6:54 p.m.

The tickling had begun in the back of her throat right before Melissa asked about the brothers' introduction to the paranormal world. It was a slight sensation, a precursor to what she knew was to come. Then there was this thumping. A rhythmic clap that started as just an echo of a sound.

"We found this body in the woods—"

It was a strong as a physical tap, and she searched around slightly to find the source, trying not to draw any attention to herself.

"It was ripped in half—"

It was almost as if a person was banging a drum now, and he was stepping closer and closer with each beat.

"There was this crazy witch with a grudge—"

It was too loud now, a thunder clap inside her head.

"Chess."

Lydia stood just as Sam collapsed.

"Sammy, come on, what's wrong?"

She started backing away, staring at the man groaning on the floor, listening to the heartbeat rapidly increasing in speed and intensity as the pain in Sam's head climbed. Stiles, ever present Stiles, followed her movements, mouthing words to her. She shook her head and wouldn't answer. She didn't think she could even if she tried. Because she wasn't in the McCalls' home anymore, she wasn't even sure she was in Beacon Hills.

It was not like a dream, where the events always seemed scrambled and uncoordinated, aloof, but the scene before her was strong and solid, no mistaking it for a nightmare. Lydia was in a cemetery, obvious by the amount of grave markers and the few mausoleums, but it looked ancient, too old for the one by Beacon Hills.

Dawn was just breaking behind a sepulcher, shadowing its name carved into the stained marble. Lydia scrambled away from the abyss-like tomb, tripping over the patched, decaying grass, and rouged the thin fabric covering her knees. She glanced up and a stone angel wept above her head. Glorious wings shadowed her from the dawn's light, its hands lamenting over what was to come.

And right before her Sam hurtled through the air and onto his back. He groaned, momentarily frozen as he tried to regain his lost breath. Suddenly, something took hold of his arms and forced them to his sides. Sam tried to move. He tried to fight the grip preventing him from using his arms, but the ghost appeared. The horrific beauty flickered and vanished like an old film, her golden hair blew in a nonexistent wind, and her gown fell perfectly despite crouching over a struggling form. Her emotionless, stony face was frozen, and she bent down to meet Sam's face and hissed ferally.

Lydia felt as if she were frozen, although she had full control of her movement.

The ghost leaned away from her victim…then thrust her hands deep into his chest.

~•~

Stiles was confused. They had been in the middle of explaining their involvement without actually saying how their connected with the paranormal—because for some reason Sam didn't want his brother knowing about the whole werewolf deal. He supposed he also wouldn't want Dean to know about Lydia being a banshee either—and Sam just collapsed, grabbing at his head like it was about to explode.

Dean was at his side in a minute, treating it like that sort of thing happens weekly. Everyone else at the dinner party did things similarly. Stiles could see Scott debating whether he should take some of Sam's pain with his werewolf touch, Melissa trying to diagnose Sam's condition, and his dad just sort of standing to the side not really sure what to do.

Stiles shared his conundrum. His curiosity told him to crowd the man on the floor and figure out what paranormal or normal thing was causing this, but his feelings for Lydia outweighed his ADHD and compulsive need to know what was happening. She was clawing her way away from Sam Winchester, her gaze fixed on his form, but her hands were covering her ears violently. And she screamed.

Everyone in the room clasped their hands over their ears, except for Stiles. He lunged for Lydia, who collapsed moments after opening her mouth to scream. He caught her, just before she hit her head on the stone counter behind her. Stiles exchanged glances with Scott. Nothing in their lives would ever be normal, Stiles decided.

Sam began to ease up on the floor, falling back from his crouch to lean against the chair behind him. His brother inched closer, wanting to whisper into his ear, but Melissa stopped them before they could have a private word.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded, after standing up to check on Lydia.

The girl was still unconscious and weighing heavily in Stiles's arms. It wasn't that he was weak or that she was too big, but Stiles never realized how heavy humans actually were. He half carried, half towed her over to the couch and laid her down. Her eyes slowly flittered open.

