Chapter Ten

Investigations

After a while, the police herd them off the school grounds, and they're forced to return to Derek's house. The Pack splits itself up between the Camaro and Lydia's little, blue car. "We'll catch up with you in a bit," Dean calls to Stiles.

Stiles waves in acknowledgement before he climbs into the shotgun seat of the Camaro.

The ride home is silent and tense, and Stiles drums his fingers against his knee. He's such a fool. He'd thought that just this once, he would have a nice, peaceful summer in Beacon Hills, but he should've known better. It's like he's a goddamn magnet for evil.

The Pack gathers in Derek's living room. They sit down on the couches and chairs, but they don't sprawl like they usually do. Lydia claims one of the armchairs, her feet tucked underneath her, the shock blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. Allison, Scott, and Isaac take up one couch, their hands linked, while Erica and Boyd sit on the other with Cora, leaving Stiles to perch on the armrest of Derek's chair. He purposefully leans back so their shoulders are pressed together, and Derek's forced to support some of his weight.

"First things first," Derek says once everyone is settled. "Stiles, I think you should tell your friends to leave."

"What? Why?"

"Why? Someone just died, Stiles. Their throat was ripped out, and their blood was drained. We can't investigate and babysit your two giants."

Stiles' face falls. "Yeah, I guess you're right. But how do I tell them, 'hey, I think you should leave before something eats you'?"

"You say just that," Derek says. "Except you leave out the part about getting eaten."

"Maybe it doesn't have to come to that quite yet," Scott interrupts, seeing Stiles' crushed expression. "I bet we can figure something out. One person can keep them occupied while everyone else investigates."

Stiles perks up and grins. "Hey, that could work!"

Derek's brow crinkles unhappily, but he doesn't object.

"Lydia, you saw the body," Cora says. "Do you have any idea what killed him?"

Lydia finally unfolds her legs and sits up, though she still looks shaken and pale. "I've never seen anything like it. The throat was torn out like with any werewolf attack, but there was no blood. With a werewolf, blood gets on every available surface. And this guy, I don't know, it was like he had been drained."

"Hang on," Scott butts in, puzzled. "Are we talking about a vampire?"

"Do vampires even exist?" Allison asks. Everyone looks at Derek.

"I've heard rumors," the Alpha says slowly. He's so warm under Stiles' shoulder. It's a bit distracting. "But I've never seen any evidence."

"Deaton said Sheriff Stilinski sent him the body to look at," Scott says. "He'll text me tomorrow with his findings."

Derek nods. "That's a good start. Isaac, tomorrow, you and I will go over to the school and see if we can smell anything. Stiles, can you start looking up whatever you can on vampires?" Stiles nods, already excited for the upcoming research project. "And Lydia, will you distract Sam and Dean tomorrow?"

She forces a smile. "I think I can manage that."

"What about the rest of us?" Erica asks.

Derek taps his fingers against the armrest of his chair. "Search the woods. It's a long shot, but maybe you'll find something." He stiffens, and Stiles sees his ears twitch. "They're back."

An instant later, Stiles, too, hears the drone of the Impala's engine. Body turns the TV on to the news, and they all relax as if that's all they've been doing since they got home. The engine cuts out, the door creaks open, and the brothers walk inside, pausing at the entrance to the living room. "Hey guys," Dean says with a small smile. "Sammy and I are pretty tired. We're going to head off to bed."

They do look tired. They both have slight bags under their eyes, and their shoulders are hunched. Dean carries a small, green duffel bag in one hand. The Pack waves goodnight, and Stiles jumps up from his perch so he can hurry after the brothers. He catches Sam's arm just before they can start up the stairs. "Hey, are you okay? That must've been way freaky."

"You could say that," Sam says, his eyes soft and sad. "But I'm okay, really."

Stiles glances down at the ground. "I'd understand if you want to leave."

"Of course not!" Dean lightly punches him in the arm. "What, are you trying to get rid of us?"

"No, no, definitely not!" Stiles replies so quickly that his voice squeaks.

If Dean notices, he doesn't say anything. "Alright then. We'll see you in the morning."

As they head upstairs Stiles returns to the living room. The entire Pack grins widely at him. "You are a master of subterfuge," Erica tells him.

"Oh, shut up," he mumbles.

