11:57 p.m.

Sam crouched over his arm delicately, careful to keep a cushion of air concealing the thick plaster. Stupid arm. Stupid zombie chick. Stupid kid who knocked him into a stupid rock. The glare that was thrown towards Scott was unfairly placed, but at that moment, it was Sam's only defense. His gun lay forgotten somewhere in the dark, and the sting resonating up his arm from the broken bone in wrist was almost enough to bring tears to Sam's eyes.

When that creature had charged Sam, the Winchester had been prepared, granted with a gun loaded with the wrong kind of bullets, but he hadn't been afraid. Sam hadn't felt anything. Maybe that was the start of it all, what his father had been so worried about. What may cause Dean to kill his only living family. Sam's face felt a creeping numbness every time he thought of what Dean had said. He said I might have to kill you, Sammy. Every time his mind replayed those thoughts, it felt like his face was turning to stone, and the look of betrayal and hatred was chiseled permanently into his expressions.

But the werewolf had never reached Sam. The kid, Scott, had intervened before anything could happen and pushed Sam out of the way. Unfortunately, he was a lot stronger than he looked, and more so than he was aware of, and had thrown Sam farther than either had anticipated. Sam crashed down, instinctually bracing himself with arms outstretched behind him, cushioned his fall with the pearly white cast holding the hunter's arm in one piece, which was why Sam was now looking on wearily while nursing his throbbing hand.

Scott was contesting with the human animal by growling viciously, the act seeming a little too natural for a simple high school student and unbelievable for him to be holding his own against a full grown werewolf.

"You're all werewolves, aren't you?" Sam groaned breathlessly. He was definitely screwed, Sam concluded, after he sent a quick glance into the shadows for any clue as to where his pistol had flown off to.

The werewolf tried to circumvent Scott with a growl, but Scott returned in kind and strong-armed the attempt. Something about his stature changed, an aspect of how he stood shifted from a self-conscious teenager to an authoritative alpha.

"Derek," he growled. "Stop!"

"He's a hunter, Scott," 'Derek' stated as if that was all he needed to pass judgment.

Scott inclined his head dangerously, and Derek cowed reluctantly, his features shifting back to a more human presence. His eyes, however, remained an icy, electric blue. Scott, seemingly satisfied Derek wouldn't attempt another coup de grace, faced Sam, who was at the same time surprised and not by the flaming crimson of the teenager's irises. It was a show of affirmation but also a warning to Sam. Any eighteen year old who could calm a charging adult should not be taken lightly. Isaac stepped around the hunter and joined his friend. His own eyes were a brilliant tawny, and Sam, for the first time, experienced a moment of panic.

He knew the fear he felt over yellow eyes was pathetically stupid because he was even aware of the meaning behind the varying color of the eyes, but since he had fought the Yellow-Eyed Demon, the color held more meaning than a simple gradation of pigment. The first time he had learned about the orientation of pack leadership, he had been eighteen, and he and John had had an argument for the fifth time that trip. In fact, it had been a few weeks before Sam had slammed the door and hadn't looked back.

It had been cold, even for a night in February in Western Massachusetts. Sam, Dean, and John had driven to Lenox, a small town in the Berkshires because there had been reports of animal attacks that hadn't fit into the zoography of Western Mass.

John slammed the Impala door. His breaths were dispersing as clouds before him, and it only added to his appearance of being truly pissed off. Sam also firmly closed the car door and stood heaving in the frigid weather. The only one to close the door with any respect for the antiquity was Dean, and he could only look on with wary.

Tonight was unique at the same time it wasn't. John and Sam were constantly at each other's throats, but it had passed a certain point when Sam had had the opportunity to shoot a pack member and had missed, winging the man before he disappeared. It had been tense enough Dean had offered to sit in the back, something he never did, so that Sammy might relax a bit. It hadn't gone as planned as Sam had inadvertently slammed the Impala door in his brother's face.

"Sammy…" Dean began before his brother could act on his feelings, but Sam wasn't the problem.

"What the hell were you thinking?" John interrogated severely.

"What was I thinking about what?" Sam snapped back, although Dean knew he was just provoking a greater reaction.

"Letting that—thing—go," John was posted before Sam now, his posture fixed, his feet melded to the ground, and he was unmoving despite the shiver-inducing cold.

"I shot him," growled Sam. He clenched his fists hard, hard enough to slice his palms with his nails, dotting them with crescent moons. "But I missed."

"No. You let him go."

"Hey, why don't we go inside?" Dean grinned tightly, locating his body in between the two and trying to marshal his father and brother inside the squalid, vile hovel they had rented. But Sam threw off Dean's arm and faced his father straight on.

"Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't see how killing some guy would solve our problems!"

"It wasn't some guy," John shouted tumultuously. "It was a werewolf! A monster!" He was just as uncontrollable, facing his disobedient son who was meant to be his unquestioning soldier.

