Notes: Written in 1st person, Peter POV. I had to screw with the season settings, but it should be obvious what I was going for with both fandoms.

Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf or Supernatural; written for fun, not profit.

Death. Death has a beginning. The start of it all is supposed to a bright white light at the end of a tunnel, to be proceeded by visions of long dead relatives or judgmental saints. I was always a bit foggy on the details, but I can say, there was a certain lack of white light at the end of my tunneling vision as the blood seeped out my ripped open throat. Everything was red, and then, well, it wasn't.

There was an angel, however, so let us never say the afterlife didn't meet some expectations.

There was a devil, too, depending on your perspective, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

"It isn't a religious tale, so much as a bedtime story, but yes, little werewolves are told of the possibility of Purgatory. Born wolves are, at least. I'm sure the bitten don't know what to expect when their time comes."

I can tell, from the wild look in his eye, the one that would almost be charming if it weren't so homicidal, that he wants to say something eloquent like, "I give two shits why?" (An actual quote from a previous conversation.) But there it is, just a spark of curiosity. Because this hunter needs it, any bit of information on the predicament he's currently in, and the vampire, well, the vampire didn't know where he was going when he met his end.

I did, of course. I've just been holding on to that information until our boy was in a better mood. He doesn't trust me, by any means, but I've now protected him from just as many monsters as the vampire, so he's inclined to listen.

We run; I make him wait. I make him ask when we stop again.

"How's the story go?"

Oh, I can't help but smile. It's not an expression filled with happiness, but he seems to like that I show my bitterness and spite instead of keeping it bottled inside.

"I always thought it was a way to keep us in check. Humans, be good or you'll end up roasting in Hell. Wolves, be good or you'll run forever in the Forest of Claws." I tip my head in his direction, sure I have his attention. I dismiss the drama of it all with my tone, but I'm still telling a fairy tale. "My grandmother's stories clarified things for me, though. It wasn't a matter of being good or bad, it was a matter of being prepared. A wolf who isn't ready to give up the hunt, he'll find his way here, to Purgatory. The ones ready to move on go on the Quiet Path. As if quiet and peaceful are somehow the same."

"Sounds like bullshit." But my hunter doesn't sound like he's calling me on it. More like he understands why I didn't believe the tales in life.

Not true. I didn't believe exactly, but I didn't dismiss them. I spent a large amount of my earlier life studying the world to which I belong. There was always truth in legends; I was proof of that, obviously.

"Because that's what it is," the vampire grumbles.

He hates me. Delightful.

"Really?" I pose a question. "I assume then you were ready to die? That you don't have any unfinished business that kept you from peace?"

We already know that's not true. Vampires, I'm sure, have a harder time getting on the Path (if it exists) than werewolves, since they don't expect to ever die. I hope that fabled path exists, somewhere here in Purgatory. I don't want to find it; not part of the plan. But, I also don't want to run into my own kind. Things will go much smoother if my family is in another place. A better place. One away from me.

"What else do the stories say?"

I have him now. That's good. He needs to see me as a source of information, an ally, someone valuable. Because thanks to Benny, I now know of another way out of here.

Dean Winchester, my plan C.

On the plus side, the angel hates both of us, referring to us as "Bloodsucker" and "Beast" when he's feeling colorful. I don't care much for him either. It would have been significantly easier to keep him and his prying out of the situation, but finding this friend for Dean was part of earning his trust.

The angel knows what I did. He can see it in my eyes. How did Dean put it? I 'don't give two shits' if he knows I'm the devil in disguise. The sheep are well aware, thank you.

Goodbyes are never easy.

We're separated, Dean and I, from the others, when I feel her pull. We're at a full run, my shoulder nearly grazing his, when I suddenly stop, not caring about the leviathan far behind us. It doesn't want me, anyhow.

Dean's feet slide across the ground as he slows, looking over his shoulder at me like I'm insane.

Not at the moment, hunter. I'm just surveying my options.

I could stay, keep him safe until we find the door. Hope all my effort hasn't been wasted, that he'll take me with him when he leaves. But the girl, dear Lydia is ready now. I've been visiting her dreams; there's a little part of me inside her, a piece I left behind for just this purpose. To tell her what to do, how to do it. I was afraid she'd fight me, that her blood wouldn't be strong enough to pull me from this place. But she is powerful, our Lydia.

I can feel it working, her magic.

I can choose not to go, though, if I want. I can't, however, choose to take him with me. He's not tied to her, unfortunately, or I might do him this favor. Might. We'll never know for certain, will we?

"What the hell, Peter?" Dean whispers. He's confused, but he knows betrayal when he sees it.

Does my frown look like a mockery? Probably. "You were plan C, Dean. But, as it turns out, my plan B is working out quite spectacularly. See you on the other side, perhaps."

"You better hope to God you don't," he says.

He doesn't even know what's happening, but I can feel the threat in my bones. Bones that are on the other side, bones with muscles wrapped around them, muscles that are suddenly filling with fresh blood, aching and twitching and coming alive.

Dean is running, the monsters at his heels, as I watch him and fade. "Goodbye," doesn't quite reach my lips, and he's too far to hear it anyhow. He's fast and certainly determined, maybe as much as I am. He might make it. Or the vampire and angel might find him. He might be a problem for another day.

There's a certain lack of white light in dying, true. But the red, the red remains in life and death. I see it, as I'm born fresh from the earth, a drop of my nephew's blood falling in my eye.