Chapter Text
“Dad’s on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days.”
Stiles was scared, he had just been told, by the sheriff, that his dad was dead. KIA, they called it, no arrests had been made. Stiles wasn’t stupid, not by a long shot, and he knew that the man that killed his father was still in the area. The police hadn’t left his house yet; they stayed and didn’t let anyone in, whispered conversations were going on around him, and sympathetic looks shot in his direction. This hadn’t been an accidental shooting of a sheriff’s deputy, Stiles’ dad had been targeted, and they worried that the killer wasn’t quite done yet.
Stiles couldn’t cry, he was in shock. The blanket over his shoulders didn’t help him feel better. The ‘Sorry for your losses’ and sympathetic hugs or pats on his shoulder didn’t make him feel better. The thought that his dad wouldn’t ever come home again was ripping the newly turned thirteen year olds’ heart to shreds. He had lost his mom just over four years ago, and now his dad was gone too. He couldn’t think straight, and everything the officers were saying to him sounded like it was coming from down a long tunnel, or even from underwater, it didn’t matter to him, nothing did.
The flickering of the lights and the soft sound of scraping on wood broke him out of his thoughts. The lights had been doing that all night, but the sound was new. Stiles’ eyes scanned the room with almost unnatural focus. The man that killed his dad… he was here. Something Stiles would never be able to explain told him that the man wasn’t a man at all, but something far more dangerous.
Stiles stood up and walked on shaky legs towards the stairs to his bedroom, the blanket slipped from his shoulders as he walked. The scraping noise grew louder and Stiles felt more than saw a man appear out of thin air in the middle of the kitchen. The first yell of a police officer had the teen scrambling up the stairs as fast as he could. He sprinted into his room and crawled under the bed. Stiles could hear yelling and banging coming from downstairs and covered his ears. An inhuman screech had him cringing and whimpering. The horrid sounds of people dying and shattering glass echoed throughout the house.
Suddenly the sounds stopped. The house fell quiet but the silence was even more deafening than any kind of screaming would ever be. Without a second thought, Stiles dragged himself from under the bed and jumped to his bedroom window. Opening the latch and sliding the glass up, he scrambled and slipped out of his room and onto the roof. Sliding down the tiled roof, Stiles just managed to keep his feet beneath him and swiftly walked toward the back of the house, there was a creeper growing just outside the kitchen door that he could climb down and make a run for it. Landing safely on the dewy grass the boy sprinted out his yard and into the darkened street, his bare feet slapping against the tar. He didn’t look back until he was a fair few miles away from the thing that had killed his dad and raided his home.
Stiles ran into the first form of shelter he could find and bolted the door closed before even turning on the lights. It was a motel room, the people renting it must have been out for the night, and had left the door unlocked.
Stiles slumped against the door and began choking on air as he tried to keep his sobs down, the emotional turmoil of the day finally catching up to him. After a few moments he looked up and scanned the room with blurry vision, his eyes falling on the only phone there. Stumbling to his feet, Stiles staggered to the device sitting on the side table in between the two beds in the motel room. With shaking hands he picked up the receiver and thanked whatever god was listening that the dial tone was working.
Stiles thought for a second that he should probably call the police or even Mrs McCall, his best friend’s mom, and tell them where he was and what happened at his house. He began dialling the number, but hesitated on the last digit, then put the phone down. There was a number ingrained into his memory from a very young age, a number his mom made him memorise and promise that he would only use it when it was a life or death emergency. If there was ever a time to call that number it was now.
He dialled it, and held his breath as it started to ring on the other end. For a few agonising seconds, the phone just rang, until finally it was picked up by a man whose voice was heavy with sleep. He didn’t know if it was relief that the number worked, or still the emotions that had attacked him a few seconds ago, but Stiles tried to speak, tried to explain; the words were stuck in his throat and he could only stutter and gasp out incoherent noises.
Eventually the man had managed to calm him down with soft words and exaggerated breathing, and Stiles managed to speak relatively clearly, amidst quiet sobs and shaky breathing.
