AN: HAPPY HALLOWEEN, EVERYONE! THIS IS MY HALLOWEEN STORY! I have spent the past two weeks writing nothing but this and it is complete! I am so relieved.

So, just a bit of an info dump: This is part of my massive SPN/TW AU 'verse in which Lydia is Dean's daughter. Basically, all you need to know about that 'verse is that when Dean was eighteen, he took Sam away from their father and ran, met a girl, fell in love, they had Lydia, got married, and moved back to her hometown of Beacon Hills, California. With support from his family, Dean went to college and then medical school and eventually became the chief medical examiner in Beacon Hills. Sam went to Stanford, married Jess and became a lawyer. There's more that I could tell you, as my headcanon for this 'verse is extensive but I'd rather show not tell.

Title: This Is Halloween
Summary: Not long after Melissa's break ends and right after Lydia has polished off the orange juice and strawberries, a different body drops down into the seat next to her. Lydia's a little surprised to see her father wearing blue scrubs, looking like a real doctor. Sometimes, even though she knows he works in a hospital, it's hard for her to believe that he actually is a real doctor. She doesn't say anything to him, just watches him silently. He is leaning forward, elbows against his knees, hands steepled, eyes closed. She bites her lip and reaches out to touch him, only to chicken out and draw her hand back. She decides it's better just to wait him out.

Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to look over at her. He tries to toss her that careless grin that always makes her feel like everything will be okay, but it's not very convincing this time around, and it slips off his lips quite quickly. ''Oh, baby,'' he sighs. ''I'm doin' a pretty shitty job, huh?''

/Or: Five Halloween nights in Lydia Winchester's life.

Character(s)/Pairing(s): Mostly gen Dean & Lydia father/daughter stuff. But in the romance department, there are smatterings of: Dean/Lydia's mother (Original Character who totally looks like Danneel Ackles in my mind), Sam/Jess, Lydia/Jackson, Lydia/Heather, Lydia/Allison, Dean/Melissa, with a nice side order of Lydia/Cora friendship, Lydia/Derek/Scott/Stiles friendship and Winchester/Hale friendship.
Genre: Family/Drama
Rating: T for safety.
Timeline: Massively AU for Supernatural. Only slightly AU for Teen Wolf.
Spoilers: Basic spoilers for both series.
Warnings: Minor character death.
Notes: Title from the song of the same name from the movie The Nightmare Before Christmas.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters you recognize

This Is Halloween

A Lydia Winchester Story

Written by Becks Rylynn

/1/

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boys and girls of every age
wouldn't you like to see something strange

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Dean follows the sound of odd, high pitched barking into the small, cramped bedroom in their way-too-cramped-for-three-people one bedroom apartment and finds the world's cutest puppy. She is down on all fours, bouncing and barking while she paws at the bathroom door. Dean's lips tip up into a smile and he props a shoulder up against the doorframe, watching the little puppy on the ground tap on the door. ''Mommy,'' she giggles, and sits back on her knees, laughing into her hands. ''Mommy, I'm a puppy!''

''You certainly are, honey,'' Kelly's voice floats through the door.

''Play with puppy!''

''Sweetie, I'm getting ready for the party, okay? Where's daddy? Why don't you play with him?''

On cue, Dean pushes off the doorjamb. ''I'm right here. I got her, Kel.'' He takes a seat on the floor and as soon as he's even remotely eye level with her, he gets those huge anime eyes staring at him. The puppy, still giggling incessantly, peeks at him through the slits of her fingers and then goes red. She looks absolutely adorable in her costume. There are strands of disheveled light red hair poking out from under the hood of the costume. ''Hey, puppy,'' he drawls, ''have you seen my daughter, Lydia? I could've sworn she was in here.''

The answer to that is, apparently, another squeaky sounding, ''Woof!'' She moves her hands away from her face, letting him see the huge ear splitting grin that is taking up most of her face. She laughs loudly, freely, and lunges at him, crawling into his lap. ''Daddy!'' She shrieks, winding her arms around his neck. ''Daddy, it's me!'' She pushes the hood back and shakes out her messy hair. ''See?''

He gasps dramatically, eyes widening. ''Lydia! Where did you come from?''

''I'm not really a puppy!''

''You're not?''

''No, silly, I'm a person! People can't be puppies! I was pretending!''

''Oh,'' he nods seriously. ''Well, that's a relief because our landlord does not like dogs.''

''Mr. Landlord is a big meanie pants!'' Lydia cries out. She climbs off of him and rockets to her feet, letting out some kind of booming war cry as she races toward the bedroom door. Dean catches her around the waist and pulls her back to him. She lets out a squeal that quickly turns into spirited laughter as he presses kisses to her cheeks and her forehead and the tip of her nose. ''Daddy,'' she gets out through peals of laughter. ''Daddy, that tickles!''

''All right, okay.'' He sets her upright. ''I don't want you to pee your pants. You mother would probably strangle me.''

At the mention of her mother, Lydia's shoulders slump in defeat and she groans. ''Mommy's taking forever,'' she whines. ''I wanna go see Cora! I wanna party!''

He snorts and ruffles her hair. ''I'm sure you do, Scooby.'' He leans in to peck her cheek. ''Hey, go grab your loot, baby. We'll go through it while Mom's getting ready.''

''Yay!''

Dean watches her scamper out of the room, her tail swinging. He chuckles to himself, shaking his head. He can hear her singing in the other room as she searches around for her trick or treat bag. He figures that will occupy her for the time being. She brought home a truly impressive amount of candy tonight, thanks in part to how early they went out and also probably because of her powers of cuteness. He rises to his feet quickly and snatches the cowboy hat off the bed, moving over to the vanity mirror. He places the hat on his head, completing his own hastily thrown together costume for tonight. He had been adamantly against dressing up, but Kelly had insisted, telling him that everyone at the party was going to be in costume. He gives his reflection a critical onceover. Eh, good enough.

''I got it!''

He whirls around to see Lydia dragging her candy bag into the room. Her grip is precarious and she's leaving a trail of individually wrapped caramels and mini candy bars in her wake, but she looks mighty proud of herself, giving him a huge toothy smile. Dean swoops in quickly to take the bag from her, placing it on the bed while she quickly grabs the candy that she has dropped. Before he can even say a single word, she hops up on the bed and upends the bag, sending the contents spilling all over the comforter. There is a light in her eyes as she takes it all in, her breathing speeding up excitedly. ''This is mine,'' she breathes out, voice full of awe and wonder. She reaches out to touch the treasure pile in front of her, so slowly it's like she's afraid it will disappear the moment she touches it. ''My candy,'' she says. ''All mine!'' And then she lets out a burst of maniacal laughter that is somehow both terrifying and adorable. She keeps laughing, tossing handfuls of candy up in the air and letting it rain down on her. ''Caaandy! My candy!''

Dean blinks at her. ''Yeah, that's not mildly disturbing or anything.''

She is still doing her best impression of a cartoon super-villain.

''Remember caring is sharing, baby,'' he reminds her.

She abruptly stops laughing. ''No sharing!'' She declares, and hurls a bite sized Snickers bar at his head that he, luckily, catches. ''I worked very hard for this candy, mister.''

Dean arches an eyebrow. ''Okay, first of all, you sound like a character on Full House right now, and that's not a compliment. Second of all, do not throw things. Hey,'' he locks eyes with her. ''I mean it, Lydia Mary. We don't throw things at people. And third of all,'' he holds up the candy bar. ''I'm eating this.''

Lydia narrows her eyes and looks like she is deeply regretting wasting a piece of her precious candy on him. She huffs out an apology anyway and then sets about separating her candy. Dean watches her for a moment; watches the way she meticulously organizes her candy, and then he moves back over to the bathroom door. ''Kel,'' he knocks on the door. ''How're you doin' in there?'' He turns his head to glance at the time on the alarm clock on the bedside table. ''We're gonna be late, babe.''

''Almost finished!'' She singsongs. ''And trust me,'' she adds on, just as he's opening his mouth to gripe about how long it takes her to get ready. ''This is going to be worth the wait.''

''Well, you know I always appreciate your Halloween costumes, but the party started five minutes ago.''

''Clearly you have never heard of being fashionably late,'' she says. ''Oh, and by the way, Dean, you sound awfully impatient for someone who complains nonstop about this party every year.''

Well. She's got him there. He leans back against the door and massages the bridge of his nose. ''You know me,'' he says, and the light tone of voice he had been hoping for winds up sounding like bitter sarcasm. ''If I'm being forced to take my wife and kid into a literal wolf den, I, at least, want to do it on time.'' As usual, as soon as he lets the dig slip, he feels guilt gnawing at his insides. Okay, look, he doesn't hate the Hale family. The Hale family (pack? Hale pack?) has been nothing but kind to him these past three years, despite his background, and Cora Hale is Lydia's best friend. They're not a threat. But they're still werewolves, and he is still a hunter at heart. Babies and marriage and the decision to get a degree in medicine does not change the fact that from ages four until eighteen, his father drilled it into his head that any and everything supernatural was an Enemy with a capital 'E.'

''You cannot seriously still be on that,'' Kelly snaps. ''It's been years, Dean. They're a perfectly lovely, normal family. You have got to get over this monsters vs. humans mentality of yours. It's not healthy.''

He rolls his eyes, but knows better than to disagree with her. She's probably right anyway; she usually is. He takes a seat on the bed next to Lydia and leans back against the headboard, just...watching her. She is intensely focused on what she's doing, tongue poking out of her mouth, hair falling in her face. She's a little flushed looking, most likely because it's warm in the puppy costume, but her eyes are lit up and she looks happy. Sometimes it's hard to believe that this is really his life now. He has a home. Sure, his home is a tiny apartment that isn't in the greatest part of town, with one bedroom, which means he and Kelly are still sharing their bed with their four year old. But he's a part time mechanic, part time student, full time dad and his wife is a part time waitress, part time mom, full time Hale pack...whatever you want to call it. They're not exactly rolling in the dough. But it is still a home. He has a life now. A wife, a daughter, a future, and so does Sammy. Less than seven years ago, he was nothing but a hunter. Just John Winchester's son, the one who was more weapon than man. Now he has this. Dean is happy.

Because he's in a good mood, and because he's aware of how torturous it is to sit in front of this much candy and not eat any of it, when he notices Lydia practically drooling, he leans in and whispers in her ear, ''You can have one.''

She lets out a high pitched squealing sound reminiscent of a baby pig and grabs for handfuls of chocolate.

''One,'' he says firmly. ''There will be lots of food at the party, Lydia. Pumpkin tarts, candy corn, sugar cookies, warm apple and cinnamon cake. You'll be eating so much you're gonna need a bucket later.'' He gives her a Dad Look. ''One.''

She looks miffed, but doesn't argue, painstakingly picking out one single candy bar. A Kit Kat. Vibrating in anticipation, Lydia hums the song from Hocus Pocus as she unwraps the chocolate bar. Wordlessly, she breaks the Kit Kat in half, scoots closer to him, and hands him a piece.

He takes it with a silent breath of laughter, trying to ignore the clenching in his chest. ''Thank you, pumpkin.''

The bathroom door opens.

Dean looks up and nearly chokes on the chocolate. He snatches the cowboy hat off his head, mouth falling open as he scrambles to his feet. He looks his wife up and down several times and still can't manage to find any words.

Kelly is standing in front of him, wearing a deep red floor length dress that hugs her every curve. There is a slit running up one side, long purple gloves on her hands, and her fiery red hair is falling down her back in soft waves. ''I was going to go for Marilyn Monroe,'' she says, ''but then I decided Jessica Rabbit was more my style.'' She offers him a devilish grin and a wink and twirls once. ''So,'' she says quietly. ''Was I worth the wait?''

Somehow, Dean manages a nod. ''Oh, yeah.''

Lydia, beyond fed up, gets to her feet on the bed and says, as dramatically as possible, ''Can we puh-lease go see Cora now?''

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/2/

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everyone hail to the pumpkin song

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Six year old Lydia Winchester is not having a very good day.

