On the day of the Hale's moon party, or whatever, Stiles is second guessing his choice to not go. It's ultimately Deaton who helps him decide by setting him down with a new pile of books he brought over from Morrell.

"So, exactly how far have you gotten in your training?" Deaton asks lightly, his eyes looking over his reading glasses at Stiles and his head titled to the side curiously.

Stiles knows how this conversation is going to go, but he opens his mouth anyway and admits with a squeak, "We skipped all of the basics and went right to the defensive stuff."

Deaton sighs despairingly, not even offering Stiles' face a sympathetic glance.

At the time, Stiles knew it was wrong to not train for months and years on the basics, had listened to Deaton's lectures on proper hand movements and feelings and beliefs and desires. Stiles had met other Sparks and he knew he was supposed to spend an entire year just focusing on his belief and storing his core energy, but other Sparks didn't run with wolves and have to fight Alpha packs or monsters.

He was a victim of circumstance, what can he say?

"You said I was strong enough anyway that if I just meditated in my personal time-"

"And did you meditate in your personal time, Stiles?"

Stiles knows it will be futile to lie to Deaton now. They've been living in the same space for three weeks. Stiles knows that Deaton wakes up at 3 am in a sweat and takes long showers and can't stand the thought of going to bed without checking every lock and line of ash in his apartment. Deaton knows Stiles leaves messes during the day because he likes the house to feel lived in, and will always make sure it's clean before he passes out no matter how dirty. They've developed a strange kinship over their short time together, one Stiles never thought he'd have with the vet, and so he shakes his head and admits to never having meditated in his life.

Deaton doesn't berate him, though, he just takes his glasses off and closes the book in his lap. He places it on the ground next to the pile of Stuff That Stiles Wants To Look In After He's Found Something Useful and picks up another from the shelf.

"Why defensive spells?" He asks, as he flips open the worn, leather book, "From what you told Talia, I'd have thought you would want something a little more... Aggressive."

Stiles smiles, and shrugs, "Don't get me wrong, I can kick ass as well as a werewolf. I can make fire and electricity, and when I left we were studying my focus on earth. Since I had a pack of werewolves at my beck and call it just didn't seem like I needed more, you know? They had claws and teeth and speed, but when I started learning you said it would be better if I focused on defending us? I basically just stood in the back and did some quick healing stuff. I'm also pretty good at areal wards.

"I put one over the entire preserve one time when we were being chased by Goblins," Stiles' grin widens at the memory, at the instinctual magic that pulled itself from him. He could still remember the feeling of pressing his hands deep into the dirt of the Earth despite the pack telling him to run, can practically feel the thrum that pulsed inside him as he closed his eyes and willed every ounce of belief he had into the land.

And when he'd gotten up, the Goblins that'd been chasing him were trapped two feet away from him. Erica and Isaac followed them as they ran around the entire perimeter of the town to get at them, but there was no weak point they could exploit.

"It was flawless," Stiles summarizes in an awed voice, "It was like an out of body experience."

Stiles is surprised when Deaton matches his smile, "That was the moment your magic must have settled in you, then," He nods sagely, "It's your soul choosing exactly how your stronger magic will be used in the future. With you it's protection, I imagine. When it happened with me, I was fighting with a Fae creature that wanted to take my sister. I was twelve."

Stiles suddenly remembers his first meeting with Laura and Derek, and raises an eyebrow, "Derek said there hasn't been a magic user in Beacon Hills in centuries."

"There hasn't. I'm from Oregon, and your mother was from San Diego. You're the first spark to have been born here in a hundred years, Stiles."

There's a wave of peaceful silence as both men bond over the experience, and then, "I like you," Stiles decides without permission, shocking himself and Deaton as the words slip from his mouth. At Deaton's inquiring stare, Stiles suddenly finds his shoes very interesting, "I just- future you didn't like to share stuff like that. You'd just say something vague and annoying and leave me to figure things out myself."

Deaton raises an eyebrow, "Do you think it could have something to do with you appearing here and me telling you all of this now?"

