inside. He pulls out a crumpled article for them to see. The headline, bright and bold, reads: WOMAN TIED TO SIX YEAR-OLD ARSON CASE BEHIND BEACON HILLS MURDERS?

Dean frowns, only feeling more out of the loop. He skims further and finds the name of the party responsible. The breath leaves his lungs. His lips part. He instinctually looks over to Sam, who’s just as confused as he is. 

Kate Argent.

By all measures, she fits the bill. The timing, her previous living in Beacon Hills. The motive switches from revenge for the Hales to revenge on the Hales. It explains the list of victims. Laura Hale, obviously, and the deaths of everyone else who was involved. Covering tracks.

Except it’s not a perfect fit. Because the tracks were covered. The case was determined as an accident, casting no suspicion on her in the slightest. The methods of killing are so dramatically different. The fact that Lydia Martin had named her assaulter as a he. And, most notably, that Kate Argent herself is dead from an animal attack.

Which, Dean remembers with a sinking feeling, was relayed to them by her brother. The complicated look on Chris Argent’s face starts to make more sense.

He grabs the newspaper and reads through it more carefully, and he’s glad to find that at least Chris Argent didn’t lie to them about that. Kate Argent is dead. The cause of death is being kept under wraps, but she is dead.

“They’re sure it was her?” Sam presses, and the kid wrinkles his nose.

“Uh, yeah, there’s pretty solid proof that she’s a psychotic murderer. Yeah, I’d say they’re sure.” He sighs. “Listen, this whole thing started right back when she came to town. I don’t know how she made it look like animal attacks, or whatever, but it was her.”

Dean wishes he could believe that. It’d make their job so much easier— complete it for them, in fact. But he’s been doing this kind of thing long enough to know to listen to his instincts. This piece of the puzzle? Definitely relevant. Definitely helps see the full picture. But there’s still a hole missing, and they’re not leaving til that thing is pristine.

“Why wouldn’t you think it’s her?” The kid asks, and for the first time since he saw Dean standing over a trunk loaded with guns, his face isn’t full of humor. The clenching of his jaw, the furrowed slants of his eyebrows— it’s like he’s a completely different person.

It’s not the emotion that Dean thinks would typically accompany that type of question. 

The kid’s eyes dart between the two of them. His fingers, for once, are frozen, tucked away in his lap. Dean takes a glance and notes his knuckles are white. The beginnings of dread pool in Dean’s gut with each passing second. 

Then, the bell on the door jangles, and whatever weird seriousness possessed the kid releases its grip on him.

The kid blinks, wets his lower lip with his tongue, and ducks his head down. “I mean, there’s just a lot of proof. It has to be her, you know?”

“Stiles?”

Dean’s heard that voice before. He twists around, heart sinking all the way past his shoes. 

“Hey Dad!” The kid exclaims loudly. “Yeah, these are the guys that kidnapped me!”

The room goes quiet. The Sheriff’s wary expression goes ice cold. Dean swears. This friggin’ kid.

He’s out of his seat in an instant. Immediately, shouting ensues, but he keeps his eyes locked forward, shoving past waitresses and hurdling over tables and knocking over a large magazine rack with a loud clatter. The kitchen’s got to have a back door, he thinks, already grabbing at his pockets for his keys.

Then he pauses. Only for a second. His instincts scream at him to keep running, but a smaller part of his brain, a part he’s always listened to over everything else, whispers that something isn’t right.

Dean knows what his brother’s footsteps sound like. And the ones chasing him? Not his brother’s.

Dean pauses, throwing a glance behind him. Looking past the Good Samaritans charging to take him down, he sees Sam, hands pressed behind his back, cold metal jangling as the Sheriff pulls out handcuffs.

He’d trapped the kid in by forcing Sam to sit next to him, Dean realizes. He’d trapped Sam in, too.

Dean grits his teeth and curses. 

When the cops barge through the kitchen exit, there’s only the wind and the smell of exhaust to greet them.

---

Sam’s got to say, of all the stints with the police, this one isn’t half bad. He’s been in worse places. A holding cell instead of an interrogation room is nice, for one thing. A bed and blanket, little as they are, are better than being cuffed to a cold metal table, every move being monitored. 

It’ll be nice until they run his prints, he figures. Then he’ll get to kiss all this goodbye.

The door to the room clicks open. Sam turns. 

