Chapter 4: The Beasts We Know
When night came, it arrived quickly. One moment cloudy skies were guiding the wandering pair, and the next they were being led by a crescent moon and the steady beam of a flashlight. The rain had slowed, a quiet settling over the woods.
Soaked to the bone, eyes glistening with awareness, Dean paused, letting Paul walk ahead.
"Do we even know where we're going?" Sheriff Stilinski asked.
Dean didn't take offense to the fact that he'd been asked the question, and answered it, twice already. The other man was out of sorts, despite the calm tone of voice, and Dean couldn't blame him. He knew exactly what it felt to have your only remaining family in danger. That thought left a sour taste in Dean's throat. The plan was solid enough, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Especially the part where Sam was going to take on the monster on his own. He should be there with him.
When he looked up and saw Paul turned to face him, sorrow in his eyes, Dean remembered why he wasn't.
"You said the stream is up ahead?" Dean asked. "The lore says she likes streams. It won't hurt to try there first."
"For all we know, she could have him in an empty house in town." Paul ran hand down his face, his voice almost too quiet to hear. "If he's even still in Beacon Hills."
"He's still here," Dean replied, sounding more confident than he was. It was a hunch, but that wasn't what Paul needed to hear right now. Hell, the idea that she was even near running water was a hunch, too, based on too much lore and too little time fact-checking.
Still, they'd ran on less than a decent hunch before, and when it came to monsters, Dean's guesses had gotten pretty damn accurate of late. He'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit this forest put him in his element. It reminded him too much of Purgatory. It felt alive with the supernatural and left his skin tingling with anticipation of a battle.
She was here. Something was here.
He spared his watch a glance. "Deaton'll be starting the summoning soon, so keep your eyes peeled. They're west of us. When she feels the call, we might be able to see where she's coming from and follow her trail."
Stilinski seemed to accept that answer, nodding and suddenly on full alert as he continued on, surveying the land for movement. Dean didn't take a step forward. Instead, head bowed slightly in concentration, he paused only a moment before drawing his handgun and swinging it toward the trees to his right.
"Show yourself," he called out, holding his flashlight steady above the barrel. "Now, or so help me you're going to be eating a bullet."
The woods remained quiet only a moment longer before a twig snapped, and Dean watched a figure move out from behind a tree, a hand up to block out the light. Even so, Dean could see it was a teenage boy, dark haired, a striped hoodie hanging heavy over his shoulders.
The call came from Dean's side. The hunter raised a brow. "You know this kid, Paul?"
"Yeah." The sheriff sighed, waving a hand at Dean. "Put that down, already. It's one of Stiles' friends."
Dean kept the weapon on his target. "You sure about that?"
Paul hesitated, shooting Dean a sideways glance that said he understood what the hunter was implying. "Scott, what are you doing out here?" he asked, his voice low.
The kid took another cautious step forward, hands held out in surrender. "I know this probably looks strange, okay, but you have to listen to me." He took a steadying breath. "I know Stiles is missing, and that's why I'm here. To find him."
Paul's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Scott, how could you possibly know - "
"It's a long story."
"Shorten it," Dean snapped.
Scott shook his head. "Trust me. I will. Later. But right now, Stiles is in danger."
Dean's eyes narrowed in suspicion. There was something off about the kid, something that raised the hairs on the back of his neck, but he couldn't quite convince himself to shoot first and test for evil later. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, a flash of light at the corner of his eye cut him off, followed by a crack of thunder.
Dean wondered if that was it, the start of the ritual.
A wolf howled in the distance, as if in answer. Scott shifted his weight, as if the sound put him on edge, even if it didn't startle him. He looked to Dean again, but his pleading gaze disappeared, replaced by an intense stare at the sky above. The teen raised a hand, covering his nose, and then Dean could smell it too, right past the burst of ozone was a faint reek, like the smell of a demon in a not-so-fresh meatsuit.
Scott pointed toward the sky. "There."
Dean followed the movement, finally lowering his weapon when he saw the black on black clouds lowering over the swell of land past them. It was close, almost overhead. And if the ritual was working, maybe that meant the ala and its prey was too.