Stiles releases a puff of air in annoyance and pulls at his hair. "I don't know? Maybe? If I think about it too much I just go in circles and it's annoying," He whines like a child. Stiles snaps the book shut and puts it in the useless pile before curling up on himself a little, too tired to read anymore tonight. "Time travel doesn't really have any set perimeters, that I've been able to find. If anyone has ever done this, then they didn't document it in any of these books, which is kinda stupid don't you think?

"But, it could be of them just not wanting others to meddle with time and change things? Or maybe this is all meant to happen anyway? Maybe this isn't even real and I'm in some weird coma." Stiles hiccups a laugh, "Or, maybe I'm just meant to fade from existence."

It isn't until Deaton places a comforting hand on his shoulder that Stiles realizes there are tears falling down his face. It's not full blown sobbing like he'd been doing a few weeks ago, back when everything was new and fresh, but they feel like a resignation, like he's giving up, which he's not. He swipes at them in anger until his face is red and his eyes are puffy, but at least he's not crying.

After a beat of silence, Deaton says softly, "Do you think you're supposed to be here?"

Stiles shrugs, "I don't know? Sometimes I do, and it feels right like I'm back in my own time, but then I turn around to look at Scott's reaction to something or reference something that happens years in the future and I just feel so out of place."

Deaton hums thoughtfully, then asks, "Would it be such a bad thing if you changed the course of history?"

Stiles doesn't even blink at the question, having rolled it over his head only days before, "I think, maybe, things would be better? Like, sometimes I think I'm supposed to and I just want to warn someone, but then I'm afraid of saving everyone from the wrong thing and something even worse comes to take its place? And then I wonder why would I be sent back? Why would that demon want me to do this, you know? Demons aren't really known for saving the world or anything. I figure if it sent me back it just wants me to do its dirty work and destroy the time line."

The hand on his shoulder tightens in grip, "Stiles, are you one hundred percent sure that it was a demon?"

"Well, it looked like a demon and acted like a demon. I don't really see what else it could be?" Stiles remembers how it laughed at Lydia and him for chanting at it, how it blew their circle apart with ease, and he's decidedly less sure. It had been doing everything demon's did, though, and it was terrorizing the town for weeks before Lydia was able to track it down.

In a flash Deaton abandons him on the couch and is hastily looking through the shelves in his secret room, "Maybe we've been looking in the wrong place this entire time."

Stiles grimaces at the hopeful look on Deaton's face. He tries to ignore the churning inside him, the mild anger that feels like someone is just poking at him with a needle. "Or, maybe I've just been sent here to ruin the time line and trigger the apocalypse."

Deaton rolls his eyes, still looking for a specific book, "I know you don't believe that. If you did, you would have avoided the Hales at all cost, and you wouldn't even be talking to me right now."

Stiles rolls himself off of the couch and walks over to stand next to Deaton, pouting at the man because he knows he's right.

"What would your Derek want you to do?" Deaton asks suddenly, as he pulls out a book and studies its index.

"He'd want me to keep looking until I had something more solid than an instinct." Stiles supplies, but even as he says it, he knows it's a lie, know as soon as he would have admitted to having doubts that Derek would have dropped a hand on his shoulder and told him to do what he thought was best, because Derek was more wolf than human, because Derek was raised to trust his instincts no matter what, because Derek trusted Stiles.

And that? It decidedly hurts, because he wants that back; their easy camaraderie, their partnership. He fought for that trust. He struggled to get Derek to accept him into the pack and to look at him as more than a human and Scott's best friend. He's so tired of everyone here looking at him like he's some magical spirit guru, like he's a stranger. He wants his friends back. He wants his pack and he wants their security. He needs them, needs them now more than ever.

Deaton rest a careful hand on his shoulder, drawing Stiles out of his trance. Stiles looks down and sees that his hands were curled at his sides, shaking, and he can feel the small zaps of electricity zipping between the tips of his fingers.

"I know this has been stressful for you," Deaton says, and his eyes are more gentle then Stiles has ever seen them, "I'm not going to say I can even begin to imagine what it feels like, but I know you're in pain, Stiles, and I know I want nothing more than to provide you with the answers you seek."

