Sweet Dreams

Onesmartcookie78

Summary: Samantha Sanchez is just trying to make it through her sophomore year as class president while remaining top of her class. Unfortunately, Scott McCall is acting weird, and it's her presidential duty to figure out why...that, and Stiles Stilinski suddenly thinks she has some sort of super powers. Stiles/OC

Disclaimer: I only own any characters that you don't recognize.

A/N: Again, I'm not sure when this fic will be updated, but in the mean time, please follow, favorite and-most importantly-review! The response a fic receives makes me more inclined to update it ahead of other fics. I really appreciated the reviews that I got last time: it can honestly be something as simple as "please update again soon!" or "i enjoyed this!" and I'll be happy!

Jackson doesn't keep his promise. Of course he doesn't.

It doesn't matter because I have my own agenda, one that doesn't involve harassing McCall in the middle of a busy hallway, although I haven't managed to get around to questioning Stilinski yet anyway.

The only good thing Jackson does is recap his conversation with McCall with me: apparently, McCall has been seeing, hearing, and smelling things that he shouldn't. Now, what that means is beyond me, but even still I have to wonder; is he doing drugs (which seems almost completely out of character for him) or is there something else going on? Jackson doesn't even consider the validity of the latter option, but it seems like he's disturbed, nonetheless. I think that comes more so from the fact that he believes McCall is fucking with him.

I disagree. I think McCall's rant about sleepwalking three miles into the woods and thinking he's going crazy is the most honest he's been in the last week.

Jackson also invites me to the party he's hosting following the scrimmage, which we both agree is as good a place as any for me to lure Stilinski away for a much-needed interrogation.

Stilinski, for his part, does his best to give me more ammunition, as he loudly announces that there was wolf hair found on the body in the woods. Now, why the two of them had seemingly been lurking around in the woods on the night that dead body was found, I don't know, but the wolf hair part is interesting. I'm not an idiot; I know that there haven't been wolves in California in, like, sixty years or so.

So, as Allison and I watch the scrimmage, I can't help but entertain other options.

Wolves.

Heightened senses—could he be—no, it's not possible.

I shake myself from my thoughts in time to admit that Jackson's needling is working; in an impressive display, Scott takes the ball from one end of the field to the other and scores an impossible shot, complete with a flip. Not possible.

And yet—

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.

Scott McCall may or may not be a werewolf.

Shit.

Shitfuck.

Something tells me that mentioning this little revelation to Jackson would be a bad idea. He's already practically green with envy about McCall playing so well, and that's without knowing his potential status as a werewolf. Jackson wouldn't take the news lying down; he's liable to go out there and demand that Scott turn him into a werewolf too. Just so that he can go back to being the best at lacrosse again, if for no ulterior motives.

I'm really going to have to get Stilinski to talk to me.

Allison ends up going with wolf-wonder to Jackson's party. I'm not too bothered, since I have something of a schedule to keep at this thing.

First things first, down a few shots of liquid courage.

Second things second, find Mieczysław "Stiles" Stilinski.

For someone who would qualify as very deeply "uncool" on Lydia Martin's ranked list, Stilinski is surrounded by people who are laughing at a joke he's just told. I find myself lingering on the outskirts of the circle, trying to determine the best way to get him alone. Jackson's recommendation, for once, is actually quite clever; act like I'm seducing Stilinski and then cart him off to a bedroom where no one would hear us. Jackson had even told me I could use his room.

The only problem is, I've never seduced anyone. Not in my whole life.

Jackson had derisively asked if I needed lessons, a sneer etched into his face all the while, but I'd told him that I could figure it out on my own just fine, thanks.

But hadn't I seen plenty of seduction in movies, read some smutty romance novels, been subjected to Jackson and Lydia's flirting during lunch the past few days? All I have to do is replicate it. It's just pretending.

So, I wind my way up to Stilinski—Stiles, I mentally amend, since it feels weird to call the guy I'm trying to hit on by his last name—and try to make out what he's saying. It sounds like he's making jokes at Coach Finstock's expense, and considering how over-the-top Coach is, I can't say that I blame Stiles.

"Hey, you're Stiles, right?" I ask as I approach him, biting at my lower lip in a manner that I hope is enticing and arching a single brow.

His red solo cup freezes half-way to his mouth, and he clears his throat. Twice. "Uh, yeah?"

