Chapter Seven

Back to Beacon Hills

Stiles, Dean, and Sam meet up fro breakfast the morning after Stiles' last final. They go to a shiny, new Ihop that's close enough to both of their residences for them all to walk to. Dean orders the never-ending pancakes, Sam a cheese omelet with sausage links, and Stiles a very large stack of waffles.

Stiles pulls a sheaf of paper from his bag and passes it to Sam. "Are you sure you don't want to just ride with me?"

Dean and Sam share a look. "We've got to pick up our car," Sam says. "We'll meet you there in a few days."

"Alright. There are the directions, then." Stiles nods at the stack of papers. "I'm still working out the best place for you to stay. My house is pretty small."

Dean stuffs an entire pancake in his mouth. "Dude, this is going to be awesome! I'm so excited!"

Stiles grins and attacks his waffles.

Sam takes care of the bill, and the three of them part ways after they leave the restaurant, waving goodbye. Stiles has to be out of his dorm room by noon, and he hasn't even assembled the cardboard boxes yet. It's ten in the morning.

He hurries across the campus and bounds up the stairs of the dorm building. Jacob steps out of his room and into the hall, bearing two large boxes, just as Stiles exits the stairwell. "Hey, man," Stiles says.

"Can't talk," Jacob wheezes.

So Stiles steps aside and holds the door for him, then heads into his own room which is in it's usual state of disarray. Stiles frowns. Maybe he should have asked Sam and Dean to come help, though he knows they plan to leave within the hour in order to catch a bus and retrieve their car. His phone rings as he starts to tape up the boxes, and he puts it on speaker. "Hello?"

"Hey, son," his dad says.

"Dad, hey! What's up?" Stiles pulls his sheets from his bed and stuffs them in the first box.

"I was just calling to see if you've left yet. It's a long drive."

"Uh…"

Sheriff Stilinski sighs as if that was exactly the answer he'd been expecting. "Just promise me you won't try to do the drive all at once."

"I promise, Dad." Stiles pulls the drawers out of his dresser and upends them into a box, shaking each one to get every last sock out. "I'll find a motel somewhere."

"Good. Are your friends still coming to visit?"

Next, Stiles goes to work on his desk. "Sam and Dean, yeah. They have to go to South Dakota first to pick up their car. I offered to drive them there, but they declined, said they'd take a bus. They'll be in Beacon Hills in a few days."

"Did you warn them we don't have space in our house?" Sheriff Stilinski asks.

The first two boxes are done, so Stiles tapes them up and sets them by the door. "I told them. I thought maybe I'd ask Derek if they can stay with him. He's got a lot of extra rooms" Stiles isn't exactly sure how Derek will feel about that, but it can't hurt to ask. "Dad, I gotta go. I've got a lot of packing to do."

"Alright, Stiles," Sheriff Stilinksi says. "Keep me posted on your progress."

"Will do, Dad. Love you."

"Love you too, son."

Stiles hangs up and then moves around his room in a flurry of motion, tossing belongings into boxes and then into trash bags when the boxes run out. He gets everything down to his car in record time and drops his key off at the Housing and Residential Life office just before noon ticks by. He gives the lady a lopsided grin, but she just looks at him and then at the clock as she takes his key.

Jacob and Sarah are already gone. Sara left the night before, and Jacob's father picked him up a few hours ago, but the three of them have already said goodbye, so Stiles doesn't feel bad about heading straight back to his car.

The Jeep is running better than it ever has in the entire time he's owned it, thanks to Dean. He stops at a grocery store on his way out of town and buys enough junk food to fill the entire passenger seat. There are so many boxes stacked in the back that he can barely see out the rear windshield.

Stiles drives for about twelve hours, the radio blasting, his hands tapping against the steering wheel, the pile of junk food beside him slowly shrinking. He stops in a motel somewhere on the western edge of Colorado, taking his electronics and other valuables into the shitty room with him.


Dean hates buses almost as much as he hates airplanes. It's not that he's afraid of buses, it's just that they're loud and smelly, and the people who take them are weird. And Sam is no help at all. He just plugs in his headphones and stares out the window, listening to some lame history podcast or whatever. So Dean decides to be obnoxious and falls asleep against his shoulder.