Stiles is drained. He's been emotionally exhausted ever since he got here, and he's too tired to fight Deaton as he guides him back to the couch.

"Now, rest. Tomorrow we're going to try something different."

There's a knocking at the door, and Deaton leaves Stiles sitting on the couch to get it. Whomever it is, they're speaking in low voices, but Stiles can pick up a few scathing words here and there. He tries to ignore it, maybe it's a neighbor telling them to keep it down or something, but then Deaton is grunting and out of the corner of his eye, Stiles can see him being pushed aside.

Stiles has never been alone with the man in front of him, but he can remember him sitting at the able next to Talia on Stiles' first day in the past. Laura had described him, but she never mentioned just how much he and Derek look. Rand Hale is suddenly there, standing in the doorway. His eyes narrow as he sees Stiles, and Stiles can see a hint of blood on his shirt. His eyes widen a fraction, mouth dropping open as he sees it.

And then he's being hauled up and pushed against a wall. It's a move Stiles should be used to, considering Rand's son in the future has done it numerous times, but then Rand snarls in his face. And Rand's a human so that shouldn't be possible, but he's a werewolves mate, so maybe he's picked up a few things.

His hazel eyes drill holes into Stiles', and he looks like he wants nothing more than to carve out his heart and feed it to his family.

"Talia's been shot. Did you know that, Stiles?" Rand asks, and then he smiles a toothy smile that looks more like Derek when he barred his teeth, and Stiles is suddenly thrown back into the wall. His head hits it with a harsh thwap, and Stiles fights the groan of pain that swells in his throat. "Of course you did!" Rand roars, and Stiles shrinks back at the sound.

What? How could Talia be shot? Kate isn't supposed to murder them for another few months, and even then she doesn't resort to bullets or arrows or anyth- Oh. How could he forget searching for a cure with Scott? Talking to that doctor? How could he forget the werewolf that got sent to the hospital?

Now that he remembers, he knows it was Derek and Talia in the picture file he saw. Knows it because he's seen them, and, of course it was them, how could it be any other werewolves in Beacon Hills but the Hales?

But it doesn't make sense. Why is Rand yelling at him for this? Why is it happening now? Stiles wraps his hands around Rand's wrist, trying to get him to release his grip on his shirt.

"Look, I don't know what you're talking abou-"

Rand quickly cuts him off, "You do. I know you do. I can see it your face. You knew that there were hunters prowling around, didn't you? You knew Talia would get shot. You didn't even warn us-"

Stiles is not letting Rand blame this on him, especially when he literally just figured this out. Stiles glares at him and pushes feebly at his chest, "Talia wouldn't want me doing anything to disable the time line! Look, she's fine so what does it even matter?"

"She got taken to the hospital! We're risking exposure, and that arrow might be in her arm, but do you know how close it was to her heart?" Rand shakes him again, more violently, and Stiles feels nauseated because he knows what Rand is going through. He's had to dig arrows and bullets out of his pack, had to administer wolfs bane and pray they made it through the night and berate them for getting hurt at all. He knows what it's like to be the human in a pack of wolves.

"She almost died because of you and your stupid, childish need to preserve your sham of a future!" Rand bellows, and Stiles shrinks back. He could easily escape him, he knows. Could easily overpower him with his magic and ask him to leave, but it's like the fight has drained out of him because it's the truth. Stiles may not have been aware of this situation, but he knows about the one that's coming. He knows where Derek goes on the weekends and after practice. He could tell Talia or Rand or Laura or any of the Hales and they could stop it.

Stiles can't stop Rand from yelling at him, because every time he looks into his eyes all he can see is Derek. Derek yelling at him, Derek knowing he could have stopped him from falling for Kate Argent, Derek hating him for not saving his family, and Stiles just wants to tear his hair out and barf and maybe throw himself off of a cliff because of all the deaths that are going to be his fault.