“They’re de-dead,” he said softly, almost as if speaking too loudly would summon whatever was chasing him to his location. “Both of them… m-my mom… she said to call you if I didn’t kn-know what to do. Please help me.” It was the quiet whisper of a frightened boy.
“Where are you?” asked the man on the other end, his voice was deep and he sounded far more awake and alert than he had a moment ago. Stiles gasped for breath, relieved that the man might come and save him from this nightmare.
“B-Beacon Hills,” he said, “California… P-please help me.” The line died, and the lights of the motel room began to flicker.Stiles dropped the receiver with a heavy thud and scrambled over the bed and into the motel bathroom. The lights continued to flicker and a soft scraping sound could be heard. Stiles ran and heavily shut the door to the bathroom. Taking heavy breaths, he moved until his back hit the cold tiles of the opposite wall. With a shudder he slid down the wall and hugged his knees to his chest, breathing still ragged. The lights stopped flickering. Stiles raised his head and carefully squinted at the bathroom door, but he didn’t move.
With an almighty crash the front door of the motel room smashed to pieces and a dark silhouette appeared in the frame. Stiles gasped out at the sound and jumped to his feet. Looking around frantically, he spotted a small window above the toilet. Not wasting a second he threw himself forward and climbed up to it. Forcing the glass open as far as it could go; Stiles started pulling himself through the small gap. It was a tight fit, even for his small size, but he managed it, only just pulling his feet through when he heard the bathroom door shudder on its hinges. With a surprised yell he fell forward, out the window and towards the hard gravel beneath him.
Arms pin wheeling, Stiles broke his fall and attempted to catch himself, scraping his hands and elbows in the process. With a grunt he pulled himself to his feet and bolted in the opposite direction just as the bathroom door gave way. He heard an inhuman screech, the same one from when his home was attacked, and covered his ears as he ran. In the darkness, Stiles didn’t see the crack in the road ahead of him, and stumbled dangerously over it. That misstep caused him to completely lose his footing and he face planted, hard, onto the unforgiving tar.
Stiles lay where he landed, breathing heavily and shaking. With a grunt he rolled over onto his back and lifted himself into a sitting position. Feeling a warm wetness on his leg, Stiles lifted his jeans and whimpered at the sight of his badly scraped up knee, the blood falling in rivulets down his calf. Any thought of the pain, however, was forgotten as soon as he heard a scraping noise right behind him. With a gasp, Stiles felt hands wrap themselves around his chest and mouth, pulling him backwards and holding him tightly against a warm chest. Struggling with everything he had, Stiles fought back, kicking out, aiming for sensitive knees and toes, he was screaming for all he was worth, behind the hand on his mouth.
With a growl the man repositioned his hand to cover, not only the teens mouth, but his nose as well, cutting off his air supply and watching as the struggles slowed and eventually stopped. With a firm grip on the, now unconscious, boy, the man glanced around him and then vanished into thin air.
As soon as John saw the Beacon Hills welcome sign he raced into the town and almost barrelled right through the sheriff station's front window. The tires of the Impala screeched to a halt and the man threw himself out the car without even switching the engine off. Dean took care of that for him and followed his dad into the station.
Getting to the front desk the man almost yelled out that he wanted to speak to the sheriff. The woman replied in a shocked and sad voice that the sheriff had been killed the night before in a home invasion of one of his deputies.
“What’s the address?” asked John, his voice now strained and his hands balled into fists at his side.With a slight stutter, the woman gave him the address and John walked out the station without another word. Dean half-heartedly shrugged at the woman at the desk and swiftly caught up to his dad just as the Impala’s engine started up and he revved out of the parking lot. Breaking about ten traffic laws, the Winchesters nigh on flew to the house in question. It was early in the morning, but there were officers outside and inside the house with forensics and evidence photographers. John and Dean pulled out FBI badges and confidently walked up to the man by the yellow tape and showed him their badges.