Nervous. I can work with that. "I'm Samantha. My…" I trail off, bat my lashes. "My friends call me Sammy." Liar. You don't have any friends. Still, this is proving easier by the second. It's like I've slipped into a second skin.

He gulps down the rest of his beer. Very nervous. "Uh, yeah, hi?"

I lean closer, giving him a nice look at my cleavage. He takes the bait, his eyes dipping down to my chest. Game over. "You know, Stiles, you're really funny."

He coughs, his ears steadily turning bright red. He's about to reply when I see his attention flit over my shoulder. "Hey!" he calls, brows furrowed in concern. "You okay, man?"

I turn in time to see McCall walk by in a fugue-like state, all pale and sweaty and sickly looking. To say the least, he doesn't look so hot. To say the most, he looks like complete and utter shit.

Stiles doesn't give me a second glance as he shoves past me and after his friend, but I'm quick on his heels.

Fuck subtlety. We tried that and we got interrupted. It's a full moon and McCall looks like he's on his death bed; if I'm getting answers, it's now or never.

We arrive outside just in time to see McCall get into his car and drive away. Allison stares after him with her arms crossed, looking upset. I almost forget my mission and start to approach her to offer some words of comfort, but then an older-looking guy comes up to her. I have to wonder what someone who looks like they're twenty-five is doing at a high school party, and why he's currently talking to an underage girl, but then I notice Stiles making a beeline for his Jeep, and my attention is sufficiently snatched.

Before he can open the driver's side door, I reach out a hand and slam it shut with more strength than I've ever thought I might possess. With one last step, I've closed the distance between us, pressing him into the cool metal. I brace my left hand on the window right next to his face, enjoying his wide-eyed gaze. "Where are you going?" I practically purr. "We were having such a good conversation."

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. He clears his throat. Again. "Uh—nowhere, I was just—"

"Listen, Mieczysław," I say in a taunting tone. His eyes are practically the size of dinner plates right now, and I relish in it. "I know about him. About Scott."

Stiles stutters out a "what about him" but his eyes keep darting to the left. If there's one thing I've learned tonight besides the fact that McCall is 100% a werewolf (if one believes in such things, that is), it's that Stiles is an absolutely horrid liar.

I glance up. "Full moon tonight, huh?" I ask casually.

He gulps again. This time it's audible. Either they're buying into their own bullshit, or this isn't some kind of joke. "I-I don't know what you're talking about."

I shake my head. "Here's what's going to happen, Stilinski; you and I are going to take a ride over to McCall's to check up on him, and on the way there, you're going to explain everything."

He makes to protest, but I lean closer still and whisper, "Please, Mieczysław?" right in his ear. There's something almost hypnotic about my voice right then, something so persuasive and mesmerizing that he has to listen, almost like I've forced him to.

He nods and I slowly step away, unable to believe that it's worked. How did I do that? Am I just that convincing?

Somehow, I don't think the answer to that question is yes.

About half-way through the drive to McCall's, Stiles snaps out of whatever trance he's in—whatever trance I've put him in—and he's not happy. He's in the middle of explaining his research of wolfsbane, aka monkshood, aka aconite (something I know from Harry Potter, thank you very much) when it happens. I can tell because he cuts himself off abruptly, his mouth falling open in shock.

"What—how did you do that?!" he demands angrily, taking a turn more sharply than he perhaps should. "It's like I didn't have any control—how?!" He pulls over shortly thereafter so he can give me his full attention, but it's to tell me to get out of his car.

I hold up my hands. "Listen, I have no idea. It just…happened. I can't explain it." I hesitate, mulling over the beginnings of another Bad Idea. "I don't know, maybe if werewolves are real, then so are other things. Or maybe I'm just super eloquent."

Stiles' gaze is searching as he tries to suss out whether or not I'm fucking with him. Spoiler: I'm not. "Fine," he says, "let's say I believe you. Don't ever do that again."

I shrug. "I wasn't trying to do it. I just wanted you to listen to me. And it happened."

He opens and closes his mouth a few times before it settles into a firm line. "Whatever." Then, interestingly, his cheeks flush. "How'd you learn that name, anyway? No one knows my actual name, not even Scott."

I can feel my own cheeks going red. "I—well, I may have looked through your file."

I watch as he physically bites his tongue, whether out of amusement or confusion I can't say. "You looked through my file? As in the student records?"

