Stiles walked into his dad's office, and sat on the edge of the desk. He had just finished lacrosse practised, when he'd received a text from his dad that he was still at work. He was filthy and exhausted from practise, and Stiles had a handful of fresh bruises on his chest and arms from lacrosse.
Stiles watched as Sheriff Stilinski pored over one of his files, his forehead creased in concentration. His dad's shift ended a few hours ago, and the Sheriff was still fervently working away.
"Dad, are we going home now?" Stiles asked. "It's like, eight o'clock. I'm starving."
"Five more minutes," John Stilinski promised, distracted. Stiles sighed, fidgeting with the coffee mug full of pens and pencils. He picked up a pen, and started clicking it repeatedly. The Sheriff continued reading, trying to block out the obnoxious sounds.
"How was practise? You and Scott had fun?" He asked.
"It was alright," Stiles shrugged. Stiles dropped the pen into the mug, and glanced around the familiar office. He leaned forward to sneak a look at the file, but his dad blocked his view with his arm. "You know the rules, Stiles," John told him. "This is confidential."
John glanced up, and saw his son's bruised, split knuckles gripping the edge of the desk. "Jeez, Stiles, your hand looks really bad."
"Yeah, I'm gonna put some ice on it when we get home," Stiles told him. "You nearly finished?"
The Sheriff rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, and closed the file. "Yeah, I'm done for the night," He said, standing up. Stiles watched as his dad locked up the file in the cabinet, and flicked off the light. "Let's go, kiddo," John said, grabbing his jacket on the way out of the station. Stiles and his dad nodded at the receptionist on the way out.
"What is this joker doing?" John said, watching the blue Cadillac speed up considerably in the next lane. He flicked on his police siren, and pulled over the vehicle.
"Stay in the car, Stiles," the Sheriff instructed. "I'll just be a minute."
He got out of the car, and walked over to the '87 Cadillace Broughman. The driver, a Korean male in his thirties, rolled down the window.
"There a reason you're going so fast?" John asked. "You were clocking eighty in a school zone."
"Sorry," the man shrugged. "My bad."
"Licence and registration, please."
"Can't you just let me off with a warning? I already apologized," the man said, annoyed. "It's dark out – I didn't see the school zone sign. I'm not from around here."
"Sir, I need to see your licence and registration," The Sheriff repeated.
Cursing under his breath, the man pulled out his wallet, and handed his driver's licence to the Sheriff. Dennis Cleary, aged thirty two, address listed as 22 Cedar Lane, Boise, Idaho.
John Stilinski wrote up a ticket, and handed it to the man. "Here you go, sir. Please refrain from speeding, alright?"
"Yeah, sure," the man said, sticking the ticket in the visor above his seat. He'd only been in town for one day, and he'd already been pulled over. Great, just great.
Dennis watched through his rear view mirror, as the Sheriff walked back to his vehicle. Dennis noticed the teenager sitting in the passenger seat, wearing the crimson lacrosse jersey. Dennis made a mental note of the kid's jersey number, 24. The kid would be an interesting choice for the Devil's Breath, seeing as how his douche of a father had pulled him over. It would be the perfect revenge for the Sheriff, if his son was busted for breaking the law.
As soon as Dennis got back to the motel, he booted up his laptop and google'd Beacon Hills. In particular, the Sheriff, and his teenaged son. After only a few minutes, Dennis knew the kid's name was Stiles. There'd been an obituary posted in the Beacon Hills Chronicle a few years ago, for the newly deceased Claudia Stilinski. He skimmed it briefly. ". . . She is survived by her loving husband, Sheriff John Stilinski, and her young son, Stiles Stilinski . . ." Bingo, thought Dennis, as he bookmarked the page. Stiles definitely took after his mom, he was the spitting image of Claudia, not the blond-haired Sheriff.
Two days later, Dennis showed up at the high school. He parked in the lot, and watched the kids streaming out of the building after the bell had rung. He kept his eyes on the main door, hoping to spot the Sheriff's son. Finally, he was rewarded as he spotted Stiles walking alongside a latino kid with an armband tattoo. Dennis watched as Stiles parted ways with his friend, and pulled out his car keys. He hopped into the baby blue Jeep parked a few rows down. Dennis started his vehicle, and started to follow behind him, keeping his distance.
"Stiles, Hey!" Dennis called out to the teenager, as he followed him into the library. He watched as the teen turned around, looking at Dennis with zero recognition.
"Yo," He said, confused. "You talking to me?"
"Yeah," Dennis said. He leaned forward, the pinch of Devil's Breath between his fingers. He blew it into the kid's face, and watched with satisfaction as the kid inhaled sharply. He knew he had Stiles now, the teen was completely open to suggestion. Dennis put a hand on Stile's arm, and led him to his Jeep.
"You and me, we're gonna have some fun," Dennis said, grinning. "Now, let's go for a ride."