Is this why Derek was so cold to him those early months of Scott being turned? Derek couldn't have known though. Stiles can't picture Derek sitting up with him on early Sunday mornings and drinking coffee and making breakfast, can't see Derek saving his life time and time again, can't see him letting Stiles drag him to boring movies on pack nights if he blamed Stiles for his families death.

Rand shakes him again. His face twist in disgust, like even looking at Stiles is cause for him to vomit his lunch, and drops him to the ground. Stiles falls and doesn't even try to stop himself. He feels like a black hole, like he's sucking everything in and killing all of it just for touching it. His body feels numb, but his mind is going over his every interaction with Derek in his time, searching for some clue that the man hates him for this, hates him for these deaths that he causes, but he can't find anything and he feels even more lost than he did when he showed up in front of Laura weeks ago.

Rand crouches in front of him, and he looks even more wolfish than all of the Hales combined. He lifts Stiles' head, and Stiles tries to squirm away, too ashamed to meet his eyes.

"You're greedy," Rand says softly, like it's a secret, "You're just a selfish child who's been given this opportunity to save my wife and children from a horrible death, and you won't take it because you want your own life back so badly."

Stiles flinches away from his words like a punch to the gut, and Rand drops his head. Stiles lets it fall, choosing to stare at the man's shoes because it hurts to even meet his gaze.

"I don't care who kills my family, or how, or why," Rand tells him, and then, harsher, like he's spitting the words, "As far as I'm concerned, you'll always be the one who murders us."

"That's enough, Randall." Deaton's voice is harsh and unforgiving, "You do not get to blame Stiles for events that aren't his fault."

Rand rounds on Deaton, yelling, "But he can stop it! Alan, you know that he can save us. I know that you talked to Talia just last week-"

Stiles throat clenches shut, and he leans over and reaches out for a plotted plant, only to empty the contents of his stomach in it. Rand watches him, looking at him like he's nothing better than sewer water, and it only makes Stiles gasp out for breath and sob like he's been gutted.

"I think it's time for you to leave, Mr. Hale. I'll be by shortly to check on Talia."

And then Rand is gone, striding out of the house without even looking back at Stiles.

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, letting out a deep breath of air. He flexes his hands in front of him, breathing deep to fight off the anxiety attack he feels pressing in on him. With a hint of desperation, Stiles asks the room, "Do you think I'm a terrible person?"

His voices is rough and cracks through the sentence, and he doesn't even have to lift a hand to his face to know he's crying.

Deaton doesn't look phased by the question. He pours a glass of water, like he did the first night he brought Stiles home like a stray. "No, I don't," He says carefully, "In the entire time you've been here, I've never seen you be anything less than kind."

Stiles chokes on a sob and swallows around the rock in his throat, "Then why do I feel so guilty?"

Deaton hands him the cup, his eyes sad, "Because, in a way, you are."

He lets the words wash over him, accepting them as the truth he knows them to be. He's guilty by default. What would his dad call him? An accessory for murder, just by having the knowledge that he does.

Stiles shakes out his head and his arms and forces himself off of the floor. He downs the cup of water in two gulps to get rid of the acid taste of bile in his mouth and drops the cup on the coffee table. He can't let this go on any longer than it has. He wants answers, dammit. He's tired of guessing and skirting around the issue, tired of feeling so sorry for himself when there are things so much bigger than him going on.

"What was that idea you had?" Stiles asks, and is proud that his voice doesn't shake.

It still sounds weak, but it's a start.

Deaton frowns at him, "Stiles, you've had a very emotionally trying day. Please, lay down and sleep and we'll try tomorrow-"

"Please," Stiles cuts him off with a beg. He looks at Deaton and tries to get him to understand. "I can't handle this anymore, so whatever you want to do just do it. Please."

Deaton eyes him skeptically, and whatever he sees must be enough because he sighs in defeat not a minute later.

"We can try to summon whatever brought you here. Maybe it can provide some answers," Deaton says as he opens the book he set down before Rand showed up. Stiles nods enthusiastically. Why hadn't he thought of that sooner?