"No. It is some guy who transforms into a monster every full moon. He's still someone with a family. With a job and a house. I don't understand why—"

"Why…what?" The shift in volume and intensity was so instant and disconcerting, Sam choked on whatever thought he had been following. Dean's breath caught in his throat, the chill from the winter air dispersing throughout his chest.

"Why your first reaction is to shoot and never ask questions."

A scowl impaired John's bearded face and he took one step closer to his son. "Because I don't need to. Anything less than human is a monster, and we send monsters to hell."

"Yeah," the youngest Winchester scowled. "And there are never exceptions." He held out his hands, palms outwards, and backed away from the car. "You know what, I need some air. Don't wait up."

He spun on his heels and began his defiant march into the frostbitten night.

"Sam!"

He knew the voice was Dean, but Sam didn't care to look back. There was no crunching gravel to warn Sam he was being followed, and he could just catch the tail whispers of John's latest in his bigoted mandates.

"Let him go, Dean."

Sam snorted, kicking a larger pebble off the beaten path. Yeah, let me go, he growled sardonically, it's all just a rebellious phase. His father never understood why Sam was so adamantly against following orders. His father had never seen the reports that went home in Sam's book-bag, never heard the comments and praises that were meant to be acknowledged at Parent-Teacher conferences, and never cared to notice that all of Sam's shares of the credit scams disappeared to the same cause, Common Application fees.

The anger he felt towards his father's partial mind burned like shards of glass were coursing through his veins. Sam just wanted him to see how un-hunter-like his youngest actually was. Sure Sam was the best researcher of the three, and probably the smartest, but he didn't have the conviction his brother and father shared. He couldn't look at something and separate it from its human appearance. And he wasn't even entirely consumed by the urge, the yearning and longing, to find the demon who murdered his mother. That was Sam's real secret. He felt disgust and revulsion at the abomination, but he, his brother and father had decimated enough demons to account for the sin of one monster. Every time the thought surfaced in his mind, guilt sunk its tainted teeth into the Winchester's heart, tearing at the hole a mother's care was supposed to fill.

Sam stopped mid-tirade when he faltered over his own, overly large feet. He had stalked halfway down the gravel road when suddenly it had altered to pavement, conjoining with a highway. Even as a state road, there were no signs of life in the night. The obscure motorway was only shadowed by the looming mountain to the right and the flooding sea of thin trees to the left. A flicker of movement drew Sam's attention, but after a moment of vivid focus, the shadow had simply been a trick of the wind.

There was nothing. The street lights were a half a mile away from each post, and the sky was void of stars, the only reliable light coming from the brilliantly luminescent moon. The finger-like baton branches encroached on the visible light and reached outwards for Sam enough to put the young hunter on edge. When Sam glanced back the way he came, it seemed much darker and ominous than it had when he had first passed through.

Slowly, the ire ebbed away, and Sam simply felt tired. No amount of arbitrating from Dean would fix the problems Sam had with his father. And Sam felt like he was swallowing frozen embers each time he read the ebony letters, but truth was, he had made his mind the second the ample, momentous packet had arrived…

Sam had just decided to walk back to the cabin when a dark shadow abruptly obstructed his path. It was of average size, covered with shaggy hair that looked black in the lightless woods, and every one of its aspects, besides the glowing, elongating fangs, were obscured by the shadows. It smiled briefly before howling and advancing toward the Winchester. Azure blue eyes traced every movement, including the attempts its prey made to retreat from its approach.

Sam stumbled over the loose rocks that had made its way from the gravel path to the state road. Another shadow appeared besides the first one, followed by another and another until a mix of amber and cerulean eyes steamed in the cold air. They stepped out from in between the trees and drew a circle of four points around the hunter, until there was only one space left, and it was directly in front of Sam.

An old man, his arm bandaged in white, iridescent dressing, was the last of the seven to appear. His hair was almost a sickening yellow in the moonlight; his clothes were tattered from running through the woods night after night. An amused aura clouded him, and although Sam couldn't yet see his face, his posture reflected his smiling expression. He would have reason to smile, reflected Sam grimly, him having cornered the hunter who had lodged a piece of silver into his arm. The old man was easily recognizable, with the snow white hair and the pigeon-legged limp. But the hair and the limp was not what snagged Sam's attention. The varying irises were enthralling. Most members of the pack adorned cobalt eyes, a few had ochre, but the old man's—his eyes, when he flashed his white canines, were blood red.

His voice was abrasive, like he had spent more than half his years with a cigarette between his lips. "Hunter," he crooned. "What would you be doing out here, all alone, after you and your pack have declared war on my territory?"

Sam choked back any response that would lead to his premature demise. Distantly, he smiled over the thought that Dean's juvenile manner had rubbed off on him despite Sam's attempts at surpassing his brother's wisdom.

