Derek picked up on the second ring. "Where are you? I called you three times," he ground out.
"Didn't Scott tell you that-"
"You need to get here now!"
"Listen to me, Derek! We have a problem!"
"Yes, a problem going by the name of Peter Hale."
"That's not what I was talking about! Look, the pack isn't-"
"I don't have time for this, Stiles. I need you to do some research-"
"I am trying to talk to you! Look-"
"Now, Stiles!" Stiles clenched his fists.
"You don't get to order me around! I'm not even-"
"Who's that?" He glanced up to see Dean standing in his doorway.
"I... It's no one."
"Who's in there, Stiles?" Derek asked. Dean raised an eyebrow as the teen hung up the phone.
"Really? You're calling some guy at," he checked the clock, "two am?" Stiles swallowed.
"Uh, he has insomnia," he mumbled. Dean frowned.
"Well it sounded like a pretty heated discussion."
"He was tired... We both are. Hey, is it okay if we continue this conversation at a more decent hour? I'm sorry I woke you up. You should-" Stiles began only to clamp his mouth shut when he heard a crash from downstairs.
"Stay here," Dean ordered, bolting from the room. The instant he was gone, Stiles dove under his bed, pulling out a wooden box, which housed his steadily growing collection of wolfsbane soaked weapons. It contained everything from bullets to knives to nunchucks. With a pack of bullets and a knife in hand, he went after Dean.
Stiles rushed down the stairs. He could hear gunshots and shouts from the kitchen. By then, there was no way the noise hadn't awoken his father. The pounding upstairs only served to illustrate his fears.
Stiles skidded to a halt in the kitchen doorway. A young woman was leaning against the sink, blood leaking out of a bullet wound in her side. Stiles might have mistaken her for human if it wasn't for the yellow glow of her eyes. Her eyes locked onto him then and she lunged. Stiles tossed the pack of bullets towards Sam and raised the knife in front of himself. He fully expected the prick of teeth and claws, a bone-crushing blow as she bowled into him, but it never came.
Instead, Stiles found himself pushed out of the way, towards Sam. The younger Winchester caught him by his arms, staring at the figure behind him. Stiles could still hear the woman growling.
"Sam, get the packet from the floor," he said slowly. Sam's face pinched in confusion, but he bent to grab the box just the same. "Open it and switch out the bullets in your gun," he glanced at Dean, who stood beside them, "You too."
"Stiles, they need to be silver. These aren't going to work," Sam said.
"Silver doesn't work, these do," Stiles responded. The two hunters shared a look before proceeding to load their guns with Stiles' bullets.
"Stiles? Stiles! What's going on?" the Sheriff shouted. Stiles could hear him stomping down the stairs.
"Make sure she's the only one you shoot!" he ordered before running out of the kitchen. His father was in the living room, gun in hand. "Listen, Dad, you can't go in there. You most definitely cannot go in there. I know you're worried, but please just stay out of this one," he pleaded. A gunshot sounded from the kitchen.
"Sam, Dean, are you in there? What is going on? Are you boys okay? I'm coming in!" He tried to shove Stiles out of the way, but the teen pushed back against him. There was another shot and a curse. The Sheriff pushed Stiles to the side and barreled into the kitchen.
"Dad, no! Don't go in there!" Stiles yelled, leaping to his feet. The kitchen was eerily silent. "Dad? Sam? Dean?"
His father still stood in the entryway, staring. Sam was on the floor with a bloody arm, wide eyed. Dean sat beside him, white knuckles gripping his shoulder. To Stiles' surprise, Peter was standing next to them, staring out the window.
"When did you come back?" Stiles asked. Peter smirked at him.
"You're welcome for saving your life," he said. The Sheriff cleared his throat.
"You boys want to tell me what's going on?"