Through the darkness of the room and the bars cutting thick vertical lines in his view, Sam can’t make out the face of the person. But he recognizes the blue jacket, the fidgeting fingers, the way they stand.

Stiles Stilinski closes the door behind him.

“What do you want?” Sam asks, voice hardly more than a whisper. It’s late, late enough for the station to definitely be closed, and for the only people in the building to be the night watch. But as Stiles Stilinski has oh so magnanimously demonstrated, he’s the Sheriff’s kid. There’s leeway there. 

The faint white of the moon cuts through the harsh yellow fluorescence of the holding room. It highlights the baby fat clinging to Stiles’ cheeks. Sixteen, Sam recalls.

Sixteen’s far too young to have the kind of look on his face that he does. It looks downright wrong, just like it did at the restaurant. The kid’s posture is rigid, all harsh lines of tense shoulders and locked knees. His eyes are so steely they could probably cut through the bars separating the two of them.

They’re such serious eyes on such a young face, on such a non-serious kid, at that. He looks like a kid playing dress up, drowning in his father’s clothes.

Moments pass. Minutes. Still, Stiles doesn’t say a word.

Sam wonders if that was part of it, too. The loud, brash, sarcastic, and downright irritating personality, if it’d been a persona he’d put on for them. It’s a good way to get information. Dean does a lower-scale version of it all the time.

He mulls the thought over, but ultimately dismisses it. The kid would have to be one hell of an actor. No, that’s really him, if maybe a little played-up. It’s this version, this strangely serious, strangely silent side that Sam needs to worry about.

“Why are you guys here?”

Stiles has asked them the question before. Multiple times. Him and Dean gave the kid an answer, too, multiple times. But Sam knows the question is different here, and for a second, he considers telling Stiles the truth.

The kid’s involved, somehow. Sam’s sure of it. Even more, the kid knows they’re involved too. He’s seen their dad’s journal, the scribblings of folklore with the methods of destruction circled in red, the newspaper clippings of obituaries spanning decades, the coordinates crossed out as they systematically found and killed whatever was terrorizing the locals.

Sam shakes his head uselessly. “I told you, man, me and my brother are just here about the animal attacks.”

He can’t pick apart Stiles’ expression. He doesn’t like that he can’t. Earlier, the kid had been close to an open book. Now, he just tilts his head slightly and asks, “So what do you think happened?”

The way Stiles asks it doesn’t feel like it’s just a question. It feels more like a test. If Sam passes, maybe the kid will reveal what he knows.

Sam exhales. “Six years ago, Kate Argent burned down the Hale house with members of the family inside. Eight were killed.”

There’s a lot of missing information and misinformation, but Sam believes this to be the truth. It lines up. The police and the paper were sure on this one, and Sam has to agree with the conclusions they drew.

“A couple months ago, Laura Hale came back to town and was murdered. The next week, a bus driver was killed. Then a retail employee. Then two convicted felons. All of them were linked in some way to the Hale house fire.”

Stiles says nothing. 

“The bus driver was the insurance agent for the fire,” Sam elaborates. “The retail employee was associated with the convicts, who were previously wanted for arson.”

“What about the janitor?”

Sam presses his lips together and looks away. That’s the one kill that just doesn’t make sense. “Collateral?” He hedges, shaking his head.

Nothing but the sound of their breaths cuts through the air. Then, Stiles says, matter-of-fact, “You don’t think it was Kate Argent.”

Sam flicks his eyes up. “No.”

Stiles’ expression is still stony. All walls up. His jaw tenses.

“For the fire, yes. For Laura Hale, yes. Those two weren’t animal attacks.”

“The cops said Laura Hale’s was.”

“The cops are downright crazy if they think a mountain lion can sever someone cleanly in half like that and leave no other damage.”

Stiles dips his head, conceding that with a twitch of the lips. “So who do you think it was?”

And there’s a clear answer. It doesn’t take a genius to make the connections. Hell, the guy had already been the prime suspect of the whole thing.

But when Sam tries to pin the blame on Derek Hale, he just can’t. 

It’s illogical, it definitely is. The guy’s arrival lines up with the start of the killings. His motive is insanely obvious. The only other survivor of the fire, of course he’d want revenge. 

Sam remembers Derek Hale. In particular, he remembers his eyes. Cold and guarded and alone. 

He thinks about what he would’ve done if during his days at Stanford, news came in that Dean went back to Lawrence and was found dead. 