The man shifted his bandaged arm pointedly. "You're one lousy shot, kiddo." The surrounding pack loped in amusement, but there was something darker in their laughter. Something that was more loathing than the other emotions on the entertained veneer. The grandpa grinned a set of fangs and waved off the aggressive advances the wolves were making. "My boys are angry, see? They only listen to me, and you seemed to have damaged the vessel. Flesh wound granted, but silver bites."

Sam had been stepping back imperceptibly, but with a new realization, he stopped in his tracks. He ran through the different theories of werewolf leadership, the orientation of natural and demonic wolf leadership. There had been talk of different eye color meaning different statuses, and at that moment, Sam figured it was right. "You're the alpha."

"And the boy has brains," the werewolf congratulated. "I wonder what else he has."

"Why don't you try me, Cujo?" Sam growled.

The men creating the circle hissed and snarled in warning, but their commander and chief called them off. "I like you. You've got a fight buried deep." Suddenly, his face grew darker and longer, an ashen tone strewn across his wooly features until he was no longer the human wolf. The eyes were the same, but they held a more animalistic gleam, a feral hunger that burned with sanguine light. Bones morphed under his skin and his ears pared until they resembled a jackal's. His teeth were fangs, and dark liquid flowed down them as they pierced the soft flesh of his mouth, and he was more wolf than man. At that moment, Sam understood how his father saw the supernatural, how he could separate the humans from the demons.

"Too bad," the alpha mused, "the fight won't save you."

He leaned in towards Sam, slowly, menacingly and mockingly. Like he had whatever time to kill Sam, destroy him and tear at him because they believed no one was coming for him. But alert flickered across the old man's face. He arrested bemusedly, fangs inches from Sam's neck, staring over Sam's shoulder, and his red eyes blinked to that of a normal human in his confusion. Sam side-stepped, intending to search for whatever it was that had caught the alpha's attention, but a deafening crack brought every movement to a halt. The resonance that echoed from the shot was outdone by the cry that followed.

He began to fall, blood beginning to seep from his heart and looking like a haunted lake in the light of a lunar eclipse, and the alpha was dead before he even hit the ground.

Sam didn't need to see them to know who had pulled the trigger, and he acted accordingly. He lashed out against the nearest wolf, striking at the throat first then the face. Another shot rang out, and Dean was close enough to beat one of the pack members.

After a moment, they fought back ferociously, but also with a lacking. A lack of leadership, Sam realized with a start. The old man had been an alpha, and although they wanted to avenge the death of their chief, they also didn't want to die for a tyrant who was already dead.

Some did however; two of the pack members fell with steaming abysses filled with silver. The others were injured, nicked or maimed by bullets. They inflicted their own damage on the Winchesters, but after Dean had interfered in their kill and their father was murdered, they began to run. Probably afraid of the last and deadliest of the Winchesters, inferred Sam. He had only sustained a small cut above his eye, and it was superficial and shouldn't leave a scar. He grinned sheepishly at his brother and rubbed the back of his shaggy head.

"Some air, huh," Dean frowned. "What the hell were you thinking, Sammy?"

Sam tried to think of an excuse, but he settled for walking past his brother with a quiet utterance of, "it's Sam."

He didn't doubt that Dean would check to make sure the pack members and alpha were really dead, and he didn't really want to see the damage he and his brother had dealt to the young members. They couldn't have been older than twenty-four. Least their father would be proud—and upset—at the total destruction they wreaked on the pack, after scolding them for leaving the bodies lying out in the open.

Dean jogged in the direction of the motel in order to catch up with his brother's long strides. Once he reached the same pace, he bumped shoulders with Sam to show he wasn't as upset as he let on, also checking to see if Sam was still pissed. "Just don't run off like that. Can't watch out for you if you run out on me."

The replay of the hunt came unbidden and unwanted. Sam hadn't thought of the pack in Massachusetts in years, and even thinking of the pathetically petty fight between he and his father made his stomach churn like molten acid, but the words ending his own recollection were what truly broiled his insides. Sam didn't want to feel guilt over running out on Dean, but still the emotion came round to bite him in the ass.

Sam's finger twitched, his lips pulling into sneering frown. "You're an alpha," he breathed. He drove himself to stand up straight and looked on the pack of teenagers, all of whom were sharing wary miens. Scott positioned himself at the crown of his friends, and only Stiles seemed to be questioning the supervision. He inched closer to the Winchester with curiosity practically seeping out of every orifice and his gaping jaw.

"You do know how a wolf becomes an alpha, don't you?" Sam asked.

"Well, yeah," he stuttered, but then the first realization came from Scott, quickly replicating throughout the pack. First he was surprised, probably that Sam had made the connection between the eye color and the succession of power, and he paled at the implication of it. "But, I didn't kill anyone."

"Yeah? Then how'd you become an alpha?"