Without another word, the three took off running toward the storm cloud. Dean pulled ahead of Stilinski, gun still drawn, and he felt the teenager race past his unarmed side. The hunter reached out, snagging the boy's jacket to slow him down, a curse at his lips. Hiding something or not, there was no way he was letting another kid get snatched by this thing.
"Stay behind me!" he yelled.
Scott growled under his breath but dropped back, to the hunter's shoulder, just as the ground beneath the two of them disappeared. Bouncing off one knee, Dean managed to get back on his feet, fingers still tangled in the teen's jacket as they slid down the slick bank, both of them stumbling down onto the muddy shore of a stream as soon as they hit flat earth again. Paul managed to stop himself before taking the quick route, turning sideways to hold onto a tree root as he eased down the ten feet of slick bank.
Then they stopped, as one.
Dean wasn't sure which of them muttered the name, but it was loud enough to catch the attention of the thing in front of them. The moon's light was almost absent behind the storm, but with the lightning popping in the cloud, they could make out the form of a cloud of smoke, covering something against the high bank in the curve of the stream up ahead.
A face formed in the smoke as it pulled away from the earth, spilling out over the shallow water. It took on a feminine form, wisps of hair-like tendrils floating out around its skeletal grin and clawing fingers.
Stilinski raised his flashlight and the smoke was lit ash white, its features even more ghastly, but it was enough. They could see him then, at her side, a body standing against the tall bank of dirt and roots.
A whispery voice greeted them.
"What is mine, is mine. You will not…take my son…from me…"
Paul pushed past Dean. "He's not your son!"
The ala rushed forward, cackling at the man, but she stopped short, her long, clawing hands grabbing at the gravel of the stream as she was pulled backward.
"No!" she cried. "He is mine!"
Its toothy mouth opened wide in an angry howl as it was suddenly jerked away from the group, its smoky form flying over the bank and into the forest.
"Son of a bitch. I guess the summoning work," Dean noted.
The other two didn't stop to hear him, running past toward the curve of the bank. As soon as the flashlight washed over him, the kid hanging in the roots flinched, pulling away. Paul slid in beside him, cupping the boy's cheek.
"Stiles?" he begged. "Come on, son. Tell me you're okay."
The boy rolled his head against the mud, his skin stark white in comparison and a clump of dirt and dried blood clinging to his temple. "Dad?" he asked, eyes still closed. "Can you turn off the light?"
"Sorry, sorry," Paul muttered, hand shaking as he pointed the flashlight to his side. "Son, are you hurt?"
Scott was already pulling at the roots holding the other teen's arms down, a look of steely determination on his face.
Dean came in behind them, pulling his knife out of his jacket. He whistled and tossed it to Scott. "Cut him down."
"Scott?" Stiles asked, blinking to awareness. He raised his head slowly, as if weighed fifty pounds, and then locked eyes on Dean. "Oh, crap, there's a hunter behind you," he attempted to whisper, his voice slurred.
Scott winced, but didn't reply. Dean, however, raised a brow. "We get done with this and we're having a talk," he promised. But his voice softened when he saw Stilinski pulling his son against him, a silent sob shaking his back.
"Stiles." Paul lifted his head again, trying to force his son to focus. "Son, you need to tell me what she did to you. You need to tell me if…"
The injured teen blinked, confused. "I don't remember it all."
"Don't do this here, Paul. We won't know what she did until it's over," Dean said, softly. He put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Get your kid to safety."
Paul glanced up. "Where are you - ?"
Dean was already a few feet away, ready to climb back up the muddy slope, in the direction that the monster had left. West. "That thing is headed straight for Sam and Deaton. Take care of Stiles, Paul."
He was gone before he could hear the sheriff's reply.
Deaton's voice trailed off, the ritual finished, and the world around them grew oddly quiet for a split second. But Sam could feel it coming. His body tensed, ready for a blow, and he pulled the demon killing blade up to chest height, its rain-wet edge glistening.
The quiet broke, disturbed by a howl of anger coming from the dark woods that was steadily growing louder.
Then the plan went to hell.