She should be having a great day. It's Halloween and she loves Halloween, but today has not been fun. She got in trouble at school. None of it is her fault, not really, but nobody seems to believe her. And her substitute teacher does not know what he's talking about, okay? Lydia didn't start anything. She's a good girl, her daddy says so. It's Jackson Whittemore who should have gotten detention. See, okay, what happened was everyone got to wear their costumes to school for the Halloween party after lunch, and when Jackson saw her in her fairy costume, he said she looked fat. He wouldn't leave her alone. He just kept making fun of her all afternoon, even when Cora growled at him, and when that Stiles kid tried to stand up to him. Then Cora almost wolfed out on him and she got in trouble with her mom and dad when she got home 'cause she's not supposed to do that at school, so now she's mad at Lydia for getting her in trouble.

And then stupid substitute teacher blamed it all on Lydia and gave her and Cora detention. All he said when she told him what happened was that, ''Boys will be boys, Lydia. You have to learn to ignore it.'' Lydia's only six, but she's pretty sure that's what her daddy would call ''bullcrap.''

Her mom must think so, too, because when she came to pick Lydia and Cora up from school and Mean Substitute told her what was going on, she stared at him for a really long time, then told the girls to get their things because they were going home. And when Mean Substitute tried to protest, she just said, ''Bite me, Harris. First of all, rethink your decision to teach elementary school. These kids are six years old. Second of all, you better re-wire your misogynistic, victim-blaming brain before your future ex-girlfriend inserts her heel into your scrotum and everyone who witnesses it cheers. I would warn you that I have my eye on you, but I'm off to see the principal now - you know, Mrs. Carter - so I strongly doubt I'll be seeing you again.''

It was kinda awesome.

But it still doesn't make up for the bad day.

Lydia is not fat. She knows she's not. She's a little bigger than some of the other girls in her class, but she's not fat. She's not. She's not. She doesn't...think she is. Her costume is tight because Mom accidentally got a size too small. Daddy says she's not fat. And her daddy is in medical school. He's going to be a pediatric cardiologist. If he says she's healthy, she's healthy.

Ugh. Stupid Jackson.

Lydia pushes her plate of cheesy pasta shells away from her, shoving one last forkful into her mouth before sending the silverware clattering back down onto the plate. ''Done!'' She declares, holding her hands up. She bounces in her seat and tries to put the rest of her day out of her mind. Her day has to get better now. ''Trick or treat time, Daddy!''

Without even looking at her, Daddy slides her half full glass of milk over to her.

She groans and rolls her eyes - time is a wastin', people! - but snatches up the glass and chugs it. Triumphantly, she slams the glass back down, hiccups, and says, ''Now can we go?''

Daddy finally looks up from the thick textbook he's got his face buried in and removes the highlighter from in his mouth. ''Mom's gonna take you trick or treating tonight, kiddo.'' He looks at the clock on the wall briefly and then gives her a dazzling smile that is probably meant to be comforting, although it really just manages to frustrate her even further. ''She should be home any minute.'' He leans across the table to ruffle her hair, but she ducks and scowls at him, worriedly smoothing down her hair.

She falls back in her chair dramatically, kicking her feet and pouting. The pout only deepens as time ticks away and her mother is still nowhere to be seen. ''Can't you just take me?'' She whines.

He sighs and puts the heavy book down on the table. ''Lydia, I would love to take you trick or treating.'' He rises to his feet to clear her plate off the table. ''But I can't. I need to study. I have a test coming up and it's really important.''

She harrumphs. That is not an acceptable answer. Everybody says that to her. When her mom can't play with her, it's because the Hales need her help and it's really important, Lydia. When Daddy won't spend time with her, it's because of medical school and it's really important, Lydia. She turns in her chair and peers over the back of it to watch her dad move around in their tiny kitchen. ''But is it more important than me?''

Daddy's back stiffens for a second, but he brushes it off, scraping her uneaten pasta into the garbage before rinsing the plate off in the sink. ''Nothing is more important than you, munchkin.''

''Then take me trick or treating!''

There's a clattering sound in the sink as he drops her plate and whirls around to face her, eyes flashing. ''Lydia,'' his voice is low and quiet, but it's lacking the usual warmth and lightness. She slides down in her chair to hide her face from him. It isn't like she had been trying to make him mad. It's just that he doesn't understand. This is important. Halloween is important. ''Do you like sleeping on a pull out couch in the living room slash kitchen...slash dining room?'' He asks her. ''Wouldn't it be awesome to have your own room? A place to put your toys?''

She peeks over the chair and shrugs her shoulders helplessly, because she honestly doesn't know. She's never had her own room before. She's never even thought about it. She slept in her parents' bed until she was five and then they moved her out here. And yeah, okay, she knows this place is sort of small and kinda drippy in the winter, and also there's this one mouse that comes to visit sometimes, but she likes it here. She's not sure what the big deal is.

''That's why this is important,'' Daddy says, tapping the cover of the big book on the table. ''I'm trying to - ''

''Give me a better life,'' she recites, turning back around when he takes his seat again. ''I know. But, Daddy,'' she props her elbows up on the table. ''I don't want a better life right now, 'kay? I just want candy.''

Daddy looks at her for a long time, and then he bursts into laughter. ''Spoken like a true six year old.''

The apartment door bursts open and Lydia screeches at the top of her lungs when her mother strolls through. She's so excited that she decides to ignore the very serious, pinched lips look on Mom's face. ''Mom! You're home!'' She flies at her mother, wrapping her arms around her waist and smushing her face into her mother's soft beige dress. ''You look pretty. Did you have a nice day? I didn't, but Daddy made cheesy shells for dinner. Hey, can we go now? Can we go now please? We have to go right now! I'm gonna put my wings on and then we can go! Yay! Candy time!''

''Actually,'' Mom catches her arm before she can skip away, and crouches down so she's eye level with Lydia. When Lydia sees the apologetic look in Mom's eyes, her heart drops. ''I think you might have to wait just a bit longer, sweet pea.''

At that, Lydia lets out a wail of anguish and flops down onto the floor.

''Dean,'' Mom sounds serious and unhappy. Lydia does not think this will end well. Mom crosses the room in two quick strides and latches onto his arm. ''Join me in the bedroom.''

''Oh, sure,'' Daddy sighs heavily, but lets her pull him away. ''I haven't slept for more than thirty five minutes in forty eight hours and Lydia's about to have a cow, but sure. Always up for a quickie.''

''People can't have cows, Daddy,'' Lydia points out with a scoff, because really, that's just ridiculous.

He turns his head to send her a truly flabbergasted look and manages to stick his tongue out at her before Mom yanks him into their bedroom and closes the door behind them. Lydia blows out a breath and stares up at the stained ceiling. She's never going to get her candy. She bites down on a scab on her bottom lip and releases yet another put upon sigh, because her life is so hard. After a minute of pouting, she decides she might as well get ready. She hops to her feet and races over to the couch where her fairy wings are lying in a semi crumpled heap. She lovingly smoothes out the glittery wings, getting glitter all over her hand, before putting them on. When she sweeps her hair out of her face with one glittery hand, the glitter transfers to her face. This place is going to be so glittery for the next couple of weeks. Daddy already found some in his coffee this morning.

Lydia moves over to the full length mirror by the door to inspect her reflection. Her costume is not an accurate depiction of what a fairy really looks like, according to her mother, and it is one size too small, but Lydia thinks she's looks really pretty. She is patting down her slightly frizzy hair and smoothing out the wrinkles in her fairy dress when the frustrated, raised voices begin to filter through the bedroom door.

''You promised me, Kelly,'' Daddy's saying. ''You promised me you could take her!''

''What do you want me to do, Dean?'' Mom throws back. ''They need my help!''

''I think they can hold their own for one night.''

''This is what I do,'' Mom's sounds mad. ''You know that. There is a family of redcaps in the preserve and Talia has decided that tonight is the night. I have to be there. I'm their - ''

''Yeah, I know what you are, Kel. The fucking Hale pack tells you to jump and you ask how high, right? That's how this goes? You drop everything for these people, including your own kid. Shit, how many times is this going to happen? How many things are you going to miss because of them?''

''That's not fair.''

Daddy is quiet for a long time before he says, ''You're right. It's not.'' It sounds like an accusation.

''You knew what you were getting into with me, Dean.''

''Yeah, well, if I knew I was going to have to be a single dad, I would've nixed med school.''

Their voices lower, quiet and muffled enough that Lydia can't quite make out what they're saying anymore. She presses her lips together and tries to ignore it, swallowing hard and fixing her hair, raking her fingers through it until it is perfect enough for her taste. The fight must end very quickly because the bedroom door opens and Mom clomps out in her high heeled butt kicking boots. Her cheeks are red and her eyes are shinier than usual, but she still forces a smile onto her lips when she sees Lydia standing there in her costume, fairy wings and all. ''Well now,'' she says, ''aren't you just the prettiest fairy I ever did see.'' She tweaks Lydia's ear on her way past. Mom has traded in her pretty dress for jeans and a t-shirt and Lydia watches as she shrugs into a leather jacket, pulling her auburn hair free.

''You're leaving?'' Lydia demands. ''But I thought you... You're supposed to take me trick or treating.''

Mom's smile dims a little. ''I know, honey,'' she bends down, stubborn smile still twisted onto her lips. ''But there's been a change of plans. Daddy's going to take you out tonight.'' She glances over Lydia's shoulder and when Lydia follows her gaze, she finds her father leaning one shoulder up against the wall. He looks tired and sad and mad all at the same time. He's not even trying to smile. ''And hopefully, I'll be back in time to watch Hocus Pocus with you,'' Mom adds. ''You be a good girl, okay?'' She leans in to press a quick kiss to Lydia's cheek. ''Love you,'' she chirps, and then she's gone, disappearing out the door in her butt kicking boots and leather jacket.

Lydia remains rooted to the ground, the sting of disappointment fresh and raw, clutching her empty trick or treat bag and staring at the spot where her mother used to be, stunned. Slowly, she turns around to face her exhausted father.

The second he locks eyes with her, it's like watching a light bulb switch on. His body straightens and his lips curve up into a bright, too bright, grin. ''Well, baby,'' he booms cheerfully, clapping his hands together. ''Looks like it's just you and me. You ready?''

Lydia forces a smile

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That night, Lydia is sitting on the floor in front of the couch, carefully sorting her candy, and Daddy is lying on the couch, half asleep. Hocus Pocus is twenty minutes in and Mom still isn't home yet. She hasn't called Daddy asking for emergency backup, which is probably a good sign, but she's not home.

When Lydia's candy has been sorted into piles (chocolate, gummy candy, hard candy, lollipops, toffees, things with nuts, savory snacks, full sized candy bars) she snatches a chocolate bar from the pile and crawls up onto the couch next to her father. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the couch to give her more room. Instead of taking advantage of all the room and sprawling out, she curls into her dad's side, flopping against him. She doesn't even scowl at him and accuse him of ruining her hair when he runs his fingers through it. ''So,'' he says, voice only slightly groggy. ''Good Halloween?''

She shrugs. ''It was okay.''

He's quiet for a moment. ''I'm sorry.''

She frowns and tilts her head to peer up at him. ''Why?''

''Just...'' He clears his throat. ''I'm sorry you didn't have a great Halloween.''

She doesn't answer him. Instead, she unwraps the chocolate bar in her hand, snaps off a piece of the Kit Kat and hands it to him.

He laughs, a slow, warm chuckle, and takes it. ''Thanks, pumpkin.''

The sound of a key in the lock alerts them to another presence and then Mom's there, limping through the door, out of breath, and demanding, ''Did I miss it?''

Dad's on his feet in a second when he sees her. ''Jesus, Kelly,'' he breathes. ''What the hell?''

Mom has tiny little cuts all over her face, her leather jacket is shredded and ruined, and her jeans are stained with blood and dirt. Her hair is mussed and tangled, her lip is bleeding, but there's also a glow about her. Like there always is when she comes home from whatever it is that she does with the Hale family. She looks satisfied. Whatever the problem was, it must be over and done with. She seems totally unconcerned with her injuries, waving Daddy's worried hands away and moving over to the back of the couch, grinning down at Lydia. ''Hi, sweet pea,'' she greets.