It takes them about ten hours go get to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, and Bobby is there to pick them up. Sam shoves Dean awake, and the two of them stumble off the bus, blinking in the harsh station lights. Bobby looks the same as ever: grizzled, grey beard, ratty trucker's hat, a plaid shirt with worn elbows over a grey t-shirt, and a hunter's vest with saggy pockets.

He stands in front of his beat-up, three-color car and raises a hand to catch their attention. Dean and Sam toss their bags in the trunk, and Dean body slams Sam out of the way so he can sit in the front seat. Sam stands outside the car for a moment, jaw grinding, before finally climbing into the backseat.

"You boys were gone a long time," Bobby says. He starts the car, and the engine coughs and wheezes to life. He pulls away from the bus station, and Dean feels like he's getting a butt massage.

"We decided to take a vacation," Dean says, popping open the glove box to see if Bobby has any good cassette tapes. He doesn't.

"You boys don't take vacations," Bobby points out.

Sam leans forward. "That's what I said, but Dean insisted." He whispers in Bobby's ear, smirking. "He met a boy."

"What about Cas?" Bobby spins the wheel, taking them onto a highway that leads out of the city.

"What about Cas?" Dean demands.

Bobby and Sam share a knowing look that makes Dean want to smack them both in the head. Instead, he changes the subject, fighting down the flutter in his stomach at the sound of Cas's name. "His name is Stiles, and he invited us to come stay with him for a while in Beacon Hills. You heard of it?"

When Bobby hears the name of the town, he curses, and the car swerves jarringly, slamming Dean's head against the bare metal frame of the door.

"I take that as a yes," Dean says, clutching his head.

"I looked it up online," Sam says. "Some crazy stuff has gone down there."

"More than some," Bobby agrees. The city lights disappear, and they're driving down an unbroken stretch of rural highway. Their headlights are the only ones to be seen. "Quite a few hunters have disappeared there over the years."

"What do you know?" Sam asks.

Bobby shrugs. "Not much. There's not a lot of information that gets out of that town and what does is garbled. People have been dying and disappearing there for decades, but the number has increased exponentially over the past few years."

"I found a lot of articles about animal maulings," Sam says. "Usually blamed on cougars."

"So are we thinking a werewolf pack?" Dean asks. He pulls a king-sized bag of peanut M&Ms out of his jacket's inside pocket and tears it open.

"It seems like the most likely explanation," Bobby says as the dark, flat landscape flashes by. "But if it is, it's a big pack."

Dean sighs. "Work, work, work."

They pull into the driveway of Bobby's auto shop and car graveyard. The stacks of smashed vehicles loom up around them like jagged, teetering behemoths, lit up briefly by the headlights as they drive by. Bobby parks close to the faded, ramshackle house and waits for Sam and Dean to get their bags before leading the way to the front door.

Just like Bobby, the inside of his house is the same as ever. The white tiles of the kitchen floor are dingy and grey, and there are empty glasses and whisky bottles loaded on every counter. The parts of the wooden floor in the den that aren't covered by rugs are scuffed, and books are piled on every available surface, teetering in uneven piles, lying open on the desks and tables, and stuffed in the tall bookshelves.

"Can we crash here for the night, Bobby?" Sam asks.

"You boys can always stay here," Bobby says with a smile. "Just be aware that there's no food in the house."

Dean pulls another bag of peanut M&Ms out of his pocket.


Melissa McCall has invited Dr. Crowley over for dinner. She's invited him over, and she's making Scott stay. There's an hour until the big meal, and Scott is currently hiding in his room despite Melissa's repeated orders that he come help with the preparation.

"Scott," Melissa shouts up the stairs. "Now!"

"Fine!" Scott yells back and stomps out of his room, arms crossed.

His mom is making pot roast, mashed potatoes, and green beans for dinner, and she's already drunk half a bottle of wine. "Is that what you're wearing?" she asks as soon as Scott enters the kitchen.

"Is that what you're wearing?" Scott shoots back, eying his mother's black bathrobe and the curlers in her hair. She glares at him.

Scott peels the potatoes as Melissa rubs herbs into the meat, and then he tosses the cubes into a pot of boiling water. He chops the ends off the green beans, dropping them in a pan that has bacon bits sizzling in it. Melissa pushes the pot roast into the oven and slams the door shut, brushing her hands off, and Scott stirs the green beans. When they're done, he takes them off the heat and dumps them in an orange ceramic bowl. Next, he strains the potatoes and puts them back in the pot with some butter and milk, his arm muscles working as he handles the masher.