The ala arrived as a wraith-like flash of motion and a gale of wind, the summoning magic drawing it in, even as it scraped at the earth, trying to hold itself from the circle that would capture it with the two men. Sam squinted against the flying bits of gravel and twigs caught up in the wind, and he got his first good look at the creature. Good being a relative term; it was an ever-shifting form, rolling between smoke and serpent and a woman's familiar curves. Sam centered his weight, ready to leap into attack, and Deaton moved to the far edge of the circle preparing to finish his part as soon as the creature entered the trap.
Only, the ala didn't seem to care for the idea.
She saw the hunter waiting for her and let out a hiss, her long fingers letting go of the ground and slicing into the base of the closest tree. The crack sounded as loudly as the thunder above, and it was their only warning before the wood split and a wall of branches and bark collapsed over them. Sam dove out of the way, landing in a roll, and when he looked up, he couldn't see Deaton.
But he could see the circle. What was left of it.
The tree had taken out one of the warding symbols, breaking the trap, and it was only then that Sam realized his knife was no longer in his hand.
"You've got to be kidding me," he groaned.
He caught sight of the handle, sticking up out of the mud, and crawled toward it. A shiver ran over his body as he felt a presence looming over him. It was a familiar sensation, one he'd felt nearly every time a spirit hunt had went sour. He didn't need to look up to know the ala was there, just above, waiting to attack.
The back of his jacket ripped as something sharp snagged the fabric, rolling him over. Sam's back hit the ground hard, knocking the breath out of him, and when he looked up, it was at the form of a woman he couldn't quite remember.
"He's mine," she said, her voice as sharp as the wind through the trees. "He is what is owed me."
Sam heard the other creature before he saw it; the snap of a twig, the low, throaty growl of a predator. Then it was over, him, a blur that lunged over Sam's body and onto the ala. The shape shifter lashed out, tossing the new threat to the side as if were a mere nuisance, but by the time she lashed back around, mouth wide and menacing, Sam had his fingers around the knife. He swung out in an arch, catching the creature across the chest.
It wasn't deep enough for a kill, but the cut sizzled with a hot, red glow, and the Ala screamed, flying back from the hunter. Sam scrambled back up, panting with adrenaline, but the shape shifter was falling back, just out of range.
Then his world went white.
Sam blinked, stunned by the sudden flash of the lightning overhead, and the Ala seemed just as confused as she stared up at the sky, where the storm cloud had broken up, allowing the moon to shine down and bleach her essence with its glow.
Three shots rang out, consecrated iron slicing through her form and leaving angry stripes of crackling red in their wake. The ala shrieked out at the woods to her side, seeing another enemy.
He wasn't sure where the shout had come from, but he knew it was Dean's voice. That was enough to stir him into motion. Jumping up onto the side of the fallen tree, he lunged out with the knife, slipping the tip of the blade through its center.
The Ala let out a scream, sulfur and death on her tongue. Crimson bursts of light lit her from the core, her skeletal image appearing beneath the black smoke in two short burst. Then, with a hissed breath of release, she dissolved into the night air, leaving the blade coated in black.
Sam slipped back off the log, his heavy pant the loudest part of the night, but he didn't back down, one hand reaching behind his back to pull free his Glock.
He leveled on the form laying against one of the broken branches. Whatever it was, it was shaped like a man, leaning forward onto one knee, a clawed hand grasping at its blood-soaked shoulder. Its breathing rattled its hunched back and there was a guttural growl at each exhale.
"Show yourself," Sam ordered.
Sam had seen it, the flash of its bright red eyes, but now that eerie glow was gone, and when it leaned forward, it stared up at him with a gaze Sam recognized.
The man sat back on his legs, staring up at the hunter. "Sam…I can explain," he said, at a near whisper.
Sam's face hardened. "What the hell are you?"
It was always strange, the end of a hunt. Time passed too quick and too slow. The moment of the kill always seemed somehow graceful, like watching a scene at half-speed. Seconds after firing the shots at the creature, Dean was back on the run, closing the distance between the broken summoning circle and himself, but somehow those seconds stretched on, allowing him to watch Sam's dark silhouette make the final move, sliding the demon-killing knife into the Ala.
Dean let out a breath his lungs were screaming for, but he was still on the job, searching for Deaton before he allowed himself to slow down. He saw movement a few feet away and heard a groan.