After the Camaro and Lydia's blue car disappear, Dean and Sam drive in the opposite direction until they find a little, deserted park. The day is sunny and warm, so Dean is surprised to see the playground so empty, though he supposes word of the incident at the school must've gotten out and warded the parents off. He and Sam sit down at a picnic table beneath a wide oak tree.

"Dude, we just killed a vamp," Dean sighs. "I was hoping we were done with them for a while."

"I'm not sure it was a vamp," Sam says. He stretches his long legs out across the ground and rests his elbows on top of the table.

"Then what the hell was it?" Dean demands, frustrated. Sam shrugs. "Damnit. I hate research." He takes John Winchester's leather journal from the inside pocket of his jacket and passes it to Sam. "Here, see what you can find in this. I'm going to call Cas."

Sam nods, undoing the clasp on the front cover as Dean stands up and walks around to the other side of the oak tree.

Cas actually answers his phone. Dean is impressed. "What is the point of a speed limit?" Cas says in that gruff voice that Dean loves. "Why does anyone care how I drive? I'm an Angel of the Lord. I'm not going to get in an accident."

Dean bites back a laugh, leaning up against the tree trunk. "You got pulled over, didn't you?"

"Yes, and I think the police officer knew my ID was fake, because she tried to arrest me."

"Did you use the one that says your name is Marty McFly?" There's silence on the other line, and Dean sighs. "Dude, I told you not to use that one. It's too obviously fake."

"You told me to find a pop culture reference, so I did," Cas says. Dean can hear the roar of the wind in the background.

He rolls his eyes skyward. "Yeah, but not one that obvious. You know what? Never mind. How did you get out of it?"

"I wiped her memory and drove off."

Dean is still weirded out by all the things Cas can do, and he's very glad the angel is on his side. "So where are you now?" he asks, turning around to check on Sam, whose head is bent over the journal in concentration. The wind plays with his long hair.

"I'm not sure," Cas admits. For an all powerful angel, he has a horrible sense of direction.

"Well, I need you to hurry up," Dean says. "A kid just died. We're not sure what killed him, but it was definitely supernatural."

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Cas promises and hangs up.

Dean returns to the picnic table. "Anything?" he asks Sam, dropping to the bench. Sam shakes his head. Dean sighs. It's never easy.

They return to the Impala, and Dean sets off in the direction of Derek's house. "We need to get a better look at that body."

"How?" Sam asks. He's still leafing through the journal. "The sheriff knows our faces. We can't just suddenly become FBI agents."

"We could break in."

Their hi-jacked police scanner bursts to life before Sam can tell him the flaw in that plan, too. "Officer Thomas," Sheriff Stilinski voice crackles through the speaker. "I need you to take that body on over to the veterinary clinic."

"Why, sir?" a woman asks.

"I suspect an animal attack, but I want to know what the doc thinks," the sheriff replies.

"Okay, sir, I'll take it over now." The radio falls silent.

Sam looks over at Dean and a smile crosses his face. "The vet doesn't know us. We can talk to him tomorrow, get him to show us the body."

They return to the Hale house, and Dean loads up a green duffel bag with their fake IDs, suits, and a few of the arcana books they stole from Bobby from the trunk. He also puts a vial of dead man's blood and a machete inside just in case. It's unlikely that the vamp will try to break in, but better safe than sorry. Besides, the thing might not even be a vamp, so who knows what rules it operates by.

Stiles and the others are in the living room, watching TV. Dean grins when he sees that Stiles is practically lying on top of Derek. He's noticed that Stiles likes Derek (and he suspects the feeling is mutual), and he wants to make sure they get together.

He would love to stay and hang with them, but he and Sam need to get to work. "Hey, guys. Sammy and I are pretty tired. We're going to head off to bed."

His new friends chorus goodnights as he leads Sam towards the stairs. He hears footsteps behind them, and then Sam is turned around by Stiles whose dark brown hair sticks up even more erratically than usual. "Hey, are you okay?" Stiles asks Sam. "That must've been way freaky."

"That's one way to put it," Sam agrees, though Dean knows he's not freaked out at all. The concern doesn't leave Stiles' face. "I'm okay, really."

Stiles bites his lip and looks away, scuffing his socked foot against the floor. "I'd understand if you want to leave."

Dean panics. They can't leave now; they'd never be able to complete the hunt without revealing the truth. The world of demons and monsters is not something he wants to involve Stiles in. "Of course not!" he replies too quickly, then tries to cover it up with a joke. "What, are you trying to get rid of us?"

