12:18 p.m.

Dean knew there was something with those kids. They were too—normal. Even after he had calmly crashed into a guy, threatened to pop lead through his head—with his own gun no less— and then abashedly grumbled an apology, the kids had barely batted an eye. Okay, Dean acknowledged, Sam had already given them the lowdown on the creepy 'n crawlies of the night but still the volatile mood swings should have been enough to elicit at least a small gasp of shock.

And yet there was silence.

Sweet, sweet silence that encased his baby brother like a blazing shell of pubescent hatred. When Dean had told Sam what their father's dying words were, he'd known there was bound to be blowback, some words exchanged, but he hadn't guessed that Sam would run away, find a hunt in some apple-pie town and befriend a bunch of teenagers. Maybe Dean didn't know Sam as well as he thought.

Speaking of whom, his baby brother was still standing next to the house, masked with stony indifference—actually, Dean mended his description, to the point Sam was taking it, the expression probably could be classified as indifferent hostility in the genus of pugnacious passive aggression. He had barely moved after the initial reaction of stopping Dean from pulling the trigger, and only had the party of five had even marginally budged from their spots by the house.

"I thought your brother was dead," intoned a confused curly haired teen.

Dean cocked an eyebrow at his brother. "You told them I was dead."

Sam shrugged annoyingly and shook his head, a reluctantly amused grin replacing the hostility in a brief moment of perplexity.

"Just the way you were talking about him," the kid elaborated. Judging by his friends' responses and identical bemusement worn, the kid in the sweater wasn't alone. "It made him sound dead."

Annoyance flared just beneath the surface of Dean's eyes. It felt like a nasty poke to the bear's fleshy, unprotected stomach because not only had Sammy ditched him, but he'd made it sound like he'd died. Was that how Sam really felt? Great. Just great. Dean found his expression sunk to replicate Sam's terse one. Brooding forehead and all.

"Thanks, Sammy," he found himself grumbling. "Here I was thinking you were the one in danger, when I'm the one who's apparently dead." Dean began to turn away, intending to sulk back to the Chevy Impala in a very manly manner. Before he made it two feet, however, his fist was swinging back wildly, and it connected with the side of Sam's face. Pain flared across his knuckles, but the satisfaction of the thump that came out of it outshot the rhythmic thrumming resonating down his wrist.

Sam accepted the hit without a complaint, only fingering the blotchy redness that had begun to appear along the cheek bone.

"Feel better?" he grumped. At seeing the livid set of Dean's jaw, he sighed and amended, "look, I was serious about the help. The ghost has killed two people already."

"Have you checked for EMF?"

"Course. The first house was clear when I got there, but the second got a hit last night only it's not there now. The sheriff is checking the Evidence lockup in case whatever is haunted is being held there."

"How about violent deaths in the area?" Dean had meant it as a serious question. After all, barbarous, heinous murders and suicides generally aren't a laughing matter, but that was exactly what one of the kids did, although it was more of a snort.

He was the one who seemed the shiftiest. His brown Hazel eyes skipped from person to person, starting with Dean and Sam, the other hunter and the girl, then the last two boys, lingering on the kid with short dark hair and with this dangerous—aura—emanating. His jaw was kept slightly agape, like he had something to add every time someone made a comment, and even then in the possible tensest moment of this kid's life, he was continuously and incessantly fidgeting his feet, as if about to bolt.

Dean fixed his best glare on him.

"This is Beacon Hills," the kid explained. "We basically coined the phrase 'violent death.'"

The man, who seemed beyond familiar to Dean, exhaled in a vocal replacement of rolling his eyes. He seemed like the kind of man to mature to give into those sort of actions, smirked Dean bitterly. "What Stiles means is that Beacon Hills has been host to a lot of —paranormal deaths. None of which have been similar to this."

"Thanks but I can find that out myself," growled the elder Winchester. "Who are you anyways? Why do you want my brother dead?"

