Pretend this is a witty AN. Enjoy the chapter, wolflets.

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X

Now.

Since the Sheriff first heard about the supernatural – since his son had laid it all out for him on a chessboard and quietly talked him through each of the color-coded pieces – he's had to change almost everything about the way he lives. Every thought is second-guessed, every instinct examined, because he knows there are things out there in the dark – but he still doesn't understand just what. Werewolves, kanimas, druids, banshees; he's got all that down. But just when he thinks he's starting to get the hang of it all, something else gets thrown into the mix. This time it's a nogitsune. An ancient demon that, for unfathomable reasons, has decided to take over Stiles.

At first the Sheriff had thought it was a strange choice of host. Surely he would have been better going after one of the wolves, who are full of their own supernatural skills and would probably have been more formidable than Stiles. Of course these logical thoughts had been preceded by a flood of emotional ones, mostly revolving around the question of why it had to be Stiles, and what the Sheriff had done or hadn't done to land them in this mess. When Scott had told him about the nogitsune, he'd assured the Sheriff that it wasn't his fault, that he couldn't have known and couldn't have stopped it, but Scott doesn't understand.

He doesn't have a child; he doesn't know what it's like. He doesn't lie awake at night thinking of the missed opportunities, the failures, the times when he could have been a better parent. He doesn't know what it's like to look into the eyes of your child and realize that somewhere along the way you let them down, and to wonder if you pushed them away by holding them too close.

These thoughts are what keep the Sheriff silent as Argent and Deaton discuss the technicalities of the proposed double sacrifice. The Sheriff sinks down into the nearest seat, not far from Isaac, who's leaning back with a pained expression on his face, like every breath is an effort and every second is agony. The Sheriff, familiar with this feeling, offers Isaac a reassuring smile which he doesn't see. And he finds himself thinking about how far he had pushed Stiles.

When Stiles had told him about the supernatural, it had seemed impossible. How could he be sheriff of an entire town and not notice that it's overrun with werewolves? It had been easier not to believe, not to let him even entertain the possibility that any of it might be true, but what he hadn't realized was that in doing so, he had betrayed his son. Stiles had all but begged him to understand, had even claimed that Claudia would have believed him (that had been like an arrow straight through the Sheriff's heart, and he's still pulling splinters out), and still he hadn't believed. Not until he absolutely had to, until all his senses were assaulted with incontrovertible proof.

He thinks Stiles hasn't quite forgiven him for that, and he doesn't blame him. He'd let his son down, and it hadn't been the first or the last time, and if he can't make up for it now then he's never going to get a chance. If he's honest, he's never really forgiven himself for it either.

He's aware of Melissa beside him, even though they're not touching. She's focused on Argent and Deaton, her expression serious and her arms folded across her chest. She looks vulnerable, small, and he wants to wrap her up in his arms, but a second later she interjects with a sharp phrase – not harsh but sceptical, curious, ever observant and unwilling to overlook even the smallest detail. He finds himself getting lost in the details of her face – the curve of her lips, the color of her eyes, the way a single curl of hair falls down onto her forehead and she makes no move to brush it away.

After a while he tunes back in, realizing that he needs to be a part of this. He's more a part of it than anyone, in fact, because it's his son who's possessed and he's supposed to be the one to put a stop to all of this (it's his town damn it and he'd pledged to protect it), but everything seems darker and harder than it used to be. He stands up and addresses the others. "If we're going to do this, the sooner the better," he says, and to his surprise his voice is steady, sturdy, like he's the kind of guy who can lead the charge into battle and put his emotions aside so that he won't be crippled by the weight of losing his son to a demonic possession.

"I agree," Argent says, nodding his head toward the Sheriff.

"I'm still confused," Melissa says, glancing at all of them before turning to Deaton last of all. "The kids did a triple sacrifice to find us when the – what was it, a darach? Is that what they called it? – kidnapped us. They took our places and astrally tracked us down. Was that the gist of it?"

"Essentially, yes." Deaton pulls a book from the small shelf by his side and spreads it out on the counter. The others approach – all except for Isaac, who seems frozen to the spot – and look at the pages. "It's not a spell that many recommend," Deaton says carefully, pointing to the name splashed across the page; it's in Latin, something so complicated that the Sheriff can barely read it, let alone attempt to understand it. "Stiles and Lydia aren't lost, exactly, but they are trapped – and that's effectively the same thing. So to be able to find them, you have to become entirely lost as well."

"We have to lose our lives," the Sheriff says, but the prospect isn't as alarming as it should be.

"Temporarily," Deaton says, and mutters something that sounds like hopefully. Then he raises his gaze and encompasses all of them again. "The ritual would allow you to enter a kind of limbo, and from there you would be able to close the metaphorical doors that Scott and the others opened when they went under."

Cleaning up their mess, the Sheriff thinks, but it's unfair and he knows it. He doesn't know how many times the kids must have saved them, and it's about time they started to repay the favor. "How many of us?" he finds himself asking.

Deaton looks mildly surprised, and he closes the book and sets it back in its rightful place before he responds. "Only two of you," he says at last. "It's just Lydia and Stiles who are lost, so there would need to be one for each of them."

