Scott jumped in surprise as Stiles slammed a stack of papers the size of a college dissertation onto the library table, drawing the angry stares of those in the nearby vicinity. The two were alone for the first time in what seemed like months. Isaac, Allison, Lydia, or some other person was always with them, but for a short while, the two best friends had agreed to meet up at the local public library to do some research. Stiles had run off to print off half the Internet while Scott in the meantime had dozed off. He knew Stiles could handle the searching and printing; that had never been Scott's thing. He had, however, fallen asleep on top of an old journal filled with ghost stories and a collection of monster allegories. Luckily the normal for him had become ghost stories and supernatural monsters so there had been no such beasts in his dreams. No those were reserved for the recurring nightmare of losing control of his alpha abilities.

Scott grumbled softly, or what he thought was softly, and rubbed viciously at his eyes in an attempt to rid himself of the image of ravaged, bloody corpses, disemboweled by some kind of animal...Scott immediately searched his hands for any sign of the 'change' but instead of finding claws and fur, he managed to knock half of his books onto the ground.

The grouch of a librarian scowled at the boy and vehemently shushed him and his friend. Stiles leered back at the woman before sifting through his moil. Scott eyed the pile warily after picking it up from the carpet. He never understood how his friend managed to separate the Hollywood gimmicky myths and the true answers. But Scott also acknowledged the fact that his friend also tended to over indulge in the fact finding. Stiles slid over a few articles for Scott to read, but the alpha raised his eyes in question at the article's author.

"Ghostfacers?" Scott read incredulously. "Stiles, I thought we were trying to find real information on ghosts."

Stiles stared at him flatly. "Don't doubt me, Lassie. These guys were down in Texas investigating some haunted house. Had this whole website dedicated to it, even got the ghost on tape."

"Really? Show me."

Stiles scratched at the back of his head. "Well, it's a really crappy video...and it's fuzzy, but I swear it's the real deal," he finished hurriedly, seeing that his friend was growing more doubtful with every word. He went back to reading his own copy of the article and frowned at the corny texts. "Okay, maybe they overdue it and all, but the clip is just like what happened at the house. Their flashlights were flickering and their camera was all static-y." Stiles flicked through the few pages dedicated to 'Mordechai Murdoch's Hell House' and found a list of the first supposed victim as well as mention of two guys that 'aided us, the professionals.' It also mentioned that the two men, only described as a couple of jerk wannabes, caused the Ghostfacers to get arrested for interfering with an active investigation.

"Like ours," Scott realized.

"Exactly."

The librarian sauntered over and placed both hands on the table menacingly. She smiled sickeningly, causing Stiles and Scott exchanged glances.

"Can we help you—Jill?" Stiles read off her name tag with a fake, lopsided grin.

"Yes," she bit out sweetly. "I was wondering if you boys would like a dictionary?"

Stiles stared open mouthed curiously. "No, why?"

"A library is a quiet place, and I'm not sure you boys understand the meaning of 'quiet.'" To prove her point she jabbed her bony finger at the sign that posted in big black letters, 'Quiet, Please.' Scott bit the inside of his cheek and gathered up all the papers and books he and Stiles had collected, shoving them none too kindly into his school bag. He jerked his head at Stiles and apologetically excused themselves from the library. The librarian's scowl followed them even through the glass doors and into the courtyard. As soon as they exited the building, Scott had to force Stiles to keep moving as he had stopped to make obscene gestures at the public building. For the second time in minutes, Scott smiled apologetically at a mother who was glaring daggers and shielding her young child's eyes while entering the library.

"I think we should go see your dad," Scott admitted as they walked back to the jeep.

Stiles gave up his rude assault and jogged alongside his friend, glancing at him questioningly.

"We never saw the body. Maybe the—ghost—did something that might give us a clue of who died," Scott explained while Stiles started up his car, throwing an exasperated glare at the passenger seat. "The first time around, I mean."

"Because we haven't seen enough dead bodies for one lifetime," drawled Stiles, and he pulled out onto the road. Despite his oral reluctance, he drove in the direction of the police station. "Do you want me to be scarred for life? Cause that's where I'm headed."

Scott simply grinned in reply.