"It just kind of happened?" Scott answered pitifully, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sam nodded, sniggering in a disbelieving way. There was no way he believed that there was no killing, not that he wanted there to be. But according to his family philosophy, monsters were monsters, no matter the shape they appeared in. "Sorry if I find that a little hard to believe, but monsters aren't exactly trustworthy."

Stiles snorted shortly. "Yeah, because hunters are always so angelic."

That brought a slight smirk to Sam's face, nodding as he processed just how true it was. "So…" he had begun to pace marginally, just enough to slow his mind to a less feverish pace, "everyone in this town is a werewolf?"

Stiles shook his head, and Sam was beginning to wonder just how much this kid knew. He seemed to be more knowledgeable than the actual alpha, or at least he was the one who was more open to speaking to the outsider. "Just the vast majority are," the high schooler answered. "And you? You're a…hunter—that hunts ghosts?

"Among other things."

"What other things?"

"Basically anything that goes bump in the night."

"What's that supposed to mean?" The girl, Allison, finally spoke up. She had forgone her aggressive hold on her crossbow and was now curiously inching past the alpha's protective post. Scott sent her a warning glance, but she, almost too much so, insubordinately ignored him. "Until recently, we had only ever heard of werewolves. Then there were druids and kanimas, and now there are ghosts. Exactly what else is there?"

Sam hesitated. He'd given the truth is out there speech before, but most hadn't had any clue before they were serendipitously attacked by some supernatural, unbeknown force. He knew these kids probably could handle the truth of demons, of murder and sacrifice, and they had probably already handled worse. But he didn't want to break what little innocence he saw sheltering the teenagers. "You don't want to know."

~•~

12:39 a.m.

The industrial building was bleak, having one story and grey walls. The front door, the words Beacon Hills Animal Clinic plastered on the glass, was encased by wooden symbols that appeared to be pagan protective sigils. The sign read closed, but Scott had already begun to unlock the door with his own set of keys by the time Sam had even clambered out of the over-filled jeep. Stiles was the first to saunter in, pocketing his sundry assortment of rings, followed a few steps behind by Isaac and Scott. Allison kept her view trained on Sam, her eyes never wandering, her hand clenched on the kunai knife she believed was hidden. The last werewolf kept one step behind everyone, the last one over the threshold, and settled for glaring at the Winchester viciously.

"You work here?" Sam asked Scott, although he didn't really need, or actually receive, an answer.

The waiting room was clear of any signs of inhabitance besides from the occasional magazine scattered across a chair, and the only blink of light came from the examination room behind the counter. Stiles and Scott immediately made their way to the back, like it was nothing more than habit. Scott hadn't wanted to bring everyone back to his house. For one reason, even though his mother wouldn't be back for another few hours, he didn't want her to walk in while they were planning on taking care of a ghost who was going on a rampage—a thought that amused Sam: here was an omnipotent sovereign, an alpha, worried his mother would interrupt his playdate. The second reason, and no one spoke it aloud however obvious it was, was they didn't trust Sam.

Sam hovered awkwardly to the side of the examination room, not really wanting to relax but all the same wanting answers from the locals. After the initial disclosure in the woods, outside the property circle of the Masons, Sam had offered to take them back to his motel to get over the awkward introductions. The others had declined suspiciously and instead put forth a more mutually acceptable location.

Stiles dumped himself down on the cold, steel operation table, and studied Sam up and down. Isaac reclined against the far wall, his arms crossed across his chest, and Allison paused momentarily beside him before moving away from everyone else in the room, her gaze fleetingly finding Scott's.

"What about the owner?" Sam asked, attempting to break the silence.

"He won't be too surprised," Isaac averred knowingly. "What? I doubt anything really surprises him," he added when everyone, including Sam, questioningly turned to him.

"So he knows all about—" Sam waved a vague hand in a wide circle, "—this?"

"Who knows what he actually knows."

"Except everything," Stiles grumped. He turned to Isaac, continuing the diversion with Isaac. "Did you know he speaks sign language?"

"I don't think people actually speak sign language—"

A deep throated growl cut off the rest of Isaac's amused retort. Derek appeared like a shadow next to the two boys and threateningly silenced them with a glare. His cold eyes found Sam and never left as he said, "What's your real name?"

"I told you, it's Sam—"

"Full name."

"Winchester." Sam waited for the recognition, but it never came. What kind of hunters had never heard of the Winchester family? It was not something he usually liked to advertise, but he'd grown accustomed to the selectively aware to have at least heard the rumors of the boys. "You've never heard of me?"

"Should we have?"

Sam shook his head, the first rush of coolness slowing the beating his heart since Sam had first snuck out of that motel in Washington. He wasn't sure why he was relieved they didn't know who he was—or what he was, he added sardonically—but his gut unclenched marginally, enough to allay the slight nausea that had been building up over the past few days. "You know about hunters though?"