When the food is done, Melissa sends him upstairs to change with the threat of a pan to the head if he doesn't come back down wearing a suit. He has more than a little trouble getting his tie to knot properly, but he finally tugs it into place as the doorbell rings.

"Shit," he says, pulling at the cuffs of his jacket and hating how they're about an inch too short. He hears his mother open the door.

"Gus! Hello! Please, come in. Can I take your jacket?"

"Thank you," Dr. Crowley says in his low, rough voice.

"Scott!" Melissa bellows up the stairs. That's his cue.

Scott buttons up his jacket and thunders down the stairs. Melissa hangs Dr. Crowley's coat on one of the pegs as he arrives, and he offers his teacher an awkward grin. "Hi, Dr. Crowley."

"Scott." Dr. Crowley inclines his head.

"Would you like something to drink, Gus?" Melissa asks. She's changed into a red, sleeveless dress.

"That would be lovely. Do you have Scotch?" Dr. Crowley follows Melissa into dining room and sits down as Melissa fixes them both a drink. Scott gets a Coke. He would have preferred a beer. Or five.

"I'm going to get the pot roast," Melissa says, and then she leaves Scott and Dr. Crowley at the table. Alone. Scott fiddles with his fork, tapping his finger against the handle.

"Looking forward to the end of the year?" Dr. Crowley asks.

Scott nods a couple of times and continues playing with his fork, wishing Melissa would come back.

"Ready for finals?" Dr. Crowley swirls his glass of Scotch and then takes a sip.

Scott lets out a short laugh. "Not even close."

Melissa comes back into the room, bearing a silver pot which she carefully sets on the pot holders in the center of the table. "It smells delicious," Dr. Crowley tells her, smiling again.

They serve themselves and start eating. Scott's impressed. Usually, Melissa's cooking leaves much to be desired. Scott is glad for the food; it means he doesn't have to talk. But he still has to listen to them talk and watch them make googly eyes at each other.

"So, Scott, plans for the summer?" Dr. Crowley asks, forcing him to join the conversation.

Scott swallows a large spoonful of potatoes. "Not really. Stiles will be home in a day or two. Apparently, he's bringing two of his college friends home."

"What are their names?" Melissa asks.

"Sam and Dean."

Dr. Crowley chokes on a bite of meat and pounds on his chest with a fist. Melissa stretches out a hand and touches his arm, looking concerned. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Dr. Crowley coughs, face a little red. He finally swallows the food and coughs again, washing it down with more Scotch.

The rest of the meal goes quickly and smoothly, and Dr. Crowley even stays to help with the dishes, taking off his dark suit coat and rolling up the sleeves of his equally dark shirt. Melissa clears, Scott washes, and Dr. Crowley dries. After the kitchen is clean, he says goodbye to the both of them, and Scott heads upstairs so Melissa and Dr. Crowley can have a moment alone.


Dean wakes up early, stretching before he stands up from Bobby's battered couch, and digs his hidden stash of beef jerky out of his bag, sticking a strip in his mouth for breakfast. He stuffs his feet into his boots and then heads outside to check on his car.

The Impala sits by Bobby's car, sleek and black and gleaming in the morning light. "Hey, Baby," Dean crows, running his hand over her shining roof. "Did you miss me?"

He pops the trunk open and lifts the false bottom, propping it in place with a sawed-off shotgun. The arsenal is just as they left it; the guns, knives, and assorted supernatural paraphernalia protected by the pentagram painted on the false panel.

He hears the screen door open and looks up to see Bobby step out onto the porch, steaming mug in hand. "Thanks for taking care of her, Bobby," Dean says.

Bobby nods. "You'll be careful in Beacon Hills, won't you?"

"We're always careful," Dean says just as Bobby lifts the mug to his lips. Coffee sprays out of the cup, and Bobby curses.

"Don't make me choke, boy."

"Sorry."

Sam steps out of the house, wearing a pumpkin orange plaid shirt. "Hey, Dean," he says. "Do you have anything left in your beef jerky stash?"

Dean narrows his eyes at Sam suspiciously. "I don't have a beef jerky stash."