He was at the older man's side before Deaton was able to pull himself onto his knees. Deaton grasped his head, wincing when his hand came back bloody.
"Doc, you okay?" Dean slipped an arm under his, holding him upright. "Anything permanent?"
"I'll get back to you on that," Deaton replied, stumbling against him, but he sounded lucid enough, his eyes bright and fixed ahead, where Sam stood.
Dean heard his brother's voice but didn't register why it sounded strange until a moment later: Sam was talking to someone else. Dean jerked his head up, watching his brother's looming figure, lined with white moonlight. Sam was staring down at something…someone hunched close to the top of the fallen tree. The hunter's gun was pointed in no idle threat and his tone was sharper than it had been a moment earlier.
"What the hell are you?" Sam asked.
"Sam, I can explain."
Dean was startled by the call from his side. Deaton pushed away from him, taking a few steps closer to the youngest Winchester, his hands out a both sides, as if to sate both hunters.
"Don't shoot him," Deaton said.
Dean was beginning to wonder which one of them had taken the hit to the head, because he felt like the odd man out. His brow wrinkled in confusion as he took a sideways step, getting a better look at his brother. And the man in his sights. It was Derek Hale, Sam's old friend huddled in the shadows.
Does anyone not hang out in the woods at night? And Dean wished he could leave the thought there, because he hadn't seen whatever his brother had seen, and he almost didn't want to be told this hunt wasn't quite over yet.
"Anyone want to fill me in?" Dean asked.
"Derek Hale is an werewolf," Deaton answered, his voice level, calm, as if they were back in his office, discussing proper flea medication. "But he's not your enemy, Sam. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, he very likely just saved your life."
Sam didn't so much as twitch, but Derek slowly stood to full height, eyes staying on the hunter.
"He's right, Sam," Derek said, quietly. "I came out here to help, not to attack you."
Sam frowned. "You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it."
Dean felt his sidearm growing heavy in his hand, but he raised it a few inches and took a step further from Deaton. "This night just gets better and better," he muttered. He cleared his throat. "Deaton, you need to tell us what the hell is going on here, and you need to tell us right now. Because, obviously I missed something if another monster was invited to this party."
Deaton sighed. "You hunters can be so hard headed at times. Your father reacted much the same way when he found out about the werewolves in Beacon Hills."
Sam finally looked away, sharing a look with Dean.
"That's right, boys," Deaton continued. "Your father knew about the wolves. And he chose to not hunt them. Now, if you two would like to hear more, might I suggest we move this conversation to somewhere a bit more comfortable?"
The veterinarian's office was too bright, stinging his eyes, which had, between the nature preserve and the car, stayed adjusted to the dim lighting.
Sam wanted to take a moment, close them, but he couldn't let his guard down, even with his brother at his side, adjacent to their escape route, the door to Deaton's office. The vet himself was sitting back in his desk chair, eyes weary either from the evening's events or the swollen lump above his right eye, but Sam couldn't be bothered to check on him right now. Not while a monster stood at the back of the crowded room, watching the hunters with a steady, unwavering look of regret.
"So, werewolf?" Dean asked, not for the first time. "No offense, but you don't quite act like the ones we've run into in the past."
Neither of the men across from him answered, and Sam couldn't concentrate on making light of the subject like his brother. The room was still too tense, the air inside it too thick, too ready for a fight.
Their trip from the woods to the Animal Hospital had almost felt surreal. The woods around them seemed darker and more twisted, the better for hiding things, and the Impala's roaring engine sounded more fierce, like an animal protesting the approach of a predator. Sam figured that it was in his head though, his own thoughts bleeding into his vague observations, trying to distract him from the beast wearing his friend's face, sitting at his side, and the man he thought he knew, Alan Deaton, sitting in the seat in front of him, beside Dean.
It was a quiet ride, and Sam imagined the ride in the Sheriff's car behind them wasn't much easier. Sam hadn't had much of a chance to ask him what he and Paul found out in the woods. He knew only that Stiles was alive, but whether he was well or not was a different matter altogether.
Sam heard the murmur of raised voices past the door, reminding him that Paul Stilinski and two teenagers were currently in the sterile-looking operation room, probably waiting for the rest of the group to join them. To give them answers. Sam didn't have any for them at the moment, but he certainly had enough questions.
