I changed the ending to math up with a crossover with NCIS. Message or comment if you're interested

Otorojnost: Lyekgo. Stiles repeatedly read the label. Forwards, backwards, holding the can upside down and reading it then sideways, and still the words didn't make sense. Why didn't they make sense? He was pretty sure he'd learned how to read in kindergarten, at least first grade, and he was in the—what, eleventh?

His eyes scanned the ingredients. Still nothing. He tried shaking the can of cooking oil—at least that's what he thought he was holding, for all he knew it could be neon glitter spray—and reading the label again. Stiles was so intent upon deciphering the strange combination of letters he failed to notice the commotion that had entered into his kitchen.

Scott leaned across the counter and helped himself to an apple, fiddling with it rather than eating it. He motioned to the aluminum can in his friend's hand. "You planning on cooking something?"

So it was cooking spray… Stiles bit back the vile revolt in his stomach and smirked. "Nah, it's this new snack-kick. Kinda like spray cheese."

"Spray cheese? Love that stuff," a second voice added. Dean and his enormously tall, baby brother also appeared in the Stilinski household. "Though you gotta watch where you aim that stuff, or you got a whole other problem to deal with."

"You mean besides a clogged artery?" Sam responded dryly.

"Hey, with our line of work, we got to live in the moment."

Scott snorted and bit into his apple. He was slowly returning to his furry tailed self, at least on the outside. Stiles could see the sleepless nights that threatened to spill into the waking hours at school. And it wasn't the discovery of demons and ghosts that was the cause of their insomnia—though that probably didn't help. After all, they thought they only had to fight off the occasional psychotic wolf and lizard-creature, and now they had to worry about vengeful spirits, which coming from Beacon Hills, was more likely than anywhere else.

The pressing matter of the murderous ghost and the arrival of the two infamous hunters sidelined and momentarily healed the issues the local pack had been suffering from. Now that the ghost was sent back to wherever the hell ghosts actually go and things were returning to normal, Stiles and Scott had begun to feel the affects of the Nematon once again. Somehow Stiles imagined his deal was a lot worse than Scott's or Allison's, though.

"—bad about that chick though. That sucks," Dean was saying. "I mean I'd divorce her too if I was almost cannibalized by my sweetheart, but still."

"He isn't pressing charges though," Stiles interjected. He grabbed his own piece of fruit and took a bite to distract himself from his newfound illiteracy. "Sergeant Archer put in her request for a transfer last night. To some small town in Nevada, I think."

"What about the others?" Scott asked. "They're victims too…"

Dean and Sam exchanged a look. It was the same exact thing Scott and Stiles shared whenever they were going to wave off something that on normal circumstances—like dead bodies, a friend attempting to maul his other friend, and so on—should not be shrugged off. Scott saw the exchange as well as he then turned to Stiles with this warning glint in his eyes.

"It's a shame, but—"

"But there's nothing you can really do for them," Sam finished. "Other than the Sheriff, who's your dad, how would you explain to the law enforcement and criminal justice that a malevolent spirit possessed them and

Whatever discussion followed was white noise to Stiles. Maybe one quarter of his mind was focused on the hunters and alpha—cause no matter what Stiles's mind was never on just one thing—but the other three fourths were intently scouring for a source. Painfully angry and Stiles had no idea why. It had been slowly building up in the background, when Scott had brushed off one of his ideas then the same with the Winchesters. Little stuff, but he grew angrier and more frighteningly pissed off as the days passed. And now he was here.

It felt as if someone had betrayed him, sliced open his gut while staring him in the eyes rather than the back, and he wanted everyone to pay for what that individual had done. Because it would be fun. It would bring him amusement. And that was what terrified Stiles.

He wanted to bring pain, at the same time he wanted to protect everyone else. The hatred was practically tangible, its residue buzzing in his ears, his fervent heartbeat echoing in his mind. Stiles clenched his fist beyond his normal tolerance, preventing him from lashing out at those in the kitchen with him. His nails punctured the skin of the apple in his palm, and the multitude of bones in his hands protested painfully. His knuckles blanched from the strain.

And then it was gone.

Physically and mentally fatigued, Stiles hid any sign that he'd had a mental collapse and bit away the evidence left in the apple. Around a mouthful of juicy fruit, he mumbled, "so where you headed now that there's no case?"

Dean shrugged. "One word: Amsterdam."

"Dean." Sam snapped.

"Come on, man, I hear the coffee shops don't even serve coffee."

"Dean, I'm not just gonna ditch the job—"

"Screw the job. Screw it, man, I'm sick of the job anyway. I mean, we don't get paid, we don't get thanked. The only thing we get's bad luck—"

For a second time, Stiles found himself losing focus in the conversation. Only this time he was joined by Scott. The friends exchanged glances that shared the same uncomfortable feeling, the kind only outsiders get when they walk into someone's family argument. Luckily, the front door banged open then was promptly closed and locked meaning most likely Stiles's father was home for some reason.

"Look, Dean, I've tried running before. I mean, I ran all the way to California and look what happened. You can't run from this. And you can't protect me." Sam acknowledged the Sheriff long enough to catch his breath but re focused on his brother. "I'm gonna keep hunting. I mean, whatever is coming, I'm taking it head on, so if you really want to watch my back, then I guess you're gonna have to stick around."

Dean was silent. It was possible he didn't want to make a scene in front of Stiles, Scott, and the sheriff, or he wanted more privacy to really share his feelings. He began shaking his head, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "So where we headed then?"