“I don’t know,” he says instead. “I don’t really think it was a who. I think it’s a what.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, but Sam notes the way he swallows. “Dude. What?”

“I’m talking about it being an animal. What did you think I meant?”

The kid’s exhale is a touch too heavy. “You know, there’s someone you’re forgetting about. Don’t feel bad about it, really. I forgot about him too, until it was too late. But you’re forgetting someone.”

Sam frowns. He mentally goes through the files he’d read through. “You mean Chris Argent?”

Stiles scoffs and shakes his head. “Man, I wish you knew how funny that was.”

Sam’s frown deepens. That’s a thought for later. At the moment, he pushes aside the police files and reports. He’d gone through them forward and back, with no real progress since he’d been arrested at the restaurant.

Instead, he turns his focus onto something he hasn’t picked apart yet. Someone. 

Stiles Stilinski stands in front of him, fingers fidgeting as he attempts to discern how much of the truth Sam Winchester knows. Stiles Stilinski has been a thorn in their side since the moment they arrived in Beacon Hills, trying to derail their investigation at every turn. Stiles Stilinski is involved, heavily. 

He’d wanted them to believe it was Kate Argent. From the line of questioning he’d led Sam down, Stiles had probably wanted him to believe it was Derek Hale, too. He’s protecting someone. The question is, who? Clearly there’s no loyalty to either major party. Hale and Argent alike are on the chopping block.

The words of the office secretary echo in his head. In-sep-ar-a-ble.

Sam inhales, almost choking on the realization. The facts of the police reports taunt him. It seems so obvious.

“That question you asked us right at the start— wow,” Sam marvels. Checking on the wolf population, seeing if it’s up. Breaking their Park Ranger cover and seeing how much they knew, all with one innocuous question. 

“What are you talking about?” Stiles smiles awkwardly.

“It’s you and Scott, isn’t it?”

The kid’s head shoots up. For the first time since he walked in, Sam can read his face. His eyes go wide, startled, and his mouth drops open, working wordlessly as he tries to refute the claim. He’s a deer caught in headlights.

Then he really is caught in headlights as the wall explodes. Just outside, a black 1967 Chevy Impala screeches into view.

“Get in!” Dean shouts.

Sam coughs as dirt flies through the air, stumbling through the debris. He manages to make it to the passenger side door, already open and waiting for him, and Dean gets the car driving before he even fully lands in the seat.

“A little quicker than Shawshank, huh, Sammy,” Dean says with a grin. “Get that dirt off of you, I don’t want it in my car.”

“I know who it is,” Sam breathes, ignoring him completely. “I know who’s behind the attacks.”

---

”Come on, come on, pick up,” Stiles mutters to himself, phone gripped so tight in his hand he thinks it might shatter. The line goes through. “Scott? Oh, thank God. Scott? Listen— they think it’s me and you. You gotta run.”

“What? Where are they?”

“They’re driving, they just turned down Pearson.”

A pause. “That’s where Allison lives.”

“Scott, you don’t know that that’s where they’re going.”

“They went there already, they know she’s involved—”

“You don’t know that—”

“I have to make sure she’s okay—”

“Scott, don’t—!”

The line clicks. Stiles slams a fist on the steering wheel and swears.

---

“It’s the Stilinski kid and his best friend?” Dean stares at Sam like he’s lost his damn mind.

“You were right, it wasn’t a spirit,” Sam starts. “They’re the shapeshifters, both of them. And they are werewolves.”

“Sammy, it doesn’t line up for them to be werewolves, the bodies—”

”I know! But if you take away the no missing hearts part, everything else makes sense. Think about it. Both of them were found at the crime scene the night Laura Hale was killed.” 

“So, they see Kate Argent cut her in two, do a little digging on Kate and find out she was behind the Hale house fire. They go after the people who were a part of it, and can waste them and get away with it, clean.” Dean tilts his head, considering. “They’re young, probably can’t control it that well. Makes sense that they got the janitor in the crossfire that night at the school.”

“Do you remember anything else about werewolves in Dad’s book? Why are they going after people now?”

Dean shakes his head. “Besides the normal, silver and bite marks and turning with the moon? Nope. Still pissed we don’t have that. And for the second thing, if I had to guess, I’d say it’s because of, y’know, how old they are.”

“You think they went through werewolf puberty?”

“You got a better idea?”

Sam’s resounding silence answers that question pretty clearly. “Where are we even going,” he asks instead.