~•~

The station was relatively deserted. Almost all of the deputies on duty were either reading a magazine while they reclined at their posts, playing cards, or shooting crushed balls of paper into the waste basket. They even looked up excitedly, or expectantly as they would probably prefer, when the two boys strode in, but since Stile's presence was nothing new and since Scott was almost as common as the sheriff's kid in recent times, they sighed in disappointment. Everyone fell silent at the awkwardly despondent entrance, but as Stiles generally thrived in awkward situations, he waved his greetings to anyone who made eye contact and wove his way down the hall to where the stairs were. The boys were, however, intercepted before they could get past the vending machines.

The sheriff, arms crossed and an unsurprised expression plastered on his face, blocked their path to the city morgue. "Boys," he greeted dryly. "What're you doing here?"

Stiles predictably took the lead, leaning against the wall framing the vending machines. "Dad! What are you doing here?"

"I work here."

Stiles nodded and bit his lip. "Yes. And I came to say hi." At the sheriff's unchanging expression, he added defensively, "can't a son just visit his father's work without being questioned?"

"No."

"Ah," the younger Stilinski's face fell. He glanced behind to Scott and then nodded to himself. He met his father's gaze, squinting. "We need to see the body."

Sheriff Stilinski was already shaking his head. "You boys have been researching this for two days, with no luck. Do you want to tell me why you aren't just asking the Argents for help?" He pressed the two boys the sheriff's office where they could talk about ghosts, zombies, or whatever and not locked in a rubber room for observation. For extra measure, he dropped the shades.

"Because they're werewolf hunters. Not ghost hunters, which we aren't even sure exist," Stiles stated like it was obvious. "Plus they're not exactly Scott's biggest fans, especially now he and Allison are broken up."

"Stiles!" objected Scott.

"What? It's true!" Stiles waved away his previous thought process. "Anyways, that's not important. What is, though, is the very dead man whose corpse is being held in the basement at thirty six degrees Fahrenheit."

After a few minutes of a moral dilemma—as according to the sheriff, the body is not something seventeen year olds should see—and a literally physical problem of allowing two minors to prod at a corpse in the city moratorium, in the middle of an investigation no less, the sheriff finally acquiesced. He led away the attendants in the basement and gave the boys five fingers with a meaningful glare. Immediately, Scott and Stiles rushed to the metal wall and slid out the metal slab supporting their dead guy. Scott swallowed roughly; no matter how many times he had seen and smelt a decomposing corpse, he would never get used to the wrenching feeling every time the putrid, copper taste invaded his overly sensitive nostrils. Stiles seemed to be experiencing the same gut reaction, although he was moving past it and drawing back the white sheet. His hand was shaking, but Scott couldn't tell if it was from the massive dose of Adderall his friend had downed over the past few days or from disgust at vetting yet another dead person.

Whatever thoughts Scott was previously mulling over were lost as soon as he saw the damage the petite woman had done. Her husband's neck was nearly severed from his body—a poor job too as the cut was jagged and brutally savage—and there were many incisions that hadn't come from the "y" shaped autopsy scar. Probably the most scarring part were the words, which were forever burned into Scott's mind. Words describing how unfaithful her husband had been were carved into his chest and arms like bloody tattoos, and it looked like Christine Kyle had plunged her hands in and tore the man's heart right out of his rib cage. As if that hadn't been enough, Robert Kyle's ring finger was missing.

Stiles was the first to retch. He stumbled away, coughing, and Scott wasn't far behind. Neither boy actually vomited; however, it was still unpleasant. Finally mastering their involuntary impulses, they slowly moved back to the side of the mutilated corpse.

"There is no way that woman could do this much damage," gagged Stiles.

Scott had to agree. The man was like a navy seal, not to mention the shattered rib cage the assailant had ripped through. Scott could barely imagine doing that himself, although he'd never even think of trying. Even on a full moon. He couldn't even picture Isaac or Derek—well maybe Derek when he's pissed off—ripping through someone's chest because they believed they had betrayed them. Although, Scott had to admit he'd noticed a feeling of strength since he learned of the "True Alpha" situation. It was more of a mental capability, he pondered.

"What did you say the cause of death was again?" Scott asked.