"It's nothing," Dean muttered. His gaze was still locked on his baby brother.

Sam obviously didn't think it was nothing. His eyes were wide and his hands were shaking so unsubtly that Stiles could see the tremors from the adjoining room. Sam rubbed his head, although Stiles doubted his head still hurt judging on how fast he came out of the comatose state.

"Like hell that was nothing," Melissa snapped. "Lydia?" Ms. McCall ran her hand across the girl's forehead, brushing away a loose strand of hair.

"What did you see?" Stiles asked softly, noticing how both Winchester brothers started at the question before realizing the teen was addressing Lydia.

Lydia didn't reply. She was frozen and staring at Sam.

"Lydia?" Stiles crouched in front of her, breaking the connection. "Who is it?"

"Someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?" Dean demanded. "What's with the banshee scream?"

"Maybe 'cause she is a banshee?" Stiles snapped back.

"Sam," Lydia whispered.

"Dean," Sam muttered. He clambered to his feet, only swaying slightly for a moment. He seemed to have regained his strength and control. His brother gripped his arm nonetheless, probably more to ensure himself than to stop the kid from keeling over suddenly. "I saw her. The ghost."

"The demon—"

"She killed—"

"—you only get them when the Demon's involved."

As Sam tried to explain his headache, Stiles and Lydia were having the same problematic simultaneous conversation. Stiles and Melissa contended with each other to talk with the girl. Melissa was making sure she was okay while Stiles, who was also concerned with her wellbeing, was asking about who was going to die.

"Did you hear—"

"Stiles, let her breathe—"

"Sam—"

"ENOUGH!"

Everyone turned to Scott. Even the brothers fell silent, but as soon as Dean turned to Scott, he swore, tripping slightly on a dinning chair. Stiles sighed. Guess the cats out of the bag, he mused after seeing Scott's glowing red alpha eyes. Or wolf for that matter. Luckily Sam caught his brother before weapons were drawn. Unluckily, Dean still reacted instinctually, against the teen wolf.

"He's a werewolf!"

"Dean, stop, I know—"

"You know? He's a werewolf, we're hunters, Sam!"

At that statement, Melissa bristled, placing herself closer to her son. Dean tried again to reach for whatever weapon he had in his pocket, but Sam knocked his brother back.

"Stop, Dean!"

"Werewolves, Sam. You know what Dad told us—"

"—he told you to kill me; you really think going by his word right now is your best argument?"

Dean immediately stopped fighting, and it had the same effect on the others in the room.

"Sam…"

"The Demon's the worst of our worries right now," Sam sighed cryptically.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Stiles ventured.

"Sam." Lydia whispered.

"I saw the ghost kill me, Dean."

It seemed that whatever anger or hostility Dean may have held against the werewolf in the room, the protective-brother reaction outweighed the animosity. All of his brain power looked to be focused on Sam.

It should have been the revelation that the ghost killed Sam, or maybe the declaration that the Winchester father had some weird murder pact between his sons, but the aspect that Sam had seen the act happen was all that resonated through Stiles's mind. "You saw it? Are you a Banshee too? Or a man-banshee," he turned to Scott, "can guys even be banshees?"

"How should I know?"

"What does a wailing spirit have anything to do with this?" Sam questioned, but the others waved him off, more focused on the fact that he saw his own death.

"How is that possible?" Melissa demanded. "Do you see everyone's death before it happens?"

Sam shook his head. Dean tried to stop his brother from revealing anything. He grabbed the younger's upper arm and shook his head, whispering reasons Stiles couldn't quite catch—he'd have to ask Scott later because Dean didn't exactly seem to be in a sharing mood. Sam, on the other hand, clenched his jaw stubbornly.

"I get these visions. Premonitions, but they're not just of anyone—"

"Sam…"

"—I've never had one about myself before though."