"We're going to need some things," Deaton sighs heavily, "Get some chalk, four purple candles, and vial #9 from the closet. It should be in the bottom right hand drawer under the box of cherub tears."

Stiles does as he's asked as Deaton roots around in the kitchen. Having already made himself well acquainted with the closet a week ago, Stiles is able to find the items easily. He wishes his Deaton could have brought him back to this place. The clinic isn't nearly as well stocked as it should be. Stiles tells Deaton this as he loots the items back over to the kitchen counter, but Deaton doesn't respond.

He takes the vial of mountain ash wordlessly from Stiles' pile. After popping open the lid, he pours it in a bowl and mixes it with salt, whispering under his breath all the while.

"Did we ever get to lessons about rituals in your time?" Deaton asks as he pulls out another bowl and a rack of herbs.

Stiles shakes his head, "No, uh, you left that kind of stuff to Lydia and she would only tell me stuff on a need to know basis."

Deaton looks annoyed but accepts the information. Lydia knew Archaic Latin and was always the most logical choice for that sorta thing anyway.

"Grab that book and open to page 930. Start at the top and keep going until the end of page 932."

The book is leather bound, like a journal, but is as thick as his throat. It's all hand written in slanted cursive, and the pages are a dried yellow and smell like drywall. Some of the early pages are water trodden, and stick together and blur the words, like someone was trying to erase information.

"Where do you even find all of these books? You never told me."

Deaton shrugs, "Most are passed down through the family. My sister keeps careful archives of our kind and is usually able to step in when the family line ends before the books are sold to people who don't know what they're for." He stops, suddenly, and then turns to look over his shoulder, "She hasn't decided what to do when your mother passes though, forgive me. I believe they should still be in your house, if you ever feel like looking."

Stiles gulps and looks away from Deaton. He didn't know he had family books. God, there's so much his mom never told him, so much she could have taught him. He could probably get them now, easily. His mom is in the hospital, and his dad is usually either at the station or there. He pushes it from his mind, not wanting to think about that connection to his mother now. He turns back to the book.

(This ritual is used to call upon a spirit that the user knows almost nothing about. It consists in having prepared five lit candles, either purple or red, at the ends of a a ritual circle (diagram below) drawn in either chalk or blood (the casters blood would be more potent). A bowl with herbs, Agrimony, Damiana, Mistletoe, Chamomile, and Desert Sage, in that order, should be mixed together and then placed in the centre of a circle made of salt and mountain ash (These should be added in equal parts and placed around the edge of your circle for maximum protection).

The performer should then recite the following incantation in Latin: "Qua invocaverimus te / vos spiritum potentem / Quamquam ignoremus nomen et genus / Et exaudi nos hoc audire".

While doing this, the summoner must think very hard about this creature. Recall your senses to call this spirit to you. You must trust yourself, for you run the risk of calling another.

The rest of the page continues on with measurements for the circle, the herbs, and even details what one should do if they find themselves with a truly horrifying creature instead of the chosen summons.

Stiles wants to bang his head on the table. This is why he hates rituals. There's always so many blind spots where things can, and will, go wrong. He gets a flash of the demon breaking the circle, of it throwing everyone back and their bodies flopping to the ground, and shudders.

Lydia's ring was only made of salt. Maybe that's why it didn't work the first time? It's not like Lydia to forget such an important detail, though. But that was a banishment ritual, wasn't it? And this one is a summoning. Stiles' head hurts, so he quietly closes the book and places it back on the table.

"So, this will work, right?"

Deaton shrugs, "I hope so. If not, then I'm out of ideas. Come help me move this rug out of the way, Mr. Stilinski."

Together, they clear the area and then Deaton settles on his knees to carefully trace a circle. He doesn't even need the books diagram, seeming to know all the lines by heart. His hands don't even shake, creating a flawless circle.

Stiles lights the candles and places them periodically around the edge while Deaton sprinkles the salt and mountain ash in his hands. He closes his eyes, breathes deep, and then throws it up in the air. Stiles watches, and can see the moment where Deaton's belief takes hold and forms the ring before it falls to the ground.