''Seriously,'' Daddy mutters. He's in the kitchen, probably searching around for the first aid kit that they're supposed to keep under the sink in the bathroom (it always ends up in random places around the apartment, like in the cupboard with their wedding china, or under the couch). ''You're a crazy woman. You used yourself as bait, didn't you? You're friggin' infuriating. There is something seriously fundamentally wrong with you,'' he rants, although there's no real heat behind his words, and an obvious undercurrent of affection in his tone.

''You're one to talk,'' Mom says lightly, peeling off her leather jacket, revealing a whole other set of little cuts all over her arms and chest. She doesn't even seem to care. She takes a seat on the couch next to Lydia, still grinning. ''It's nothing,'' she assures them. ''It's just redcaps. It's a bunch of grumpy old men in desperate need of manicures. It's not a big deal. I'll be fine.'' She winks at Lydia and reaches out to tuck an errant strand of red hair behind Lydia's ear.

''Just redcaps,'' Daddy huffs. ''Just redcaps. Because it's not like redcaps are terrifying or anything.'' He squeezes onto the couch next to Mom with the first aid kit, and that's when Lydia sees that there's a small smile starting on his lips, one that matches the one on Mom's lips. They're relieved. When Mom and Dad look at each other, eyes meeting briefly, Lydia thinks that their fight is probably over now.

''Lydia,'' Daddy says, starting in on the scratches on Mom's face. ''Baby, how about you start the movie from the beginning?''

Lydia beams.

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/3/

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tender lumplings everywhere
life's no fun without a good scare

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It's Halloween, and Mom has been dead for 51 for days.

51 days in the dirt, the cold rain, the howling wind, the scorching sunlight. Lydia has cried every night for 51 days, because even though she knows it doesn't make sense, even though it is illogical, every night, without fail, she thinks about her mother, cold and alone in the dark, buried under the dirt, and an unbearable sadness starts in her chest and erupts. Her mother is dead.

And so is her best friend. 51 days ago, fire burned through the Hale house and the Hale bloodline, killing everyone except for Derek, Laura and a burnt out shell that used to be Peter. That same afternoon, while she was working at the art gallery, Mom got very sick very suddenly, and that was it. It was a blood clot. It had started in her leg, made its way to her heart, and killed her. Or at least that is what Lydia has been told. To be perfectly honest, there is a small part of her that doesn't believe what her father has told her about her mother's death. She may be only nine years old, but she doesn't believe in coincidences. But, then again, perhaps this is just another case of her imagination running away from her. There is no reason why her mom would have been in the Hale house that day and there is certainly no reason Dad would have lied to her.

Not everything in life makes sense. Some things just happen. That is what makes life so cruel. If there's anything these past 51 days have taught her, it is that. 51 days. Huh. It feels like longer.

Lydia sits stoically in an uncomfortable orange plastic chair in one of the creepier hallways of Beacon Hills Memorial. Her posture is rigid and her eyes stare straight ahead, at the white walls. There is an aching in her throat and a painful crumbling feeling in her chest.

Three floors up, Stiles Stilinski is spending Halloween with his mother, eating too much candy and watching too many movies. She knows this because when he entered the hospital and saw her sitting there, wrapped in her father's leather jacket, eyeliner whiskers smudged, cat ears slipping, waiting impatiently for her father, he said, ''Hey! Lydia! You wanna come upstairs and watch movies with me and my mom? I got Hocus Pocus!''

Lydia had blanched at the mention of her mother's favourite Halloween movie and said, stiffly, ''No, thank you. I'm fine here.''

She had not relished in the way his face fell, but she can't help the way she feels. It's horrible and she knows this, but she's jealous of him. Stilinski's mother is withering, deteriorating slowly and painfully, and at some point, he will be in the same spot as her, probably very soon. But he gets to say goodbye. She never got that chance. Stiles could tell his mom he loves her. He could thank her for everything, kiss her on the cheek, hug her goodbye.

The last time Lydia saw her mother, she was mad at her because Mom wouldn't let her wear her new expensive dress to school. Dad had kissed Mom by the door. He had laughed into her hair, smiled at something she whispered in his ear and winked at her as he went out the front door, fingers brushing across her stomach as he passed. Lydia had turned her head when Mom had tried to kiss her forehead, mumbled a distracted, ''mmmhmm,'' when Mom said, ''I love you'' as Lydia hopped out of the car. She had rolled her eyes when Mom waved at her from in the car. That's what Lydia has left. She has the heavy weight of guilt on her shoulders and the knowledge that the last time her mother smiled at her, she rolled her eyes.

So excuse her if she's not exactly in the Halloween spirit.

Lydia fidgets in her seat, tugging the jacket closer. The warmth and the familiar scent of leather is comforting, but she refuses to allow her body to relax. Dad said fifteen minutes tops. That was half an hour ago. Her father has tried so hard for her ever since Mom... He's determined not to become Grandpa John. Even with work and his residency, he's still determined to spend as much time with her as possible. He had today all planned out for them. He wanted her to have a Halloween full of candy and trick or treating and movies and fun. He baked cookies and other treats, he made mummy dogs and finger sandwiches that looked like actual fingers and a cheese ball shaped like a pumpkin and a bowl of punch with an ice cube shaped like a hand. He made their too big, too empty house feel like a Halloween wonderland, full of fake rubber spiders and gruesome monsters. He created this massive Halloween extravaganza just for her. To make her smile.

And then his boss called.

See, the thing about Daddy's boss...

Dad is not going to be a pediatric cardiologist. He's great with kids and sometimes Lydia will catch this flicker in his eyes that tells her he'd love to be able to help kids, but a few years ago, he made the choice to do something else. Something with better hours. Mom had responsibilities. Someone had to be there for Lydia. And so, her dad is not going to be a pediatric cardiologist. He's going to be a medical examiner. Instead of kids, his patients will be dead people. It's icky and gross and Lydia doesn't want to talk about it, but he's home for dinner most nights. The only problem with this is his boss.

There is only one coroner in Beacon Hills - because sometimes this town seems to operate under fictional television show town rules - and he is a seventy three year old crusty mean old fart. Dad says he's a genius. Lydia has yet to see that side of Dr. Hannigan. She blows out an exasperated breath and slouches down in the chair, looking up at the ceiling. She is so bored that she's about 3.5 seconds away from counting the ceiling tiles when a shadow falls over her.

''Lydia?'' The voice is sweet and gentle and cautious, like she's a wild animal. She sits straight and looks up at the kind face of Melissa McCall. ''Hi, sweetie,'' Melissa offers her a sympathetic smile. ''Your dad asked me to check on you.''

Lydia doesn't say anything, but she doesn't protest when Melissa takes a seat next to her, letting out a relieved breath. ''Ah, it's nice to be off my feet,'' she laughs. Lydia still doesn't say anything. Melissa takes it in stride. ''So,'' the paper bag in her hands crinkles as she pulls it open. ''Your dad mentioned that you guys hadn't had a chance to eat dinner yet. I brought you something to eat.'' Lydia glances over at her. She is pretty hungry. ''You like peanut butter and jelly, right?'' Melissa asks.

Lydia nods slowly. She stares at the half sandwich Melissa is holding out to her and feels her stomach rumble. She knows that her dad made a lot of food and she doesn't want to spoil her appetite, but... Even though peanut butter and jelly is the most pedestrian sandwich in the world, it has never looked so appealing to her before.

''It's just something to tide you over until your dad can take you home to your big feast,'' Melissa smiles.

Lydia takes the sandwich.

Neither of them says anything for a long while, both silently chewing. Lydia accepts the bottle of orange juice Melissa gives her with a fleeting smile, but that's about it. It's kind of nice. The silence. Whenever people are left alone with her these days, they tend to fill every awkward silence with mindless chatter, even though nobody really knows what to say to the poor nine year old girl who lost her mother. She's heard a lot of compliments about her hair and how great her mother was. It's nice to be quiet for a few minutes. Lydia pops the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth and washes it down with a gulp of orange juice. When she looks up again, Melissa is crumpling the paper bag into a ball and peeling the lid off of a Tupperware container full of strawberries. She holds it out to Lydia.

Lydia takes one. ''Thank you,'' she says politely.

''You're very welcome, sweetie,'' Melissa says warmly, and her voice is like honey. It's like comfort. And then, because the silence has been breached, she says, ''You know he's sorry, don't you?''

Lydia nibbles on the strawberry, savoring the sweetness on her tongue. ''I know.''

''He wanted you to have a good night. He tried so hard.''

''But then his boss called.''

''Yeah, well,'' Melissa scoffs. ''Dr. Hannigan is an ass.''

Lydia snaps her head up to Melissa, eyes widening.

''Oh, crap,'' Melissa says. ''I mean, not crap! I'm sorry. That - I probably shouldn't have...'' She winces. ''Can we maybe not tell your father I swore in front of you?''

Lydia can't help the smirk that starts on her lips. She ducks her head down, stuffing the rest of her strawberry into her mouth. ''I'm not mad at him,'' she says simply, after she has swallowed. ''It's not his fault. He's doing the best he can.''

''Oh,'' Melissa sounds surprised. ''Well, yes. Yes, he is.''

''I'm not mad at him,'' Lydia repeats. ''I'm mad,'' she pulls her hair into her face to cover her perpetually stinging eyes, ''at the world.''

Melissa's voice is quiet and sad when she says, ''Yeah. I remember that.'' Gently, she brushes the hair out of Lydia's face and her soft fingers brush against Lydia's neck.

Lydia wants to tense at the touch, but her body relaxes into it instead, like it's craving the touch. She's missed motherly touches. It's been 51 days since her mother tucked her hair behind her ear and if she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend that Melissa's hands are her mother's. ''Did your mother die, too?''

''Mmmhmmm,'' Melissa still sounds very calm. ''When I was twelve. My parents died in a car crash.''

There's a sinking feeling in Lydia's gut. ''Both of them?'' She whispers, horrified. She couldn't imagine losing her father. She has no idea what she would do without him. Especially now.

Melissa nods. Her hands fall away and she looks down at the leftover strawberries. She plucks one from the container and pops it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. ''It takes time,'' she finally says, and looks guilty that this is the only comfort she can give Lydia. ''I was lost for a long time. I was mad for a long time. Sometimes I still am,'' She pauses, choosing her words very carefully, and Lydia sees her swallow hard. ''You'll miss what you've lost,'' she whispers. ''You probably always will. But you'll keep going. I know it feels like you've got this giant hole in your heart, but eventually, with time, that hole will get smaller and smaller. The weight on your shoulders will get lighter and lighter. You'll be able to smile. To laugh. You'll be able to think of her, maybe even say her name, without crying. People can heal, Lydia.'' She places her warm hand over Lydia's cold one. ''You just have to be willing to be patient.''

Lydia licks her lips and stares at the floor. She doesn't trust herself to speak - she's not even sure she could - and no matter how furiously she blinks, she can't seem to make the tears go away. She manages a quick nod. ''Okay,'' she gets out, after a moment, voice raspy and squeaky. She swipes at her eyes with the sleeve of her dad's jacket. ''Do you... Do you think my dad knows that?''

Melissa looks startled. ''I, um...'' She clears her throat when her voice trembles noticeably and this time, when she smiles, it's sad. ''I think you could teach him.''

Lydia thinks about that for a minute, and then she smiles. ''Thank you,'' she says again, more genuine this time.

.

.

.

Not long after Melissa's break ends and right after Lydia has polished off the orange juice and strawberries, a different body drops down into the seat next to her. Lydia's a little surprised to see her father wearing blue scrubs, looking like a real doctor. Sometimes, even though she knows he works in a hospital, it's hard for her to believe that he actually is a real doctor. She doesn't say anything to him, just watches him silently. He is leaning forward, elbows against his knees, hands steepled, eyes closed. She bites her lip and reaches out to touch him, only to chicken out and draw her hand back. She decides it's better just to wait him out.

Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to look over at her. He tries to toss her that careless grin that always makes her feel like everything will be okay, but it's not very convincing this time around, and it slips off his lips quite quickly. ''Oh, baby,'' he sighs. ''I'm doin' a pretty shitty job, huh?''

''I think you're doing okay,'' she whispers.

Dad sits up straight and she catches sight of a mess of red against blue. ''Oh my gosh,'' she gasps. ''Dad! Dad, is that blood?''

''What?'' He looks down at the stain on his shirt. ''Oh. No. It's cherry Kool-Aid.'' When she arches a questioning eyebrow, he scrubs a hand over his face. ''I was... Dr. Hannigan...'' He trails off, letting out a heavy sigh. ''There was a dummy and a stop watch. How - How was I supposed to know - I wasn't - Nobody expects a corpse with a flesh eating virus! And I wasn't expecting to be contaminated when the chest exploded!''

Lydia blinks. ''...What?''

He shuts his eyes again and when he lets out a breath, a laugh comes out with it. ''It was a training exercise. Apparently.'' He looks at her, studying her carefully, and then reaches out to cup her cheek. ''I'm so sorry, Lydia,'' he murmurs, and it sounds like he's apologizing for a lot more than a ruined Halloween night. It takes four words and ten seconds for Lydia to dissolve completely, bursting into tears in front of her father's eyes because everything hurts so much and it's been 51 days and nothing is getting better and nothing will ever be okay again. She crawls over the chair and into his lap, wrapping her arms around him. He holds her tightly, keeping her safe against him, and he shushes her while she sobs into the crook of his neck. She gets her eyeliner whiskers all over the skin on his neck and the collar of his scrubs. He doesn't seem to care. He buries his face in her thick mane of hair and lets her cry.

It hasn't been a good day. It hasn't been a good year.

''I want to go home,'' she blubbers, tears slipping down her cheeks. The memory of her mother's blinding, beautiful smile is pulling her back under the surface of grief, drowning her. ''Daddy, can we go home now?''

''Yeah,'' his voice is tight and rough; it seems to get caught in his throat. ''Yeah, pumpkin, we can go home now.''

.

.

.

They spend the rest of the night at home, eating all of the food he made for her and watching movies on the couch, carefully avoiding all the ones Mom liked - The Nightmare Before Christmas, Beetlejuice, and especially Hocus Pocus. Dad is still wearing his red stained scrubs and Lydia is still wearing her cat costume, her hair mussed and tangled. The house is dark, save for the glowing Jack O'Lantern in the window and a few lit up decorations. It feels so much bigger than it is in the dark. It feels lonely.

Lydia lives in a nice big house in a safe neighborhood. It has a pool and two bedrooms more than needed; one for the sibling she never got to have, and one for the art her mother never had a chance to create. She has her own room, more Halloween treats than a kid could ever ask for, and she has her dad, who she loves fiercely. But she doesn't have her mom, and maybe the reason today was so bad was because it was just another reminder that her mother is not ever going to come back.

Sometime after eleven, long after she's supposed to be in bed, while they're in the middle of watching It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, Lydia climbs up onto the couch to accept the half of a Kit Kat Dad is holding out to her. She takes it and munches on it thoughtfully. Her eyes are on the television, but she's not really paying attention. She looks around the darkened living room, at the shadows on the walls. She looks at her father, with dark circles under his eyes, looking like he's aged ten years in the past 51 days, while he's been working and grieving and taking care of her. He looks like her very own real life Halloween decoration.

He looks very, very sad.

Lydia stuffs the rest of the chocolate into her mouth and makes a decision, right then and there, to be a better daughter from now on. Dad has enough on his plate as it is. She's going to be stronger from here on out. Less needy. Less teary. He's taken care of her for her entire life. She thinks she could spend a little time taking care of him. ''Things will be better,'' she blurts out, voice firm, putting on her determined face. ''It'll be better,'' she repeats. ''It has to.''

Dad doesn't say anything, but he strokes her hair softly, comfortingly.

Lydia tries to relax back against the cushions. This will get better. Life will get better.

It's been 51 days, and she is tired of crying.

She is going to make it better.

.

.

.

/4/

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.

.

in this town, don't we love it now
everybody's waiting for the next surprise

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.

.

Dean is not actually okay with any of this. He said he was. He assured Lydia he was multiple times, but what can he say? He lied. He lied through his teeth. He is not okay with the fact that tonight will be the first Halloween in fourteen years that he is spending without his daughter. He is not okay with her going to a party at Jackson Whittemore's - of all people - house. He is not okay with having a fourteen year old daughter. And he is not okay with the makeup.

''That's too much,'' he says, hovering over his daughter.

''It's not too much,'' Jess responds patiently, and keeps slathering eye makeup on his baby girl.

''No, it is,'' he bobs his head up and down. ''It's too much. Take it off.''

''It's hardly anything,'' she says.

''I think it would be better if you started over. Does she even really need eye shit?''

Lydia opens one eye. ''Dad - ''

''Hush,'' says Jess, ''and keep your eyes closed.''

''She's fourteen,'' Dean tries frantically, clearing his throat when his voice comes out just a touch too panicked. ''She's too young to be wearing makeup.''

The only response Jess has to that is a short, sharp, vaguely annoyed bark of laughter, and an overly sweet, ''Oh, sweetie, you're adorable.''

''Jess,'' it comes out in a whine. ''All the little assholes will think - ''

''Um, excuse me,'' Lydia snaps, pushing her aunt's hands away so she can glower at her father. ''Why do you constantly feel the need to behave like a caveman? First of all, not all boys are assholes - ''

''Name one who isn't,'' Dean challenges, crossing his arms.

Lydia points her nose up in the air. ''Jackson Whittemore.''

He stares down at her, lip curled back in disgust. He waits for her to snort and laugh and tell him that she's joking, because she has to be joking, but she doesn't. She's actually serious. Fucking hell, his daughter has lost her goddamn mind. ''Are you kidding me? That little shit is King of the Assholes.''

''Dean, he's fourteen years old,'' Jess intercepts.

He shrugs. ''Yeah, I know. Which is why I called him a little shit and not a big shit.''

''And second of all,'' Lydia goes on, blatantly ignoring everything her wise, intelligent father has just told her, which - wow, rude. In Dean's opinion. ''Sexual attraction has very little to do with - ''

''Whoa!'' Dean holds his hands up, waving them frantically, choking on his own tongue. There is a panic induced pang in his chest, which he thinks might be the beginning of a heart attack, there's a nervous sweat breaking out on his forehead, and his eyes have widened to twice their size. This is what it's like to have a teenage daughter. ''No! Holy crap, no! You stop right there! Flag on the play, sister! Lydia Mary, you are fourteen years old. Sexual attraction is abso-fucking-lutley not something that should be on your mind. You shouldn't even be saying the word or any other words that contain that word. Don't even think it. Sex,'' he jabs a finger in her direction. ''Sex does not exist for you. Not until you're twenty five.'' He stops to take in a few much needed gulps of air and sinks onto the edge of Lydia's bed. Absently, he pulls Lydia's teddy bear, Snickers, into his lap and tries not to pout because his daughter is fourteen and regularly gives him heart palpitations. He sighs and runs a hand over his face. ''Actually, you know what? I'm sorry. I'm being ridiculous.'' He wrinkles his nose and tilts his head to the side. ''I meant thirty five.''

''Dean,'' Jess says. ''Get out.''

He folds his arms stubbornly. ''No.''

Wrong thing to say. Wrong fucking thing.

Lydia and Jess share a look and then, in unison, ''Sam!''

Well, now that's just cruel.

.

.

.

''I don't like it,'' Dean complains, after Sam has forcefully pulled him out of Lydia's bedroom.

He is pacing the length of the living room, imagining every horrible thing that could happen to his kid while she's at this stupid party, and Jess and Sam's cocker spaniel, Greta, is following his every move. Sam is sitting on the couch, patiently letting Dean rant while he absently scratches Prada's - Lydia's annoying, barky yorkie puppy that Dean regretted getting her about fifteen minutes after bringing the yappy thing home - belly. On the floor, clearly unconcerned with the fact that he is right in Dean's path, Jess and Sam's golden retriever, Darcy, is gnawing happily on a bone.

There are far too many dogs in this house. It's horrible.

''She's too young for this,'' he continues. ''She's only fourteen. She's still - She's still a kid. She's still a baby.''

''She's not a baby, Dean,'' Sam tells him. ''She's a young woman.''

''Oh, god,'' Dean breathes out. ''Don't fucking say that. That's not true, is it?''

Sam chuckles. ''Sorry, man. Kinda is.''

''But,'' Dean gestures helplessly, and isn't completely sure what he's gesturing at. ''Halloween's our thing. It's always been our thing. Dad and Lydia. Lydia and Dad. Does that mean nothing to her?''

Sam grimaces. ''Respectfully... Probably not.'' When Dean glares at him, Sam shrugs carelessly. ''Fourteen, okay? She's a teenager. You remember when you were fourteen, don't you?''

Um. There's no comfort in that. Horror strikes Dean right in the heart. Holy shit. No. No, no, no. He turns petrified eyes to his brother. ''Oh my god,'' he squeaks out.

''Oh. No.'' Sam's eyes widen. ''No, dude, no. That's not what I... All right, that was the wrong thing to say and I apologize.'' He stands quickly, placing his hands on Dean's shoulders. ''Lydia is nothing like you, Dean. She's not going to go to school still drunk from the night before, or lose her virginity in the backseat of the Impala, or get caught smoking under the bleachers, or buy the world's largest bong, and chances are she won't get caught with her head in between the head cheerleader's legs, right?''

Dean stares at his brother. ''Stop. Helping,'' he hisses out from between his teeth.

Sam takes his hands off. ''Sorry. Yeah. That got away from me.''

''She's not me,'' Dean says. Of course she's not. Lydia is smart. She's a damn genius. All the tests say so. She's too smart to repeat any of his mistakes. ''You're right,'' he adds. ''She's not.''

''Mmmhmm,'' Sam nods. ''So then there's nothing to worry about.''

''There's Jackson Whittemore.''

''Well... Yeah.''

Dean flops down on the couch dramatically, effectively startling Prada, who throws him a dirty look and hops off the couch. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and tries not to think too much about any of this. He fails. It's just that she's growing up so fast. He can remember the day she was born so clearly. It's hard to believe that tiny helpless baby he used to sing The Weight to is already blossoming into a brilliant, brave, confident-to-a-fault young woman. And without Kelly here... Dean worries every day about the choices he makes without her here. Would she have done this differently? Was that the right path to take? Is he completely screwing their daughter up? He throws a hand over his face. He needs a drink. ''One party,'' he blurts out.

He removes his hand and glances at Sam, who looks very confused. ''What?''

''She's been to one party before,'' Dean sits up straight. On the ground, Prada is inching closer to Darcy while Greta licks herself in the corner. ''When she was ten. It was a birthday party for a girl in her class. A sleepover. She had tried so hard to be friends with these girls. She told me she was tired of eating lunch alone. And she was excited for this party. She was confident. She was ready to make new friends without feeling that she was betraying Cora. But then she called me in the middle of the night to come and get her, and when I got there, she was sitting downstairs with the girl's mother, sobbing. Turns out, uh,'' he clears his throat again. ''She wanted to be friends with these girls, but these girls didn't want to be friends with her. They were playing around with makeup, giving each other makeovers, and when it was Lydia's turn, they turned her into a clown, took pictures and put them on the internet. And then, when she went to sleep, they put her hand in warm water. She wet the bed. There's been nothing since. She doesn't have friends, Sam. She's not a social butterfly. And, I don't know, maybe that's my fault, but I... I worry about her. When she was little, she had Cora and they were inseparable. You know? BFFS and all that shit. But Cora was all she had. Cora never had birthday parties. It was a Hale family rule to limit the risk of exposure. Lydia's birthday was always a family thing because we couldn't afford big birthday parties, and then when we could, she didn't want them. And after Cora died...'' He trails off, swallowing hard and glancing over his shoulder to make sure Lydia isn't lurking in the doorway.