Before any more questions could be asked, as there were plenty, the Sheriff's phone rang. He sighed and dug it out of his pocket. "Work," he mumbled and excused himself. The others in the room vaguely watched Stilinski disappear, but quickly the minds flitted back to the death in hand.

"You saw it too?" Sam asked, his attention focused on Lydia.

She nodded.

"And that's never happened before?"

She shook her head. "I hear voices. Sounds. Sometimes it's just something I do over and over again."

Dean snorted sardonically but shut up when Sam knocked his arm.

"It's all jumbled, most of the time I don't know what's happening. It's hard to tell what only I hear and see and what others can too, but when I scream, it sort of straightens out. Becomes clear. This was the first time I saw it happen though."

"I get these headaches, then these flashes of images. Sometimes we get there in time to stop it."

"And the other times?" Melissa's voice was small, but strong, like she had something to protect. "How do you choose who you see?"

Sam didn't reply, and it seemed Lydia knew that, somehow. She straightened up from the couch and fixed her rumpled skirt and her braid. "The ghost was in a graveyard, but it wasn't the one in Beacon Hills."

"Where was it?"

Lydia glared at Stiles coldly. It was kind of a reminder of freshman year, when the only time she regarded him was when she was pointing out something unbelievably obvious. She grinned evilly, or that sort of grin she used for Jackson's idiotic comments, and replied, "Well if I knew that, then I would have said so. It was a cemetery with old head stones and mausoleums and sepulchers."

"Anything else?" Dean demanded roughly.

"I—"

"We have a problem." Sheriff Stilinski declared upon his reentry into the living room. Stiles could have groaned, and in fact, he thought he might have. His mind was whirring and there was too many thoughts going through his head to really remember what his body was physically doing. Really, the only distinguishable thought was that he needed to find his Adderall and take a couple days' worth of doses.

"I think Karen Archer is the ghost…or has the ghost…or whatever." He glanced at the ghost hunters, hoping for some kind of input, but they stared back blankly, most likely because they were still reeling from the action packed half hour.

"She's a deputy at my station. Parish called saying she left a few minutes ago acting out of character."

"So she left her shift early. What's so significant about that?" Dean retorted gruffly.

"she had been the one working with the evidence lockup."

"I thought you said you tested the inventory and didn't find anything?" Sam leaned against the dining table.

"I didn't," agreed the Sheriff, "but when I was scanning everything, she was acting…weird. I tried asking her if she had seen anything out of the ordinary, and she just smiled, silently, and fairly maniacally. Now apparently, she's taken off half an hour early without a word."

Stiles shrugged, and snatched his jacket from the wall hook. With Scott was following right behind, both Sam and Melissa stared at them questioningly. "In Beacon Hills, when someone is acting 'weird' that generally means they're some kind of psycho killer. In this case, possessed by a psycho killer's ghost," explained Stiles. His ADHD mind wandered over to the idea that he should be an actor if he could say that without laughing out loud.

Dean grudgingly agreed. "In our line of work, that almost always means there's a supernatural reason behind it."

~•~

7:42 p.m.

It had taken a lot of convincing many people before they managed to leave the McCall house. Dean hadn't wanted to go anywhere with a werewolf, Melissa hadn't wanted any hunter who had been ready to kill a werewolf in her own house near her son nor did she want to be left behind while the kids went to go fight a killer ghost, and the Sheriff did not want under any circumstances to be left behind while his only reminder of his wife and vulnerable son faced a psychotic Casper.

Sam had managed to persuade his brother, using the ever convincing argument of 'they've had plenty of times to kill me, and I'm perfectly fine,' which didn't do much for Dean's anger. He finally allowed the teens to come when they mentioned that a man could be dying at the moment. Melissa and the sheriff were much harder to satisfy, but the alpha didn't leave much up to discussion.

Lydia was the only one who hadn't tried to go with the ghost hunters, saying she didn't do sodium.