"My family's been in the business for generations. But I've only been taught about werewolves, not ghosts," answered Allison pointedly. "But you've hunted them before?"

"Yeah, my brother and I sort of live for this kind of thing." Sam busied himself with looking around the small office as he spoke. Most of the instruments had been cleared away to their proper place, but there was a pile of gauze that had yet to be ordered. "We look through articles, bizarre claims on absurd blogs to try and find something that might be—unnatural."

"Don't you have a life?"

Sam wasn't sure if Stiles had meant it as it came out, but he understood the implication. "That's kinda our job. We know how to deal with things like a deranged Casper or Cousin It when most people would probably run the other way." He stopped his distracting search of the room and faced the Beacon Hills pack. "What about you? How is it a small town like this has an overwhelmingly unbalanced ratio of monst—creatures to humans?"

Scott, Stiles, and Allison cringed simultaneously, not completely obvious but enough to draw attention to them. They shared a glance, something Sam was well too aware of what it entailed. He and Dean had shared enough of them under the circumstances of facing an overly curious suspect or interfering cops. The look that automatically synced their stories to fit one line of thought under questioning.

"There may have been a situation that ignited a beacon of sorts, drawing any supernatural entity in the Western Hemisphere to Beacon Hills," Stiles intoned.

"What kind of situation?"

"A ritual sacrifice."

Sam knew it wasn't funny, in fact his reaction was callous, but the tone with which Stiles stated it was so sheepishly casual that Sam snorted in his attempted to stifle the smirk and chortle that surfaced. To further disguise his apathetic response, he cleared his throat, "so, uh, how have you managed to keep all this quiet? I mean, with six people getting sacrificed and werewolves running around, don't people notice something's off?"

Stiles scratched the back of his head, scrunching his expression. "Well, Beacon Hills is sort of inhabited largely by an adult population that is either clueless, or in perpetual denial," he explained straightly. "Either way, it's a good thing since half their kids are growing facial hair within seconds."

"Wait, your parents don't know about you being werewolves? None of them?" That was one hell of a secret. Especially if they're running wild, howling at the moon once a month.

"My dad's dead," Isaac stated easily. Again, there was a surprising lack of empathy in their voices as they spoke so obviously and casually about something that should have held more meaning behind it. Scott and Stiles grimaced at Isaac disapprovingly, at which the other boy shrugged.

"My mom knows, actually," Scott continued, putting the awkward questions behind. "And Stiles's dad just found out."

"The sheriff knows? Does he know about me?"

"He thinks you really do work for the FBI. Which is going to be an awkward conversation," reflected Stiles quietly. He shrugged to himself, deeming the future exchange unworthy of his attention at the moment. "Why fake being an FBI agent anyways?"

It was Sam's turn to shrug, fiddling with the phone in his hand behind him. "Makes everything easier. I've been an FBI agent, lawyer, university student, you name it. People don't exactly open up to strangers without a reason," he answered distractedly. He hadn't noticed until now, but his phone had been quiet since earlier that afternoon. No calls had come in from Dean, Ellen, anyone, and it unnerved Sam a little. He hadn't realized how often he had let it ring its electronic heart out until it was no longer sounding. He flipped open the device and searched the screen. No calls or messages were listed, the only announcement being the bold One-oh-three that was displayed at the top.

"Look," Sam said, trying to stifle the groan that wanted to come out. "Why don't we just meet up tomorrow? I get that you have questions and you probably don't trust everything I've said—"

Derek snorted in agreement and disbelief from the corner, and Sam dutifully continued despite the flash of heat that graced the back of his neck, "—but it'll be easier to get things done when we're not sleep deprived. Besides, I've got things I need to do that don't involve retelling my entire life story to a bunch of kids."

"You're, like, four years older than us," protested Isaac, but he dropped his objection after a slow head shake from his alpha.

Scott nodded. "You don't trust us and we don't trust you, but…" he sighed and held out his hand to Sam, "you know how to stop this thing from killing people?"

Sam took the offering and shook the younger one's hand. "I know how to kill it."

~•~

11:25 a.m.

"Don't you have school?" Sheriff Stilinski wasn't surprised that his son and Scott had randomly and yet still predictably shown up at the station. He had given up a long time ago trying to decipher whether or not Stiles actually had a 'free period' because he had to, at some point in time, actually have one.

He held up a hand, stemming the words about to flow so easily from his son's mouth. "Don't tell me. I don't wanna know."

Stiles had the ability to look sheepish and offended at the same time, although he overcame the feelings when he ushered himself into the sheriff's office. He paused then shuffled back out of the room, a key ring jingling in his hand. The sheriff snatched them out of his hands, eliciting a small yelp from the kid as his finger was caught in the ring.

"What do you think your doing?"