“FBI are following a local break in? Seems a bit extreme, don’t you think?” Dean whispered to his dad as they walked into the house. John just grunted in response.
“What happened?” asked the hunter, trying to give off an aura of calm, collected and professional FBI agent.
The responding officer began immediately, “The owner, Sheriff’s Deputy John Stilinski was killed early yesterday afternoon. It wasn’t an accident and the responders had reason to believe the killer would go after his son, Stiles.” He said.
“What’s a Stiles?” Dean asked with a snort, his father gave him a dirty look.
“The kid,” replied the officer, “it’s his nickname; no-one actually knows his real name,” he looked to the ground sadly, “except his dad, of course.”
“Where is he?” asked John, he looked worriedly around the living room they were standing in. The place was wrecked, with the furniture scattered in pieces all over the floor and glass everywhere. The fight here had been intense.
“Beats me,” said the uniform with a shrug, “There’s a missing persons report filed for him. He hasn’t been seen since the break-in and there are no suspects. Possible kidnapping.”
“The damage is pretty bad, are there any leads?” asked Dean, slowly walking around the room and scrutinising the area.
“None, so far.” came the very unhelpful answer, Dean rolled his eyes.
Walking towards the kitchen, he ran his fingers over a window sill; they came up with a faint yellow powder coating. Dean sniffed them and grimaced, dusting his hands off on his jeans. Filing the smell away for later, he continued on. The fridge and the oven in the kitchen had been tipped over, the cabinets on the walls had been ripped down, the doors of the counters cracked or barely hanging on. Water covered the floor, leaking from the broken pipes beneath the sink. The water was tinted red, a river of blood leading from a body lying face-down on the kitchen tiles.
Dean walked over to it, lifting the white sheet that covered it and stared in shock at the damage. The man’s neck was completely twisted around, the bones peeking through torn skin and his skull smashed in gruesomely. If it weren’t for the fact that his body was still intact, Dean might not have been able to recognise the corpse as being human. With his stomach turning uncomfortably, the young man lowered the sheet back down and slowly stood up to walk towards the stairs.
Climbing them carefully and discreetly pulling out his homemade EMF meter, Dean scanned the stairs, then the upper floor landing for any unusual readings. The device was slowly blinking and it was emitting a slight whistle. He followed the direction that the readings were strongest, into what was, undoubtedly, a boy’s bedroom. The Star Wars themed bed sheets were ruffled, and clothes were strewn across the floor. The EMF meter suddenly whistled loudly in his ears. Dean quickly turned it off and looked around the room with a careful eye. There was more of that yellow powder on the window sill and the carpet next to the bed. The block of ice that formed in Dean’s stomach at that moment was frightening, and made his palms sweat.
The officers were right; the Kid, Stiles, was targeted; but not by any normal serial killer. This was so much worse.
Turning his back to the room, Dean carefully schooled his features and walked down the stairs towards where his father was still talking to the officer that had let them in. With a significant look at his dad, Dean walked passed them and out the front door, taking a deep breath and trying to calm his nerves when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump slightly.
John watched his eldest son walk into the kitchen and with worried eyes, turned towards the officer that was helping him.
“He's a little young isn’t he?” asked the man, jutting his chin in Dean's direction.
“Trainee.” Replied John with a slight shrug. “Tell me about Stiles.”
“Good kid,” started the officer, “we haven’t seen much of him since his mom died a while back. Before that he was so full of life, we could never keep up with him when he came to the station.” The smile on the man’s face was a sad one. He pulled out a photograph and handed it to John.
“He got quiet after that. You could say that he lost his Spark.” There was a small crease between the officers’ eyebrows. “He was just getting better too, coming back out of his shell a little, ya’ know? He still struggled with panic attacks occasionally.”
At John’s hesitant nod, the man continued.
“Now his dad’s gone too.”
“Can you tell me why they were targeted?” asked the Hunter, watching as his son crouched down to look at a body on the kitchen floor. “Did John have any enemies, someone who would want him dead?”