When they finally arrived at the Archer residence, curtesy of the Sheriff department records, Sam, Dean, Scott and Stiles hesitated outside on the lawn. A black camry pulled up beside them, and two figures hopped out, joining the small party.

"How'd you know where we are?" demanded Stiles. "Did you, like, sniff out Scott's trail?"

Isaac glared evenly at his friend and turned to Scott without a word.

"I texted him," Scott explained, though he finished through a clenched jaw, "but I didn't think he'd bring Allison."

Allison grinned smugly, shifting her bow from one hand to the next as she adjusted the leather gloves on her fingers. "He tried leaving without me." She flexed the bow. "It didn't work."

"Like that won't work on the ghost," Dean added, more annoyed as the minutes ticked by. His eyes roved from Scott to Isaac, finishing around the other two teens. "Are you all werewolves, or some other kind of—paranormal?"

"She's a hunter. He's a werewolf. I'm just the quirky friend who supplies the much needed comic relief," Stiles offered. "And I've got a bat." To prove his point, he lofted the aluminum rod.

"Great," the Winchester groaned.

Scott glared at the people surrounding him. He was trying to focus his hearing, but with each person talking and getting more annoyed with one another, it was becoming more difficult to do. It also didn't help the full moon was coming up, and although he had perfected handling the moon's draw, he still grew more irritable this time of the month. Inside the house, Scott could hear two heart beats. Strangely, only one sounded normal, but he guessed that might prove what they had come there to do. The husband's heart—he assumed it was the husband—was at rest, a slow beat that was beginning to rise, but Karen Archer's was slow.

It pulsed once every ten seconds, and even then it sounded like an enormous drum about to fracture. Then he heard a crash and one really messed up laugh.

"What—what are you doing? Karen?" Mr. Archer pleaded. He was answered by another laugh.

Both Scott and Isaac burst into the house without telling the others what was happening, though judging by the fact they followed immediately after, they could guess Karen was, in fact, possessed.

Romantic candles and rose pedals littered the floor and book shelves. Beautiful china adorned the dining room table, which was directly to the right of the front door. The house lights were dim, and flickering, and a thin, hazy smoke filled with perfume hovered in the front hall. Pictures smiled from the wall, and a police belt hung carelessly from the coat hooks.

The average home was delightful, if it weren't for the menacing cold that had settled in from the dining room. That and the man who flew through the air from the kitchen and collided with a glass table in the opposite room to the left of the front door. Mr. Archer groaned but didn't move any further. Scott pushed past Isaac and reached the man before multiple carving knives embedded themselves in the wooden floor.

The man was completely unconscious and limp. He was also heavy but nothing compared to Scott's strength. He awkwardly dragged him against the wall of the room, which he guessed was some sort of entertainment room, and searched for where the knives had come from. Isaac rushed to his alpha's side and took up the unconscious man's other side.

"Get him out of here," Dean ordered.

He and Sam held their various guns aloft and ready, scoping the room immediately. Scott and Isaac complied, though they only managed to drop the husband on the front porch when something snatched and threw them back into the house, thankfully missing the human who, without the support of the teenagers, collapsed onto the porch. Both Scott and Isaac smashed into a wall of the front hall, and bodily fell into a heap at the base.

Karen Archer, in the glory of a magnificent dress, made her location known by hurling a bloody scream of fury. The doors and windows to the house locked shut in one enormous bang. Allison raised her bow, an arrow notched, but Stiles grabbed her hand.

"No! She's possessed remember?"

Allison swore. A dining chair soared through the air and smashed to pieces over their heads, and Allison tackled Stiles to the ground.

"What do we do?" she cried as more furniture began to fly around the house. Karen Archer cackled in joy and conducted the invisible orchestra to attack the intruders. She struck out with one hand and an entire book case tore across the room to nearly crush Sam.

"Keep her busy," he yelled, mainly to Dean as he was sure his brother could handle the ghost's wrath. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii —" he dodged flying knives and ducked behind a sofa. "Omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te— cessa decipere humanas creaturas—"

Karen Archer screamed.