"No, no, definitely not," Stiles says hastily, and Dean lets out a relieved grin.

"Alright, then. We'll see you tomorrow."

He and Sam hurry up the stairs and down the hallway to Sam's room, locking the door behind them. Dean sets the duffel bag on the floor by the dresser, remembering not to drop it at the last second. They get going on their research right away. Sam types away at his laptop, taking advantage of Derek's ultra-fast Internet, while Dean drops to the bed with the books and their father's journal. But since they don't really know what they're looking for – whether it's a mutated vamp or something else entirely – they come up with squat.

But they keep at it, long into the night, until Dean's eyes are burning, and he finally throws the five-hundred-year old book to the floor. "This isn't getting us anywhere. I think we need to wait until we see the body."

"I agree." Sam hides a yawn behind his hand. "It's nearly 3am. We should go to sleep."

Without brushing his teeth, without even bothering to change, Dean fall asleep right then and there. He just shuts his eyes and buries his head in the pillow, the books still open all around him.

Unfortunately, Sam wakes him up at seven the next morning. He yawns blearily and rubs at his eyes as he rises into a crumpled sitting position. "Why is it so early?" he mumbles.

"I thought maybe we could be out and back before the others wake up," Sam says.

That makes sense, Dean supposes. Stiles and the others are all high school and college age, and kids like that like to sleep late. They should have a few hours to themselves. But that doesn't mean Dean likes it.

They put on their suits, smoothing out the wrinkles in their shirts and making sure their hair looks professional. Dean tucks his pearl-handled pistol into the back of his belt, and the weight of it makes him feel fully dressed. He hasn't been carrying since they arrived in Beacon Hills, not wanting to reveal the gun to Stiles or anyone else. That would be hard to explain.

Sam and Dean hurry downstairs on quiet feet, holding their dress shoes in their hands. Derek steps out of the door to the kitchen just as they reach it, coffee cup in hand, and looks them up and down, taking in their pressed suits with a raised eyebrow. "You two are up early."

Dean curses to himself but shrugs nonchalantly. "Yeah. Got some errands to run."

Derek's face is unfathomable, and Dean finds it disconcerting that he can't read him. "Running errands in suits?"

"Laundry day," Sam says with a laugh.

"Ah." Derek takes a slow sip of coffee. "What kind of errands?"

"Well, we wanted to keep it a surprise," Sam sighs. "We decided to make dinner for everyone tonight. We're off to the grocery store."

"What are you going to make?"

"Don't know yet. We thought we'd see what the grocery store has to offer."

Derek looks satisfied and like he's ready to leave, but then he pauses and studies them with a new intensity. "I thought you guys said you were going to bed early, but your light was still on when I went upstairs."

"Oh, I had trouble sleeping," Sam says. "We stayed up talking until I was tired enough. It took a while."

Derek nods a couple of times, and then lifts his coffee cup as a sort of goodbye wave. "Well, don't let me keep you from your errands." He steps back to let Sam and Dean pass and then disappears into the living room as they stoop to put on their shoes. Dean shivers. He can't figure Derek out. It's like there's something penned under his surface, wanting to get out.

The brothers walk out into the warm day, and Dean punches Sam in the arm as they head to the Impala. "Dude, what the hell? 'We wanted to make dinner for everyone'? We can't cook!"

"How hard can it be?" Sam asks.

Dean yanks open his door and drops into the driver's seat. "We eat gas station or diner food for pretty much every meal. We've never cooked a day in our lives."

"We'll figure something out." Sam flashes him that grin that's supposed to convince him not to worry, everything will be fine, but Dean has seen the lie behind it too many times to be drawn in.

"When this blows up in our faces, just know that I told you so," he says.

Sam rolls his eyes but drops the subject, keying the veterinary clinic's address into his phone. The GPS takes them to a small brick building not far from the high school, and Dean parks out front.

The sign on the door says open, so they go right in. The reception area is small but friendly with pastel colored walls and comfortable looking couches. The desk to their right is empty, and a waist-high, wooden barrier shuts the back of the clinic off from the lobby.

"Hello?" Sam calls.

"Just a second," a mellow, pleasant voice replies.

A moment later, a small, black man appears out of the back room, smiling at them in greeting. The overhead light reflects off his bald head, and there's a tiny, triangular goatee on his chin. He wipes his hands off on his white lab coat as he steps up to the counter. "How can I help you gentlemen?"