I nod bashfully. "I suspected something was up with Scott when he gave Allison that pen even though I know for a fact that she had told me she needed one when we were outside the school. There was no way that he could have heard her. And then, he kept seeming to hear things that were impossible. And I thought I remembered that he used an inhaler so I…" I trail off, huff out a breath, "So I looked through his file and found out he has—or had, I guess—exercise induced asthma. I went through you records while I was there to see if I was missing anything."

Stiles is nodding to himself as he pulls away from the side of the road. I guess I'm trustworthy enough that he'll take me to McCall's regardless. "Good pronunciation," he finally mutters.

"What?"

He keeps his gaze staunchly on the road. "On my name," he mumbles.

I keep the fact that spent ten minutes of Googling and practicing to myself.

When we pull up to McCall's, Stiles tells me that I should wait in the car: because it's a full moon, McCall's bloodlust will be at an all-time high. Apparently, he nearly attacked Stiles the other day, so there's no telling what he'll do upon learning that a complete stranger has learned his deepest, darkest secret—a secret that, by the sound of it, he has yet to come to terms with himself.

It's on these grounds that I agree to wait in the Jeep, though I'm not alone for very long: soon enough, I see a dark shadow—probably McCall—jump dramatically out his bedroom window and sprint away. Not too soon after, Stiles rushes back into the Jeep.

He's practically gasping for breath when he starts the Jeep again. "Allison's address," he says in a rush, the words blurring together. "You're friends with her, what is it?!"

Despite my better judgement, I give it to him. "What's wrong?" I ask as he throws the car into gear.

"She went home with Derek Hale," Stiles says, as though that should mean something to me.

"Derek Hale?" Still, the name rings a bell for some reason.

"He's only a few years older than us. His whole family died, Scott and I saw him in the woods and he had Scott's inhaler, and hemayhavebeentheonewhobitScottandturnedhimintoawerewolf."

I stare at him blankly until he gets the hint that he needs to slow down. Once he's finished, I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. "Why don't I just call her?" I ask. "We don't need to go and freak out her parents if it turns out to be nothing."

We jerk to a stop as Stiles considers what I said. "What if Derek is there and he's got, like, his talons to her throat and he forces her to say she's okay, but she isn't?"

I roll my eyes. "Dude, FaceTime."

He shakes his head. "No, I told Scott I would check on her."

And that's how we end up at the Argent household at nearly midnight.

I insist that Stiles let me go in alone, but he, of course, doesn't listen. We screech to a stop outside what can only be described as a mansion, holy shit her family has money, and Stiles rushes to the door. He rings the bell half a dozen times and then starts slamming his open palm against the door.

He's about to do so again when I catch his hand and pull him away. It's just in time for Mrs. Argent to open the door, a scowl etched deep into her face.

Stiles tries to explain that Allison might have been kidnapped, but all he ends up saying is "this is going to sound crazy, well, insane, actually," and even calls himself Allison's friend. He's never even spoken to her, and I've been hanging out with her for the past few days and even I'm not sure if she considers me a friend. She's just so damn nice to everyone that it's hard to tell if she's treating me like a friend, or just being friendly.

I place a hand on Stiles' arm to try and shush him, but he blunders on until Mrs. Argent finally gets fed up and calls for Allison, who appears at the bannister in record time. When she sees Stiles and I, she crosses her arms in irritation, but comes outside. She firmly closes the door behind her, but I have no doubts that her mother is eavesdropping from behind the elegantly carved oak anyway.

"First Scott leaves me stranded and now you two show up?" she hisses, but only manages to sound more upset than angry.

Stiles stutters out an apology, but I try and salvage the situation and our hesitant friendship. "Sorry, Allison, I got dropped off by my mom, so I couldn't give you a ride, and then I saw you talking to Derek. He got you home okay?"

A frown still mars her beautiful features. "Yeah, I guess, but why did Scott bail?"

I can't help what happens next. "I'm not sure Allison, but you should give him the benefit of the doubt."

Her expression evens out slowly. "Yeah, you're right," she says, in the same trance-like voice Stiles had affected earlier. She shakes her head. "I'm going to bed. I'll see you Monday, okay, Samantha?"

Oof. My full name. I smile anyway and watch her furrowed brows relax. "Sounds good. Good night, Allison."

The door echoes in the quiet night even though she shuts it softly.

Stiles turns to me with an accusing finger. "You did that witchy thing again."

"Witchy?"

He shrugs. "I don't know what else to call it. By the way," he says, "your name is Samantha?"

I groan. "Did I not introduce myself to you like an hour ago?"

I can't believe this is what my life has come to.