Before her attention had been split between the six mortals in her home, but after the beginning of the exorcism began to affect her power, her glowing eyes fell on the cachet Sam had hidden himself in. Whatever object she had been controlling froze and altered course.

"Sam!"

Dean tackled his baby brother to the floor, narrowly missing a letter opener to the head, and used the momentum to keep rolling. The Winchester dodged, but there was only so much they could do. Books, Plates, and chairs crashed into them, and finally, Dean was sent through a wall.

"Eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare. Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos!" Sam finished, yelling despite gasping for breath.

Archer screamed one last time before she collapsed heavily to the ground. Anything floating in the air followed her graceful downfall. Isaac stepped towards the body cautiously.

"Is—she dead?"

Dean pushed to his feet, rolling out his back with a grimace. He met Sam, clapping his brother on the back, and they too circled the deputy. Allison stood next to Scott and Stiles.

"Should have paid more attention in Latin class," mumbled Stiles.

"She's fine." Scott affirmed. "Just unconscious."

Allison examined the body closer. Something that glittered from around her neck.

"What about the ghost—?" Stiles began.

A luminescent white exploded from the unconscious woman, a tangible wave that forced each person in the vicinity into the air. Dean slammed back into a wall, this time accompanied by his brother and Isaac. Scott was broke through the front door, allowing a cold breeze to clear the smoke-filled house. Both Allison and Stiles landed on their backs in the family room.

A flickering, flashing form rose from the woman on the floor. The golden hair remained still immaculate and curled, the golden dress stained in blood, and a stone expression painting the apparitions face. It didn't remain so for long, however. Her eyes flashed permanently to black beads, her nose sharpening and her nails shifting to daggers, and she hissed.

The tornado of items and furniture began again, only this time, they had a new strategy.

Dean scrambled over to where his sawed-off shotgun had fallen, aimed, and fired. Unfortunately, by chance, a broken shaft of a table had floated into the buckshot's path. The message, however, was passed. Sam retrieved his lost gun and began firing, and Allison notched an arrow and let it loose. Out of all the projectiles, the arrow was the only to hit. A thin cicatrix sliced across the ghost's face, and its figure vanished for a few moments.

Allison grinned at Dean, who was staring in shock at her bow. "Iron-tipped arrows." She overcame her pride quickly, however, and fell to her knees before Karen Archer. Her hands grappled with the clasp at the deputy's neck, and as she did so, the ghost reappeared. It screamed its unnatural scream, but another load of buckshot sent it to whatever dimension ghosts belonged.

Loosing the necklace, she showed it to Dean. "Could this work as a tether?"

"Maybe," Dean began, but Sam snatched it out of Allison's grip.

He rolled it over in his hands and ended on the locket at the base of the pearls. He caught at the clasp and tugged at it until, finally, the metal opened. He grimaced and closed the casing. "Locks of hair. Definitely the tether—"

Allison managed to snag the necklace before Sam was knocked out of the way. She had seen the ominous glow collecting right before and had jumped to the right conclusion. Without glancing back, and hearing many thumps, she dove out of the house, through the broken front door. Scott met her half way, but when he saw what she was carrying, he turned to run with her, fetching what was needed out of the jeep.

Allison threw the locket down and rushed to ignite the lighter while Scott dowsed the hell out of the thing with gasoline. One spark was all it took to hear the banshee scream of the ghost.

~•~

8:40 p.m.

Allison had grown accustomed to her father's yelling, his judgment and disapproval although she was doing exactly what he had done at her age. He may be reluctant to bring her into the hunting life, but he also couldn't separate his ingrained hunter's drive. He treated her as a hunter and scolded her like one when she disobeyed. Disobeyed as in sneaking out at night to meet up with Scott to take down a murderous ghost.

"I told you to stay away from this, Allison." Chris Argent was in a particularly thunderous mood after his daughter had not even bothered sneaking back in. She had simply unlocked the front door and strolled inside.

