"Hello?" he called, but was greeted with silence. All to be heard was the soft whirr of the fan and his uneven, heavy panting. Another glimpse of the creeping shadow in the pale moonlight, spilled across the changing room like blood, and his breathing quickened, "Coach Finstock, is that you?" he asked, voice cracking as he backed up against the cold brick wall. Blind and helpless and unable to escape, the boy gave one last cry for help. A swift strike across the face, and his cry was silenced, scarlet blood and torn flesh thrown all over the floor. Once again, silence fell.

All to be heard was the soft whirr of the fan.

Sunday 13th of July, 2014, 1:47am; the cloud lay thick over the early morning sky, casting darkness over the highway. The air was close and uncomfortable. It hung over the the bleak planes as a veil of mist.

In the 1967 Chevrolet Impala, the Winchesters sat in uneasy muteness. With his eyes locked on the ever-stretching road ahead, Dean broke the quiet, "you're sure this is our problem, man?"
Sam let his heavy eyelids drop and took in a deep breath, as if preparing for an oncoming battle, "Are we really going to do this again?"
Dean shook his head but said nothing. Sam sighed, "Look, I've already told you, it's not just the killings. There's been multiple reports of unusual activity in Beacon Hills; flocks of birds flying into windows, family pets going crazy-"
"Yeah, alright, Sam. I get it." Dean leaned forward and turned up the stereo in the hope that it would drown out his brother and the voices in his head. Bob Dylan's voice rang out into the shadows; the answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.

A few hours later, Sam and Dean pulled into a motel on the edge of town and the hum of the car engine crunched to a stop. It was lonely that morning; no-one cast their eyes on the Winchesters. Not one person. Not a soul. It was like the town was still sleeping.

Sunday 13th of July 2014, 6:50am; Sam gasped sharply, darting upright in the incommodious motel bed. Wide-eyed and damp with cold sweat, Sam reached over a shook his brother awake. "Dean," he groaned, voice deep and slow from weariness, "get up." Eventually, Dean pulled himself out of bed and went to sit with Sam, who was already researching Beacon Hills. "What the hell?" Sam muttered to himself, "dude, look at this." Dean narrowed his eyes to read the headline of the Beacon Hills Ledger which was all to prominent on the laptop screen. It read;

16-YEAR-OLD LACROSSE PLAYER MAULED TO DEATH IN BEACON HILLS HIGH SCHOOL CHANGING ROOMS

The words were excruciating to read. Dead, at only 16. Dean furrowed his brow, "Mauled to death? Indoors?" he said, sounding almost as confused as a straight white boy meeting a transgender person (so you've got a dick, but you're not a dude?) Sam shut his laptop, hiding the words in bold as if it would make them go away permanently, just like the student that was ripped apart in the middle of a lacrosse match.

Sunday 13th of July, 2014, 7:48am; Sam and Dean strolled up to the Sheriff's office and knocked on the door. Sheriff Stilinski swung it open and scanned the towering figures that stood before him, both of whom were dressed in somewhat ill-fitting suits and presented their FBI badges to him with impressive synchronisation. "Agents," Stilinski said, lifting his arm and signalling for them to enter the office, "what can I do for you?" Dean stepped forward coolly and asked for everything they had on the death of the student. Sheriff Stilinski raised a brow, "Oh, you mean the kid that died at the lacrosse game? Wow, you guys are quick; it only happened last night," Sam and Dean exchanged a sheepish look and the Sheriff continued, "they're saying it was an animal attack. It sure does look like one, but I don't know – wild animals don't just wander into schools in the middle of sports matches without being seen. It all seems a little weird to me..." Sheriff Stilinski patted an unsatisfyingly thin file on his desk, "anyway, everything we've got is right here. You're welcome to take a look at the body." Sam took the file and started flicking through, flinching sharply at the bloody images of the victim; a promising young athlete. "Thank you, Sheriff," he said solemnly. Stilinski nodded and swung around to face the door of his office, "Well," he sighed, "welcome to Beacon Hills, agents." The Sheriff slipped through the door and Sam and Dean were alone.

Monday 14th of July, 2014, 8:30am; the piercing shriek of the school bell signalled the beginning of another week at Beacon Hills High School.

Scott McCall was gathering his things from his locker. He hadn't spoken much since the incident. No-one had. A hush had fallen over campus that no-one dared break. Stiles came rushing around the corner and confronted Scott, red-faced and flustered. Needing a minute to catch his breath, Stiles leant – doubled over – against the lockers. Scott simply observed his friend with mild concern. Finally, Stiles stood up and looked Scott dead in the eyes, "I need to talk to you," he breathed.
"What?" Scott hissed.
"My dad. He told me yesterday there are two FBI agents here. They're investigating the...attack."
Scott stared blankly at Stiles, "so?"
"So?" Stiles snapped, looking around and realising how much attention he was drawing to himself. The judgemental stares of his fellow students burned into him as if their eyes were hot pokers. "So," Stiles continued, lowering his voice, "if the FBI dig too deep into this case then they're going to realise it was a hell of a lot more than an animal attack. They'll uncover the shitload of supernatural stuff that goes on around here and our lives will be ruined. They'll have me in the psycho ward and you in the circus, or the zoo, or – they might even have you put down!"
"I'm not a dog, Stiles."
"Look, I was talking to Derek about it and-"
"Wait, you were talking to Derek alone? Just you two? Without me?" Scott asked, looking rather uncomfortable. Stiles pressed his hand to his forehead like he was trying to regain his faith in humanity, "Yes, Scott, just me and Derek. Is there a problem?"
"No, no, I just – I didn't think you two got on very well, that's all."
"Well, ever since Lydia and I discovered the key for the last third of the deadpool I thought it was only right to, you know, talk to him. Anyway, I was talking to Derek about it and we thought that if we could solve the case before the FBI do then we could come up with a cover story. My dad give it to the police, the agents leave, we get on with taking down the Benefactor FBI-free and with our little secret well and truly hidden, got it?"
"Don't you think you're being a little bit selfish? Stiles, a boy just died and-"
"Scott!" Stiles said, being embarrassingly loud. Scott shivered and shut his eyes tight, hoping Stiles would be gone by the time he opened them. It was too early for this. "Okay, okay. So we just solve the case before the FBI do and give them a cover story?" Scott said.
"Yes."
"Okay, so... should we go tell the others?"
Stiles grabbed Scott's shoulder and swung him round with unnecessary force, "yup. Come on. Let's go."
"What's this got to do with the FBI, anyway?" Scott asked as Stiles hurried him down the now deserted corridor.
"No idea."