"Uh huh. Sure." Sam rolls his eyes. He carries both his and Dean's bag with him and brings them down to the car. Dean closes up the armory, so Sam can toss them inside. "We should head out. We've got a lot of miles to cover."

Dean nods. "Thanks again."

They wave goodbye to Bobby and climb into the Impala, and then Dean peels out of the car yard as fast as he can.


Stiles gets up early the next morning and gets on the road as soon as he can. He has about fifteen hours of driving left to do. His dad would prefer that he stop again, but he just wants to get home.

He eats lots of junk food, listens to music at a blaring volume, and only has to stop twice to do repairs on the Jeep. Stiles rolls into Beacon Hills just after 11pm and heads straight home, taking only his overnight bag with him into the house. He'll make the rest of the Pack help him unload in the morning.

He bangs through the door. "Dad!"

There's a grunt of surprise and a thud from the living room, and Stiles drops his bag in the entrance way so he can go see what's happened. His dad is lying on the couch, rubbing sleep from his face, and a thick book is on the floor, having fallen off his chest as he jerked awake.

"Stiles?" Sheriff Stilinski blinks a couple of times and looks around until he spots Stiles. His short, grey hair sticks up in every direction, and he wears a pair of blue pajamas.

"It's me," Stiles says with a grin. Sheriff Stilinski clambers upright and scoops Stiles up in a large hug, squeezing him so hard that Stiles swears he hears his ribs creak. Sheriff Stilinski lets go and ruffles Stiles' hair, the lines on his face smoothed away by the smile that sits there instead.

"How was the drive?" Sheriff Stilinski asks, pulling Stiles down onto the couch.

"Long," Stiles says. "Very long."

"Well, I'll let you get some sleep." Sheriff Stilinski ruffles Stiles' hair again. "We'll talk more in the morning, okay?"

Stiles agrees with a grin and retrieves his bag before making his way upstairs to his room. He tosses the bag to the floor and then himself to the bed, pulling his phone out of his pocket and squirming up to his pillows. He sends a text to the Pack's GroupMe chat.

Guess who's back! It's Stiles!
And guess who's going to come by my house
at 10 tomorrow morning to help me unpack?
That's right! You!
I may provide donuts.

He tosses his phone to the bedside table, suddenly too tired to even dig his charger out of his bag. His phone buzzes as he falls asleep, but he doesn't have the energy to check it.


Stiles rolls out of bed a half hour before the Pack is supposed to arrive, and his phone is full of messages from his friends, promising to be at his house. Derek is the only one who hasn't replied, which hurts a bit, but Stiles is confident the rest of the Pack will drag him along.

Stiles stomps downstairs, jumping the last three steps, and makes his way to the kitchen. His dad is already there, fixing a pot of coffee, and there are two large boxes of donuts sitting on the counter. "Morning, son," he says and hands Stiles a cup of coffee.

There's a knock at the door, and Stiles grabs a chocolate donut before going to answer it. When he opens the door, he nearly chokes on his first bite of food. Derek stands on the front step, looking impossibly perfect in a grey V-neck and a pair of battered jeans, stubble splashed across his face. He pulls off a pair of dark aviator sunglasses when he sees Stiles and smirks just a little bit.

"Derek!" Stiles loses track of his words. "You…you're here early! Come in." Stiles steps back so Derek can enter. He seems to fill the entire entranceway, and Stiles can feel the heat radiating off him from several feet away. He wants to give Derek a hug, but he's not sure how Derek would feel about that, so the moment passes, and instead, he says, "There's coffee and donuts in the kitchen."

Derek follows him down the hall and around the corner, and he helps himself to a donut. "Derek," Sheriff Stilinski says with a nod. "Where's the rest of the Pack?"

"On their way," Derek answers.

Sheriff Stilinski nods again, a knowing look on his face that Stiles doesn't understand. He stuffs the last of his donut into his mouth as his dad subtly leaves the kitchen. Derek pours himself a cup of coffee and leans up against the counter, his grey-green eyes boring into Stiles.

"I'm glad you're home," he says, and Stiles feels a grin lift his face.

"Glad to be home,' he agrees. "Hey, can I ask a favor?"

"Aside from the slave labor I'm about to perform unloading all your possessions?"

Stiles makes a face at him. "Har har. So, two of my friends are coming to visit, Sam and Dean, and I was wondering if they could stay in some of your extra rooms. We don't have space here."