The officer shook his head, “The only people who would ever have something against him would be the criminals he’s locked up, but that’s part of the job.”
John watched as all the blood drained from Dean's face and he stumbled to his feet turning his back on the body and taking slow steps toward the stairs.
“Did they know something they weren’t supposed to?” he questioned, “Maybe the kid saw something while he was spending his afternoons at the station?”
“Nothing comes to mind, Agent. Why are you here if you don’t know who did this?” the officer suddenly asked, “Aren’t you suits supposed to be trying to catch the real criminals? Why are you looking into a local missing person’s case?”
“That’s why my partner is looking around.” John replied without missing a beat. “This looks like it could match the MO of one of our guys. Part of me hopes I’m wrong, that this is just a random coincidence. But I’ve learned to trust my instincts, they tell me that this Stiles kid is in more danger than you know and if you want us to do our jobs, you’ll stay out of our way.”
The officer paled slightly at the dangerous growl in John’s voice and thought better about questioning the agent again.
John huffed out a breath and his eyes followed Dean as he walked down the stairs stiffly. With the look his son was giving him, John knew that he had found what he was looking for, and that his job there was done. Sparing the officer one last, cold look, the Hunter turned sharply on his heel and followed the younger man out the front door. When Dean hesitated just outside, John put his hand on his sons shoulder and ignored the slight jump that he got in response. Father and son walked towards the black Impala just outside the yellow tape and climbed in.
“Definitely up our street.” Dean said softly. “I’m sure of it.”
John just nodded, starting up the car and heading towards the nearest motel where they could sit in private and gather their thoughts.
Stiles woke up in pain, he groaned out loud as his many scrapes and bruises made themselves known. Slowly opening his eyes and shutting them straight away against the harsh light above him, Stiles groaned once more. The boy tried to lift his hands to rub the sleep out of his eyes when he realised he couldn’t move his arms. With a start his eyes snapped open again and he managed to focus on his surroundings. He was reclining on a hard surface, his arms strapped down on either side of him with thick rope. The same rope was wrapped around his torso and knees, effectively keeping him in place. Looking around him, Stiles saw that he was, in fact, tied to a large tree root. The room was dark and damp, sunlight peeking through the gaps in the roots above him and dust particles floating in the rays. A Root Cellar, he realised that realisation came with his memories of the previous day and Stiles gasped as he thought of the man that had grabbed him. Looking around frantically, he began to struggle in his bonds, instantly rubbing his wrists raw on the rough rope and tearing the thin scab that had formed over his knee.
After about ten minutes of struggling, Stiles finally slumped in exhaustion, his wrists seeping blood and knee aching horribly, blood streaming down his leg. With a few heavy breaths and defeated whimpering, the teen jumped in fright at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder. The being behind him chuckled at the boys fear and stepped out from the tree roots and into the light.
“You are a feisty one.”
It was a man, in his mid-forties maybe, with greying hair and a crooked nose. An unsettling smirk was plastered on his face. The man leered at Stiles, leaning in closely and breathing deeply, taking in the boys scent.
Unable to make his voice work, Stiles could only watch with wide eyes and the man leaned in closer to him, his face coming uncomfortably close to the boys’ neck. In one violent move, the man grabbed hold of Stiles’ mangled wrist and pulled, causing him to yell out in pain.
In a move that was sure to reintroduce Stiles to his dinner, the man leaned in and actually licked a few drops of blood from his arm, even more terrifying than that though, right in front of him, the mans’ eyes changed. From the original dull grey, they turned completely black and he grinned. Stepping back and staring straight into Stiles’ own honey coloured eyes, the creature before him licked its lips and disappeared from the room, leaving Stiles to his own devices, wishing for someone to come and save him. Thinking of the man that he had called the night before, Stiles prayed that he would come and get him.
In the motel room that they had booked for a few days, John was sitting at the table with a notepad and his journal open next to him. Dean was sitting across from him describing the things he had found in the Stilinski household.