"I'm Agent Fisher, and this is my partner, Agent Lucas," Dean says in his gruffest voice. He and Sam flip open their fake FBI badges. "We're here to see the body that was delivered yesterday."

"Of course, right this way," the man says. He pushes the door in the barricade open and gestures for them to come through. A strange tingle washes across Dean's skin as he steps through the gap, goose bumps rising on his arms.

"Why did the sheriff send you the body, Dr….?"

"Deaton," the man supplies. "He often sends me bodies that look like they might've been killed by animals, since that's my area of expertise."

The back room is quite a bit cooler than the lobby was, and metal cabinets line the walls. An examining table sits in the center of the tiled floor, the body a sheet covered lump on top of it. "Is that what you think it is?" Dean asks. "An animal attack."

Deaton shrugs. "There's not much else it could be."

"Do you mind if we take a look?" Sam nods towards the covered body.

"Please, be my guest." Deaton smiles at them again. The expression rivals Sam's sincerest, most comforting look. He checks his watch. "Can you take it from here? I've got to make a call."

Sam nods, and Deaton steps quickly out of the room. Sam picks the chart up off the table and flips through it quickly. "The victim's name was Henry Bonds, 17 years old. It says he died of blood loss."

Dean uncovers the head and shoulders of the dead kid and whistles. "That's something else," he says.

The body looks withered and desiccated like it's been dead for a lot longer than just a few days. The grey skin is drawn tightly across the skull, and the eyes look ready to pop out of their sockets, the black hair like straw across the kid's forehead. His mouth is twisted up in a perpetual scream of terror. The entire front half of his throat is gone, ripped away, the black flesh jagged and dry.

Dean checks over his shoulder to make sure the vet isn't about to come through the door, and then snaps a picture of the body with his phone. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and say this wasn't a vampire."

"Agreed," Sam says.

Dean reaches out a hand and touches the battered flesh of the throat. It's as dry as a sheaf of paper. He wipes his finger off on Sam's suit, much to Sam's annoyance. "Maybe it's a ghost?" Dean says.

Sam shakes his head. "I've never seen a ghost do this before. Hell, I've never seen anything do this before. We should talk to Bobby."

Dean covers the kid up again, and they leave the examining room. The same tingle runs over Dean's skin as he crosses the barrier. Deaton stands behind the counter, and he's just hanging up the phone as Sam and Dean enter. "Get everything you need?" he asks.

"We think so," Sam replies. "Thank you."

"Can I ask why the FBI is interested in an animal killing?" Deaton says just as Sam and Dean reach the front door.

"There have been a lot of weird deaths in this town lately," Dean lies. "And we were in the area, so we were sent to do some digging."

"And here's our card," Sam adds, holding one of their fake business cards out to Deaton. "Call us if anything comes up."

Deaton takes the card with a smile. "I will."

Sam and Dean leave the veterinary clinic and return to the Impala. Dean drives with one hand and calls Bobby with the other, putting the phone on speaker so Sam can hear, too. Bobby picks up after the third ring. "Let me guess, you've found a body."

"Yeah," Dean says. "How'd you know?"

"You're in Beacon Hills. Of course you've found a body."

"Bobby, we don't need an 'I told you so' right now," Dean says, sighing. "We need information. I'm sending a photo of the body. It's weird." With a few taps, he texts the picture to Bobby, the car hardly swerving even as the streets flash by at breakneck speed."

Bobby whistles. "That is weird."

"Do you know what it is?" Sam asks.

"I have a hunch. Let me do some digging, and then I'll get back to you. Stay out of trouble, idjits." He hangs up.

"Thanks, Bobby," Dan says into the dead phone.

Sam loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt. "So that's taken care of for the moment. Now we just have to figure out how to cook."

Derek settles into his armchair and props his feet up on the coffee table, the steam off his mug billowing up into his face. He feels uncertain. Some suspicion is telling him that Sam and Dean aren't telling the truth, but they displayed none of the physical symptoms of lying while he talked to them. Their breathing and heart rate remained steady. They didn't start to sweat. He doesn't know what to make out it.

After an hour, he gets antsy, so he goes upstairs to wake Isaac up so they can get started. He has to promise the Beta donuts in order to placate him. Then, with coffee and a dozen pastries from a nearby shop, they head towards the high school in Derek's Camaro.

"Sheriff Stilinski says the kid's name is Henry Bonds," Derek begins.