About seven different expressions run across Derek's face in a second, but Stiles can't interpret any of them.

"They're really cool. You'll like them," Stiles promises, forcing a smile.

"Uh, sure, of course," Derek says finally.

Stiles lets out a sigh of relief. "Thanks, man."

There's another knock at the door, and Derek and Stiles go to answer it together. The rest of the Pack stands outside, crowded together on the small porch. "There better be donuts," Cora says. "That's the only reason I'm here."

"In the kitchen," Stiles says.

The werewolves in the Pack push past him into the house, making a beeline for the kitchen. Lydia rolls her eyes as she steps sedately over the threshold, Allison right behind her. "We had breakfast a half hour ago," Lydia says. Then her pink lips quirk, and she gives Stiles a tight hug. "It's good to see you, Stiles."

Stiles wraps his arms around her, her hair tickling his nose and the scent of her perfume surrounding him. "You too."

They break apart, and Allison takes Lydia's place. "Stiles!" Scott calls from the kitchen. "You're out of donuts!"

Stiles rolls his eyes, and the four of them rejoin the rest of the Pack. Everyone steps up to give Stiles a welcoming hug. Scott's lasts the longest, and Erica whispers something dirty in his ear with a playful grin. Stiles directs his troops out to the Jeep, and Isaac and Boyd get into a contest to see who can carry the most stuff in one go. Lydia perches on the porch railing, legs crossed, and offers vaguely scathing encouragement as people walk by her.

They get the car unloaded and all the stuff moved up to Stiles' room in an hour, and then Scott, Allison, and Lydia stay to help him put his things away while the rest of the Pack disperses, though Lydia insists on putting things away in the exact opposite spot as where they're supposed to go, so Stiles has to follow her around and move everything back.

Allison and Lydia head out mid-afternoon, leaving Scott and Stiles behind. Stiles plugs the Xbox into the TV, and they flop down on the bed, controllers in hand. Scott stays for dinner, filling Stiles in on the Pack's training and his mom's relationship with Dr. Crowley, and Stiles tells him all about the horrors of college finals. His dad is working late tonight, so it's just Scott and Stiles in the house.

"Oh, show me the tattoo!" Scott says when they're on dessert.

Stiles grins and rolls up his sleeve, and Scott seizes his arm so he can pull it up to his eyes. "It's awesome! We're tattoo buddies!"

Stiles narrows his eyes. "Don't compare my awesome tattoo to your lame one."

Scott laughs that bubbling laugh of his and finishes off the carton of ice cream.

They start up a movie, and Stiles' phone buzzes with a text from Dean saying they've got about six hours left and they're stopping for the night; hopefully, they'll be there around dinnertime tomorrow. "I can't wait to introduce you to Sam and Dean," Stiles says, putting his phone away. "We should have a big Pack dinner tomorrow."

"Sure," Scott agrees. "I'll set something up at Derek's."

Scott spends the night, and Sheriff Stilinski kicks him out in the morning so he and Stiles can have breakfast together. Stiles makes eggs and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt as he sits down so the cuffs won't get in his food. Sheriff Stilinski starts to eat but freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth. "What is that?"

"Hm?" Stiles looks up, and his dad points an accusing fork at Stiles' forearm. Stiles turns his arm over, fully revealing the wolf print tattoo. "Oh, I got a tattoo. Didn't I tell you?"

Sheriff Stilinski narrows his eyes. "No, you didn't."

"Oh, sorry." Stiles quickly changes the subject, though he can tell this isn't the last time he'll hear about it. "You coming to the Pack dinner tonight?"

"Can't." Sheriff Stilinski sighs and finally resumes eating. "I have to work late again."

They finish eating, Sheriff Stilinski grilling Stiles on everything that happened at college, and then Stiles drives to Derek's to make sure everything is set up for Sam and Dean's arrival. He doesn't bother knocking, just walks right in, and Derek calls a hello.

"Hey." Stiles finds Derek in the living room, reading. "Are the rooms ready?"

"Clean sheets, fresh towels," Derek says.

"Thanks fore letting them stay here." Stiles drops onto the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

"Sure."

Stiles frowns; Derek is being even more monosyllabic than usual. "Is everything okay?" he asks.

"Of course," Derek says blandly.

"You know, if you don't want them to stay here, you can say so." Stiles leans forward, but Derek won't meet his eyes.