“There was this yellow powder on the window sill, it smelled like rotten eggs; there was more of it on the carpet in the kid’s room. The kitchen was completely destroyed, like a hurricane had gone through it.” He was saying, “The sheriff's corpse… the amount of force it must have taken to crush his skull like that… it wasn’t human. But Dad, no spirit could have done that either, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
John wrote down the key points and cross referenced them with his journal, trying to figure out what it was they were dealing with. His stomach dropped to the vicinity of his feet when the dots started to connect. With a heavy sigh he dropped his pen and leaned back in the chair. John's head was aching and he had a knot in his neck, but he wouldn’t stop now. If he was correct… this may be the closest he had ever gotten to finding the thing that killed Mary; perhaps this kid was the clue he needed to confirm his suspicions.
Dean watched his dad for a moment before steeling himself and asking the question that was bugging him from the moment they left in the middle of the night.
“Dad?” he began. John just grunted to show that he was listening.
“Who is this kid?” he asked. “You say you don’t know him, but you’re acting like he’s more than that. You’re acting like this is more than just any old job.”
John inhaled deeply and held his breath before letting it out heavily and leaning his forearms on the table. Looking down at the wood and the papers strewn across the surface, John couldn’t meet his sons gaze; he knew that if he was correct in his presumption that this wasn’t just any kid. This was his kid. The area alone was enough to make him suspicious, but the picture he got yesterday just proved it. The boy, Stiles, looked so much like John had when he was younger. A little paler maybe, skinnier too; he may have her nose and high cheekbones, but the resemblance was still there.
After a few moments the man looked up to see Dean watching him expectantly. In any other situation John would have lied, he would have told his son anything else, but this time he couldn’t, this time they were dealing with a whole lot more than they were ready for. This was quite possibly a demon from hell itself that had his youngest son in its clutches. Hoping to whatever god was listening that Dean would understand, John began to speak, and once he started, he couldn’t stop until he had everything out in the open.
“Twelve years ago,” he began, “we came to Beacon Hills on a hunt. There was a Poltergeist in the local church.”
“I remember.” Said Dean.
“Yeah well,” John nervously scratched the back of his neck, “while we were here, I met someone. A woman named Claudia. I got too close, and I made mistakes. I’m not proud of them, but I don’t regret them either.”
Dean thought he knew where this was going, but wisely kept his mouth shut, feeling that this was something his dad had to get off his chest.
“She was a beautiful woman. All attitude and sarcasm; she reminded me of your mom, in a way.” A sad smile graced John’s face then, “we spent a few days together, but it never became anything serious. She knew what I was, knew that I had you and Sammy to take care of, that I couldn’t stay with her and why. Claudia understood, she said that the world needed more people like me.” John still hadn’t looked up from the table.
“She sounds like an interesting person.” The young hunter remarked, part of him hoping that his father would prove his thoughts wrong.
“The day before we left,” John continued, “Claudia and I… it was a mistake.” His voice broke slightly. “I packed you kids up and didn’t look back. A few months later, I got a call from her. She told me she was pregnant, I couldn’t believe it, I didn’t think I’d been that careless. Seven months after that, she called me again; ‘it’s a boy’ she told me. That weekend I left you and Sam with Bobby, and I drove down to see if it was really my son that had been born. DNA tests proved it. Claudia was with another man at the time, but he understood that it was a mistake, that we were young and stupid. He took the boy in, said he loved Claudia too much to care whose child he was, so long as he was hers. I left then. I never even knew his name. Now I find out that Claudia’s dead, that the man who married her was killed and their son- my son- is missing.” John swallowed heavily and pushed a photograph across the table towards Dean.
He picked it up and looked at the boy, really looked at him. The eyes were a little lighter maybe, but the colour was the same brown as his dads used to be a few years back. Dark brown hair, the same colour as Sammy’s. The resemblance was mild, but there were a few features that all the Winchesters had, the same jawline and ears. Dean was looking into the smiling face of his little brother. Lowering the photograph to the table, Dean saw a defeated look in his father’s eyes.