"Are you a pureblood?" Sam asked, unable to hold it in any longer.
Derek straightened, obviously thrown off guard by the question. "Some people have called us that," he answered, his voice soft, as if he expected the others outside might be listening in. He shifted his weight, as if he wasn't used to speaking this much and found the attention uncomfortable.
"I was born a werewolf. Sam, you should know that much - I'm still the same person you knew, when we were kids. I was a wolf then, and I'm one now. My family… Laura was the Alpha of our pack after my parents died."
Sam spared his brother a glance, noticing the slight movement in this throat, the only sign that he was surprised by the information.
"That's difference," Dean said, gruffly. "Enjoy eating human hearts?"
Derek's eyes flashed to red. "No." He eased back when he saw both the Winchesters tense, arms loose to their sides, close to their weapons. "We're not monsters. We are predators, but that doesn't mean we hunt people."
"Good to know," Sam replied. "How did Dad find out?"
Deaton sighed. "Your father found out during the first hunt for the Ala. I…perhaps foolishly, I told him when he asked me about a few attacks on the local animal population. He didn't respond well to the information."
"I bet." Dean snorted.
Deaton raised a brow. "But I wasn't lying. He left the Hale family alone. He chose not to hunt them."
Derek nodded, to himself. "Laura said that's why you left. We knew, my family. We that John was a hunter. Almost everyone was relieved when you left." The corner of his mouth curved with a humorless grin.
Sam wanted to answer it with one in kind, but he couldn't manage it. Remembering those letters back and forth between Derek and himself, he couldn't imagine writing someone he thought might come back to hunt his family down. A part of him wanted to believe Derek had some nefarious reason for doing that, for keeping in contact, but one look at the other man told him that wasn't true. That somehow made things worse.
Sam broke eye contact with him.
Deaton pushed back from his desk, pulling out a bottom drawer and rummaging through the files inside. Finally, he pulled out a few folded sheets of paper. They were crinkled, as if they'd been wadded together and smoothed out again, and yellow with age. "Your father threw these at me as he was leaving town, with strict instructions that I not share the information with the two of you…I believe there might have been a threat on my life made. I suppose my ability to keep secrets has become somewhat impaired in my old age." He held the pages out. "Go ahead. What your father lacked in penmanship, he made up for in details."
Dean only stared at the folded pages, a blank expression on his face. Sam frowned, then took them from Deaton.
" '…Tonight I learned the truth about Beacon Hills…'" Sam's voice trailed off, eyes skimming down the page, brow wrinkled as he read on. He passed the first to Dean and started in on the second, pausing to glance up at Derek. "Dad figured out you were different from the werewolves we'd hunted before."
Derek crossed his arms over his chest. "Normal hunters, those who don't specialize in our kind, they don't often find out about us. The packs stay quiet and keep our secret well. Sometimes though…sometimes there are those who'd hunt humans to sate their bloodlust."
Deaton nodded, leaning across the desk, his somber eyes studying the Winchesters. "It takes the bite of an Alpha wolf to create more of their kind. The werewolves you've hunted, they're rabid, seeking 'heart's blood'. They're not infected by the bite of an Alpha, but by the bite of an Omega. A lone wolf. Those poor unfortunates, with no Alpha to lead them and very little of the instinct a descendant of a pureblood, fall back on their animal nature, murdering for food and sport. Those were the werewolves John was familiar with."
Sam barely heard him, his eyes back on the final sheet. He read the last lines to himself, once, then again, before the writing cut off sharply:
'They're innocent. Deaton's right. I've researched the area, the surrounding areas…This pack hasn't killed, at least not any humans. There're a family. Husbands and wives. Little children. God, Sammy and Dean are friends with these kids. I won't ask my boys to hate them, and I can't bring myself to hunt them, not without proof that they've taken lives. But I can't sit around and pretend they don't exist. Any other hunter I know would take action right now. They're monsters. A part of me wishes Deaton hadn't told me the truth. Would make my job a hell of a lot easier - '
"That kid one of your kind?"
Sam's head jerked up at the sound of Dean's voice. "What kid?"