"What about Scott?" Melissa asks worriedly, and the Sheriff takes half a step closer to her, not really expecting anything but wanting to offer comfort. She shifts away from him, almost imperceptibly, like she's trying to make it seem like she's not falling apart, but then she crumbles – just slightly, silently – and leans against him. He doesn't put his arm around her, knowing that she needs to let herself be strong, but he can tell she appreciates the unspoken concern.

"Scott is missing," Deaton says, "but he's not gone yet. Neither is Allison. Stiles and Lydia are too far gone for anything else to reach them, and we need to close the doors and get them back before anything else happens."

Nobody questions how he knows this; it doesn't seem right to question him. Where the others are all hanging on by a thread, Deaton seems like he's stitching the threads back together, pulling everyone together so that they can understand the bigger picture they all fit into. It's understood that the Sheriff will be part of the sacrifice, and it's one he's willing to make. That leaves one place, and he's suddenly terrified that Melissa will volunteer.

And of course, she does.

Almost as quickly, Argent steps forward. He's not meretricious, not feigning nobility; he's just doing what he thinks is right, and the Sheriff respects that. The only problem is that he's still not sure this is right, because he's still new to the supernatural and even so he thinks that temporarily killing themselves seems like a rather drastic measure. Then again, his son has been taken over by a homicidal Japanese demon so maybe it's not so much of a stretch.

Melissa is still leaning against him, so that the Sheriff can feel her heartbeat, can tell how terrified she is, but she doesn't back down. "It might be safer for you to stay here," she says diplomatically. "That way if anything goes wrong, you and Deaton can handle it."

"That's exactly why I think you should stay behind," Argent responds. "If we come back – and it's an if, not a when – we might need medical attention. That's more your area than mine."

Melissa's eyes flick toward Deaton. "I'm sure you'll be in capable hands should anything happen."

The Sheriff steps forward, steps in, steps up. "It makes sense for Argent to come with me," he says, and he catches a glimpse of something in Melissa's eyes – something that makes him think of words like traitor and betrayal. "Stiles is my kid, so I'm going in. And Argent knows more about the supernatural than you and me combined, so once we get in there, I'm counting on him to take the lead."

Before Melissa can object further, Deaton intervenes. "I agree with the Sheriff," he says, causing Melissa to scowl ever so slightly, but she doesn't say anything. "I think the two of them will be best equipped to handle whatever happens on the other side, and in the meantime you and I have work to do here."

"What about me?" The ragged voice makes the group turn as one to the speaker. Isaac is standing now, his shoulders slumped and his eyes downcast, but his words ring with determination.

The Sheriff hasn't had much to do with Isaac, except for when he was investigating what happened with his father, but he feels bad for the kid. Isaac's had it rough, and it had seemed like things were getting better when he joined Scott's pack – but now there's no pack to speak of and Beacon Hills is falling into darkness. And here they are, the last line of defense, a few scared parents and a teenage werewolf.

"There is actually something you can do," Deaton says, and Isaac's gaze snaps up to his face. "For the ritual to work, we need something that belongs to them – to Lydia and Stiles. Can you get that?"

"Yeah." The idea of making himself useful seems to bring some life back into the young werewolf, but he's still rather listless as he departs.

This just leaves the four adults, who stay silent because anything they say will only make the moment worse. The Sheriff and Argent help Deaton prepare the ice baths, and he talks them through the process while they do it. Melissa watches from the corner, chewing on her thumbnail. When the baths are prepared and the explanations have faded away, the Sheriff and Melissa go into the next room, leaving Argent and Deaton to wait for Isaac's return.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Melissa starts pacing. She abandons all pretence of control, not even pretending that she's remotely okay with this situation. The Sheriff is as startled as he is honored – she must trust him, to let herself be so open. He won't betray that trust; he'll save their kids, if it's the last thing he does.

She stops pacing suddenly and turns to him, and she has tears in her eyes. "This is crazy," she says, with a nervous laugh like she's still half-hoping she might wake up to find out that this has all been a horrible dream. "What if it doesn't work?"

"It'll work," he says, stepping closer. He takes her hands in his and looks into her eyes, and even though she's crying she leans forward and kisses him, and it's all terrified passion and desperate longing and it's over too soon because Isaac's knocking at the door and it's time to die.

As Melissa stands beside him at the foot of the tub, he tries to tell her what he's been meaning to let her know for months, something that he hasn't quite been able to express through physical contact alone. He needs to tell her that he cares about her, that he wants to help her, that he would do anything for her.

But he doesn't need to, because she knows. Of course she knows.

"Don't say it," she says, and she cuts his words off with another kiss. When she pulls away her lips linger near his and she says softly, "Don't say goodbye. You're coming back."

Her eyes light a fire inside him, and he keeps it close as he submerges himself in the ice-cold water, as Melissa holds him under and he forces himself not to fight. Some things are worth fighting for, and some things are worth giving up the fight. And this is worth the sacrifice, because even as the fire licks away the darkness in his heart and the water leaches the warmth from his skin, he finally knows what he's willing to die for.

He just hopes to god he doesn't have to prove it.

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X

Reviews would be lovely.