Lydia hardly ever talks about her best friend's death. Hell, Dean hardly ever talks about her. What can you say about a nine year old who died? Who was murdered?

''I thought she needed time after Cora died,'' he licks his lips. ''And then I thought she needed time after what those girls did. But she's had time. And she's still all alone. I think...'' He releases a breath. ''She's a genius when it comes to most things, but she's naive when it comes to kids her own age. She doesn't understand them like she understands adults. She doesn't have the patience for them. And I just...''

''You're afraid the other kids will take advantage of her,'' Sam supplies.

Dean nods wordlessly.

On the ground, Darcy lets out a menacing growl and bares his teeth at Prada when the puppy attempts to inch forward and steal his bone. Sam snaps out a warning out in Darcy's direction and Dean quickly swoops Prada up onto his lap. The dog lets loose a surprised yip when it is swept off the ground, but relaxes when Dean starts to scratch behind his ear.

''Dean,'' Sam starts, only to stop. He looks hesitant to say anything and Dean can practically see the pro and con list he's making in his head. ''Don't bite my head off, but I think you need to have more faith in your daughter. I don't think she's as helpless as you think she is. She may be just a kid, but she's your kid, and you're a smart guy. And if that still doesn't make you feel better, then remember that she's also Kelly's kid. She'll be okay.''

Dean opens his mouth to say something, but before he can speak, Jess comes bounding into the room, grinning triumphantly, and perches herself on Sam's lap, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek. ''She's ready,'' she singsongs, smirking at Dean. ''How about you, Dad? Are you ready?''

Then Dean turns around, and he's staring at a ghost.

He can't remember if he's ever told Lydia the story about how he met her mother. He knows he's told her the basics - it was at a Halloween party when they were eighteen - but he's not Ted Mosby, and to be honest, the story of how Dean Winchester met Kelly Martin is not exactly a story he wants to tell his daughter. Truth is, they met at party in Arizona, they were both there with other people - her date was a pirate, his was a go-go dancer - and they wasted no time ditching those people the second they met, followed by getting drunk, having sex in the bathroom, dancing, and then her taking him home to her crappy apartment over the crappy diner where she worked. It's not a romantic story. But it was their story. Kelly always said she loved their story. The part of their story that he has told Lydia, however, is that her mother probably saved his life that night. He had not been in a good place in his life. He was eighteen, he had just taken Sam and left their father, they were on the run, he was working shitty jobs just to be able to feed Sam, and then there was Kelly. This beautiful, kind, strong woman who made him laugh, wearing this ridiculous pink poodle skirt, her fiery red hair pulled up into a ponytail.

And now Lydia is standing in front of him, wearing a bright pink poodle skirt, a soft pink cardigan, black and white saddle shoes, with her red hair tied up into a ponytail tied with a ribbon. She looks so much like her mother. It's almost eerie. Dean has always maintained that she looks way more like her mother than she looks like him, even though people have told him that she's all Dean Winchester. Right now, he can't see how anyone could say she looks anything like him when they've got the ghost of Kelly Martin standing in front of them.

''Well,'' Lydia says, smoothing down her skirt. ''What do you think?'' She does a slow twirl and then meets his eyes, a soft smile dancing across her lips. ''Do I look like her?''

.

.

.

The drop off doesn't go great, honestly.

Dean has a list that he wants to go through with her. He's calling it the List of Cautions. Originally, he had wanted to call it the Do Not Fucking Do So Help Me God List, but Sam convinced him to change it, warning him that maybe he was being too abrasive. He only gets halfway through. ''Be home by curfew, call if you need a ride, keep your phone on you at all times, do not, under any circumstances, accept a drink from anyone, do not, under any circumstances, leave your drink alone for any period of time - ''

''Oh my god, Dad,'' Lydia moans, sounding thoroughly embarrassed, despite the fact that they're the only ones in the car. ''This isn't a frat party. We're a bunch of fourteen year old kids. You're being ridiculous. What's the worst thing that could happen?''

''I don't want to find out, Lydia.''

''Whatever. So, listen,'' she starts, checking her makeup in her compact mirror, before she launches into her own Do Not Fucking Do List. ''I know what Uncle Sam and Aunt Jess are going out to dinner tonight, but please don't use that as an excuse to microwave a burrito, eat the entire bowl of candy, and drink of a six pack of beer, okay?''

''Offense,'' he gasps. ''I haven't had more than three beers a night in five years.''

''Uh-huh, well, that's two beers too many. At least heat up the leftover lasagna from last night.''

''But it has spinach in it.''

''Dad.''

''Fiiine, I'll be healthy. But I won't like it.''

''Good.'' She nods, satisfied, and slips her compact back into her purse. ''I'll probably be home by ten,'' she says breezily.

''Nine.''

''Ten.''

''Nine thirty.''

''Ten,'' she says, and gives him a look.

He knows better than to argue. ''All right, ten,'' he relents, ''but ten sharp.'' He leans in to hug her goodbye.

She reacts like he is trying to viciously attack her, pressing herself up against the door and scrambling for the handle. ''What are you doing?''

''Uh...'' Suddenly, he is not sure what the safest answer to that question is. ''Hugging my daughter?''

''But,'' she looks around, at the crowds of kids streaming in and out of Jackson Whittemore's house. ''There are people around.''

Aw, fuck.

We've entered that phase, have we?

.

.

.

Dean spends the night pouting and avoiding the channel playing Hocus Pocus on a loop.

.

.

.

Lydia is home by nine thirty.

Dean isn't expecting her home for another half an hour, but much to his surprise, at almost exactly nine thirty, while Dean is in the kitchen digging around in the fridge for something that is not spinach lasagna, with the phone pinched between his shoulder and his ear, he hears the front door open and shut and the dogs go nuts.

''Dad?''

He pulls the phone away. ''Kitchen!'' He calls back, rushing to put the cheesecake back in the fridge. He is not supposed to touch the cheesecake. Even though he's healthy as a horse, Lydia worries incessantly about his cholesterol, his blood pressure, whether or not he's getting an ulcer. Apparently, to her, thirty four is basically the same as eighty four. She says she only worries because he's the only medical examiner in town since Dr. Hannigan passed away and who would look after all the dead people if something happened to him? He suspects there's more to her worrying, but he doesn't press the issue. He just eats the disgusting green things she makes for him at home and eats a lot of cheeseburgers while he's at work. He takes out the spinach lasagna that he had ignored in favor of microwavable burritos and peels back the saran wrap, phone still held away from his ear. The woman on the other end hasn't even noticed, still babbling on and on. He can hear her snapping at the dogs, telling them to calm down and be quiet.

She appears in the doorway, pulling her hair free of the ponytail it's in and shaking her hair out. ''Hi,'' she greets, sounding tired.

''Hey, sweetheart.'' He holds the phone out to her. ''Talk to Laura. She's rambling about something that I don't care about.''

The talking on the other end of the phone stops abruptly, and then, ''I heard that, jackass!''

Dean stifles a laugh and lets Lydia snatch the phone from his hand, watching her settle down at the counter. The conversation is relatively short. Lydia chats with Laura for a few minutes about something fashion related, says hello to Derek, and then clicks the phone off and places it down with a sigh. Dean doesn't say a word. He slowly gets out a fork, putting off having to actually eat the lasagna. He does not ask about the party. It's killing him not to ask, but he is determined not to do anything to scare her away. He's cool. He can be a cool dad. Plus, maybe if he doesn't push it, she'll come to him. Like a little woodland creature. To keep the charade up a little longer, he shoves a huge bite of cold lasagna into his mouth and instantly regrets it, working very hard not to gag. It was hard enough to get this crap down when it was warm, this is just torture.

Lydia, seated at the island, toying with the ribbon from her hair, lets out a heavy, conflicted sounding sigh.

Dean still doesn't ask. Mostly because he's trying not to puke.

''Daddy,'' she murmurs.

He swallows.

''Can I tell you something?''

He stares at her in disbelief. Holy shit, it actually worked. He pushes the lasagna away and leans in, elbows on the counter. ''Anything.''

She chews on her lower lip. ''You have to promise me you won't get mad.''

''Oh, Jesus,'' he grimaces. ''Lydia - ''

''Dad.''

''Am I going to need a defibrillator for this?'' When she gives him another one of those looks, he holds his hands up in surrender. ''Okay. Okay, fine, I promise.''

''Pinky promise,'' she demands.

He rolls his eyes, but dutifully links his pinky through hers.

Lydia takes in a deep breath like she's preparing to go to war. ''I went to the party tonight because I wanted to have my first kiss,'' she says it all in one breath, and refuses to meet his eyes. ''With Jackson Whittemore.''

Dean nods. And keeps nodding. It takes a moment for her words to completely sink in, and then it takes another moment to force himself to stay put and not track down that little shit and tell him to stay the fuck away from his daughter. After a minute or two, he realizes he's just been nodding his head mutely, eyes mildly horrified.

Lydia is looking at him worriedly, like she's concerned he's had a stroke. ''Dad?''

''I'm processing,'' he says weakly, forcing the words out of a mouth that has suddenly gone bone dry. Abruptly, he turns away from her and high tails it to the fridge, ripping the door open and snatching a beer from the top shelf. He savagely twists the cap off and then proceeds to chug half of the bottle in about ten seconds, probably less. Lydia looks both worried and disgusted. The belch that follows is enough to turn any and all worry into annoyance. Her eyebrows furrow together in disapproval and she opens her mouth, most likely to reprimand him, but he cuts her off. ''All right,'' he licks his lips and places the bottle down on the counter. ''I processed.''

''And?''

He crosses his arms, staring down at her, t-shirt straining against his muscles. He thinks about it and then says, shortly, succinctly, ''Ew.''

She had not been expecting that. He can tell. ''Ew?'' She repeats. ''That's it? That's your reaction?''

''Um,'' he scrunches his nose up and makes a disgusted noise, ''blegh.''

She doesn't find any of this funny, apparently. ''I think you're being really childish right now.''

His jaw ticks. ''Well, I'm sorry, Lydia, but what is it that you want me to say? You know I don't like that kid. I'm not gonna throw a ticker tape parade. The kid's a punk.'' He goes back to the refrigerator and pulls out the cheesecake, because fuck, if he's going to have this conversation, then he gets to have some damn cheesecake. ''I don't like the way he treats people and I don't like that his parents let him get away with it.''

''You just don't understand what he's - ''

''More importantly,'' he holds up a finger to silence her. ''I don't like the way you treat people when you're around him.'' She at least has the decency to look slightly ashamed at that. He would kind of hope so. Ever since she started hanging around Whittemore, she's been acting like she's auditioning for the role of Regina George in real life. ''And you know what?'' He sets the cheesecake down on the counter. ''I've been trying to think of boys your age who aren't assholes and I thought of one. Scott McCall. His dad may be a royal douche, but he's not. Mel's done a great job with him.''

''Mel? She's Mel now?''

''He's a really good kid, you know. Have you ever thought about - ''

''I'm going to stop you right there,'' Lydia says loudly. She steals the fork out of his hand and tucks into the cheesecake herself, pulling the plate away from him and over to her. ''You do not get to pick who I date,'' she says, and stuffs a bite of cheesecake into her mouth. ''Besides,'' she adds. ''Scott McCall?'' She scoffs. ''Dad, Scott McCall is a total loser.''

''That!'' The volume of his voice makes her jump, but he doesn't stop to apologize, he only lowers the fork he is brandishing at her. ''Right there! You don't get to do that, Lydia.''

She remains unconcerned, her feathers unruffled, like the teenager that she is. ''What's the big deal? It's not like he's here. And life is full of winners and losers. That's just a fact.'' She hops off the chair and moves around the island over to the fridge.

He sighs and follows her movements with his eyes, turning to lean back against the counter. It's worrying that she thinks that. See, this is one of those things. Does she honestly believe that shit? That life is just about winning or losing? And if she does, is it his fault? Has he somehow instilled that flawed logic into her? ''And with an attitude like that, what do you think you are?'' He asks quietly, and receives a glare in response. ''You don't get to hurt people just because you, for some reason, feel that you're superior to them. You're old enough to know that.''