“We will get him back, dad.” He said, taking a deep breath and reaching over the table to grab the journal and go through the notes John had made. He might not be too happy that his dad had slept with another woman, but he didn’t blame him in the slightest. All he could think now was that they needed to go and save Stiles, needed to save the youngest Winchester and show the kid that he wasn’t alone.
John looked up at his son, and marvelled at the man he had become, grateful that he understood. Clapping Dean on the shoulder in a rare show of affection and thanks, the duo put their heads together to try and track the thing that held the youngest Winchester in its clutches.
Stiles had struggled from the moment the man with the black eyes had disappeared until exhaustion claimed him and he closed his eyes, his head falling back onto the tree root he was bound to. Feeling like seconds had passed, Stiles was rudely brought back to the land of the living with a harsh slap to his face.
“I need you awake for this Stiles.” The boy shivered at the harsh voice in his ear and gasped when he felt hands caressing his shoulders.
“The cavalry has arrived, but they need to know where you are, right?”
A knot formed in Stiles stomach at those words. What was this guy going to do to him? That mental question was quickly answered when he felt the man’s fingers dig sharply into his shoulders. Stiles yelped in surprise, and began squirming, pulling at the ropes on his wrists again.
“You’re going to have to do much better than that if you want to get their attention.” The chuckle that followed that sentence caused a choked sob to escape from Stiles throat.
Walking around from behind his captive, the demon grinned maliciously and reached into his jean pocket. The knife he pulled out was small, but it glinted in the midday sun streaming through the roots of the cellar. At the sight of it, Stiles' struggles grew tenfold and he whimpered slightly.
“You have to scream Stiles.” The man said delicately as he advanced, slowly running the blade down the boys’ cheek, leaving an angry welt on the unbroken skin. With a move that was lightning fast, the blade was rammed into Stiles’ thigh; and the boy screamed. Unable to do more than struggle in his bindings, Stiles threw his head back, tears streaming down his face.
“There we go!”
The man ripped the knife out of his leg, causing another yell to escape his throat. Stiles was breathing heavily, praying for some kind of rescue that didn’t come.
With another ugly smirk, the man dug his fingers into the wound, eliciting another beautiful scream from the boy. With a harsh twist, he ripped his fingers out from inside Stiles’ leg and brought the appendages up to his mouth. Without hesitation, he licked the blood from them and closed his eyes in bliss, as if enjoying a treat. He opened his eyes and allowed them to turn black, staring at Stiles hungrily. Walking towards the shadows cast by the roots next to his captive, the demon disappeared behind the boy again, dragging the bloodied knife lightly across his throat, leaving a harsh red trail on the smooth, pale skin.
Just then, the hatch of the root cellar was loudly ripped open, a large silhouette appearing, the sun creating a sort of halo around the figure. Stiles gasped out loudly as the figure descended the stairs leading towards him. Once fully in the room, the sun's rays illuminated the rough features of a man in his late forties with dark hair and equally dark eyes. The leather jacket the man wore suited the dark boots perfectly. The shotgun in his hand made him all the more intimidating.
A dark chuckle behind Stiles reminded the boy that the evil thing that had been tormenting him was still in the room. Stiles was about to yell out a warning to the man, that they weren’t alone, when the bloodied knife was brought into the light and held dangerously at the boys throat.
“One more step, and he bleeds out in a matter of minutes.”
Stiles whimpered as pressure was applied to the blade, lightly breaking the skin and causing a few drops of fresh blood to trail down his neck.
The man froze in place at the sight of the knife and lifted his hands. It would have been a sign of surrender, if the shotgun weren’t still in his grasp.
“Drop it.” Said the creature menacingly, his face appearing at Stiles’ shoulder, an ugly scowl marring his features.