"If you're looking for another case," Sheriff Stilinski suggested, "a couple old friends of mine are in various Washington PD stations who've been dealing with a lot of strange deaths recently."

"Washington?" Sam grinned. "Sounds as good as any."

"D.C." clarified the Sheriff. Sam looked much less enthusiastic, but Dean seemed fine by the change in location. He continued to grin maniacally, ferally.

"What's the deal?"

The Sheriff shrugged and pulled a small card from his overcoat. "There's been a series of...strange drownings. Some even on land."

Dean stepped behind his brother and clapped him on the shoulder. He may have said he wanted to quit the hunting business, but Stiles could see the drive behind his eyes, the love for hunting those that hunt others. If it had been anyone else, Stiles would have worried about Dean turning into a psychopathic murderer, killing anyone he deemed 'evil,' but luckily he had his baby brother to keep him in line. Hopefully.

"We've gone off less," Dean grinned. Sam shrugged nonchalantly, his hands shoved into his pockets.

The two brothers shuffled awkwardly, but once Sam stood up, they immediately headed for the door. Scott and the sheriff thanked the hunters profusely and politely escorted them out. Stiles, however, stayed where he was in the kitchen. His gaze focused on a magazine that happened to be splayed out across the table. Ohn Chitayet Po-Nemetsky. He tried to read the next column: Mondus Klein.

Without a second's thought, Stiles tore out of the house, past a confused Scott and bewildered dad. They didn't follow, thankfully, but allowed Stiles to say goodbye alone.

"Wait!" he called.

Sam and Dean had their hands on the roof of the car, conversing quietly over the Impala. They turned to the young man and grinned. Dean said, "Sorry, but you can't come with us. This is solely a two man job."

Stiles shook his head. "Uh, I was just wondering—or thinking—wondering about other supernatural things…"

"What'd you mean?"

"Uh, how we know if we're dealing with certain things," Stiles breathed. "Like vampires, or other ghosts, or—demon possession." He tried to act nonchalant. He tried to hide his fear when saying the last two words, but his voice hitched slightly. Stiles didn't know if he really thought he was possessed, but he certainly knew something was going on.

"For a possession, there's a number of ways to tell someone's not themselves. My favorite's Holy Water: burns them on contact. Then there's saying the Lord's name. It kind of makes 'em twitch."

The earth jumped beneath Stiles' feet, but he stood still. His mouth was suddenly dry. His palms were moist, and he had to focus carefully to form words in English. "The Lord's name?"

Sam answered this time. "Yeah, in Latin. Christo."

Stiles almost flinched, and he would have had he not known that flinching meant he was possessed by a demon. But he didn't. And he wasn't.

"See you around, Stiles," and the brothers were gone.

There wasn't anything inside his head except for himself. And me.

~.~

Dean ducked underneath the yellow crime scene tape, swiftly followed by his brother. They aimed straight for the bathroom, where a collection of uniforms still fumbled—in Dean's opinion—with crime scene photos and sketches. Luckily they were D.C. cops rather than FBI so Sam and Dean were able to once again use their fake federal badges. The local police scattered, scowling defensively, but the Winchester brothers simply focused on the poor woman, the third in the row of deaths, on the cool, tiled floor in a pool of crimson water, a mixture of blood from where she'd cracked her head on the granite sink counter and the water she'd expelled from her lungs.

"What d'you think? Ghost child who was drowned in the tub?" Dean asked quietly. He used a pen to gently prod the hair away from the poor girl's face.

"Definitely a possible ghost, but the other two deaths didn't happen in a bathroom."

"She could've dragged herself in here after she started to feel like she was drowning," suggested the older brother.

Sam glanced at the red splotches on the otherwise cranberry colored stone counters. "No, she collapsed in here. Probably tried to throw up the stuff in her lungs. I can't find anything wrong with her," Sam mused

"You mean aside from her being dead?" The look Dean received was cold enough and annoyed enough to freeze over hell.

"I mean ghost signs. They usually leave a mark: phantom bruises, cuts, brands."

As the two hunters conversed about the different possibilities, a black SUV arrived outside the house. The driver, a silver-haired man, was the first to exit the vehicle. His team fell in step with him as he approached the officer in charge of the scene. A medical van also pulled up to the scene shortly after, two men, one older and British and the other yound and American, were loudly exchanging differences in opinions on how one should read a map.

Special agent Gibbs held out his NCIS badge, expecting to immediately become the lead agency as the most recent victim was a petty officer on leave. His thoughts, however, were quickly rearended when the LEO said bluntly, "you spelled CSI wrong..."

The young man started to chuckle only to freeze at the federal agent's fiery stare. A second agent of NCIS came up behind Gibbs, offered his own badge, and smiled condescendingly, "it stands for Naval–Criminal–Investigative–Service." He pointed to each letter as he explained the acronym. "You know: boats and things."

Sergeant Downey, the lead officer, sobered and stood at attention, almost mockingly. He had already received this sort of treatment from the two FBI agents inside, he didn't exactly want it from some other agency he'd never even heard of. But there was nothing he could do about jurisdiction, as Agent Gibbs explained the implication behind the petty officer's death.

"Sorry, sir. I just thought the FBI would be handling the case."

"And why is that, Sergeant?" Gibbs demanded.

"Uh—well, because they're inside right now..."

The look that was exchanged between the NCIS team was all Downey needed to see as he slowly backed away and allowed for the two federal agencies to have their pissing contest in private.

So a short goodbye, but if anyone is interested I set it up to possibly do a sequel/other story in the NCIS and Supernatural universe...