The man appeared unperturbed by Dean's onslaught and he calmly adjusted his stance to something less protective. His grey-green stare remained intact and challenging when he responded, calculating Dean's reaction to the words. "Associates of mine have been spreading warnings about your brother. Saying he's dangerous. I was just assessing the truth behind the statements."

Dean scoffed. "Dangerous? He's got more of a conscience than I do, I mean, the guy feels guilty surfing the Internet for porn"—Sam grunted uncomfortably in objection to the statement, but that did little to stop Dean—"if anyone here is dangerous, it's me."

"Not according to Gordon Walker."

"Walker?" Laughter garbled the hunter's name, but it wasn't mirthful or jovial. "The guy hates our guts. Last time we ran into him, we tied him up in some back water barn after setting a vamp free. Me and Sammy aren't exactly his best pals at the moment. The guy's insane."

"Vampires are real?" The exclamation had come from the same boy as before, Styles. For a brief moment, Dean's focus strayed on the radical reasons a parent would have for naming their child Styles, but mentally shaking himself, he moved on quickly and turned an accusing glance on his brother.

"I thought you gave them the 'Truth Is out There Speech' already."

To which Sam only shrugged helplessly and indifferently. The older brother's initial relief, and frustration, was evaporating rapidly and in its place came rabid, older sibling annoyance.

"I did!" Sam defended.

"Saying you hunt everything that goes 'bump in the night' is not as explanatory as you think it is," pointed out the blond curly-haired teen.

"Not to mention that the dark and mysterious 'you don't want to know' reply really doesn't set boundaries for the imagination," the girl said for the first time since Dean had collided with the group.

Dean's green eyes roved up and down the girl, minus his usual intentions. Despite her aggressive countenance and warning plastered everywhere, including the very air she breathed, the little innocence that remained reminded Dean of a distant memory, a flicker of recognition. Just like her father, because he was fairly sure they were related, Dean swore he had seen her somewhere, but none of the Winchesters had ever been to Beacon Hills, California before.

She grew uneasy of the speculation and shifted uncomfortably.

"Argent," Dean whispered. He took in the scuffing of each person and drew the conclusion the name was right. The faces and names had finally slid into place. Of course from the get-go, he'd suspected some kind of paranormal tie. Dean just hadn't known what that tie was. Now he was sure. "Werewolf hunter."

The intensity of the silence that had followed magnified until no one could even handle it. Glances passed between the teenagers, then between Allison and her father, finally between everyone excluding Dean. Sam sighed.

"Where you staying, Dean?"

For the first time, Dean smirked full heartedly. Despite the tone his little brother used, Dean still had hope, and yet shaking nausea reared its ugly head. His brother had always worshipped him, seen the older brother as a superhero. Especially when Dean stumbled home blindly the next day with a pair of dark sunglasses, a travel mug full of Bloody Mary, and a new figurative notch (because the motels would have a fit if Dean started carving up the furniture) on his bedpost, or when Dad left Dean in charge of a simple salt and burn. But the way Sam had asked him where he was staying was…mixed. Dean could tell that his little brother was beyond angry, maybe even furious, but Sam was also amused by Dean's tenacity.

"Don' know, Samm—" he broke off. Not Sammy. No need to offend Sam anymore with the use of the name he hated. "I was a little busy trying to find my little brother. What about you? Where you staying?"

Sam hesitated before he spoke. "A small motel on the outskirts of town."

Dean nodded. "Okay." He clapped his hands, grinning like a mad man. "Come on then. I'm tired and hungry. I'm thinking pie." He smiled in satisfaction when Sam could no longer hide his grin and cracked.

Behind the brothers, Stiles, Isaac, Scott, and Allison were watching with open mouths. More than just the inside jokes confused them, as for one moment the two were punching the other in the face and the next they were laughing about pie and discussing where they were going to sleep.