“Back to Argent’s. He lied to us about Kate, who knows how much he really knows.” Dean exhales loudly. “We’ve got a while til the next full moon. We don’t have to worry about the wolves til then.”

“Dean...” Sam starts, and Dean knows he’s got something rattling around fierce in that head of his with the way he says Dean’s name, slow and careful as to not set off a rabid animal.

“What crawled up your ass and died?” 

Sam glares, but speaks, and really that’s all Dean had been going for. “We’re not going to kill them, are we?”

Dean sets his jaw. “What else are we going to do? Can’t leave them running around, killing more people.”

“They’re kids!”

“Would you rather come back in two years when they’re eighteen, and more people are dead? Would that clear your conscience?” Dean stares out into the road. He refuses to look to his right. “Listen, man, I don’t like it either, but it’s gotta be done.”

In his periphery, Dean sees Sam’s head shake minutely. Back and forth, disbelieving. “Maybe they can learn. To— to control it.”

“Oh, come on, you think that’s possible? Even if it is, how long do you think that’ll take? How many casualties there’ll be until then?” Dean sighs. “You gotta face it, Sam. They’re killers, and they’ll keep killing if we don’t stop them.”

“I just don’t think— oh my God—!”

A dark figure launches from the side of the road and crashes into their windshield. Dean slams on the brakes, the car swerving wildly into the middle of the road.

He blinks, catching his breath and quickly making sure nothing’s broken. Immediately, he turns to check on Sam. “Sammy!”

A muffled groan sounds from the passenger seat, but his eyes are open and the pupils are the same size. “What the hell?” Sam mutters, and Dean has to agree with the sentiment.

He throws open his door, other hand already ready on his pistol. He’s glad he had the foresight to put in silver bullets. 

The wolf in question has its back facing him. “Don’t move!” Dean shouts.

The werewolf, unsurprisingly, moves. Snarling, it whips around. It’s smaller than Dean expected, and doesn’t exactly resemble the Wolfman their dad had hunted when they were kids. No furry ears on the top of the head, just slight scruff trailing down like insanely overgrown sideburns. The nose and browbone protrude unnaturally, but otherwise the face is remarkably human, canines long and white. The wolf’s yellow eyes burn.

Yellow?

“I thought you said we didn’t have to worry about them until the full moon!” Sam yells. 

“Yeah, well, obviously I was wrong!”

The wolf lunges. Without even a conscious act on his part, Dean’s pulling the trigger. It stumbles back. Smoke emerges from the clean hole through its shoulder, blood blooming on the sleeve.

Behind him, a car screeches to a halt. Dean doesn’t dare take his eyes from the wolf in front of him, but he notes the frantic slamming of a door, the rapid patter of footsteps. 

“Scott!” Someone screams, and Dean suddenly has a pretty good idea of who the driver is. “Get away from him!”

The wolf collapses, clutching at its arm. It groans pitifully. Dean keeps his gun trained. 

“Scott!” The Stilinski kid yells again. Dean hears a scuffle. Sam’s taking care of him. There’s a clatter, and Dean risks a glance to see a baseball bat fall uselessly to the ground. A part of him scoffs. Why would a werewolf bring a bat to a gun fight?

He reminds himself that he’s got a different werewolf dead-set in his sights. Focus up, Dean. Don’t get stupid. It’s on its knees, now, trying to push itself up and making these awful hacking noises with each attempt. 

“Please, please, don’t hurt him, don’t kill him, please!”

And Dean watches as the fur fades from the wolf’s cheeks, the skin morphs back to a human visage. Shaggy fringe falls over his forehead, the tips of the hair just reaching his eyebrows. When he looks up at Dean, his eyes are wide, scared, and brown.

“Please, he’s my brother!”

Dean knows what he has to do.

The Stilinski kid is still screaming, still pleading in the background. Dean can only hear his own breath, rhythmic, in and out, in and out. His jaw clenches. 

In and out. 

He lifts his pistol. 

In, and out.

His hands, as always, are steady.

In— 

“Dean,” Sam whispers. 

—and out.

He drops his hands. The kid in front of him slumps fully to the ground.

“Scott!”

The Stilinski kid rushes forward. Sam’s no longer holding him back. Dean watches as he hurriedly checks over his friend, rapidly chattering away to himself the whole time. He hears Sam open the trunk to grab supplies.