With everyone concentrating on the scene unfolding in the cellar, no one noticed a dark figure sneak into the room. Staying in the shadows and crouching behind the demon holding his little brother at knife point. Dean pulled out a bottle of Holy Water and poured it over its head. The creature from Hell screamed in pain and pulled his arms from around the root where Stiles’ was bound and tried to reach for Dean, but he was too quick and managed to plunge an iron knife into his attacker’s stomach. The Demon screamed and fell to one knee, holding onto the wound.
With the demon occupied, John ran forward, pulling his own knife from his belt and began to cut the ropes holding Stiles to the tree root. Stiles had inhaled sharply at the sight of another knife heading towards him, but when he saw John was cutting him loose, his shoulders slumped in relief and he stayed still, not wanting to move into the path of the blade as it sawed through the rough bindings.
As John was cutting through the ropes on Stiles’ left arm, his legs having been released first, the demon screeched angrily and grabbed Dean by the throat then threw him into his father, pushing both men away from the boy and then froze them to the floor. John and Dean struggled against the demon's magic, but it was useless. The Winchester men watched, wide eyed, as the creature approached the partially released Stiles’ grabbed his left wrist where the rope had torn the skin open and leaned in close to the boys’ ear. Stiles started kicking out at the demon, but the creature grabbed his throat roughly and squeezed. The boy stopped struggling and stared, wide-eyed over the demons shoulder as his breath rasped in his chest, “You should know, Stiles.” He started whispering, “just being the son of a Winchester is not the only reason I came for you yesterday. Your blood is special. Your power is special. It will make you a target, for every creature out there, and you will never be safe. You must understand, I am the first, but I will not be the last to realise exactly what you are.” The demon leaned back and stared, hard, at the pale, trembling boy in front of him.
With another yank on his arm, the demon pulled Stiles' wrist towards his mouth and bit into the skin harshly, causing more blood to seep from the wound. Stiles screamed as the thing before him began to suck his blood.
John yelled from the floor, cursing and screaming at the demon to leave Stiles alone. After a few moments the demon pulled away from the boy’s arm and grinned with bloodied teeth at him. His eyes turned black, but they seemed even darker than before if that was possible. He glanced over his shoulder at the elder Winchesters and vanished from the root cellar. John and Dean looked around the room for the demon, and belatedly found that they could move again.
Dean surged to his feet and walked over to Stiles swiftly. Leaning gently towards the boy, Dean wiped his fingers over his cheeks, removing the tears there. Stiles hadn’t even realized that he had been crying. John walked back to his bound form and continued cutting through the ropes. Stiles was breathing heavily and staring into Deans’ bright green eyes and finding comfort in their depths. He didn’t know how, but he knew that he could trust this man to help him, and look out for him. With that last thought, Stiles allowed himself to fall into unconsciousness.
The trip to the hospital and the ultimate explaining of Stiles’ true parentage was exhausting; to his credit, the boy took the information well. He had known for a long time that John Stilinski was not his biological father, but finding out that his mother would know he would need his true father one day made his skin crawl. Did she know he would be in danger like this? That the supernatural world existed? If so, why not tell him sooner? Why not prepare him for it? No one had answers for him.
The funeral for John was beautiful and the whole town came to pay their respects. There was a police send off, with riffle shots and a folded American flag, which Stiles gripped tightly to his chest. Scott was by his side the whole time, offering moral support, if nothing else. Before Stiles knew it, John Winchester was asking if he wanted to go with him and Dean, to be with the last of his family. The only other option was to go into the system, to jump from foster home to foster home. John had legal guardianship, but it would be Stiles’ choice, at the end of the day.
That was six months ago, and Stiles had learnt so much on his journey with his true father and half brother. He had helped with hunting the creatures that should only exist in movies and books. He had met John’s fellow hunters: Bobby, Rufus, Pastor Jim and Caleb.
Stiles missed his friends and his life back in Beacon Hills; but there was nothing left for him there. His mother was dead, as was his (adoptive) father. Scott would find new friends; Lydia Martin would fade and become a distant memory.
For Mieczyslaw “Stiles” Winchester, a new life and adventure awaited in the world of the Supernatural.