But Derek was staring at both of them, his expression dangerous as he looked from one to the other, and he didn't seem to notice Deaton glancing up at him warily. Sam raised a brow in question, then remembered the teenager who'd been waiting at with Paul and his son.
When no one answered, Dean stood up a bit straighter. "Unless he's a bloodthirsty maniac, no one's killing the kid," he said, quietly. "You have my word."
Sam blinked, surprised. Dean's words sounded almost sincere enough to be the truth, and he wondered if maybe they were. Dean, you can't just make that decision for us. But maybe he had already. Maybe the pages in his hand, and the old friend sitting across from them, was enough.
It wouldn't be the first time. He remembered the kids who'd died, only a few months back, their lives ruined by one bite. Apparently by an Omega. They'd let the girl go. They'd let a werewolf go. And they hadn't looked back.
God, he hoped she'd found a pack. That she wasn't another one they failed.
Sam gave his brother another glance, feeling his eyes on him. No, Dean wasn't lying. He didn't plan to kill anyone tonight. Unless he had to.
"Yes," Derek finally replied, after a moment. "Scott's a werewolf. Stiles knows. Sheriff Stilinski doesn't."
"That's going to make for a fun conversation," Dean noted.
Derek shook his head. "The Sheriff doesn't need to know."
"Maybe not," Dean answered. He glanced down, in thought. Sam could recognize the look on his face, of his brother weighing his options. "I think he's probably had enough of the supernatural for the time being, but you know he's going to find out, right? Those kid in there, they kind of suck at lying."
Derek smiled. "You have no idea."
Sam took another look at the pages, then raised them, catching Deaton's eye. "You've been saving these for us. You planned on telling us, didn't you?"
Deaton's eyes shined, but Sam didn't recognize the expression on the man's face as anything other than faint amusement. "I did," Deaton admitted. "I knew that Paul Stilinski needed your help. But he's not the only one. I thought you might be more prone to helping a pack of werewolves if you knew you could trust them."
Derek took a step forward. "Deaton, this isn't their problem…"
"Not yet." Deaton shared a look with the werewolf. "It might do you well to have hunter allies in the months to come."
Paul Stilinski could feel the kids watching him, but he couldn't lift his head, not right now. He couldn't let them see how defeated he felt, so he cradled his face between his hands, staring into the blackness behind his eyes.
There were a dozen questions floating around his mind, begging to be asked. Starting with why Scott was even here. Ending with the important one. The one about his boy.
He finally looked up, his son's worried expression pulling at his heart. The bruises along the side of the teenager's face were stark against his pale skin, but some of his color was coming back. Paul wasn't fooled by it. He remembered Sarah. She'd looked well afterward too, and she'd been anything but.
"Dad?" Stiles asked. "I'm okay." He forced a crooked smile, and Paul knew it was supposed to be comforting, but it wasn't. "I'm not hurt that bad. It's…it's over, Dad."
Scott was sitting snug beside his son, as if waiting for him to fall forward and need a helping hand. Paul wondered what kind of father that made him, if he couldn't even be that close to his kid right now, if he couldn't even bare to touch him knowing what he knew.
"It's over," Paul agreed, because it was the one thing he was sure of. When the Winchester's had met them at the cars, they'd gotten that part across loud and clear. The Ala wasn't just gone. It was dead.
But it might have been too late.
The doors to the operation room opened, and Paul stood up quickly, reminding himself of one too many times he'd done the same in a hospital, waiting for word from frowning doctors. Dean and Sam walked into the room, Deaton following close behind.
"Boys, go into the other room."
The two teenagers wore blank faces before Stiles scowled. "Dad, we're not leaving - "
Dean shook his head. "This involves them, too, Paul. And I have it on good authority that at least one of them has really good hearing, anyhow."
Scott glanced up sharply, chewing at his bottom lip, but Paul didn't question it. Dean was right. The boys, both of them, would find out soon.
"How do we know if she…" Stilinski's voice broke and he started over. "How do we know if we were too late?"
The brothers shared a look, both of their expressions weary, before they turned back to him.
Dean let out a slow breath. "Paul, when Sam and I were researching this thing, we told you we had an idea of what it wanted with Stiles."
Paul stared at his son, giving one shake of his head to stop the boy from asking. "To possess him," he answered quietly.