"Uh, okay…" Stiles muttered. "That's nice, but what are we going to do about the phantom ghost that's ripping apart chests of anyone it sees?" He waved his hands in a variety of motions to emphasize the point.

Sam was the first to respond. "Well, there've been a few days in between the killings. Let's hope that's the ghost's pattern."

"Let's hope? My dad is at the station right now. He's looking for that thing that's keeping the she-monster here!"

"Look, kid. We can't kill the ghost if we don't know anything about the ghost. Like where the bones are…why she wants to kill everyone…" Dean's explanation and admonishes were not met well. Stiles scowled and stormed away from the group, digging his phone out of pocket. Allison ducked her head and mumbled something about checking on him while Isaac followed her dutifully and obviously.

Amused, Dean watched the puppy dog glean reflected in every part of Scott's face. His brown eyes traced the hunter's movements like they were sacred and golden, and they regarded the other boy's as blasphemous, encroaching on his territory.

"You do actually have a plan to fix this right?"

"Yeah," Sam replied quietly. "We'll stop this before anyone else gets hurt."

~•~

12:36 p.m.

Sargent Archer was close to finishing her shift. She'd been on the clock since noon and she believed her time at the station was close enough to being over that once she finished logging theses watches and necklaces and rings into Evidence, she could go home for some much needed T.V. binge watching.

Her blue latex gloves tipped the baggy, encouraging the Rolex knockoff to slide out without resistance. The minute hand was frozen, but the seconds ticked by loosely. The next item, a simple ring, was polished despite the tarnishing that marked the place near the welding.

Karen Archer glimpsed at the clock again. She groaned and slipped the next item out of its bag. It was a simple necklace of pearls, a small locket hanging fixed at the center. It looked old, authentic—a Victorian type locket with a harsh woman's face carved into bone white.

The policewoman had always believed herself to be understanding and loving to almost everyone. She even treated suspects with some ounce of kindness, seeing the situation from their points of view while her coworkers saw everything from their one side. But the moment her finger brushed the smooth carving, she seemed to forget where she was, why she was wasting her time doing meaningless things.

Anger.

A small smile spread across her lips. She brushed her thumb over the surface of the pendent again.

It was black, and it was deep.

Karen repeatedly smoothed the surface of her glove against the locket until that wasn't good enough. She plucked the latex from her skin and hesitantly drew her thumb to the marble. A cold numbness pricked her skin like someone had thrust a needle into her and forced ice water through the plunger. A love of the sensation removed the second glove, and soon she was caressing the necklace in the coldness of her grasp.

Anger is what caused my death, it whispered.

Sargent Archer brought the pendant closer to her ear, cooing to the stone and metal.

And anger is what you will cause.

Karen dazedly stared before her, where the sunlight drifted through the tinted window lazily. A woman in a gorgeous gown cried in the light. The tears were angry, and Karen only felt fury.

The woman's lips moved silently, and Karen brought the locket once more to her ear.

Men could not be trusted and never will be faithful. You know he is not. Make him pay.

Karen stood numbly. He had to pay. He had to die. He was unfaithful, and she could do something to rectify his mistake, his failure.

No. Not yet.

"No. Not yet," she whispered.

It must be romantic. A scarlet end to a golden evening.

Karen slid to the edge of her chair and continued filing the evidence. She worked and ignored all distractions, but she could only focus on the burning fire behind her eyes and the frozen breath on the back of her neck.

~•~

6:12 p.m.

"I'm fine, Ellen, really," Sam groaned.

Dean grinned in triumph. This was at least somewhat therapeutic, listening to his brother being chastised by the elder hunter. Dean had sent a quick word over to Ellen, so she'd know Dean had found his jerk of a brother and that they were both in one piece after the reunion, but he'd also mentioned that Sam had lost the ghost and gotten the local sheriff involved. Harvel had immediately called and given the youngest Winchester much grief over ditching Dean.