''Well,'' her pale cheeks flush red. ''Thanks, Father.'' She pulls chocolate sauce and caramel sauce out of the fridge and takes a package of frozen Kit Kat bars out of the freezer. ''It's nice to know what you really think of me.''

''Oh, don't do the melodramatic teenager thing. It's fucking exhausting.'' He pulls two plates down from the cupboard and grabs a knife from the drawer. He can feel her eyes burning a hole into his back. He shuts his mouth for a minute and they suffer in semi-uncomfortable silence. He slices two pieces of the cheesecake and she doesn't try to make conversation, although she looks like she desperately wants to. He watches her drizzle caramel sauce and chocolate sauce over her piece, licking the sticky sweetness off her finger. ''Baby,'' he lets out a long, slow breath and leans in closer to her. She avoids his eyes, staring down at her plate. ''You are the smartest person I have ever known.'' She looks up. ''And you know it,'' he tells her. ''But that doesn't mean you get to act like you're better than everyone else. That's not how life works. I don't want you to be a vapid bully. That's not who you are. Don't get me wrong, you can be a spoiled, judgmental princess and you've got a tongue made out of razorblades.'' He locks eyes with her to keep her from looking away. ''But that's not all you are.'' He hears her suck in a breath, like she's nervous about what he's going to say. ''You're also a sweet, loving girl who takes great care of her dad, even though she shouldn't feel like she has to.'' He sees a slow smile crawl its way across her lips. ''You have a great sense of humor,'' he says, ''which, let's face it, is thanks to me.'' She giggles. ''And you have got to stop thinking that these things make you weak. You don't have to be a bad person to be respected.''

''I don't want to be a bad person,'' she says quickly. ''I just...want people to like me.''

Dean doesn't know how to respond to that. He can't remember the last time he saw her look so vulnerable. It's a far cry from the hard eyed tough girl she has fashioned herself into in the years since her mother's death. It's just another reminder that, as wise as she is and no matter what Sam says, she is still his baby. ''I like you,'' he says. ''But,'' he adds on, when she snorts. ''I realize that I don't count for shit. Look, Lydia, the thing is, do you want people to like you or do you want people to fear you?''

She stops, eyebrows raising as she considers this, which he's going to count as a win. ''All right,'' she mumbles. ''I see your point.''

Hallelujah. He weighs his options and then decides that this is probably good for tonight. Best not to overwhelm her with ''fatherly wisdom.'' He picks his fork back up and shovels some cheesecake into his mouth just because he can, and then steals the caramel sauce away from her.

Like a peace offering, she peels the wrapper off of a Kit Kat bar, snaps it in half and hands him one half, sticking the other into her piece of cheesecake. ''You know,'' she hums out, picking up a delicate forkful of cheesecake. ''The Jackson thing isn't even what I wanted to tell you.''

Oh, for the love of -

There's more? How can there possibly be more?

Very calmly, he asks her, ''Do you still want to tell me?''

She puts down her fork, shoves her plate away from her and sits up straight. ''Okay, so...'' She licks her lips and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. ''While I was at the party, Jackson kept ditching me to hang out with his boneheaded friends, so I was... I was pretty bored. But then there was this girl. Heather.'' She bobs her head up and down like a bobble head, and fidgets some more. Dean frowns. He is not at all sure where this is going, but he's pretty sure he's going to need the rest of his beer. ''She's my age and she... She goes to a different school.'' She's still nodding a lot and she's still fidgeting. ''And we talked about music and, like, makeup and things...'' She scratches the back of her neck awkwardly. ''We... Okay,'' she lets out a nervous laugh. ''See...'' Her cheeks go redder than he's ever seen them. ''Daddy, I like boys,'' she says. ''I do. I'm attracted to Jackson and you know I really like Chris Hemsworth.''

''I know you really like Chris Hemsworth.''

''But, I think... For awhile now, I've been... Dad, I think I like girls, too.''

His fork goes clattering back down onto his plate noisily.

''No,'' she shakes her head. ''Actually, I know I like girls. Because I got my first kiss tonight. From Heather. And also my second and third. And I really like Heather. We - We like a lot of the same things and she's really, really pretty, which is a thing that I noticed, and she gave me her phone number. So... That's a thing that's probably going to happen. Now,'' she gulps in a breath of air. ''Are you okay?''

He nods, but doesn't trust himself to speak. This is not a speech he has prepared.

''Are you having a heart attack?''

He shakes his head.

''A stroke?''

Another shake of the head.

''Do you need to sit down?''

He nods. He stumbles out from behind the island and drops down into the seat next to her. He is not a completely clueless father. He is not a helpless, dim witted guy who doesn't know how to raise a daughter. He took her first period like a champ, he'll push the cart down the feminine hygiene product aisle, he'll take her bra shopping, he'll listen to her soul crushing top forty music, and he's had the sex talk stored away in the back of his mind since she turned five and wanted to marry Prince Eric. But, for some reason, this had never occurred to him. He wonders if it should have. After all, she had a crush on Prince Eric, yes, but she also had a crush on Belle.

''I'm okay with this,'' Lydia says, quietly yet boldly. ''I don't think there's anything wrong with me. But I need you to be okay with this, too. You know? Because you're my dad. You're all I have,'' her voice takes on a panicked edge. ''And I don't think I could take it - ''

''Lydia,'' he tries.

'' - If you didn't accept me.''

''Lydia.''

''And you'd be a real jerk if you didn't, too,'' she scowls. ''Because we're living in a modern world and honestly, I know you're a grumpy old man at heart, but I'm your daughter and you should love me no matter what - ''

''Lydia!'' She clamps her mouth shut. ''Sweetheart, look at me.'' Dean leans in to grab her face, meeting her startled eyes. He pauses momentarily to take in her face; her big eyes and her lips thinned in worry. So much like her mother. He smiles softly. ''You're my girl,'' he whispers, ''and I love you. There is nothing in the world that could change that. You could be a mass murderer and I'd still love you.''

She cocks a brow. ''Are you somehow equating bisexuality with mass murdering?''

''No, I... Okay, that sounded better in my head.'' He lets her go and sits back. ''Listen, pumpkin, I don't know how to put this delicately, so I'm just gonna go ahead and say it. I don't give a shit whether you like boys or girls or boys and girls. My only concern is that you and whoever you're with treat each other right. As long as the person you date is a good person, as long as you're being careful and respectful and not pressuring each other to do anything you're not ready for, then I'm cool with it. Yes, I'd rather you wait - I think eighteen sounds like a reasonable age to start dating,'' he says, and she laughs. ''But...'' He shrugs. Releases a breath. ''Be happy, Lydia. That's all I want. Okay?''

She nods, a huge, relieved smile lighting up her entire face. ''Okay.''

He reaches for his beer. ''And I want to meet this Heather.''

''Oh my god, Dad, no.'' She groans loudly and drops her head onto the counter.

He laughs and sweeps her hair out of her face to keep it from getting in the cheesecake. ''Hey, it's my right as your father.''

''I'll think about it,'' she grumbles.

''Good enough for now,'' he says, taking a pull of beer and rising to his feet. ''Now,'' he drops a quick kiss to the back of her head. ''Grab your cheesecake. One movie and then bed.''

''Can it be Ghostbusters?''

''Is there anyone in the world who would say no to Ghostbusters?''

.

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.

/5/

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ride with the moon in the dead of night

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.

At sixteen years old, Lydia still can't make it through Hocus Pocus. She loves the movie and it's clearly one of the better Halloween movies in existence, but her mother will forever be engrained in every second of it. She's come to terms with this. There are other Halloween movies. The problems is, she and her dad have already watched all of the good Halloween movies and now she's stuck watching shitty slasher flicks, and Lydia is no scardy cat, okay, because she has friends who are werewolves, but horror movies make her stomach turn.

Lydia freezes with a piece of popcorn halfway to her mouth, eyes widening as the tense, instrumental music gets louder and louder. Beside her, her father appears completely unfazed, bored even. He is sitting slouched on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table and his arms crossed, Prada's head resting on his thigh. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye and then pops the piece of popcorn into her mouth. She shifts on the couch and tucks her legs under her, tugging her dress down and attempting to remain logical and not at all -

CRUUUNCH!

She shrieks and flails, uprooting the popcorn bowl and sending kernels spraying all over her and the couch. Prada yips happily and jumps off the couch to scavenge for popcorn. She turns launch herself at Dad, hiding her face in his shoulder, trying not to listen to the gurgling coming from the television set. Hey. You know what? She reserves the right to be grossed out by mindless horror films like Friday the 13th. They're brutal and only exist for cheap scares.

''That wasn't even realistic,'' Dad says, either in an attempt to comfort her, or just because he's annoyed by the error. ''There's no fucking way there would be that much arterial spray. The human body - ''

''Can you just change the channel please?''

He doesn't protest, flicking the channel from the gruesome movie to a harmless toilet paper commercial. Lydia slowly looks up from her father's shoulder and sheepishly surveys the mess she's made. There is popcorn strewn all over the couch and floor and out of the corner of her eye, she can see Prada munching on pieces of popcorn. Dad looks vastly unimpressed with her, even as he plucks a piece of popcorn from her hair and tosses it into his mouth. ''I'll get the broom?'' She says.

He nods. ''Sounds like a good plan.'' Then, ''Dog!''

''Prada,'' Lydia corrects.

The little dog jumps at the booming sound of Dad's voice and dutifully spits out the piece of popcorn he's eating and hops up onto the coffee table and then onto the couch.

Lydia isn't even gone two minutes, but by the time she gets back, Dad has already changed the channel over to yet another crappy horror movie. She rolls her eyes and sighs what she hopes is an extremely passive aggressive sigh, but doesn't say a word. She sets about sweeping up the scattered popcorn, with her back pointedly to the television screen. After a few minutes, and after most of the popcorn has been swept back into the bowl, she gives up. ''Which one is this?''

Dad doesn't look up from the screen, thoroughly engrossed. ''A Nightmare on Elm Street. The remake. It's terrible, but...''

''But?'' He clears his throat, sounding vaguely embarrassed and when she follows his gaze to the screen, she sees the pretty blonde and shakes her head. ''Seriously?''

He shrugs and she can see that the tips of his ears are red. ''She's...''

''A hot blonde.''

''Is she hot? I hadn't noticed.'' He sticks his nose up in the air. ''I was going to say,'' he says, ''that she's a fascinating and sympathetic character.''

''Uh-huh. Whatever you say,'' she laughs, ''you perverted old man.''

She disappears out of the room to go throw out the bowl of dusty popcorn and then makes a stop at the fridge, digging around for some vitamin water and just as she's twisting the cap off, she hears an outraged cry of, ''Come on! Not the pretty girl!''

She stifles a giggle and flounces back into the living room where her father is glaring heatedly at the TV. She flops down onto the couch next to him and steals the remote control.

He doesn't protest when she changes the channel. ''Upset,'' he bites out, staring down at Prada. ''We are upset, dog.''

''Prada,'' Lydia reminds him patiently, for the five hundred millionth time since she named Prada. She flips through the channels mindlessly, searching for something acceptable to watch. Eventually, she lands on Halloweentown and settles in happily to watch Marnie Piper and the Cromwell magic save the day. After a moment, she can feel Dad's eyes on her. Lydia tries her best to ignore it. The problem is that she knows precisely why he's looking at her like that and it's not something she wants to think about. In fact, she has been trying hard not to think about it all afternoon. Which he knows.

''So...'' He scoots closer to her. ''I know we're not supposed to be talking about it, but why did I come home and find you spraying Jackson with the garden hose?''

''You spray him with the garden hose all the time.''

''Yeah, and then you yell at me. Sometimes in Latin.''

''We broke up,'' she says with a shrug, eyes still on the TV.

''I gathered that.'' Dad sits up straight. ''What'd the little shit do?''