"It's fine," Derek says. "Really."

"Okay." Stiles stands up and stuffs a hand through his hair and heads for the door after staring at Derek for a moment. He pauses just before he turns the corner. "I missed you while I was away."

Embarrassed, he turns and leaves before he can see the small smile that creeps across Derek's face.


It's Sam's idea that they spread the twenty-four hour drive out across three days rather than doing it all in one-shot like Dean wants. When they stop the second night, Dean texts Stiles to update him on the progress, and the morning of the third day, they stop for lunch before hitting the road.

Dean happily runs his hand along Baby after they leave the restaurant, and Sam cocks an eyebrow. "Do you two need a moment alone?"

"Shut up."

When they're two hours away from Beacon Hills, Stiles texts Dean an address, and Dean tosses his phone to Sam so he can boot up the GPS. "He says we'll be staying at his friend Derek's house, and he hopes we're hungry," Sam says.

"I am hungry." Dean presses down on the accelerator, and the needle creeps up to 90, the heavy beat of a rock song thrumming through his feet.

They don't actually drive through the city of Beacon Hills to get to the address Stiles sent them. The road winds through a prickly forest, and the GPS tells them to turn onto a hidden driveway not far from the city limits. Dean stomps on the brakes and hauls the wheel around, gravel spraying from the wheels as the Impala just barely makes the turn onto the driveway which winds through the forest for about a minute before opening up into a wide clearing.

The house before them has three stories and a certain elegance to it despite being squat. Many windows dot the wall, and there's a wide porch, the roof above it supported by white pillars. The paneling is painted a pleasant blue color. There are four cars and a dirt bike parked in front of the house, and Dean is glad to see one of them is Stiles' Jeep.

He pulls up beside a gleaming, black Camaro, and they step out of the Impala. Nerves flutter in Dean's stomach, and he glances over at Sam. "Ready?"


The entire Pack gathers at Derek's house in the late afternoon, and Derek is somehow convinced to make Laura Hale's Famous Spaghetti and Meatballs. Stiles joins him in the kitchen and jumps to when Derek gives him a job to do. Erica and Boyd set the large dining table while Lydia corrects all of their mistakes.

At about seven, Dean hears the roar of a car engine coming up the drive, accompanied by the sound of rock music, and it's loud enough that even Stiles lifts his head, a grin spreading across his face. "That must be them!"

Derek feels a weird twinge at the excitement in his voice.

He twitches the curtain on the kitchen window open and sees a beautiful, black car trundling up the gravel drive. Stiles joins him, his cheek practically pressed up against Derek's. Derek wishes there weren't so many werewolves in the house so there wouldn't be any witnesses to the thundering of his heart.

"Come on!" Stiles seizes Derek's hand and drags him away from the window before he can see who steps out of the car.

There's a knock at the door, and the Pack gathers round as Stiles pulls it open. The first thing Derek notices is that they're both tall. Tall and broad. Derek recognizes the blonde one from Stiles' tattoo selfie, and he's even prettier in person, wearing a brown leather jacket over an off-white pullover. The other one is even taller with brown hair that falls to his shoulders and friendly eyes. Derek is not entirely sure what made him decide to wear such an oddly colored plaid shirt.

"Sam, Dean, come in!" Stiles says.

Both men smile and step inside, and the taller one shuts the door behind them. Stiles herds everyone into the dining room, and as Sam and Dean walk past, Derek catches a faint whiff of metal, gun powder, and something herb-like that he can't identify.

"Everyone, meet Sam and Dean." Stiles gestures at his two new friends, and they wave slightly. Derek eyes them. There's something dangerous in the way they stand, a breath of violence in every line of their bodies. Stiles doesn't notice it. He stands right beside them, half their size, oblivious. "And these are my friends." Stiles points at everyone in turn. "That's my best friend Scott. Then Allison, Lydia, Isaac, Cora, Erica, Boyd, and Derek."

He leaves Derek for last. Derek's not sure what that means.

"Hey," Dean says. He has an easy smile. Derek doesn't like it. And he doesn't like Sam's overly sincere eyes.

"We've heard a lot about you," Scott says, all puppy-dog charm.

"All good things, I hope." Sam grins.

A timer dings in the kitchen, and Derek whirls on his heel to go strain the pasta. "Is he…" he hears Dean say.