"The thing was killing people. That's what hunters do: stop things from killing innocent victims," she retaliated, mindlessly tossing her bow on the divan in the apartment. "Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent."

Argent had to bite his tongue from striking back in a similarly venomous manner. He almost regretted teaching her the family adage. Almost. Pride flickered past the wall of fear and anger, but he didn't let it show. Allison, however, didn't notice his inner clash of feelings and continued on her angry diatribe.

"Besides, we had it handled. That other hunter knew exactly what he was doing—"

"What other hunter?"

Allison looked at her father straight in the eyes. "Dean Winchester. Dad, he's—"

This time the doorbell had interrupted Allison mid-speech. Her father raised an eyebrow at Allison in a silent question. Are you expecting anyone? And at her reply, both hunters snatched up a means of defense, Allison her previously abandoned bow and Chris Argent his Walther PK. They approached the door, and Argent gazed through the eye glass before swinging open the door.

There on the threshold was a black man in his late thirties. He was moderately dressed, a bulge in his jacket from where his gun pressed against the canvas, and a look in his eyes glowed with a furious cupidity that gave a sense of unease in both Argents. He held out both his arms to show he was unarmed, at least he wasn't holding any weapon, and finally offered his right hand diplomatically.

When he spoke, he sounded similar to a snake, something that planned moves ahead all the while looking behind. "We spoke on the phone a while ago. I'm Gordon Walker, and I believe we have similar goals in mind."

~•~

Sam's head dropped to his chest, his eyes following the downwards movement. Scarlet was blossoming from his chest like wildfire, and the pain was barely there. He was sure it was supposed to hurt. He'd been shot before. He knew it hurt, so why didn't this time.

His feet could no longer support his weight and he rocked to his knees. His brother was shouting from so far away, but Dean had been at his side. Right beside Scott and the other werewolf. Another bang and Sam felt another slight tug, this time in his shoulder. The pain was ebbing more and more, and Sam was scared. He was off-balance again, and he fell back, his knees sliding out in front of him.

Finally, Sam's mind was able to put everything together, and the numbness drove him to terror. But no amount of terror could make him move. A taunting face appeared above him, and he kneeled beside Sam's head.

"See what happens when you choose the wrong side, Sammy?"

Sam wanted to say 'screw you, it's Sam,' but he couldn't even get his jaw to open. The last movement he could make consciously was to turn his eyes to the sight of a boy on the ground, as unmoving as Sam.

"—ammy?"

Sam groaned.

"Sammy, you with me?"

Dean; that was Dean's voice. Sam opened his eyes, and immediately clasped his arm over them. The living room light was far beyond too bright, but the more disconcerting fact was that Sam didn't remember getting back to the living room with functioning lights. He was pretty sure that the Archers' lights were smashed by flying knives and book cases, but now he was lying on the floor of the McCall house.

He groaned, but not out of pain. That was the second time in a few hours where Sam found himself lying on the floor of someone's house, that someone who he had only just met.

"You had another vision," Dean offered, lifting his brother up from the ground. Sam, thankfully, stood without listing or falling over.

"Yeah, I noticed."

"I thought we took care of the ghost. Burned its sorry ass."

Just then, Sam remembered what he had seen. "Gordon, he's here."

"Gordon?"

"He shot me!" Sam brought his hands to his chest and searched for the future bullet wounds, but they came away clear of any red. He had been in the cemetery again, but it was different. The others had been there, Dean and the werewolves, and…

"I thought the ghost kills you," Dean questioned skeptically.

"Stiles," Lydia said.

Stiles flushed when everyone turned to him.

"Stiles kills Sam?"

"No," Lydia whispered. "The ghost killed Stiles."

Not that good at writing action sequences, but I hope it wasn't too bad—but voila le nouveau chapitre

So I'll try to update again soon, and until then, enjoy and hopefully comment