"Do you know what you need to do now, Stiles?" Deaton asks, softly, and Stiles takes a second to breathe before he nods. Deaton smiles calmly at him, "It's easy. Just think about what happened, what you heard, smelt, saw, and repeat the words."

Deaton opens the book and hands it to him, nodding at Stiles as if to say, you got this.

And Stiles does have this. He can do it, knows he can, deep in his gut. It's not like he's been able to forget the demon, as every time he closes his eyes to sleep it's there again, murdering his friends.

So, he thinks about it. Remembers the way it appeared in Lydia's circle. A sickly black shape that seemed to take on the form of a human, if only a bit rough around its curled edges. The way it's mouth opened impossibly wide, just a pit of darkness in a forest of screams, before it swallowed him whole. Its freakishly cold hands, gripping his hip and shoulder, making him shiver and fight and scream as it ran a sharp, clawed hand down his side. The smell of blood and sand that clung to it, the sound of its voice as it whispered words in Stiles' ear, words he still can't remember no matter how hard he tries.

And when he opens his eyes, he knows they're a bit brighter than they should be, and he focuses them on the middle of the circle as he repeats the incantation flawlessly.

Then it's there, standing in Deaton's living room.

It looks the same as it did that night weeks ago, or is it years ahead? Its body is just a pit of pitch black, making Stiles' eyes start to fuzz as he stares at it, and its mouth opens in a dark grin. Its shape flickers and fidgets into focus as it stays still, looking Stiles up and down.

And when it speaks, it's voice is double tinged, like it's two people speaking at once.

"Ah, and what's this then?" It purrs, positively delighted as it looks at Stiles with its bright white eyelets, "Ring me up for a social call, deary? Or are you looking for a deal?"

It's like a man and a woman are speaking at the same time, both deep and manly and high and falsetto. The voice rings in his ears, and he wants to cover them with his hands but stands his ground. Stiles snaps the book shut and hands it to Deaton, who holds it with his arms folded behind his back.

"It's you, right? You're the demon who sent me here?" Stiles demands, arms crossed in front of his chest defensively. His hand unconsciously rubs against his side, remembering the feel of its claws slicing through his protection ward.

The thing cackles madly, and the sound of it makes the hairs on his arm stand on end, "Demon?" It sputters, and then goes back to laughing, "I'm no demon, child. I would never degrade myself to such filth. Demon's fear me, deary. They just have to see me coming and run themselves back down to hell."

It laughs again, arms wrapped around its stomach and head tilted back and if it had enough features, Stiles might say it would look gleeful.

"Give me a second to catch up, child. I was just in 1870 trying to convince my dear Esther Morris to thank me in her speech, a little joke between old friends, you know?" It grins, mouth impossibly wide in a way that makes Stiles want to take a step back, "Ah, let's see. It's... 2007. Correct?"

Deaton nods, "Yes. Now, will you be so kind as to tell us what you are?"

It cackles again, "Ah, you're so clueless! The last group that called to me didn't know what I was either. Although, it was 1692. People were a bit on edge back then, you understand don't you deary? Being a witch and all?" Deaton shifts uncomfortable at the smile it gives him. It's miniscule, but Stiles has never seen Deaton show any emotion but calm in the face of a threat, and it's enough to set Stiles further on edge than he already was, "Ah, dears, I'm a timekeep. I'm surprised you knew enough to summon me at all! My kind don't really leave enough hints to be caught unawares, you know?"

"Yeah, that's why you murdered all of my friends and sent me back in time, right?" Stiles says, snidely. He's never even heard of a timekeep, and from a look at Deaton, he hasn't either.

That seems to stop the timekeep. It finally stops smiling, stops laughing, and just stares at Stiles. It shrugs, "I know nothing of that. It seems you've caught me in my young age, gentlemen. Although, that is a bit odd. I don't make a habit of murder, you see. Too messy, no. My job is just to make sure all events are happening like they're supposed to. If I were to step in like that..."

Its eyes turn from a white to a bright orange, and it's mouth moves quickly, as if speaking to itself. Stiles and Deaton share an uneasy look and shuffle a few steps away from the circle.