"…yeah, I'll tell him…you too…bye." Sam snapped shut his cell phone and dropped to his bed, face down.

Dean knew he should probably keep his mouth shut, but his older brother and shot nerves needled him to probe the kid. In the name of revenge.

"So, what'd Ellen have to say?"

Sam threw a glare through the pillow his face was buried in. "Nothing."

"Really?" He grinned. "Sounded like she had a lot to say. Much like I did."

His little brother fixed himself into a sitting position, rubbing a knuckled fist into his temple. Sam usually saved those movements for when he was about to get a vision, but when no yelling or cursing came after, Dean relaxed. Shot nerves, he brushed it off.

"How many times do I have to say I'm sorry?"

Dean glared off into space across the room. He honesty could not fight Sam all night. He was too tired, but he also couldn't just let Sam go after the worry he'd caused. He was tempted to say a 'a few hundred more times,' but he settled for something less serious and pissed sounding.

"So…a simple haunting. Seems about right."

"Sure."

"No demons, no yellow eyes…just a simple ghost maniac in need of some salt and lighter fluid." A knock on the motel door stopped Dean from continuing his awkward tirade. Both he and Sam froze, exchanging knowing, guarded glances. They drew their weapons and held them at the ready as Dean approached the door. "You expecting anyone?" he whispered.

Sam shook his head.

Dean shrugged and pulled the door open suddenly, one hand grasping a gun behind his back.

Scott and Stiles jumped, Scott's hand frozen from where he was about to knock again. Stiles grinned awkwardly in greeting, sarcastically, but Scott just lowered his arm.

"Uh, hi," he said.

Dean pushed the door open the rest of the way, tossing his gun onto the bed as he went by. Sam set himself back down, leaving his own weapon on his pillow. The two teens wandered into the room cumbersomely. Stiles rubbed the back of his head and stared openly at the firearms, then the replenished line of salt at the windows. For a few minutes, no one said anything, and Dean was growing tired and annoyed enough that he waved his arm briefly.

"So what's the meaning of this little powwow? Was there another attack?"

"No, well, actually the opposite. Talked to my dad, and he said that he ran that little 'ghost test' thing with the EMF. There's nothing supernatural at the police station."

"Then why you here?"

Scott stepped forward, angling himself so that the pale blue jeep was obvious in the parking lot of the little motel. "Uh, well, my mom—and the sheriff—thought that…well, food out of a can probably isn't any better than my mom's cooking."

"Though Melissa was never really a gifted cook. That's why we're picking up Chinese," Stiles smirked.

~•~

6:12 p.m.

The duffel bag pounded the apartment floor of where it had been dropped. It was abandoned, its contents still fully loaded and, at the time, useless. The mirror hanging on the wall revealed a disheveled, perturbed man with a bruise just beginning to line his jaw. He should have seen him coming, after all, the rumors of the Winchester boys evolved around the significance of family and the loyalties that lied therein.

Argent didn't feel remorse for pulling the gun on the younger hunter. With all the rumors that had been circling the underground network about the Winchester, he was prepared to do what was necessary, even if it meant taking down the last bit of family Dean had. It was strange though, that if family was the only thing they cared about, then why the first time Argent had met John and Dean Winchester, Sam hadn't been anywhere in sight of the rest of his family.

He had heard legends of the hunter—you couldn't be a hunter without having heard of John Winchester—and what he saw was exactly why Allison was still ignorant of the world of the Supernatural. John Winchester carried himself like a warrior, his chest tall, his eyes always searching for the next attack and the next kill. Straggly hair proved how uncaring of public appearance the man was, how his unkempt his clothes detailed the unmanageable life he led took every ounce of his being to avoid becoming the next meal of whatever it was he was hunting.