Scott McCall’s eyes flutter open. He groans weakly as his best friend drags the sleeve of his jacket over the injured shoulder, exposing the wound.

It’s ugly. Gunshot wounds always are, but this one is especially unpleasant. It was a clean shot, Dean knows, but the bullet hole is a mess. A thick black liquid slowly oozes from the wound instead of blood, lines the same shade spreading outwards and coloring McCall’s veins dark and wrong.

“Oh my God, okay, what did you guys use?” Stilinski asks, hands fluttering.

“Silver bullet,” Dean responds. What else would they use?

“What? No, what wolfsbane, what type of wolfsbane? No, you can’t do that yet, it’s not going to heal,” he says to Sam, who’s got bandages and gauze from their emergency kit. “He’s going to die, hurry up!”

Dean looks to Sam uselessly, who gives him the same type of stare back. Wolfsbane? “It was silver,” he repeats.

“Oh my God, are you deaf? Silver doesn’t— okay, just, I don’t know, give me one of your bullets.” Stilinski demands. Dean’s careful to keep the gun pointed away as he does so. “Okay. Okay. How did Deaton do this? Right. Do you have a lighter?”

Sam fishes one from a pocket and hands it to him. Stilinski breaks open the casing, removing the powder. “Come on, come on,” he mutters as he fumbles with the lighter. The spark catches, and he directs it to the remains of a bullet he’s got cupped in his hand.

The kid’s face twitches in pain as the flames lick his palm, but he doesn’t otherwise move. When he’s satisfied that whatever he’s doing is done, Stilinski pinches the ash between his fingers and smears it into McCall’s open wound. 

Dean grimaces, disgusted. That cannot be sanitary. 

But McCall takes in a deep breath, the first one that isn’t a hitching, shaking gasp, and the black lines infecting his veins retreat. The wound goes to being a regular bullet hole, with red blood instead of whatever that other oozing stuff was, and Sam presses a square white patch over it.

“Thanks,” McCall murmurs. 

Stilinski reaches a hand to cup the back of McCall’s neck, eyes scanning over his face. “You okay?”

“A lot better now.”

An exhale. “Good.” Then, a yelp as Stilinski smacks McCall upside the head. “What were you thinking? I told you there were scary people with big guns who were about to go kill you, and you decide to go to them first? Are you insane?”

Dean snorts. Yeah, they really are brothers. 

Stilinski jolts at the noise, like he’s just remembered that the two of them are there. His jaw tenses. “Are you going to kill him?”

“No,” Sam replies instantly. “It was a mistake, alright? We’re not going to hurt you.”

Stilinski scoffs. “Yeah, clearly.” 

“Why were you so shocked that we were using silver?” Dean calls, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“Dude. Silver doesn’t do jack to werewolves.”

Dean bristles. Silver always works. He’s seen it work.

“It came from this legend where people melted down silver crosses and medallions and whatever,” Stilinski says. “Hate to break it to you, but that only worked because the silver was holy.”

Dean looks to Sam, who looks intrigued. He didn’t know that either. “So how’d your friend get so hurt from that bullet?”

“Something else in it,” the kid says simply. Dean’ll hazard a guess: wolfsbane. The name’s fitting. He makes a mental note to make Sam look it up later. Stilinski rubs a hand over his eyes. “Look, you guys said you’re here because of the animal attacks. We took care of that guy, okay? You can leave.”

Dean thought they were responsible for the animal attacks. From Sam’s expression, he did too. “Who?”

“Come on, I already gave your buddy over there a hint,” Stilinski says. “You guys are smart. You can figure it out.”

Dean turns to Sam. “What was that hint?”

“That we were forgetting someone,” Sam replies, already deep in thought. “He said not to feel bad because he forgot about the guy too, but we’re forgetting someone.”

The chirping of crickets fills the air as Dean wracks his brain. Absently, he watches Stilinski pull the gauze pad from McCall’s shoulder. The patch is soaked a dark red, but the skin underneath is smooth. Unblemished, like there was never an injury in the first place.

Dean thumbs over the countless scars he’s got tracing up his own arms. Must be nice.

“Here’s another hint: they just released that his nurse died,” McCall offers. “In the paper today.”

”That’s gonna give it away!” Stilinski nudges his now-unwounded shoulder. 

“Come on, they weren’t gonna get it! It’s not like they have it on them, anyway!”