She stiffens. She thinks about the horrid explosive argument they had in the cafeteria in front of everyone. She thinks about the things he accused her of, the things he called her, in front of Allison. Of all people. She clenches her jaw and her fingers twitch. There's a certain truth in the old scorned woman tale and she'd like nothing more than for Jackson to know that. But. She balls her hands into fists. She is better than that. ''Nothing I can't handle,'' she lies smoothly, flawlessly. It's something she is getting so good at. There are a lot of things she's keeping from her father these days.

''Lydia,'' and that's Dad's serious voice. She looks away from the movie she's not really watching and looks at him, at the worry lines on his face. ''If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine,'' he tells her gently, as if bracing her for impact, trying not to scare her. ''But can you just tell me one thing?''

''...Fine.''

''Did that boy put his hands on you?''

She hesitates. Jackson was never tender or loving. There's no getting around that. His hands were rough sometimes, his movements harsh and callous, his grip on her wrist too tight. But, then again, she was never tender either. She was the one who pulled hair and pinched and bit down. ''No,'' she says vehemently. ''Absolutely not.''

Dad doesn't look completely satisfied or completely convinced, but he accepts it. ''Okay then. That's all I needed to know.'' And then he drops it. Just like that.

Lydia is a little surprised. She had figured he would needle her more than that. She frowns. She stares at him, watches his eyes fixate on the television. She scoops Prada up onto her lap and his warm body burrows into her stomach. She feels a dull ache of guilt start in her chest and work its way through her entire body. She is trying so hard not to think about Jackson, or the things he did, or the bitter truth that she wasted a year of her life on him. That she wrecked her fun, healthy and good relationship with Heather for him. Most of all, she tries hard not to think about how not all of Jackson's accusations were totally heinous and absurd. She fails.

''He yelled at me in school today,'' it slips out before she can stop it. She winces and squeezes her eyes shut. ''In front of everyone. He's been acting so strange lately, and he just flipped out. He...'' She shakes her head, swallowing hard and trying to quell the anger and hurt that she has so adamantly tried to ignore for hours. ''It was so vicious. He accused me of cheating on him. He threw how we got together back in my face. It shouldn't have surprised me,'' she shrugs helplessly and scratches behind Prada's ear. ''We're both - We're both pretty possessive people at times, I guess. And we can be cruel to each other. But then he said some other things. Called me some atrocious names, and I'm... I'm not prepared to forgive him for it right now. Maybe not ever. That's why he was here this afternoon. He came to apologize.'' She smirks, a true Winchester trait. ''I didn't accept his apology.''

When she finally lifts her eyes to see his reaction, there is worry on his face and he looks like he's trying to decide whether or not to get her a pint of ice cream or call his poker buddy, Sheriff Stilinski, who owes him a favor, to bust Jackson's Halloween party.

''But I'm fine,'' she says hurriedly. ''Really, Dad. I am.''

''Well,'' he says, taking in a breath. ''You should be. You deserve better.''

She gives him a brilliant smile. ''I think so, too. Jackson was...'' She narrows her eyes. ''Jackson was dead weight.''

Dad looks back at the movie. ''...You're not going to tell me what he called you, are you?''

''I'd rather you weren't arrested for murder, so no.''

''Hey,'' Dad's face lights up and he turns his body toward her, grinning like he's just had the best idea ever. She is suitably concerned. ''You know who you should get back with?''

Lydia bites back a groan. Oh, not this again. ''Dad, Heather deserves better than me.''

''I hate that you got the self-deprecating Winchester gene.''

The sound of the doorbell interrupts her before she can answer him. She leaps to her feet to distance herself from this conversation and Prada lets out an annoyed bark as he is tipped out of her lap and deposited onto the couch. Lydia breathes a sigh of relief. Saved by the trick or treaters. She rushes out of the room and grabs the bowl of candy off the table by the door and throws open the door with what she hopes is a welcoming smile. The smile immediately drops off her face in disappointment.

Derek Hale is standing on her porch, looking grumpy as ever in his clichéd leather jacket and his Henley that fits way too good to just be something he has ''thrown on.'' (Which, like, please. Derek ''throws on'' clothes like her father ''throws on'' clothes. ...Meaning that sometimes he takes longer than she does to get ready.) She releases a long suffering sigh and rolls her eyes heavenward. ''Ugh. Gross. Dad!''

''Hello to you too, Lydia Mary. Charming as ever.''

''What are you even doing here?'' She sneers, folding her arms. ''Don't you have teenagers to stalk? Brooding to do?''

Derek smiles at her, perfectly pleasant, save for the acid on his tongue. ''Shouldn't you be at your loser boyfriend's party?''

''Shouldn't you be sitting in the hollowed burnt out shell of your house, crying into your Chunky Monkey and writing in your feelings journal?''

''I hate Chunky Monkey.''

''FYI, Jackson isn't my boyfriend anymore.''

Derek props one shoulder up against the doorframe lazily. ''So then what's the plan for tonight, Miss Lydia?'' He asks, and her lips thin at the old childhood nickname that he used to call her, back before the fire, when he would walk her and Cora back to the Hale house after school. ''Are you going to sneak out and meet your Juliet?''

Her back goes ramrod straight and she pales. She makes a half hearted attempt to keep her heart rate steady because she knows he's listening, but her attempts are not successful. She twists her face into an angry glower. ''Listen to me,'' she hisses. ''Whatever you think you know - ''

''Derek?'' Dad reaches up over her head to grab the door and effortlessly places himself in between them, pausing only to send them both his patented you kids are testing my fucking patience look, which seems to get the most mileage whenever she and Derek are in the same room together. ''What are you doing here?'' His face falls. ''Don't tell me there's another body. Can't that Alpha fucker take one fucking night off?''

Lydia peers up at him. ''Aren't you on call tonight anyway?''

''No bodies,'' Derek intones.

Dad looks lost. ''Okay...''

''I just...'' Derek falters. Suddenly, he looks sheepish and very, very young. Lydia would mock him if it didn't look so pitiful. ''Kids keep coming up to me and asking me what my costume is supposed to be. And I can't find any quiet. Halloween night is loud.''

''I think he's lonely,'' Lydia stage whispers.

Derek glares at her.

''Not into being the lone wolf tonight?'' Dad questions, and comes way too close to laughing at his own joke.

Derek looks...mildly constipated, which Lydia understands is Derek for having any sort of emotion whatsoever. ''The only reason I'm a lone wolf is because I don't have any other choice.''

Dad flinches noticeably. Lydia looks down and away. Neither of them mentions Laura, or the promise Dad made to her to take care of Derek if anything happened to her. Without a word, Dad steps aside and lets Derek in. That's the thing about being a Winchester. Loss is one of the things you understand most.

''Play nice, children,'' Dad warns. With a grin, he steals the bowl of candy from Lydia, pastes a huge, charming smile onto his lips and moves past them to greet a group of trick or treaters with incredible enthusiasm.

Lydia turns to Derek. She observes him silently for a moment, carefully, sizing him up, and then she shrugs. ''I'm watching Halloweentown. It's a Halloween classic. And I don't want to hear any complaints about how inaccurate it is, or how it's offensive to you as a werewolf, or - Derek. Derek, are you listening to me?''

Evidently not.

She turns to look at what he's staring at so intently and finds Prada. He is growling and baring his teeth at Derek, poised to attack. Naturally, because of course the bite sized yorkie is a threat, Derek lets loose a ripping snarl from deep in his chest, his eyes flash electric blue, and his canines elongate threateningly. Prada lets out a strange, high pitched squeaking noise, which is the most distressing noise he has ever made, and bounds right past Lydia and Derek over to Dad, who is currently crouching down to talk to a miniature princess and her blushing mother. Prada cowers behind Dad's leg, peeking his head out and then immediately hiding again when he catches sight of Derek. Dad sends them a frown. His charm never slips. Princess' mother still seems super interested in making conversation with him. Lydia has, sadly, gotten used to this disturbing trend.

Derek looks weirdly proud of himself. The mongrel. Honestly. He shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets when he sees the look Lydia is giving him. ''What?''

She doesn't even know where to start. ''Oh. My. God.'' She gets up on her tip toes, grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks him into the living room.

.

.

.

Half an hour later, Prada is still refusing to leave Dad's side, Halloweentown is almost over, and Derek looks so annoyed by the inaccuracies of a kid's movie that Lydia is about 70% sure that he is forcefully biting down on his tongue to keep from ranting. It's been a relatively peaceful half hour. Derek and Lydia aren't bickering, nobody's talking about Jackson, and nobody has brought up Laura or the fact that she would have been turning twenty nine in a little over a week.

Of course, because this is Beacon Hills and because they are two Winchesters and a Hale, their peace and quiet is doomed.

At nine, the doorbell rings, Dad leaves the room to answer it...

...and there is an abrupt influx of chaos.

A mere moment after leaving the room, Dad comes tearing back in, rushing right past them, grumbling something under his breath about, ''you idiots'' and ''going to get yourselves killed,'' and then he's out of the room and racing up the stairs with Prada on his heels.

When Lydia swivels around, Scott McCall is in her house, holding up a bloody and beaten Stiles. ''Nobody panic,'' is his greeting, but Derek is already out of his chair and Lydia is practically vaulting over the back of the couch.

''Oh my god, what did you do?'' Lydia demands. ''And why are you here? Shouldn't you be in the hospital?''

''Man, it was totally awesome,'' Stiles slurs. ''You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do that. No idea.''

''This isn't werewolf related,'' Scott says quickly, probably because Derek looks like he's about to smack them both upside the head for getting involved in something wolfy again. Then to Lydia, ''If we go to the hospital, someone will have to call his dad.''

''We don't want that,'' Stiles says seriously.

Scott shakes his head enthusiastically. ''We sure don't. And my mom's working tonight, so... I mean, your dad's a doctor. He can fix him up.''

''Think I really fucked up my arm,'' says Stiles, frowning down at his left arm.

''My father is a coroner. All of his patients are dead.''

''Yeah, but he still went to medical school, didn't he?''

''What. The hell. Did you two do?'' Derek cuts in before Lydia has a chance to argue with them.

''Jackson beat the crap out of Stiles,'' Scott supplies helpfully.

Lydia feels her blood run cold. ''What?'' She brings her hand to Stiles' face and turns his head gently to inspect the nasty black eye forming. ''Why?''

''Uh,'' Scott laughs nervously. ''Probably because Stiles beat the crap out of Jackson.''

''But Jackson seems like such a nice kid,'' Derek huffs, tilting Stiles' head back to look at the cuts and bruises on his face. ''Said no one ever,'' he deadpans, grasping Stiles' arm to keep him from swatting his hands away.

Stiles makes a vague sound of protesting, but hushes quite quickly, body relaxing. ''Are you...'' He stares up at Derek suspiciously. ''Are you sucking my pain away?''

''I'm not sucking anything, shut up,'' is Derek's snarled response, followed by an awkward moment of silence in which everyone stares at him.

Lydia shakes her head and looks Stiles up and down, from the bruised, bleeding knuckles to the black eye, bloody nose and busted lip, all the way to the way he's cradling his arm. ''Why?'' She grits out through her teeth. ''Why would you do that?''

Stiles doesn't answer her right away, sharing a look with Scott. ''...I was in the cafeteria.''

She presses her lips together and her eyes flash in annoyance. Ugh. Men. Such brutes. ''I don't need you to defend me, Stiles.''

He looks frustrated. ''Look, Lydia,'' he shoves Derek and Scott's helping hands away and draws himself up to his full height, which is much taller than her, still cradling his left arm. ''The guy's a tool, okay? He deserved what he got. He's lucky I didn't key his car, too.''

''That doesn't change the fact that this wasn't your fight. Just because we're connected now because of werewolves doesn't mean you get to go around thinking you're my knight in shining armor! You're going to get yourself killed!''

''Lydia, he called you a dyke!''

He doesn't say it maliciously, not like Jackson did, but he does shout it quite loudly, and she can't help but flinch. It's a horrible word that people use to be cruel and bigoted. She hates the sound of it. She looks away from him. ''I am well aware of what he called me, thank you,'' she informs him crisply.