"He's always like that," Stiles answers. "I told you, he's grumpy."

Derek scowls. He's convinced there's something weird going on with the brothers. He shakes the last of the water off the spaghetti and dumps it in a bowl, then drops the meatballs on top and pours the tomato sauce over it.

"Scott, come get the breadsticks!" he calls over his shoulder.

Scott patters into the kitchen, but Derek doesn't hand him the loaded plate right away. "What do you think about them?" he asks, jerking his head towards the dining hall where he can hear people laughing.

Scott shrugs. "I like them. Dean's funny, and Sam is nice."

"You don't think there's anything off about them?"

"No." Scott shakes his head and reaches for the dish of breadsticks.

"They smell like gunpowder," Dean insists. "They're dangerous. I can tell."

Scott rolls his eyes. "You're overreacting. You just don't like them because you don't know them." He snatches the plate out of Derek's hand and leaves the kitchen. Derek sighs. He's not overreacting.

He carries the large bowl of spaghetti into the dining room and sets it down in the center of the table. Everyone is already seated. Stiles sits by Dean, and Lydia slides into a chair beside Sam. Derek takes the head of the table, opposite Scott.

Since they have guests, the werewolves at least try to act like civilized people. They don't fall on the food like they usually do, but it still leaps from the bowl to their plates with lightning speed. Dean's plate is piled just as high as Scott's.

Sam and Dean easily fit in with the Pack. Dean flirts shamelessly with everyone around him, and Sam gets into a debate with Stiles about the relative merits of different Greek and Roman gods. Derek watches the way Stiles laughs at the things Dean says and feels a pang in his stomach.

Dinner lasts for hours, even after the last morsel of food is consumed. Allison brought a pie over for dessert, and Dean's eyes light up when he sees it. "Yes! Pie!"

"Dean likes pie," Sam explains unnecessarily as Dean digs into the slice Allison hands him.

He makes a grunt of appreciation. "Awesome."

"Stiles says you guys know a thing or two about cars," Isaac says through a mouthful of pie.

Dean has matching chipmunk cheeks, so Sam answers for him. "Yeah. It's the family business. Our dad taught us most of what we know."

"Who's Camaro is that outside?" Dean asks. "It's slick."

"Mine," Derek says.

"It's real slick," Dean repeats.

"Thanks." Derek gives him a tight nod which is pretty friendly of him, he thinks.

"You ever driven something older, more classic? I've got a '97 Chevy Impala, if you want to take her for a spin sometime."

"I like my car," Derek says, gratified to see Dean's smile falter. Stiles kicks him under the table and frowns at him. Derek leans back in his chair and lets out a huff.

"So, Sam, why this shirt?" Lydia pokes a button on Sam's orange shirt and purses her lips.

"Uh huh." Lydia raises an eyebrow, and Dean snorts with laughter. "We'll fix this later."

Sam looks over at Dean, aghast and offended, but Dean just continues to laugh at him.

Derek makes his Betas do the dishes, though Cora conveniently disappears, then Scott, Allison, and Isaac say goodbye and leave together. "Goodnight," Scott says to Dean. "It was nice to meet you. I'm sure we'll see you tomorrow."

Erica and Boyd leave next, hand in hand, and Lydia waves goodbye as well, winking at Sam. Stiles is the last one left. "I'll call you in the morning, okay? We can get breakfast."

"Sounds good," Dean agrees.

Stiles shuts the door behind him, leaving Derek alone with the two brothers. Sam clasps his hand together awkwardly, glancing over at Dean who shrugs. "You got bags" Derek asks. "I'll show you to your rooms."

"They're in the car," Sam says. "We'll go grab them."

Derek catches another whiff of gunpowder and herbs as they walk by, and he strains his ears to listen as they walk down the porch. "He doesn't like us," Dean whispers.

"I don't think he likes anyone."

Sam and Dean come back to the house, and Derek takes them upstairs and down the hall to the last two doors. "Here are your rooms. Bathroom's across the hall. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen."

"Thanks for letting us stay," Sam says, offering Derek a smile.

"Sure, no problem. I'll see you in the morning." Derek nods a goodnight and heads to his own room which is around the corner and down another hallway. He listens as Sam and Dean go into their rooms, and he has to remind himself it's impolite to eavesdrop.