Dean thinks back to the article he’d read at the restaurant, seemingly a lifetime ago. His attention had mostly been on the whole Kate Argent thing, but he tries to remember what else had been there. A name flits over. Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. He connects that to the case files.

Sam beats him to the punch. “No way.” He turns away in disbelief, scoffing. “Peter Hale?”

“He got it quicker than us,” McCall comments to Stilinski. 

“Yeah well, you basically gave him the answer.”

“He was catatonic!” Sam exclaims.

McCall shrugs. “He got better.”

Dean exhales. “Why don’t you start from the top,” he very forcefully suggests.

Together, McCall and Stilinski cobble a string of barely-cohesive sentences that could, with enough patience for clarifying questions, be considered a story. They start at the night of Laura Hale’s murder, Stilinski dragging McCall out to the woods to find the body— or, more accurately, half of it.

“I used to have asthma. Like, really bad, and I dropped my inhaler,” McCall explains. “And when I was looking for it, that’s when he got me.” He pulls up his shirt slightly and points to the side of his stomach. It’s completely unmarked. You’d never know if he didn’t tell you.

“Wait, Peter Hale killed Laura, his niece? And is that when he got you too?” Sam asks. 

Stilinski laughs. “Dude. I’m not a werewolf.”

“You’re not?”

They explain how McCall’s life had gotten so much better. Enhanced vision and hearing, supernatural prowess, asthma completely cured. The new girl in their class, Allison Argent, who McCall became smitten with. The new girl, who just so happened to come from a family of werewolf hunters.

“Out of everyone, you just had to pick the one girl whose family would literally instead of figuratively kill you?” Dean raises his eyebrows.

Stilinski throws up his hands. “That’s what I said!”

McCall gives a one-shouldered shrug, beaming. “For Allison, it’s worth it.”

“Oh, gross, shut up, man, didn’t she try to kill you like, three days ago?”

“Oh my God,” Sam scoffs, shaking his head. “Silver does kill you guys. Or in this case, Argent does.”

“Dude. You’re smart—”

They tell them about Derek Hale. Dean feels even more badly for the guy than he did before, for having to deal with these two chucklenuts. McCall shares his dream that turned out not to be a dream, Sam’s face paling, and the attack on the school in which the whole group of teens had been trapped.

“When we were there...” McCall starts, closing his eyes. “He made me turn. And he tried to make me hurt my friends. To kill them. He made me want to.” Stilinski squeezes his arm reassuringly. 

“But you didn’t,” Dean confirms.

McCall stares straight into Dean’s soul. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

They share the final tale, from only a few days prior: Winter Formal. The night had started well enough, despite McCall not being allowed to attend. Everything really fell apart when Lydia Martin was attacked on the field. 

“I knew she was out there,” Stilinski says. “I knew he was out there too. And I told her to run, but it was too late. He got her. Slashed her open right there, and told me that if I didn’t come with him he’d finish the job.”

“Why’d he want you?”

“He wanted me to tell him where Derek was being kept.”

“Hold on. Kept? Derek was kidnapped? When?”

“Yeah, by Kate. And I don’t know, like, sometime earlier. Keep up.”

“That’s when Allison found out I was a werewolf,” McCall adds, despondent, like this piece of information is earth-shatteringly important.

They tell the two of them about the final battle. Somewhat symbolically, it had taken place at the Hale house, where the whole thing started six years ago.

“So Allison was with Kate, and she shot both me and Derek,” McCall recounts. “With an arrow, though! She was just trying to capture us. It was Kate who actually had a gun on me.”

Dean stares. “This is the girl you’re head over heels for?”

McCall smiles. Dean swears he can see literal hearts coming from his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, blech.” Stilinski mimes barfing.

“Anyway, I guess Allison’s dad figured out what was going on, because he was there, and he stopped Kate from killing me and Derek. He pulled a gun on her. It was kind of sick.”

Once again, Dean thinks about the reaction Argent had to his sister’s passing. No wonder it was complicated. Finding out your sister orchestrated a mass murder, then was trying to kill even more all in the name of justice... but despite all that, she’s still your sister. He tries to imagine what he would do if Sam were to do that. 

Then, he scoffs, inwardly rolling his eyes. He doesn’t have to worry about that. Sam would never.

“That’s when Peter came back, and threatened, like, all of us,” McCall says. “He was the most mad at Kate, though. He told her to apologize for killing all of his family, and then he slashed her throat anyway. We managed to get everybody else out of danger. Stiles threw a molotov at him.”