His friend paused whatever process he had been in the middle of, some sort of categorizing the injuries and such, to gape at his friend in such a way that read, 'did you really just ask that?' His eyes flicked to the gaping hole in the victim's chest and he returned obviously, "a heart attack."

At that moment, the morgue doors swung open, and the sheriff rambled inside. He caught sight of the two glaring at each other. He ignored the angry stares and waved at the door behind him. "Time's up."

"What? No, we need a few more minutes."

"How will five more minutes help you find out what killed him, 'cause I've got news for you: the person who did that," the sheriff couldn't even look at the damage, just vaguely pointing to the white sheet, "is in county at the moment awaiting arraignment."

Stiles clenched his jaw and bit back his smart-ass reply, as Scott knew he had one. Stiles, at this point, was playing off instinct, just like the rest of them. No one knew how to handle a ghost, and in reality, none of them even knew ghosts were real until four days ago when one had literally thrown them out of a house.

"Maybe if we talked to Christi—"

"Hell no, Stiles," snapped the Sheriff before his son could even finish his sentence. He glanced behind him to make sure no one had heard and made an effort to lower his voice. "I wasn't even sure if I should let you look at this, but talking with a suspect before she is even indicted yet? Out of the question."

"But, Dad—"

"No, Stiles." The sheriff stated un-movingly and adamantly. "I am the father and sheriff. I am supposed to be figuring out the answers, protecting you, not you protecting me."

Scott understood the looks that washed over both his friend and his friend's father's face. Understanding of every situation since the nemeton and the past situations the sheriff had not been able to solve sue to a lack of information ran down the older man's visage, and Stiles's guilt was clear. His father was so far out of his element with the Supernatural, and he still had to turn to his son for help.

~•~

The baring horn was what drove the impala to swerve back to the right. Dean was finding it impossible to focus on the pavement burning in the Nevada sun. It had been four days and three nights since his baby brother had ditched him, snuck out after saying he wouldn't, hitched a ride, and refused to make any communication with him. Dean had made so many attempts to call Sam, called in all his favors—Dean wouldn't actually consider them favors, more like pulling rank in whatever sheriff's department or police station he passed through—and still there was no sighting of Sammy.

Dean figured he must have ditched his phone in some sort of tunnel; it was the only explanation as to why not even the phone companies could find the GPS signal. He hoped Sam hadn't gone so far and completely isolated himself, but the look of betrayal and anger etched in Dean's memory was equally as convincing.

Not even the blaring of Highway to Hell could lift Dean's spirits. A mile marker of seventy-two flashed past the impala windows, the nearest town in whatever back water alley of Nevada he was currently driving through. Ever since Dean had left Oregon, He had been driving through the most random towns, highways, and directions in the hopes of finding his baby brother. He had even called Bobby and Ellen, although only the former had answered. Sadly, he wouldn't answer any questions until he learned why Dean had lost track of Sam and what was going on between the two of them.

Dean exhaled despondently and floored the gas pedal. He wasn't in the mood to wait until he reached the next town.

~•~

Beacon Hills had the appearance of a classic Californian town, as well as many common horror-movie characteristics, Sam concluded upon first glance of the small town. The county had an abundance of dark woods surrounding many dark alleyways, abandoned mansions and factories, and the amount of coincidences that occurred in such a small area was implausible. However, besides the mass amount of strange and unexplainable deaths, Beacon Hills had the draw of an apple pie life, somewhere Sam had thought of moving to with Jess. The center of town was the same as anywhere else: a few shops and cafes, a sheriff's station, a school farther down the main street, and many neighborhoods and cul-de-sacs that encircled everything but the woods. The Cedar Tree cul-de-sac was what held Sam's attention.

Four days had passed since Christine Kyle had lost control and brutally murdered her husband. Under the alias of Strange Occurrence Tribunal writer Dave Hope, he had learned almost everything about the woman and the press-released facts about the killing. Twenty-nine year old art major, Christine Beauchene married technician Robert Kyle, who was born and raised in Beacon Hills. The two married last year and nothing indicated unhappiness of any kind in their lives. Christine Kyle had never had any interaction with the law except for some parking tickets—that is until she had plunged her hands deep into her husband's chest.