Finally, its eyes return to their normal color, and it smiles brightly at Stiles as it laughs, "Oh my, I've been naughty, haven't I, dear?" It giggles, and then raises a hand, "Lift your shirt. Let me see the damage I caused."

He doesn't want to, especially with the predatory gaze the timekeep is sending him, but at Deaton's encouragement he pulls at the edge of his shirt and lifts it over his head. He lifts up his arm and gestures to the wound on his protection ward, still healing despite it being weeks since the accident.

If anything, the timekeep laughs harder, "Oh my, oh my! How fascinating. We've created a mess here, haven't we boys?"

Stiles feels an anger coil in his stomach, "You mean you created a mess here. I've done nothing!"

It throws its head back and a laugh rolls from its throat again. Stiles is getting so tired of this thing laughing, "Exactly! You've done nothing, boy! I don't know what happened exactly to cause these events, but I've obviously sent you back here to do something. Look at you," Its eyes shift to a bright gold this time, and it stares intently at Stiles' face. Stiles fights the urge to fidget from the look, "So desperate to get back to a future we've already destroyed. It's almost blank, from this point on, you know? A white slate!" It giggles inanely, "I've never seen anything like this before!"

Stiles' stomach lurches, "What, you mean, there's nothing?"

It shakes it's head, "No, time doesn't work that way. You, my boy, have created about five hundred alternate universes. Did you know that? Twenty are just from waking up this morning. Oh my, it's beautiful! There's so many ways this can play out! I've never seen such complete disregard for the rules!"

It stops, suddenly, as if stricken, and then looks at Stiles again. Its eyes shift back to white now, as it says, "Oh my. Oh, oh my. I've done something, horrible. Haven't I?" It's voice is soft now, almost like a child, "That's why I tried to clean up my mess. And then I must have seen you and decided it could be fixed."

"Why couldn't you just fix it on your own?" Deaton demands, "Why involve Stiles at all?"

It waves its hand in annoyance, "Old laws, old family rules, you understand, of course, the balance of the universe and all that. I can't pass my own time line. Whatever happened I must have had a bigger part in it than I thought at first. Oh my, boys, this just gets more twisted as time goes on!"

"I can fix it though, right?" Stiles asks, frantic now, "That's what you said. You said you sent me back so I could fix it."

"It's possible, but the time line will still be a mess in the worst way," It says, like an erotic moan slipping from it's throat, "Goodness me, what must I have been thinking?" Its eyes turn orange again, and then back to white. "There are several time points in this year that could easily be tampered with. You're close to one of them already."

"The Hales?" Stiles asks, and then something sharp twist in him, "You mean the Hale fire is supposed to happen?"

It twists its face unpleasantly, "The Hale fire was never supposed to happen. This is a fixed point in time, it shouldn't have been tampered with." It looks troubled now, hands flexing almost nervously, "Oh, dear, those poor creatures. What did I do?"

The words sink in slowly, in incriminates, until Stiles walks right up to the edge of the circle. His eyes are hard, a new resolve settled in him, and he says, "The Hale fire wasn't supposed to happen. That's what you mean, right?"

"Yes." It nods.

"And my future is gone. All of my friends, they're not there anymore, right?"

"I can't see them. At least, not in the way they were in your memories."

Stiles dutifully ignores that last bit and pushes on, "Would you send me back to where I came from if I asked?"

It's face twist again, "I could send you to 2013, but I can promise that it won't be the way you've left it. Whether you meant to or not, you've already interfered with this time. There are already fourteen changes to your original time line! My, my, my, it's all such a beautiful mess!"

Fourteen? Jesus, Stiles thinks. He hasn't even done anything since he's been here! How are there fourteen differences already? He just nods, though, the truth settling something within him. He's strangely at peace with this, now. He has his answers, and now all he needs is a plan.

"That's all I needed to hear." He says, and then, with a wave of his hands, the candles flicker off, the line of the circle is broken, and the timekeep is gone with one, final laugh.