Isaac's gasp interrupts him. "Henry Bonds?"

"Yeah. Did you know him?"

Isaac puts his chocolate donut back in the box. "He was in my math class."

"What do you know about him?" They arrive at the school, and Derek parks in the back of the lot so the trees will hide his car from the main road.

"Not very much." Isaac shrugs as he unfolds himself from the car. "He was quiet but nice. I think he was the photographer for the yearbook."

"Can you think of anyone who would want him dead?"

"No, everyone liked him."

They jog up the steps, and Derek uses a claw to unlock the side door. He's always found the school eerie when it's empty, though that might be due to the number of times he's been stabbed, slashed, and just generally attacked while inside. The hallways are quiet and dark. The smell of lemon floor cleaner hangs in the air, not enough to cover up the scent of teenage bodies and hormones. The lockers march down the walls like metal sentinels, and some of them have paper sighs tapped to them, wishing their owners good luck with whatever event is happening this weekend.

Isaac's phone rings as they step into the school, and he almost drops it as he digs it out of his pocket. "Hey, Scott." He pauses to listen. "Okay, thanks. Good luck in the woods." Isaac puts his phone away and turns his attention to Derek. "Scott says Deaton called. Cause of death is blood loss, and Deaton also found traces of a weird venom in the wound."

"Venom?" Derek asks.

"Apparently." Isaac shrugs. "But it's not a venom Deaton recognizes. He's going to see if he can dig something up on it."

Derek is just glad it's not kanima venom; he's had enough of that to last a lifetime. "Good to know. So, where are we going?"

"Lydia says she found him in the math wing," Isaac says. "That's this way."

Derek knows where the math hall is, but he lets Isaac lead the way, and after a few turns, they're standing in front of a door marked with police tape. He carefully pulls the line of yellow plastic away and opens the door.

The smell of death sweeps over them. Isaac gags and claps his hand over his mouth, and Derek steps cautiously into the room. He moves to the center of the floor and takes a long, deep breath. He can smell death and fear. Sam and Lydia's scents are there too, faintly. He can smell the police officers and the countless other students who have used this room, all faded now. Derek's keen nose sifts through all the input, searching for something out of place.

He catches a whiff of charred cinnamon and molten metal woven together until they're nearly indistinguishable, and the smell makes him sneeze. Eyes watering, he rubs at his nose. That won't be a hard smell to recognize if he comes across it again.

"I don't smell any blood," Isaac says curiously.

Derek sorts through the various scents again, and he finds that Isaac is right. Henry Bond's throat was torn out. The blood should've gotten on something – the floor, the air – and left a residue, but there's nothing.

"Do you smell cinnamon and metal?" Derek asks, and Isaac nods. "That's what we're looking for. Let's see if we can find a trail."

They leave the classroom and shut the door behind them, though there's no way to lock it again. There's no trace of the scent in the hallway, so Derek motions that they should head outside and see if they can pick it up there. Side by side, he and Isaac hurry back towards the main foyer, and as they step out into the open space, another man appears out of the corridor across from them. He's clad in a black suit and matching long coat despite the summer heat, and a perpetually annoyed, vaguely judgmental expression sits on his face. He smells of sulfur and a little bit of blood.

The man spots Derek and Isaac right away. "Can I help you boys?" he asks in a gravel-ridden voice. His hands are stuffed deep in his pockets.

"I forgot my notebook," Isaac says sheepishly, grinning as he rubs at the back of his head.

"You're Scott's friends, aren't you?" the man asks.

Derek likes this man in black even less than he likes Sam and Dean. There's something oily in his smile, something dark about his eyes. And he can't place the smell of blood; can't tell if it's old or fresh, can't tell if it's the man's or someone else's, can't even tell how much of it there is.

"How did you know?" Derek asks, keeping the suspicion out of his voice.

The man laughs apologetically. "Oh, I'm sorry. How terribly rude of me. I'm Fergus Crowley. I'm dating Scott's mother. I've heard quite a bit about you. You're Derek and Isaac, I presume?"

"That's right," Isaac says. He favors Dr. Crowley with one of his puppy dog grins.

Derek has heard about this man from Scott – nothing bad, which makes him feel better, just a lot of stories about Scott's perpetual, crippling embarrassment.

"And I met those two new ones the other week," Dr. Crowley continues. This time, Derek picks up on a hint of annoyance. "Sam and Dean? Fascinating men. Have they told you about any of their hunting stories?"