Stiles rocked on his feet expectantly and acted like his actions were not only justified but obvious. He'd been acting that way ever since he got home past two o'clock in the morning. He had avoided the sheriff's questioning skillfully, turning everything around with grace that the sheriff could only stand at the base of the stairs in befuddlement.

Scott, thankfully, took the silence for his cue to explain what Stiles was waiting for. "We have a lead on how to take care of the," he glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to hear the discussion, "ghost."

"I thought you took care of it last night?"

"We were going to, but..." Stiles began to shepherd his father and friend out of the station, stealthily avoiding any entanglement with deputies. "…there was a situation with a glock and a werewolf." He had timed the ending of his statement to align with them exiting the building, except they hadn't made it quite that far. They were just past the front counter when he broke the news, and the sheriff's reaction was as predicted but came too quick.

"What?"

"Don't worry, we handledit. Well Scott did, but still."

"That's not comforting," he hissed. The deputy manning the counter was more than curious over the conversation, although she kept her distance. Worried about the possible incursion, Scott and Stiles angled Stilinski out of the station.

"Dad, we just need you to pull the guys off the Mason house," Stiles explained once they were huddled around the sheriff's SUV.

"Couldn't I have just done that from my office? And I did that. Last night, when apparently you were being attacked by gun-wielding ghosts!"

"The ghost didn't have a gun. The hunter did."

"What hunter?"

"The FBI agent."

Sheriff Stilinski froze. "The agent?" Sure the sheriff found a special agent investigating a local murder suspicious, but he didn't think there was something deeper than a man's strange pet peeve.

"Yeah," grinned Stiles, "turns out he's a ghost hunter." His grin found Scott, who apparently didn't find the situation as amusing as his counterpart. "I feel like we're well rounded now. Got a hunter for every occasion at this point."

Instead of intervening in the conversation going on between the two boys, the sheriff dialed the number of the officers watching the house and told them it was no longer necessary. "I doubt anyone will want to see the crime scene and our guys have already gotten all we needed."

The deputies agreed, and the sheriff had already climbed inside his car by the time he had slipped the phone back into his pocket. He glanced at Stiles and Scott questioningly. "Well?"

~•~

11:44 a.m.

He knew he shouldn't be surprised by how many cars were already at the scene, but the emotion still reared its ugly head. Three assorted cars were parked obviously in front of the Mason's house, their occupants either reclining against the hoods or standing casually beside them. The Sheriff pulled up next to the menacing SUV that was at least parked in the street, offering the appearance of someone visiting any other house on the street. If a neighbor happened to glance outside, he or she'd be gifted with the view with a bunch of teenagers looking for a thrill at a crime scene, and the sheriff just hoped they wouldn't call the police to report it. Luckily there were precious few houses, and the ones that were were littered far away from each other

The other two cars, an all-too familiar jeep that had arrived just before the sheriff and a small smokey blue Camry, were parked in the stone driveway. Allison stood to the side of her car, looking any where but at her father or Scott, and Isaac was trying to act like being alone with the two hunters didn't bother him. Stiles was anxiously waiting for…something. And once the sheriff had clambered out of his own car, he knew what. A rattling old pick-up truck was the last to arrive, it's driver not quite frowning but also not in any way smiling as he joined the congregation.

"Agent," the sheriff greeted, although he was already aware that the title had been fictitious—judging by the young appearance and the ratty old jeans he now wore, the sheriff pegged the 'agent' at being around twenty-five or younger. And there was no way he was an actual federal agent.

"Sheriff," he nodded back, smiling a greeting at the others.

"My daughter says you're a hunter?" Chris Argent placed himself protectively in front of Allison, much to her chagrin. He held out his hand, "Chris Argent."

With a fleeting glance at the sheriff and something that was close to contriteness, the hunter took the hand and replied, "Sam Winchester."

"Winchester?" Chris Argent smiled tightly, almost like there was something malicious behind it. "I knew your father, and brother. Good hunters. It's been years since I've seen them though, still up to the same things?"

Sam bit his lip, a sudden uncomfortable cloud shrouding his eyes. "Dad died a few months back," he replied succinctly, answering the unasked question, "demon."

His gaze avoided the sympathies that emanated from everyone. He didn't need their pity, something the sheriff knew well enough. The last thing someone like Sam wanted was to be coddled, and it was something only someone like Stilinski would understand. And he did.

"I think it'd be a good idea to keep going. Find the ghost and—" Stilinski rested a hand along his cheek and blew out his breath. "I don't even know what you do with a ghost. Send it to Heaven? Kill it?"

"Salt and burn it," supplied Sam. "You find whatever is holding it here and destroy the link." He had started for the front door, pausing only long enough for the key to be passed up the line. "Usually," he continued, "it's their remains, the corpse, but sometimes it's an item of meaning."