But the simple appearance of the Winchester was not what terrified Argent. Dean Winchester was the true horror, a warrior, his father the commander and chief. Hair just longer than a military cut, he swaggered after his father with little restraint in decorum, aside from the blind following he held for his father. With a cocky grin splattered across his face, he smirked knowingly at each hunter as he passed, like he knew more than everyone else in the room. It was more than likely true, concluded Chris. After all, the rumors were that John had raised his boys to be warriors after his wife was killed by the supernatural, and those boys had amassed more knowledge in the past years than the generations of Argents all together. Dean tried to emulate his father far too obviously, sporting the same oversized leather jacket as the old man, popping the collar and drawling expletives. But the man never saw his son, at least not in the way Dean wanted.

Chris waited, looking for the youngest of the Winchester family, but no one followed behind. He moved closer to the table where a layout of a property decided when and where hunters would be in a few hours' time. Kate Argent bit her lip and drew her hand across the back of Dean's shoulders. He followed her movements slightly, a grin spreading from one corner to the next.

"Where's the other one?" She asked. "I heard there were three Winchesters running around."

Both men froze, Dean's grin falling from his face. He straightened and subtly brushed away her hand, glancing at his father's tense frame. The younger answered, "Sammy's taking a break from hunting."

John transferred all attention to the project at hand, bringing forward his infamous knowledge of the supernatural. The Argent family had been following the pack long enough that once they had finally tied down the alpha, it was a lot bigger than they had expected. The alpha, a relatively young man, was much more powerful than the average male, having killed over three other alphas for control of the territory. Gerard called his old comrade and his boys seeing as John Winchester had the Big Book on Monsters and the knowhow of killing overly big lycanthropes.

Another hour passed of small bickering, mostly young hunters wanting to be closer to the action than they were, but Chris was oblivious to their conversations. At least until a small voice called down the stairs.

"Dad?"

The entire basement fell silent. Chris knew immediately that the bickering had escalated into something bigger, louder. A little girl with black ringlets was silhouetted by the kitchen light from above, and she clutched each elbow protectively. The nine-year old would have been used to the impromptu, extremely-late meetings her father held, but it still didn't mean she liked them.

Victoria Argent squeezed Chris's arm as she passed. "Cave Versipellis," she stated before ushering her daughter back to her room.

Chris turned back to the table in time to see John Winchester's expression.

"What?" He demanded, and the ex-marine shrugged it away.

Leading up to the last minutes in the van, Chris felt the looks the elder Winchester would send his way, the disapproval condescending in waves. But he didn't say anything. Chris was about to snap at the hunger when:

"Your daughter. She's, what, eight?" John said finally.

"Allison turned nine last month."

"And she knows nothing about—" he waved an arm about the van, "all this.

Chris shook his head. "There hasn't been a good time to tell her."

John fell silent, listening to the quickening breaths of hunters flooded with adrenaline and gravel kicking up under the van. "Dean. He was already helping me plan hunts by the time he was her age."

Chris bit back the reply of 'and look how he's turned out. A perfect soldier.'

~•~

From what he'd seen, there were little to none injuries. They'd gone straight for the alpha, who had been turning people needlessly and carelessly and ripping apart anyone who was in his way. Most of the pack present were adults, and they made no hesitation to killing, or rather trying to. Their deaths couldn't be avoided, but the youngest member, who looked to be no older than eighteen, surrendered in the end.

Chris was happy they hadn't had to kill them, envisioning only what they would have looked like when they were Allison's age, but a few others were less so.

There had been one prominent injury: Dean had been slashed, not fatally, but it was deep and long. The youngest of the omegas had leapt out, gouging his arm violently and forcing the need for stitches.

John tore his way to where his son was on the grass. The kid was lying on his back, clutching his bleeding limb with a pained grimace, refusing to show anything more than the pain. The wolf was hovering a few feet away and suspected nothing more from the hunters.

Without warning, John Winchester fired on the youngest wolf, and the boy fell, dead, on the grass. Chris was the only one who reacted in outrage, besides Dean who was in too much pain to really do anything from his place on the ground. He struck back at the Winchester. His gun was trained on the hunter, but his father's order brought it down.