That explains the smell of gunpowder. Derek shakes his head. "No, they haven't."

"Get them to tell you about San Francisco," Dr. Crowley says. "That one was wild. I think they blamed it on the full moon." There's a knowing smile on his face, and he nods to the two of them. "Lovely to meet you, but I must be going. Have a good day, boys."

He sweeps past them towards the front door, his hands never leaving his pockets.

"I don't like him," Derek says once he's gone.

"I do," Isaac says, grinning.

"But you like everyone," Derek reminds him.

"And you dislike everyone, so I guess neither of us are good judges."

Isaac has a point. They leave the school and scout around the area, searching for the smell of burnt cinnamon and metal, but there's not a trace of it anywhere. Derek sighs as they return to the Camaro. "Let's hope the others have had better luck than us."

"You found that scent. That's a clue," Isaac says, always the optimist.

"It's not much to go on."

"It's better than nothing."

It's impossible to be pessimistic in Isaac's presence.

Lydia arrives at the Pack house to find Sam and Dean arguing in the kitchen about whether or not 'bake at 350 degrees means they should press the convection bake button or just the regular bake button'. The countertops are laden with paper grocery bags and cooking utensils, but there doesn't seem to be any semblance of order.

"What's going on?" she asks, standing in the archway with a hand on her hip.

Sam spins around. He's wearing one of the new shirts she picked out for him. "Lydia, hey. We didn't hear you come in."

"Are we supposed to set the oven to bake or convection bake?" Dean looks flustered and desperately confused, a printed recipe in his hands.

Lydia dumps her purse on an open patch of countertop as she walks over to them. "What are you trying to cook?"

"Chicken."

"Then bake." She's not entirely sure if that's correct, but Sam and Dean seem ready to accept anything she says as gospel truth. "What are you guys doing?"

"We thought we'd cook dinner for everyone tonight," Dean says. He gives Sam a vaguely bitter look. "Except we don't actually know how to cook."

Lydia laughs. "How can you not know how to cook?"

"We spend a lot of time moving around," Sam explains. He plucks the recipe from Dean's fingers and looks it over, brow furrowed. "We've never really had a place to cook in."

"Well, I'm not an expert, but I know a thing or two," Lydia says. "Do you want some help?"

"That would be awesome," Dean says, grinning.

First, Lydia shows them how to season the meat. The brothers seem to have bought an inordinately large amount of salt, but she makes sure that they don't put too much on. The knife flashes easily in Dean's hand, but chopping vegetables appears to be the only thing he knows how to do. Lydia watches him nearly dump an entire container of paprika onto the chicken not once but three separate times. She and Sam laugh at him when he asks what the hell is a sweet potato?

Though Sam knows his way around vegetables, he has no idea how to season, and Lydia literally has to take the salt shaker away from him and put it on the far side of the kitchen. "Hey!" he protests, laughing, and the skin around his eyes crinkles.

"You're not getting this back," she says, and she laughs, too.

They put the chicken in one pan and sweet potatoes covered in brown sugar in another, and then both dishes go into the oven. Dean sets the timer according to the recipe, and then they clean up the kitchen so Derek won't kill them all when he gets home. Lydia checks her phone as they settle down in the living room, but there's no news on the investigation.

They flop down on one of the couches, and Lydia makes sure to sit next to Sam, drawing her knees up under her so their legs touch. "So, Lydia," Dean says. There's something mischievous in his eyes. "Did you know that Sam is afraid of clowns?"

"Goddamnit, Dean," Sam snaps, anger and annoyance flashing across his face. "Why do you always have to bring that up?"

"Because it's hilarious."

Lydia looks over at Sam. "You're really afraid of clowns?"

He shifts uncomfortably and gives Dean another glare. "Yeah."

"Why?"

"Let's just say I've had some bad experiences with them in the past."

Knowing he's afraid of something as silly as clowns actually makes Lydia like Sam more. She'd been worried he was too perfect. "Everyone's got to be afraid of something. It might as well be clowns," she tells him.

"I'm not afraid of anything," Dean says. He laces his fingers behind his head and kicks his feet up on the coffee table, looking smug.

Sam leans across her to punch him in the shoulder. "Need I remind you of the last time we went on a plane? You nearly had a full on panic attack."

"I did not!" Dean snaps, swatting his arm away.