Dean nods, somewhat impressed. “Nice.”

“Yeah, it would have been if he didn’t catch it,” Stilinski mutters. 

“It was fine, though, Allison shot it with an arrow, and it went off, and then Derek went up to him and slashed his throat open.”

“And now he’s dead,” Stilinski concludes. “Like I told you, we took care of the guy.”

“That must have been the readings at the house.” Sam nudges Dean. “No wonder the EMF was going off the rails.”

“Two psychotic serial killers? Sure would leave a presence,” Dean agrees.

“So. Like. Are we good?” Stilinski asks. “You’re not going to kill Scott, or any of the rest of us?”

Sam smiles. “Yeah, we’re good. Sorry we put you through all this.” He shoves Dean when he doesn’t say anything.

“One last question,” Dean says. “You swear you’re not going to suddenly wake up and try to murder a bunch of people? That your pal Derek Hale isn’t going to, either?”

McCall just looks at him. “Are you?” He sighs. “Yeah, I’m a werewolf now. And I can do a lot of things, dangerous things. But I’m still a person. I was a person before, and I’m still a person now. And I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

“The Hales were a whole family of werewolves. Or, most of them were, at least,” Stilinski adds. “There were no murders here until Kate Argent came along.”

And he’s got a point there. Even if Peter wasn’t a werewolf, the whole situation might have happened, nothing supernatural about it. Just a regular old revenge case. 

“Oh, right, before I forget.” Stilinski snaps his fingers. He rushes back to his car, a faded blue 1980 Jeep CJ5 that definitely has seen better days, but that Dean still can’t help but admire. From his passenger seat, he pulls out his backpack, and from its interior, a familiar brown journal.

“You—” Dean cuts himself off. “You said you didn’t have it on you!”

“Oh, yeah, I lied,” Stilinski says, smiling brightly. “I did take pictures of all this stuff, though. Hope you don’t mind. I figured it might come in handy for us some day.”

He hands the book to Dean, who immediately clutches it tight to his chest. 

“I hope you find your dad,” Stilinski says quietly. With that, the two kids hop into the Jeep, driving off into the night.

Sam heaves out a breath. “Well, this case didn’t go as expected.” He opens the door to the Impala and slumps down into the seat, exhausted. Dean follows suit. 

“Those kids are idiots,” Dean says factually. “But they’re good kids. They’ve got their stuff figured out. Hey, how come you think they’re so different from the werewolves we’ve seen before?”

“Different types of werewolves, maybe. Different families.” Sam muses. “For the most part, they’re human. Maybe they evolve like humans do too.”

The car falls into near-silence. The radio’s turned real low, and all Dean wants to do is get back to their motel and sleep for the next twelve hours.

Under the moonlight, Sam looks especially contemplative. Voice almost inaudible, he whispers, “Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy?”

“What made you change your mind?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

A beat. Dean sighs. There go his plans for an easy drive back. “Kid’s eyes were yellow. Our guy’s eyes were red.”

It’s an answer. An acceptable one, too. It’s a whole lot easier than telling Sam that when McCall had been lying there on the asphalt, clutching at his shoulder and pleading for his life, Dean had looked down the barrel of his gun. His finger tensed on the trigger, purposefully.

It’s easier than telling Sam that the kid had stared desperately up at him. He’d had to do it through his hair, familiarly long and shaggy on the forehead, tucked around the ears. The dark brown of it was lightened a few shades by the moonlight. And those eyes of his weren’t yellow. They were wide and puppyish, and Dean knows they’re brown, but at that moment, they’d seemed hazel.

“Please, he’s my brother!”

It’s easier than telling Sam that for a second, just a second, Dean had looked down the barrel of his gun at Scott McCall, and only seen his little brother.

Dean shakes the memory away. Tries to, anyway, as he can’t quite escape it, and wonders why this whole trip seems to have him down in the emotional depths. He doesn’t do that.

He exhales, forcing the last bits of accursed sentimentality from his system. The car is quiet once again. Only the wind whispers into the night.

---

Dean lifts his cup of coffee to his mouth. He grimaces. It’s a little too sweet for his tastes. Smacking his lips, he says, “Alright, Sammy. What’s our next tourist hotspot?”

Sam looks over from his stack of papers, turning the map spread out on the table for Dean to see. “You ever heard of a place called Mystic Falls?”