"Chris,—"

"He just murdered the kid. The code—"

"What code?" John Winchester hissed. "He's a werewolf. I did what I came to do, what you should have done already."

"We don't harm minors."

Gerard placed a calming hand on Chris's shoulder. The older man regarded John calculatingly, like he was an interesting specimen under a microscope. "That's enough, Chris. He's just protecting his son. What would you do if that had been Allison?"

"Dad?"

Chris spun on his heels. He had no idea how long he'd been standing in the middle of his office, one hand plastered to the mahogany desk, completely in the dark. Allison, her short hair loosely framing her face, stood silhouetted by the hallway's light. She hugged her arms close to her body, her knives glinting at her hip.

I would kill whatever tried to harm her.

~•~

6:30 p.m.

To say it was awkward would be an understatement. Hold a gun to someone's head—even though that person isn't even there—and the others seem to think you will do it again. Melissa McCall was surprisingly protective, despite being the one to have invited the two hunters over for dinner, which was as promised. Dishes of Chinese food littered the marble top, and people casually piled their plates and fumbled for a seat at the crowded table.

Dean knew almost everyone there. After being introduced to Ms. Melissa McCall, the Sheriff made himself known, as well as a young strawberry blonde who seemed somewhat out of place in the whole situation. The other boy, Isaac, had dropped out of the dinner before it even started and had moved onto someone else's company.

Sam smiled easily during the first few awkward minutes. He answered everything vaguely and politely, but Dean sat broodingly with his dumplings and chow mein. He never really fit in with the whole polite dinner society, but he grinned and bared it.

The first half of the dinner the conversation remained on the topic of the weather or the type of car the Winchesters owned and how they cared for it, and then, after the first course had been devoured and the second was dished out, things got more serious.

"So, how did you boys get into this…business?" Ms. McCall asked.

Dean forced his enormous bite down his throat and answered while stuffing in another mouthful. "Family business. Our dad got us into it."

"Our mother was killed when we were children."

The rest of the table exchanged glances, sorry for the intrusion.

"What about you? How did you get involved in everything non-normal?" Even before he asked the question, he saw the weariness grow out of nowhere. First it was Sam, the brooding eyes that flashed a silent warning to how the others would answer the inquiry.

"We found this body in the woods—"

"It was ripped in half—"

"There was this crazy witch with a grudge—"

"Chess."

But then it came swiftly and without warning. One moment they were trying to explain, and failing to hide the obvious secret of something, how they knew about the paranormal and then Sam was gasping on the floor. He clutched his head in his fists, tufting his already messy hair; his eyes clenched shut in unbearable pain. Baring his teeth, Sam groaned and rocked forward on his knees till his forehead was barely off the ground.

Dean was by his side within a second of the first groan. His hands rested on his little brother's shoulders and shook him gently, trying to get him to look up and let go of his head. "Sammy!" Dean insisted. Distantly, he heard the others gather around him, Melissa McCall dropping to her knees as well—something about her being a nurse floating to the back of Dean's mind.

"Sammy, come on, what's wrong?" The question was moot Dean knew. He knew what was wrong, knew there was nothing that he could do till it was over, but the older, protective brother in him couldn't just let him sit by and watch Sam moan in pain.

But his brother in pain was not all that was happening. Among the shuffling of people standing about him and Sam, there was one who was not anywhere close to the two on the ground. Lydia was slowly backing away, her arms rigidly by her side and her eyes wide. Her painted lips were spreading wider and farther apart as whines and whispers crawled up her throat until she finally screamed.

For the first half of the chapter, I did mean to spell Stiles as Styles because Dean doesn't really know the context of the whole Stiles nickname thing.

Sorry for dropping off the grid for a few months, but Senior year…thesis papers…finals…college applications…much more important than updating my stories I'm sad to say