Sam grins widely. "What was it you said to me? 'Why do you think I drive everywhere, Sam?'"

"You shut your mouth," Dean threatens, stabbing a finger in Sam's face.

Lydia giggles, and the sound surprises her. Sam grins down at her, and she wonders what he would say if she asked him out. She quickly shuts that thought away. Now's not the time to be thinking about dating. They have a body and a mystery on their hands, and Sam and Dean will probably be leaving soon anyways. There's no point even thinking about it.

The front door opens, and the entire Pack minus Stiles troops inside. Lydia notices the morose looks on their faces – and that tells her all she needs to know about how the day went – but they fold their mouths up into smiles when they see Sam and Dean. "Those are some nice pants, Derek," Dean says by way of greeting, winking at the Alpha. "But they'd look better on my floor."

There's a beat of silence, and then the Pack howls with laughter. Lydia has never seen Derek's face turn so red. His mouth drops open, and he splutters a few times, and Scott jumps to his rescue – sort of. He claps his hands on Derek's shoulders. "Sorry, Dean. He's already taken."

"What? No, I'm not," Derek says, shaking Scott off.

Scott gasps. "What? Don't say that! What about Stiles?"

Derek fumbles for a comeback, but Allison beats him to the punch. "You'll break his heart! If it comes to war between you two, I'm taking Stiles' side."

"Stiles and I–!" Derek tries again. "I don't like Stiles!"

"Not at all?" Allison bats her eyelashes innocently even though Derek looks ready to strangle her. "Why do you hang out with him then?"

"You people are impossible," Derek huffs. "I don't have a crush on Stiles."

Erica pats him on the back. "Just keep telling yourself that."

The timer goes off in the kitchen, rescuing Derek from further embarrassment, and Sam and Dean hop up from the couch to go check on dinner. Lydia follows them to make sure nothing disastrous happens (and to make sure Sam stays away from the salt).

"Where is Stiles?" she hears Boyd ask.

"He's probably wrapped up in his research," Scott says. "I'll call him."

Dean opens the oven and prepares to pull the glass pan of chicken out with his bare hands, and Lydia quickly yanks him back, holding the oven mitts out with a sharp look. Embarrassed, he stuffs his hands into them, then fishes the pans out. She and Sam set the table, and once again, she's amazed by his sheer and utter lack of knowledge. She lays her hands over his in order to guide him through the process of placing the silverware, and his hands are impossibly warm under hers. She blushes a little as she pulls away.

"Stiles isn't coming," Scott says, dropping his phone on the table. "He's too engaged in his new research project."

Dean bumbles out of the kitchen, attempting to carry both pans at once. "Research project? It's summer!"

"Stiles is a nerd," Scott explains with a laugh.

Everyone sits down and serves themselves, and Lydia is amazed that the food is more that palatable; it's actually pretty good. "So, Scott," Derek says. "Isaac and I ran into your mom's new boyfriend today. What's his name again? Dr. Crowley?"

Sam and Dean both choke on their beers.

"Ugh, don't remind me." Scott drops his head to the table with a groan. "I have to see him everyday. It's so weird."

Derek looks over at Sam and Dean, and Lydia cringes. He's got his Interrogation Face on. "He said we should ask you about some of your hunting trips, San Francisco specifically."

"San Francisco?" Dean glances over at Sam, head cocked to the side. "When was the last time we were in San Francisco?"

"He said it was around the full moon," Derek supplies.

"San Francisco was a few months after Dad died," Stiles says, and recognition dawns in Dean's eyes.

"Oh yeah! That was when you met Madison." Dean punches Sam playfully and wiggles his eyebrows. Sam turns very red.

Lydia feels her stomach fall. "Who's Madison?" she asks, keeping her voice light and unconcerned.

"The first girl Sam really liked after his girlfriend, Jess, died." Dean takes another drink of his beer, discovers it's empty, and looks down the neck with a betrayed expression on his face.

"What happened to Madison?" Erica asks with a smirk, batting her long eyelashes.

"We left, she stayed," Sam says a bit abruptly. Lydia's death sense tingles, awakened by the ghosts of the past. She sees a glimpse of this Madison and the shadows of several others as well, but they're gone before she can get a good look at them. All the ghosts weigh Sam down, struggle to pull him into the ground, but somehow, he's still so tall.

"What were you hunting?" Derek asks.

"Uh…elk," Dean says.