Parking in front of the house, Sam evaluated the situation. He could easily go through the proper channels by flashing his FBI badge that was stored in the glove box, but that would raise more questions of why a lone FBI agent was looking into a small town murder. No, Sam decided. He pocketed his lock-pick set and sidled to the side door. As he had hoped, the police had either been too busy to relock the house, or they just hadn't cared since the people who owned the place were either dead or in jail. The side door immediately entered the kitchen, the room openly connecting to the dining room. Like most of the town, the rooms were rather vintage and typical. The tile floor was marked by dirty work boots, most of the kitchen knives had been confiscated, and there was a massive stain of crimson brown in the carpet, but nevertheless the room looked like it had been pulled from a homemaker's magazine. The hallways were the same, paintings of the sea and the woods at twilight hanging up on the walls alongside pictures of a cheery couple.

Sam tried to ignore the prickling sensation in his stomach as he thought of the crime scene photos he had seen after hacking the autopsy report. At one point he passed a group photo of the Kyles and another couple, the man looking similar to the victim. The brother, he guessed, and his girlfriend.

According to the EMF indicator, everything in the house was natural. The only bigger spike in the signal Sam received was as he roamed the device around the blood stain, and he had already highly suspected that would be the case. Nevertheless, he felt a slight satisfaction at being right as he whispered, "definitely a spirit." Occasionally there would be a spritz of whirring and flashing lights, but the entire first floor and second floor was clean, much to Sam's surprise and dismay.

At one point in time Sam thought he saw something but decided it was a trick of the light and a lack of sleep. He continued to stare, however, at the second floor landing which had caught the sun's rays at just the right angle, highlighting the dust that floated in the air. Nothing was there, but Sam felt like there had been. Shaking his head, Sam headed for the front door and absentmindedly rubbed at his temples. He could sneak back to his rusty, old pickup truck—he had ditched the station wagon at some town between the Roadhouse and Northern California, the same place he had ditched his phone—from the place he had come in from, but Sam couldn't convince himself to give a damn. He was just so tired, and outmaneuvering someone who wasn't there was too much for him to consider.

Sam stopped just before the front door, his hand hovering inches from the flaking handle, as his pocket vibrated incessantly. On the screen of his new burner flashed his brother's name. His brother whom he couldn't seem to completely leave. When Sam had dropped his phone, he had kept the SIM card and therefore his contacts and number without the GPS tracker. Although Sam admitted he missed Dean, he was angrier. He stared at the flashing name until the words missed call rested by the name, and new voicemail hovered underneath. Immediately he deleted the message sans listening to it and marched deliberately back to his stolen car. Sam looked back up, about to hop into his car, but was greeted with the scene of an old jeep, in lieu of the empty street he had expected.

In front of said jeep stood two adolescents. Both were staring fixedly on Sam, and he responded comically in the same fashion. The first boy, Sam assumed he was about seventeen or eighteen years old, was a classic gangly teen, but he had this look about him, a look that said his mind was a thousand miles ahead of everyone around him. When he caught sight of Sam coming from the victim's house, his eyes narrowed and he knocked his friend insistently on the shoulder. The friend, who also looked about eighteen, pushed the boy's hand away. Apart from the shaggy hair and well-toned muscles, he seemed different than any other teen his age, something ominous and powerful, as much as he tried to hide it. Sam sighed as the two adolescents made a beeline for his old truck, and he prepared himself for his cover story.

"Hey!" the first boy called brusquely.

"Can I help you, boys?" Sam asked politely, but also tersely.

"Yeah, what were you doing in there? Don't you know what happened in there? It's a crime scene."

Sam glanced back at the house then to the boys. They were too suspicious Sam concluded, his own suspicions growing. He forced himself to calm down. He was being paranoid; these two were just average, naïve teenagers. "It's okay," he said, making pacifying gestures. "I work for the FBI." Sam nodded in question and slowly opened his car door to retrieve his forged badge. "See?"

Both boys observed the I.D. intently, the second boy leaning in more closely than the first. They didn't appear too happy about it, but they conceded he was actually a fed and backed off, if only minutely compared to before.

The first boy smirked, his gaze falling on Sam's less than official clothes and crappy car. "Nice ride, fed."

Sam tried to return the grin. "I'm on vacation."