"Like a murder weapon?" suggested Isaac, stepping into the house after Sam with caution. After all there had been a maniacal ghost there the night before. The train of hunters and kids alike led through the house to the back, where the bedroom and kitchen were. Allison and Isaac moved to the hall, reveling in the fact the haunted house was filled with an abundance of light. The sheriff himself was glad there was no need for flashlights, and that there was a variety of people—werewolves, werewolf hunters, ghost hunters, and a law enforcement officer with a permit to carry lethal weaponry—helped assuage his fear of a ghost attack.

"Could be. Something like a necklace or a wedding ring." Sam was pacing the bedroom, a strange device whirring in his hand as he spoke. He grinned to himself despite the not-so-happy topic. "This one time, Dean and I were fighting a ghost, and it was the dead guy's old teeth. Apparently he'd buried them in his bedroom walls when he was a kid because he was so dedicated to catching the tooth fairy."

Sam paused in his searching, sighing at the device when it was barely making any movement. "Last night, I was getting a reading off something in the bedroom," he said by way of explanation. "Now there doesn't seem to be anything."

He addressed the sheriff, "your men weren't in here earlier, were they?"

"You think they took the object with them?" Argent came into the bedroom, slipping something back into his pocket as he questioned the other hunter. "You think that's how the ghost is choosing it's victims?"

"I can't think of any other reason. Ghosts haunt places where they die or they jump from person to person. I can't figure out how it went from possessing the Kyles to the Masons."

"Parrish," the sheriff said, holding up a silencing finger when Stiles and Scott had joined everyone in the bedroom. "I need to know if anyone went into the Mason house since last night?"

~•~

12:01 p.m.

"Inventory?" The sheriff sounded mad, Sam decided. "I told them not to go inside!" The sheriff sighed, sounding more like a deflating growl, and quietly thanked the deputy on the other line. He was pinching his eyes shut before he replied. "It seems a few of the deputies took it upon themselves to take inventory. They removed a few items from the house they thought were suspicious, but I have no idea what they mean by 'suspicious.' I'm willing to bet whatever is tying the ghost to Beacon Hills is now in Evidence."

The sheriff excused himself, growling something about deputies and sons giving him a heart attack, but Stiles only grinned sheepishly as his dad pulled back out onto the street and drove away. He and Scott began their descent out of the house without even asking if the others had found anything.

Sam wondered if that was generally how they solved their problems. Work for a few minutes then move onto the next task. He couldn't imagine they got much done with that process, although they hadn't had John Winchester drilling in the proper method of finding a ghost or monster. Whatever the kids did, it seemed to work nevertheless.

One by one, they began to file out of the house, Sam and Chris Argent being the last to close the door. Without needing to be told to, Scott, Isaac, and Stiles trotted around the house, just to check out if they could find anything without really expecting to. Allison, despite the original awkwardness, had sidled up with her friends and was complaining somewhat about a test they were supposed to be having in a few periods.

"It was Sam, right?" Argent's voice was subtly dubious, his voice overshadowing the crunching of the gravel of the driveway under his feet. He had fallen behind the company as they traipsed farther away from the house, down along the side by the road. "Dean's little brother?"

Caution intensified the fervent pressure in the back of Sam's throat. The feeling only peaked when he identified a sound that snapped an inch away from his ear. Sam concluded he had been in the hunting game too long when he could distinguish not only that the sound was indeed a gun being armed but that it was a Walther PK series. But still, Sam turned around, his face assaulted by the business end of a handgun.

Almost immediately, like a sixth sense, the others noticed the beginning of the altercation, and they immediately halted and fell back around the two hunters, although none passed the invisible demarcation line surrounding them.

"Dad," Allison cried, "what are you doing?"

"Sam Winchester," he said in way of answer.

"Let me guess: you've got some beef with my dad," Sam growled, mechanically raising his hands to promise no funny business. "Well, sorry to disappoint, but he's already dead. Kind of puts a damper on your revenge scheme."

Argent ignored the venom in the youngest Winchester's voice and strengthened his hold on the grip. "Gordon Walker."

The breath was crushed out of Sam's lungs and he felt a feeling similar to drowning: pressure to inhale but knowing something lethal awaited him if he did.

"He's been spreading the word that whoever sees Sam Winchester shouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger," Argent continued.

"Dad, that's insane. Put the gun down."

All around the two hunters, there were small utterances, repetitions of "Put the gun down," and "What are you doing?" but Sam's sole focus was on the grey eyes split by the steel alloy. The entire cosmos was centered on the hunters because Sam had no doubt Argent would put down anything he deemed a monster dangerous to the world—exactly what his father and brother would do.

"Gordon Walker wants you dead. Why?"

"Maybe because he's insane," Sam tried to scoff, but it came out as a frustrated snarl. "My brother and I, we left him tied up in his own filth for three days. That doesn't exactly inspire comradeship."