Something about the tone of her voice must make him nervous, because he swallows audibly and shuffles from foot to foot. ''He's a total dick,'' he mumbles. ''When you scream at your girlfriend in front of crowds of people, call her a dyke, and tell her that you're only with her because - quote - bisexual girls are easy - unquote - then you should expect to get decked. You should probably expect to get pulverized.''

''Can't argue with that,'' says a voice from behind them.

Lydia freezes and her eyes widen in horror. She locks eyes with Stiles, who looks as terrified as she does, and slowly turns around to face her father, standing there holding the first aid kid, looking positively murderous. ''Daddy,'' she says, letting a nervous bark of laughter escape her lips. ''Do not let him kill Jackson,'' she whispers urgently, through a forced smile, to whatever werewolf is listening.

Quite abruptly, Dad's face smoothes out and the anger disappears. ''As a parent, it's my job to tell you kids that violence is never the answer,'' he drawls, strolling farther into the room. ''But fuck that.'' His jaw tightens and he looks at Stiles. ''I hope you made him cry. Now, sit your ass down, kid.'' He tosses the first aid kit down onto the coffee table. ''The doctor is in. And after we're done here,'' his lips pull back into a frightening sort of smile, showing off his pearly white teeth. ''We're going to the Whittemore house.''

Lydia blows out a breath. Well. Yeah.

Maybe she should check on the family finances just to make sure there's enough money to bail him out of jail.

.

.

.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Derek Hale is a grade A party pooper. Fucking seriously. You know, Dean remembers a time when that kid used to be fun. Sure, he was kind of a douchey teenager, always antagonizing Cora and Lydia, but at least he had a sense of humor. Now he's just a big ole' stick in the mud.

''We are not egging a sixteen year old's car,'' he's hissing out through clenched teeth.

''Oh. Unclench, Hale,'' Dean rolls his eyes and shifts the brown paper grocery bag from his right arm to his left. ''Just be glad I'm not punching his lights out.''

They're standing on the sidewalk in front of the Whittemore house. The house is pulsating with blaring ''dubstep'' music and lights are flashing, the occasional shouts of teenagers reaching their ears. Jackson is inside, playing host, not paying attention to his precious Porsche and his parents are at some rich dude's annual murder mystery Halloween party, which Dean has skipped out on this year because it blows. It's too late for trick or treaters and the neighborhood is dark and empty. It's perfect. Dean pulls out a carton of a dozen eggs and hands it to Lydia. ''Ladies first,'' he says, popping open the carton.

She stares down at the eggs dubiously. ''I,'' she chews on her bottom lip. ''Isn't this a bit juvenile?''

''Yes,'' Dean answers bluntly. No use lying to her. ''But I guarantee you it'll feel damn good.''

''Come on, Lydia,'' Stilinski sidles up to her and wraps the arm that is not in a sling around her shoulders. ''Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.''

''Normally, I'd be against this,'' Scott says, moving to her other side. ''But we're not actually hurting him, right? It's just a little egg. How hard can it be to clean?''

Dean wisely decides not to tell Scott that scraping congealed egg off of anything is a special form of torture.

''I don't know,'' Lydia sighs.

''Don't do it,'' Derek advises, because he is zero fun.

Dean and Stilinski roll their eyes and scoff in almost perfect unison.

''Think about all the time you wasted on Jackson Whittemore,'' Stilinski whispers into her ear.

''Yeah, think about all the crap you had to listen to him complain about,'' Scott says.

''Think about his stupid face.''

''His stupid hair.''

''His smug smirk.''

''The way he treats people.''

Lydia lifts her eyes to Dean and he can see her resolve cracking and splintering away. She gives him one more look, as if silently asking him if this is really an okay thing to do and not some weird test that he's putting her through. Dean winks at her. ''Go for it.''

Fire lights up in her eyes, something she got from her mother, and she spins around, hurling the egg at Jackson's car. The egg lands smack dab in the middle of the windshield and makes an incredibly satisfying splat noise. Stilinski and Scott burst into cheers, clapping and hollering noisily. Derek throws his hands up in the air in exasperation. Dean laughs, long and loud, tilting his head back. As soon as Lydia throws the egg, her face lights up and some of the dark shadows that have been invading her eyes all afternoon dissipate. Dean smiles. It's probably not a conventional way of helping your child through heartbreak but it sure is efficient.

Dean hands Scott and Stilinski a carton of eggs each. ''Go nuts, boys.''

They react like they've won the lottery.

''You bought four dozen eggs?'' Derek asks incredulously. ''You actually went into a supermarket and bought four dozen eggs specifically for this purpose?''

Dean sends him an odd look. ''Of course.''

''No one questioned you?''

''I told them we were having an omelette party.''

''...An omelette party.''

''I'm a well respected member of the community. They had no reason to doubt me.''

''I want no part of this.''

''Fine. Be that way.'' Dean claps the kid on the shoulder. ''You can be the lookout.''

''And,'' Lydia chirps, skipping up to them. ''You can hold my purse.'' She shoves her purse at Derek's stomach, gives Dean a sunny smile, and goes back to egging Jackson's car.

Dean pats Derek on the head. ''Good boy,'' he says, and follows after his daughter.

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.

.

Dean stands at the counter of the Burger Shack, scrolling through his recent text messages and waiting impatiently for his order. It's one of the crummier burger joints in town, but it was the only place open this late and egging someone's car works up your appetite. Taking the kids out for burgers and fries seemed like the Cool Dad thing to do. The only real problem with that theory is that when you take three hungry, hyped up teenagers and one morose werewolf kid to a fast food joint at eleven at night, they wind up ordering almost the entire menu. Dean slips his phone back into his pocket and leans back against the counter.

Outside, the kids are sitting at a picnic table, sipping at their fountain drinks, Scott and Stilinski chatting animatedly, Derek and Lydia bickering. Lydia is sitting cross legged on top of the table, playing with her phone. She says something that makes Scott and Stilinski shut up immediately and then turns her phone around to show them something. The boys lean closer and then Tweedledee and Tweedledum burst into rowdy laughter that Dean can hear all the way from inside. Even Derek looks amused.

Dean can feel a smile starting on his lips. Even though Lydia is adamant that Scott and Stilinski are merely twin pains in her ass and Derek is infuriating, he knows she's growing fond of them. And it's nice. It is. He is so glad that she has friends. It's just...

Sometimes he gets the feeling that his daughter his hiding something from him and these kids are helping her do it. And he is 99% sure that it has something to do with the Argent girl.

He had not been joking when he told her to stay away from Allison Argent, and he knows that Chris and Victoria have banned Allison from so much as talking to any of the ''lowly Winchesters'' but something doesn't feel right. Argents are poisonous. They're uppity hunting snobs who think they're above everyone and Kate... Kate...

He sucks in a breath. He may not have any proof, but he knows what Kate did. His fingers brush against the wedding ring he still wears, the one he can't bear to take off, and his eyes find his daughter, smiling and laughing with her friends, looking weightless. She is not the only one keeping secrets.

''I get that you want her to have a good life,'' Sam had said over the phone the other day. ''I understand that you want her to have a safe, normal life. Believe me, I understand that. But she is not a normal girl. You know that. Not telling her how Kelly really died... Not telling her what she really is... It's not helping. She's an emissary, Dean. Just like Kelly was. It's her birthright. Now that Derek's back in town, what do you think is going to happen?''

''It won't make a difference,'' Dean had snapped. ''One man is not a fuckin' pack.''

''That's not how it works. Tell me she didn't feel it when Laura died. She's connected to them. She's going to start feeling that. ...Look, something is starting in Beacon Hills. There are signs all over town. And what are you going to do when she accidentally sets something on fire or makes roots crawl out of Whittemore's mouth when he pisses her off? She needs to be warned. She deserves that much.''

Dean crosses her arms, leather jacket crinkling. He sighs, staring out at Lydia.

Sam was right, of course. Sam is always right. Lydia did not just inherit her mother's red hair and attitude. Just like Stiles Stilinski did not just inherit Claudia's eyes. Lydia inherited the Hale pack and the burden of protecting him. And it fucking sucks. No parent wants their kid's life to be a shitty young adult novel. But she does need to be prepared. She does need to be ready. There is something starting in Beacon Hills. Something that is not just a rogue Alpha on the loose. He can feel it.

There's a storm coming.

As terrified as he is of becoming his father, there are things she should know. About how her mother died. About what she is. About who the Argents really are. And hey! Maybe she'll take it like a champ. She was pretty devastated when she was eleven and she didn't get her letter to Hogwarts. Maybe she'll welcome the change.

He'll tell her. He will. Just... Not tonight. Tomorrow. Probably.

Maybe.

.

.

.

Lydia puts on her makeup like she's putting on war paint. She has one hour. Maybe two, but she doesn't want to push it. Her father is out, called away because another dead body was found, and she has somewhere to be.

''I shouldn't be getting involved in this,'' Scott had said, after cornering her in the ladies' room at the Burger Shack. ''Because I'm afraid of her father and I'm terrified of yours. But... I'm supposed to give you a message. From Allison.''

Lydia puts her lipstick down and studies her reflection, searching for any obvious imperfections. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of a picture on her vanity. It's a picture of her and her dad from last Christmas. They're standing in front of the tree and he has his arm wrapped around her. They're both smiling all the way to their eyes. The people in the photograph look happy. Lydia looks at herself in the mirror. She has never done anything like this before. Sure, she's snuck out of the house once or twice - what teenager hasn't? - but she's never outright lied to her dad and she's never ever done anything that he has explicitly ordered her not to do.

But then there's Allison and Allison... Allison is not bad. Lydia is sure of it. She has no idea what the deal is with Dad and the Argent family, but she and Allison are not part of it. They're not hunters. They're just Lydia and Allison. They're just normal girls.

Lydia fluffs her hair and wipes away a smudge of lipstick before rising to her feet. She sets her watch.

One hour.

She has one hour.

She can make that work.

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.

.

There is half a Kit Kat bar and a note that says, Happy Halloween, Dad, love you! waiting for him on the table beside the door when Dean enters his darkened house. He smiles to himself and nibbles on the chocolate bar, stripping off his jacket. It's late, past four in the morning, and it's been a long ass night. Apparently, the Alpha on a rampage can't take a night off. On the back of the couch, Prada lifts his head when Dean enters the room, but almost immediately falls back asleep, deciding that Dean is not worth getting excited over apparently.

The room is dark, except for the soft glow of the television. An infomercial is droning on quietly. Lydia is curled up on the couch, still in her clothes with a blanket curled around her, fast asleep. Dean clicks off the television and decides against waking her, instead lifting her into his arms carefully. As soon as he moves, Prada jumps down from his watchful perch and follows after them. The dog bounds ahead of Dean, pushing open Lydia's bedroom door with his paws and hopping up onto the bed - with some difficulty - just as Dean is gently placing her down onto the bed. Prada plants himself on the second pillow right by Lydia's head and stares up at Dean.

Dean crouches down beside the bed to brush hair out of Lydia's face and just...takes a minute to look at how content she looks when she's sleeping. It's been a long time since she was that content in her waking hours. He drags a hand over his tired face and rises to his feet. Something stops him from leaving and he cocks his head to the side, taking a closer look at her. He moves hair out of her face again and blinks down at her still form.

She's wearing makeup. She's wearing makeup and her lipstick is noticeably smudged. Strange, considering he's positive she hadn't been wearing makeup earlier. He licks his lips. Nah. He'll let this one go. He leans down to press a kiss to her temple and pulls her blanket over her. ''Sleep tight, pumpkin.'' On the way out, he scratches behind Prada's ear and winks at the dog. ''You look after her, buddy.''

Prada's tail wags twice before flopping down onto the pillow.

Dean is going to take that as a yes.

Soon, he thinks, shutting her door behind him. I'll tell her soon.

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end

AN: Why, yes. Yes, I did slip in some subtle hints that Claudia Stilinski was an emissary and Stiles will be heading down the same path. (Also, did anybody catch the Katie Cassidy reference in there? I couldn't help myself.) Anyway, I hope this was enjoyable. I am now off to prepare for my Halloween party tonight, so I hope you all have a spooktacular Halloween! And stay safe!