"Not exactly," Sam replied. "Or, at least, that's only part of it…"
Dean picked up before Paul could interrupt. "Remember when she called him her son? We think she was looking to collect a companion instead of a body. Stiles was exposed to her poison. When he was still in the womb."
"In the lore, it says that some people are thought to have been survivors of the Ala's 'breath'. Usually they're male survivors," Sam said. "They're called aloviti men. And, if they don't die from the Ala's possession, they're usually blessed in some way, with strength or…" He paused, the sound of thunder outside interrupting him. "Sometimes even with the ability to influence the weather, like the Ala."
"I'm doing this."
Paul almost didn't hear his son, but Stiles' eyes were wide, so childlike that they took the older man back a good ten years, and he knew it had been his son to speak. "Stiles…"
"It was me, changing the weather?" Stiles asked, louder.
"Possibly," Sam replied. Then he gave him a small smile. "Probably," he corrected. "This kind of ability…it's usually controlled by moods and emotions. Maybe something's happened in your life recently, something that set it off. Or maybe you were exposed to some sort of magical ritual without realizing it, something that would have brought that part of you to surface. I don't know. But whatever it was, the Ala must have sensed when your gifts began to show themselves. We wondered why she chose now to return. I think we know."
Scott reached out, touching Stile's shoulder loosely. Paul heard him mutter something about ashes, but Stiles didn't seem to hear, his eyes still glued to the hunters.
"Is that it, then? I mean, I get kicked around at school and suddenly there's flash flooding?" He stood up, almost shaking with nervous energy. "I'm a friggin' X-man?"
Dean raised a brow. "Well. You're not as hot as the one I'm thinking of, but yeah, basically. Or that's the theory. Maybe it's just stormy outside and Sammy's reading too much out of some old lore."
Sam rolled his eyes at his brother. "Maybe," he admitted, grudgingly.
Deaton stepped past the men. "Gentlemen, as much as I'd like to stay up all night discussing any latent superpowers Mr. Stilinski may or may not have, I think I speak for everyone when I say it's been a long night."
Paul swallowed hard, crossing the room in two strides and grabbing his son up in his arms, finally able to touch his boy without grieving for him. He held him tight against his chest, forgetting the others around them.
"Let's go home, son."
Dean slipped a tape into the deck, smirking as the music blared to life, too loud for the early morning. He could feel Sam's sneer, so, in a show of mercy, he turned it down a notch, then leaned back, pulling out of the Stilinksi's driveway and into the brightly lit road ahead.
"You sure you don't want to stick around a little longer, say goodbye to Derek?" Dean asked.
Sam snorted to himself. "I think it's better if we don't. I'm ready to get out of this town."
Dean shrugged. "Yeah, well, he has our number. Which is weird." He watched Sam out of the corner of his eye. His brother was leaning against the passenger's door, staring up out of the window at the blue sky above. "I think Stiles is having a good dream. Think it's a Scarlett Johansson or Emma Stone kinda 'beautiful day'?"
Sam made a face, but his smile wavered after a moment. "We should have told Paul the whole truth, Dean."
"What, rubbed in the fact that his son basically has monster-demon essence in him? I don't that would help either of them, Sam. Didn't help us."
Sam was quiet a moment. "We should have told him what it could mean. What if…" He let out a breath. "I don't want to have to hunt that kid, Dean."
Dean stared at the road ahead of him. "Me neither, Sam... I think I understand why Dad left Beacon Hills in such a hurry. Place attracts the weird."
Sam turned, watching his brother's stoic profile. "I have a feeling we'll be coming back."
"Yeah, well..." Dean leaned forward, cranking up the music as they passed the 'Now Leaving' sign. "Not if we're busy closing Hell."
End Notes: Well, we've reached the end. I hope you enjoyed this. It didn't turn out quite like I wanted, but I plan on writing more Teen Wolf/SPN xovers in the future, since this was my first dive into TW ficland...Maybe even a companion story or sequel to fic. The references to "pureblood" in this chapter came from the SPN season 8 episode "Bitten".
Thank you all for reading. Comments are the currency of the realms, so I thank all those who have tossed a coin into my hat. :)