There were hands. Hands on his shoulders, on his throat, squeezing and shaking him. He heard shouts, no, screams; someone was screaming his name. He heard snarls. There were teeth and claws. Someone started shooting, but the wolves were too fast. They tore through flesh. He tried to run, but someone was still gripping his neck. He looked up and saw red eyes gazing back at him.

Stiles jerked awake in bed, zoning in on a pair of electric blue eyes from across the room. His heart pounded in his chest like that of a rabbit's, and he tried to scramble back against the headboard. Then, a pair of large hands grabbed his shoulders, and he snapped his head up to find Sam leaning over him.

"Hey, it's okay. You're safe, Stiles," he murmured, pulling the teen against his chest. "Nothing is going to hurt you as long as you're with us. Okay?" he asked, leaning back just far enough to look him in the eye. Stiles nodded shakily, shuffling closer to him. Dean appeared in front of him suddenly, holding a glass of water.

"Drink this," he said. "Your throat will be dry from the shouting." Stiles stared up at him. Had he been shouting?

"What did I say?"

"Nothing important. Just nonsense," Peter answered, raising an eyebrow in challenge. And seriously, what was up with Hales and eyebrows? Stiles took a sip of his water.

"Huh. I guess the fight earlier really got me, ha ha," he laughed. His hands were shaking, and his heart skipped a beat. Sam smiled tenderly at him.

"What did I say earlier?"

"That nothing would hurt me as long as you were around?"

"Stiles can protect himself, I'm sure," Peter snorted. Stiles glared at him. Sam's lips turned downwards.

"Everyone needs to be protected sometimes, maybe even you," he said. That had Stiles laughing outright. Peter scowled at him.

"No one needs to protect me."

"Then why are you hiding out in the Sheriff's living room?" Dean asked, his green eyes shining with mirth. Stiles laughed harder. For a brief moment, he forgot that it was Peter Hale standing in his bedroom. Peter Hale, who not so long ago had used Lydia for his own resurrection. Peter Hale, who, even before that, had kidnapped Stiles and offered him the bite. Peter Hale, who had gone insane and bitten Scott. A small part of Stiles pointed out that it was also Peter Hale, who had watched his family burn six years earlier. He quickly crushed the sympathy that came with that part. Peter was already staring at him, though, having sensed the change. In the end, he just sighed and left the room.

The Winchesters, unaware of the exchange, both chuckled and Stiles couldn't stop himself from joining in. No matter what happened, he wouldn't let himself lose them. He would figure it out, and he would protect what was his. Peter was right, Stiles didn't need protecting.

The next morning, the Sheriff sat at his table, sipping a cup of coffee, with Sam and Dean. After a few minutes of humming and swallowing, he set down his mug. Stiles was descending the stairs.

"Remember, he's stubborn," the Sheriff said quietly. The footsteps paused and the men in the room knew that Stiles had stopped by the couch, where Peter was sleeping.

"Wake up, I need your help." There was silence followed by a yelp. The Sheriff tensed.

"Yes or no?" a rough voice asked. Dean's trigger finger twitched.

"Stop making offers you can't follow through on," Stiles responded quietly.

"Hm, you're not afraid of me."

"Yeah kind of hard to be scared when you're crashing on my couch with bed head and a scratchy voice. Now get up and help me." There was a quiet groan and then stomping feet as Stiles and Peter arrived in the kitchen, Stiles carrying a cardboard box.

"Okay," he said, dropping the box onto the table, "You want to know about my involvement in the supernatural, so here I am. Let's get this over with." The Sheriff raised his eyebrows, glancing at Sam and Dean.

"The truth," he said. Stiles sighed and slumped into the chair beside his father. Peter, meanwhile, slunk over to the coffee pot.

"I guess you can say that it all starts with Peter." The clinking of mugs and quiet sips stopped abruptly. "Hey, calm down, you can kill him later. Not now." Peter coughed in the background. "Look, he wasn't in his right mind. He recruited a friend of mine against his will, and by definition, he recruited me as well. We spent a lot of time looking for him, and we ran into some other hunters along the way. Peter went batshit crazy for a while, but we put a stop to that. It's kind of hard to turn away from the supernatural after that, especially if you live in Beacon Hills," Stiles finished, twisting around to glance at the older man.

"First of all, I'm much better now. No more recruiting rowdy teenagers," he said.

"Now you said that your friend was involved. This friend wouldn't happen to be Scott, would it?" the Sheriff asked.

"You don't know who it is, and I'm not at liberty to say," Stiles responded. Only Peter heard the stutter in his heartbeat, although even those without werewolf hearing recognized the lie.

"I thought we agreed to tell the truth," the Sheriff said.

"And Stiles is telling as much of it as he can," Peter replied. Stiles raised an eyebrow at him, earning a shrug in response.

"If it helps, I've been lying to you to protect you," Stiles said. His father sighed.

"Stiles, it's my job to protect you."

"And even if you couldn't tell your dad, why couldn't you come to us?" Sam asked. Stiles wanted to tell them the truth. He wanted to tell them that he couldn't call them because he knew that they would try to kill his friend. He wanted to tell them that most werewolves weren't all that bad. He wanted to tell them many things. Instead, he shook his head and remained silent