Author's Note: I've wanted to write a Supernatural/Teen Wolf crossover for a while now. I wasn't sure how to do it. I'm not really even sure where this idea came from. I set this after season 3A in Teen Wolf and in later half of season 8 in Supernatural. I hope you enjoy it!
"We went out last night
Like we swore we wouldn't do."
—Kenny Chesney, "Out Last Night"
Sneaking into bars isn't hard for Lydia Martin.
Her good looks and well-made fake I.D. are usually enough to get her in any bar of her choice. Tonight though, the bar she's chosen isn't too crowded and there's not too many staff. It's a local bar, just twenty minutes outside of Beacon Hills, resting off a dirt road.
"Should we really be doing this?" Stiles asks her, glancing nervously at the other patrons in the bar.
She wants to laugh at him. Here he is, a fearless man when it comes to handling werewolves and other crazy supernatural creatures, yet he's reduced to a cowardly little boy when it comes to breaking the rules a little bit and getting a drink.
"It's fine." She dismisses his concerns as they take a seat at a table far from the watchful eye of the female bartender. "You've had drinks before."
"Yeah," He shrugs, jamming his hands in his pockets. Then, a little bit under his breath adds, "Just never so conspicuously before."
Lydia chuckles at that, grinning and feeling like she can finally breathe. The weight of the world is no longer on her shoulders. The pack is safe and life is good. She deserves one night out and while Alison was her first choice—Lydia, sorry, I've got plans with Isaac! You understand, right?—ending up at the bar with Stiles isn't too bad.
"Then, just get a Coke." She smirks at him.
"Well, one of us has to drive." He mutters as he gets up and goes to the bar. He returns a few seconds later with a beer for her and a Coke for him. He begins to sip his Coke and she takes a swig of her beer.
"Relax, Stiles." The Banshee places a hand on her wrist, smiling openly at him. "Your dad won't catch us."
"How'd you find this place anyways?" He asks her, sinking back into his chair. He takes in the subdued décor and the light strains of classical rock that can be heard and then glances at her. The strawberry blonde is radiant in a white flowery top and a pair of jean capris. Her hair is back in a braid and she's wearing less makeup than usual, though in his eyes, she's still as radiant as the day he first laid eyes on her in third grade.
"Alison and I were driving and we found it." Lydia remarks casually. "She and I don't come here often, but sometimes it's nice to get out of Beacon Hills."
"I hear you." Stiles seconds, taking a sip of his Coke.
It's been a rough couple of weeks and though they came close to losing one another, the pack is safe once again. That, alone, is worth celebrating.
"Hey," Stiles begins softly, his hands gripping the bottle of his Coke. He finally meets her eyes and Lydia can see some hesitation in those hazel eyes. "Why'd you ask me to come with you?"
The banshee shrugs, trying to play it off casually, "We just never get a chance to hang out, you know, other than when we're in imminent danger."
He laughs at that, his body posture relaxing.
"Why?" Lydia presses. "Did you have other plans—?"
"No," He interjects quickly, "I just . . ." His voice fades and he lets whatever thought he had go.
The door opens, a bell dinging and Lydia glances at two men standing in the doorway. A shiver runs under her skin and she stiffens, suddenly unable to look away. The taller one is sickly, skin pale and beads of sweat on his forehead. His longer hair sticks to his skin and though he's standing upright and confident, she can see how close he is to death, how easy it would be for him to fall into that eternal darkness.
But the shorter one, the one with vibrant green eyes and a leather jacket, she can sense something in him. Something dangerous, something about to snap—she realizes it in a second.
They're hunters.
"Lydia?" Stiles has his hand on her shoulder, gripping it, and she realizes a second too late that she'd been on her way to go to them. "Lydia, what is it?"
Part of her wants to scream. The other part wants to cry.
The one thing she knows for sure is that these two are dangerous and she and Stiles need to get out of here before something bad happens.
"We have to go." She manages to say and her voice is quivering.
Stiles, thank goodness, doesn't question her. He simply takes her hand in his and moves them towards the door.
They don't make it that far.
The door bursts open and before the teenager can even comprehend what's going on, she finds herself being propelled backwards by an invisible force. She and Stiles hit the counter hard and all the oxygen from her lungs is pushed out.
"Stiles!" She shouts, but he's unconscious, having hit his head. She forces herself to breathe and tries not to panic as a man in a jet black suit and a grey tie leans in the doorway, a smirk on his lips.
"So, boys," It takes her a second to realize that he's talking to the two men that came in a few minutes earlier. "Thought you could beat me to her?"
"Crowley." The sickly one hisses, sounding not very sick at all. He pulls out a gun from seemingly nowhere and Lydia curses her bad luck. Of course, out of all the nights in the year, the one she chooses to go out on is cursed.
"Stiles." She tries to lift him, but he's heavier than she expected and it takes her a few tries to get them both standing, his arm slung around her neck. She can see a back door, behind the bar and she slowly, and as inconspicuously as she can, tries to get the two of them out.
She's almost at the backdoor when the crisp accented voice reaches her ears, "And where do you think you're going, Banshee?"
The man in the suit chuckles darkly at her perplexed expression.
"Yes, sweetheart," He coos. "I know exactly what you are."
"Crowley." The man with the green eyes hisses, getting the bearded man's attention once more. The sickly man stares at her though, as if he's finally putting the last piece of a puzzle together.