Are there even elk in California? Lydia wonders. She doesn't know enough about hunting to be able to say.

"Why did Dr. Crowley say it was wild?" Derek taps his fingers against the handle of his fork, and his pale, grey eyes never waver from Dean's face.

Dean shrugs. If he notices Derek's scrutiny, he doesn't give any sign of it. "I mean, the full moon had the animals riled up a bit, but other than that, I wouldn't say it was too weird."

Dean's phone rings before Derek can say anything else, and he smiles apologetically as he stands up to answer it. "Hello? Oh, hey, Cas."

"Who's Cas?" Cora asks Sam. Everyone in the room picked up on the way Dean's voice changed when he said Cas's name, even the non-werewolves.

"The guy Dean won't admit to liking," Sam says, grinning.

"Goddamnit, Cas, are you serious?" Dean demands. He's moved down the hall a bit. "Well, how long will it take?"

Then Derek's phone rings, too, but Derek is the kind of person who never answers his phone, so it just keeps going off. Sam shares a glance with Cora, who's sitting directly across from him, and then with Lydia, and they both shrug. The ringtone shuts off, but a few seconds later, the blaring chime starts up again. Derek continues to ignore it.

"Oh my God!" Scott snaps. He drags Derek up out of his chair and fishes the phone from his pocket. "It's Stiles." He stuffs the device into Derek's hand. "Answer it."

Derek rolls his eyes and puts the phone to his ear. "Stiles?"

Stiles' voice tumbles out of the speaker, too fast to follow. "We'll be right over," Derek says when Stiles finally shuts up.

"What's going on?" Sam asks at the same time as Dean sits down. He leans over and whispers something in Sam's ear that Lydia doesn't catch, and Sam cringes. Lydia glances at the werewolves, wondering if they heard.

"Stiles has once again locked himself in his room on accident," Derek lies smoothly. "And his dad's at work, so he needs someone to come bail him out."

"Dean and I can handle the dishes while you take care of that," Sam says, already starting to gather up the dirty plates.

"Wait, but I want to know how you can lock yourself in your own room," Dean says.

"It's really not terribly exciting," Cora assures him, flicking a lock of hair over her shoulder. "And if happens more than you'd think, so you'll have another chance."

Sam drops a load of plates into Dean's hands, and the blonde man is forced to follow him into the kitchen.

The entire Pack files out of the house. If they were smart, they'd probably leave a few people behind – surely it seems odd that they need eight people to unlock a bedroom – but everyone wants to know what Stiles has found out. They separate themselves into Derek's and Allison's cars and move out.

"Did you hear what Dean said to Sam?" Lydia asks Derek. She's sitting in the passenger seat of the Camaro, examining her nails.

"He said 'Cas got caught up with a rugarou.'"

Lydai's brow crinkles. "What the hell is a rugarou?"

Derek shrugs. "You got me."

They arrive at the Stilinski house and let themselves in, tramping up the stairs to Stiles' room. Sheriff Stilinski isn't home; otherwise, he would be shooting them in the kneecaps for walking across his hardwood floors in their shoes. Derek knocks on Stiles' door, and there's a strangled shout of surprise from within. A moment later, the door opens and Stiles' face peers out at them, unshaven and tousle-haired.

"Hey, guys, come in," he says and steps back to let them in.

Stiles' room is even more of a disaster than usual. The walls are covered in papers, printouts of web articles, scans or archaic books, and images both modern and old, all of them covered in Stiles' chicken scratch handwriting. Red string crisscrosses everything, held down by tacks, and there's so much of it that the room looks like it's been decorated by overzealous Christmas gnomes.

The Pack barely fits within the tiny room, and Stiles stands on top of his bed so he can point and gesture emphatically as he talks. "Dudes, I know what it is!"

"Yeah, we gathered that already," Cora says, rolling her eyes.

"How much coffee have you had?" Lydia asks.

Stiles ignores the question, so the answer is a lot. "It's pretty obvious when you think about it. I mean, we talked about it yesterday. No blood, right?" The Pack stares at him blankly. "But I wanted to do some digging first, to make sure it wasn't completely crazy. There are dozens of stories about corpses with their blood drained – all blamed on animal attacks. And then a few days later, more bodies show up with their heads cut off."

"Oh my God, cut to the chase!" Erica interrupts. "What the hell is it?"

Stiles insists on pausing for one last moment of suspense. "It's definitely a vampire."