"Then why are you breaking and entering into a crime scene…" the shaggy haired one asked. He narrowed his eyes at the agent. "…Agent Robert Plant?"

"Curiosity. I read about the murder, just thought I'd take a look because some of the elements match an old cold case I worked on."

It was like watching a lightbulb. The two boys froze simultaneously then snapped shut their mouths in an attempt of indifference. Sam grinned and crossed his arms and leaned against the driver door. "And what about you? What are you two skulking around a crime scene?"

"Me?" the first boy pointed to himself then to his friend. "Nothing. I mean we're not. Skulking. I'd say more of lurking. Maybe waiting and watching."

His friend's leg snaked out, catching him in the calf. "Stiles," his friend hissed. He glared a moment longer before addressing Agent Plant. "We were just curious. You know: small town, word travels fast."

"And we were bored."

"Well," Sam sighed, nodding to the jeep across the street. "Why don't you find a better way to satisfy your curiosity."

~•~

Stiles slammed his door shut, frustrated and practically growling. Scott looked at him questioningly. He didn't even have to ask before his best friend exploded and took his annoyance out on his beloved car. "Why can't people just be who they say they are?!" he griped. "I guess that question falls right alongside 'why can't someone in this town just get murdered'?"

"You noticed he's an imposter then?"

Stiles threw a cheeky grin at the passenger side. "He may want to invest in a better cover name."

"What?"

"Robert Plant? One of the guitarist for Led Zeppelin?" Stiles hummed a quick tune of what Scott figured was a song from Led Zeppelin, but the song cut off as soon as it started. He glanced at the werewolf in his passenger seat almost as confused as the time when Scott had come up with the answer to a math problem. "How'd you know he was a fake?"

"His badge number. My dad taught me how to check a fake, and his was well made, but wrong."

Stiles hummed in approval and seemed impressed, if not because his friend could identify a forgery, because he remembered something useful that his father had taught him. He observed the false agent clambering into his car easily despite his enormous, and intimidating height. The truck's engine sputtered to life but remained in the driveway. "You get any werewolf-y scent of this guy? My guess is another psychopathic, sacrificing lunatic."

Scott shook his head. "No, nothing. He did smell a little off though. And it seemed familiar."

"Familiar how?"

"Like I've smelt it before."

"Like when we've been running for our lives before, or in the supermarket before?" When Scott merely shrugged, Stiles harrumphed and whined, "come on, Scott. I'm always the one getting chased and I want to be ahead of it this time." Stiles heaved a sigh and turned on the car. "Whatever it is."

Scott pulled out his phone and immediately hit the green call button. "Isaac," he said after a few rings. He pointed at the truck that was just pulling out onto the street. "Follow him—no, Stiles follow him, not you—Isaac, I need you to get everyone and meet me somewhere…I don't know yet…I'll text you the address…Yeah, just bring Lydia."

Stiles's head snapped to the right at mention of the banshee, although he also managed to swerve the jeep dangerously to the left. He was forced to focus back on the road and the red truck a few cars ahead.

~•~

"And you just suspect he's involved. Ignoring the fact he only just came to Beacon Hills," puffed Lydia intelligently.

"We don't know he just got here," defended Stiles, ducking back behind the building the group of five adolescents was using as a barricade. "He is impersonating a federal officer."

"So report him," she drawled pointedly. Lydia slid out her hand mirror and flicked some strawberry curls from her face and puckered her lips. "Your father is the sheriff."

Allison couldn't help but agree with Lydia's logic. To say she was weary of the new turn of events was an understatement. From the moment Scott and Stiles revealed they were investigating a ghost haunting, Allison had felt even more enervated. She wanted to tell her father, convinced he'd know what to do, but Scott and Stiles had insisted she didn't. She agreed with the exception that if things escalated then she could tell Chris Argent everything without hesitation.

After being retrieved by Isaac, already accompanied by Lydia, the three had met up with Scott, awkwardly, and Stiles behind some old café in town. The boys explained the strangely violent death, the incorporeal woman that had charged them, and their newly elected decision to re-vet the house, and finally they disclosed the faux-FBI agent encounter.