"No. It's more than that," Argent cocked the Pk. Vaguely, Sam tried to read the expression behind the cold eyes, tried to read whether or not he intended to shoot, or whether he just wanted to get answers. "It's something to do with who you are."

He leveled the gun against Sam's forehead, the icy metal contrasting against the younger man's nervous fever. Sam blinked reflexively, but when he opened them, everything had changed.

A brown leather and blue jean shadow collided with Argent, taking down both the hunter and the gun. They tumbled in the leaves and rolled repeatedly as the momentum overshot any restraint and resistance either men had. Sam's first instinct was that one of the wolves had tackled the hunter, but a quick tally of heads burned that conclusion like it was kerosene. Both the werwolves and their two human friends were staring, frozen, at the wrangling shapes, each half trying to get the upper hand. Slowly, the two shapes distinguished themselves, the initial aggressor becoming clear and emerging from the fundamental blur.

Sam's feet finally moved of their own accord, and he found himself gawking down at two men, one being Argent, now disarmed and glowering at the assailant, and the other holding the gun menacingly and murderously angry. He struck Argent, closed fist, and shouted, "You do that to my brother, I'll kill you!"

Dean made it to his feet without once wavering the gun, and Argent held his jaw sensitively and protectively.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. He halted at his brother's side but didn't touch him. "Dean, stop."

There was a flash of hazel brown eyes as he glimpsed at his brother out of the corner of his eyes, but Dean's head shook marginally. He realigned his grip on the gun. "Can't do that, Sammy."

"You know this guy?" demanded a voice from behind Sam. It had come from Isaac, who still rarely spoke, and it took Sam by surprise. But the surprise was lost when Stiles smirked.

"Sammy?" he snorted.

Sam paused, twisting momentarily to glare venomously at the boy to his right, before he stepped closer to Dean and raised his hands in pacifying gestures. He still refrained from touching his brother. He wasn't ready to do that yet. Somehow, Sam equated touching his brother with forgiving him, with comforting Dean with the knowledge that Sam didn't hold whatever it was he felt against Dean, and he wasn't prepared to let that go yet.

Sam reached far enough for Dean's offending grip that his brother shrugged it away. A steel curtain fell over Sam's vision, and he agreed with the movement made. He really doesn't believe I won't turn dark side, his conscious whispered in the abysmal darkness of Sam's mind. Fine.

When he spoke, his voice was detached, cold. "Dean, put the gun down."

Dean heard the change in his voice, and this time more than just his eyes flickered to his brother's face. With jerking motions, he lowered the gun, although Dean's knuckles flashed white from his grip, and he was prepared for any aggressive movement towards his fraternal charge.

"You ditched me, Sammy," he said too lightly, hiding the gut-wrenching feeling he'd had ever since he'd woken up and his baby brother was gone.

"I had some things I had to work out," Sam replied tersely. He knew the wolf pack was watching the altercation with strained control, that they were aware how close it had been to a crime scene, but they also knew that intervening where they shouldn't—in the business of those specific hunters, at that specific time—was not a wise life choice. "Ellen call you?" Sam finished.

There was a small jerk of the head and Dean's attention moved to the others at the side of the house. There was nothing unordinary about the kids, except for the fact they were completely fine with the appearance of a gun and some random maniac holding it in another man's face. Dean fixed his eyes on each of the teenagers, trying to get a read on who or what they were. "Who're they?"

Sam knew what they were going to do before Scott had even moved. Maybe it was because Sam had admitted to knowing Dean, that they were both hunters, but Scott had begun to incline his head, like he had done the night before when the alpha revealed his nature through his eyes. And Sam knew he couldn't let them, not when Dean was still so dedicated to his father's mandates of a 'monster is a monster, no matter the shape or form.'

"They're the ones who found the ghost in the first place," Sam said hurriedly, "He's a hunter," indicating Argent who was still standing protectively, like he was under attack.

Dean speculated Sam intently, the loathing glower disappearing when his eyes were trained on his brother. Either he was making sure no harm had come to his baby brother, deciding which side of his face should receive the shiner he intended to give his brother, or determining whether Sam was hiding something or not.

"And they're completely OK with the fact Casper's real?"

"They're well adjusted." Sam paused and sent a meaningful, silent warning at the pack. 'Not yet.' If Dean caught the glance or found the hesitation suspicious, he didn't say anything. "Look, Dean. This ghost…somehow it's moving from place to place, and it's leaving a trail of bodies wherever it goes."

"Is this your way of asking for help, Sammy?"

With clenched jaw, he grudgingly accepted, "yes."

So, this is going to follow my own thought process as well as some of TW season 3B

also I know it seems like it may be moving fast seeing as it's taken place over like five days, but now that Dean's here it's gonna slow down

bonus points to anyone who can tell me what the french equivalent is for the Bitch/Jerk ritual thing Sam and Dean do. I've been watching the French dub but I cant figure out what they say.

as always REVIEW!