"Stiles," She whispers, wishing once again that he would wake up so they could get out of this situation. "C'mon." She fumbles with the latch on the door, only to find that it's—
"Locked, sweetheart." The man in the suit is beside her now. His burning hand grazes her cheek and she shudders involuntarily. He gestures to the two men before her, unconscious on the floor.
"Who are you?" She growls, because no, this man will not intimidate her. He may know what she is, but she refuses to be afraid. She has a pack to defend her and she won't let herself play the damsel in distress without a fight.
"Name's Crowley, love." He smiles, teeth too wide, lips tilted upwards sinisterly. "But you can just call me the King of Hell."
The next she knows, there are men beside her, pulling Stiles from her and she's struggling, fighting with all her might, screaming for help, for her pack, for someone to save her.
And then there's a sudden pain on the back of her head and then there is nothing.
Darkness.
Stiles awakens to a man with vibrant green eyes staring down at him.
"Hey, you okay, kid?"
His head hurts, a dull throbbing in his temple. He rubs it absently as he tries to piece together what's happened. The bar is in shambles. Shattered glass sparkles on the floor from the dim light. Chairs are broken, tables are overturned—the whole place is a mess.
"Lydia?" He glances around the area, trying to catch a glimpse of her strawberry blonde hair.
"He's got the girl, Dean." The man with longer hair sighs. "If we don't get her back—"
"He'll kill her," Dean replies, pacing the length of the floor. "I know, Sam." He gestures to Stiles. "Now that he's awake, we can go—"
"Lydia?" He rises up shakily from the ground, his head pounding.
The two men share a knowing glance and Stiles curses under his breath.
"She's gone, isn't she?" He asks, already knowing the answer. "The man in doorway." His mind starts racing a mile a minute. He needs to get out of here, needs to get back to Beacon Hills and back to Scott, back to the pack. Together, they can go and save her—
"Where are you going?" Dean grips his shoulder and stops him from leaving. "Look, kid—"
"Stiles." The teenager interjects sharply. He hasn't been a kid since the night that Scott got bit.
"Stiles," Sam says softly, a soft smile on his lips. He projects an aura of ease and calm. "My brother and I, we're the ones who can get Crowley." He stands up, swaying heavily to one side, causing Dean to support him.
"Yeah, well, you can barely stand, so somehow I doubt that." He mutters bitterly. "You don't know anything—"
"You're part of a werewolf pack." Dean spits out quickly and Stiles eyes bug out slightly.
"And you two must be hunters." Stiles concludes. That is why Lydia was so afraid of them. She must've sensed something about them and they were just about to leave when the man in the suit showed up.
"We knew Crowley was coming after Lydia." Dean tells him, eyes downcast and regretful.
"So, what? You just let it happened?" Stiles wants to punch something. He wants Scott here. Scott can take control; Scott can give him some direction. He needs his best friend here because if Lydia dies—
"We were going to come talk to your pack," Sam insists quietly. "But, we weren't sure how to approach all of you." With a rueful grin he adds, "We are hunters."
"Stay away from us." Stiles hisses, summoning up every inch of righteous fury within him as he comes nose to nose with Dean, a hunter who could probably end him with just one punch.
"Stiles, we're not trying to start anything—!" Sam insists, but Stiles has heard enough.
"Stay away from us!" He shouts once more, slamming the bar door behind him. Thank God, his Jeep is still here and before he knows it, he's back on the road, flooring it on the way back to Beacon Hills.
He just hopes Lydia will still be alive by the time he gets back to the pack.
"Hello, love." Crowley whispers as Lydia blinks her eyes open. The world swims into view and she winces as her head throbs.
The man in the black suit—Crowley—is sitting on a throne before her and she wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. Who does this guy think he is, after all? And calling himself "The King of Hell", what kind of joke is that?
So, Lydia settles for holding her tongue and glaring at him, because no, she will not be intimidated; she will not be afraid.
"Ooh, scary," Crowley chuckles running a hand through her hair. "Tell me, Banshee, do you always look like that?"
"What do you want with me?" She struggles against the ropes, binding her to this wooden chair. It burns as it rubs against her skin and she lets out a hiss of pain.
"You, Banshee," He smiles now, openly and a chill runs up her spine. "You're my secret weapon." He snaps his fingers and the door opens, a man in a trench coat is dragged in, blood dripping from his temple.
"Oh my God." She whispers as cerulean blue eyes meet hers.
"Between you and the angel," He gestures to the man in the trench coat. "I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out." He unties her ropes and she resists the urge to sprint to the door, trying to escape. "Have fun, Banshee." He winks at her before moving to the door. He stares at her for what feels like an eternity before it finally closes behind her.
"You're the banshee?" The man in the trench coat asks, slurring his words, as though from blood loss.
"Yes." Lydia replies. "Are you okay?"
"I will heal." He replies cryptically.
"Great." She whispers. "Know how to get out of here?" Aside from the door,
she doesn't know if there's another viable escape route.
"Once I'm healed," He groans, moving to sit up. "We will get out of here."
"So . . . we wait?" Lydia murmurs, not liking this plan one bit.
"We wait." The man in the trench coat concurs, before his eyes fall shut once more.
Now, she just needs to figure out what Crowley wants with her and then get out of here alive. It should be easy.
She hopes.
Author's Note: Next chapter, Stiles gets back to the pack and Cas and Lydia team up to escape. Please review if you have a moment.