"Will you just do this?" Stiles returned snappishly and incredulously, like the tone he had been using when Lydia was reluctant to explore her 'banshee' abilities.

Lydia fixed him with her cool glare before pocketing the mirror and straightening her jacket. The four watched as she stepped back into the flow of pedestrians and walked straight up to the imposter, who was standing and reading the yellow pages.

"Hi," Lydia greeted bluntly.

Robert Plant started and stared at her, confused. "Hi," he replied.

"You're not from here?" She stated it as a question, but it wasn't actually one. She smiled charmingly and circled him.

"No," he admitted, still off-put.

Allison smiled. If Lydia was good at anything, it was at confusing people into bafflement. Her blunt intelligence was enough to shock anyone, but if she wanted to cause confusion, there was nothing to stop her. Lydia kneaded her temples before smiling stunningly and continuing.

"Lydia Martin." She offered her hand.

"...Rob Plant."

"Do you need help finding anything?"

Agent Plant shook his head with a small smile. "I'm only in town for a little bit. Just looking for a motel." He awkwardly shifted his attention back to the book in his hands. He laughed once, awkwardly, and cleared his throat. "I'm really okay on my own. No offence."

"M'kay. Welcome to Beacon Hills," Lydia smiled sweetly and spun on her heels. By the time she had returned to the group, she was using both palms to message her temples. She waved away Stiles's concern. "Nothing 'weird.' He seems completely normal, if not a common criminal." She glanced back around the brick building. "If not really handsome," she added.

~•~

"Yeah," Dean snapped impatiently. He had been up for the past three nights and had chased through four towns in the past six hours, which was impressive and horrifying given the distance between the cities in Nevada. He was forcing down a second bag of chips, the only meal he had found at the awkward time he had checked into the broken down motel. Unlike his normal appetite, he could barely swallow the salty potato crisps

"Hello? Mr. Tanner?" The voice was timid and tired, like he was scared of angry patrons yelling over the phone all day. "This is Gregory from AT&T. We've received a response from Samuel Tanner's GPS, would you still like the address?"

Dean dropped the bag of chips he had been eating and immediately turned the ignition. Balancing the phone between his shoulder and his ear all the while speeding down the Silver Spring's main street, he shouted back, "Yes."

"It first came on in Redding, California, traveling steadily down route five, but now the signal has stopped in Sacremento. The phone hasn't moved for around an hour."

Dean snapped his phone shut without so much as a thank you. An hour, Sam had been in Sacremento, California, for an hour, and the phone company has only just called him? He may be in Nevada, but with the impala full on gas and Dean's driving skills, he figured he could be there within an hour and a half.

And true to his thought, Dean arrived in the center of the city, receiving the exact location from the same irked and fiddly man from a few hours before. However, when he reached the park, he did not see his overly tall brother. Instead the only man in view was a plump guy sitting on a bench. Even if Sam had been hunching over, this guy was the complete opposite and could never pass for his baby brother. The imposter was balding, a Homer Simpson styled haircut, and he was stuffing his face with a McDonald's big mac.

Dean wasn't feeling the same sense of humor as he normally would at the confusion, and he stalked over to the man and caught him by the collared shirt while the other hand snaked around the flip phone.

"Where'd you get this," Dean demanded.

The guy sputtered, grease coating his lips. "I don't know what you're talking about, but you want it, you can have it!"

Dean shook his head angrily. "I don't want it!" he snarled. "I just want to know where you got it?"

"It—it's mine. Look, buddy, I don't want any troub—"

"Then tell me the truth!" Dean raised a fist as if to hit the guy, and the trick seemed to work. Dean wasn't sure if he would actually have hit the man, but since the guy flinched uncontrollably and sank to the park pavement, it didn't really matter.

"I—I found it!" he cried. "I was on the subway and found the pre-paid phone. All I needed was a SIM card. I didn't know—oomph!" The man hit the ground hard enough to break the skin on his palms. He looked cowardly at Dean then took the gesture as a 'free-to-go' statement, and he scurried away.

Dean held the phone in his hand and stared down at it. "Well played, Sammy."

So I actually had nearly finished this a few days ago, but my computer deleted over 1,000 words.

Anyways, hope you guys like it and as always COMMENT!

P.S. comments help speed along chapters