Chapter Text
C'mon baby, please, not here, not here, Stiles pleaded silently as his car gave a final shudder and then completely shut down. He groaned and leaned his head down on the steering wheel, head pounding. He did not need this right now, especially with it pouring by the bucketful outside.
He checked his phone- no signal, full battery, and then looked out the rain streaked windows. Great, just great, he thought. He was about 10 miles out from town, judging by the sign next to the highway, and the weather didn't seem to be letting up anytime soon, by the dark grey clouds above.
Sighing and cursing out Scott for making him drive all the way out to god knows where to pick up some package for him, he got out of his beloved Jeep, running a hand over the dashboard lovingly.
The rain began pelting him steadily as he squinted around, trying his best to see. Across the street was a light, a building, but he couldn't see the name. For lack of a better option, he ran towards it, splashing right through a huge puddle and soaking himself further.
Upon further investigation, he saw people sitting at tables and by a large, warm looking fireplace. The name, apparently, was the Wicked Brewery, on the corner of 35th and Wolfe Avenue.
Wolfe Avenue, he scoffed to himself, making his way across the street quickly. Maybe it'll be a good omen.
He tried his best to wring some of the water out of his thin plaid shirt and mess up his hair a little, but his reflection in the glass told him he still looked like the Stiles version of a drowned cat.
Pushing open the door with a weary sigh, a wave of warm air and the strong smell of coffee washed over him. He relaxed visibly, giving the place a once over. It was a comfy, homey looking joint, with bookshelves jammed carelessly with paperbacks, and overstuffed armchairs scattered around the fireplace.
The people looked friendly and welcoming, and none of them looked like nasty supernatural creatures, which Stiles appreciated very much.
Shivering a little bit, he rubbed his hands together and tried to act like he wasn't dripping all over the floor, which of course he was. He stepped up to the cashier, a pretty brunette girl about his age, who flashed him a sympathetic smile. "Hey there," she said easily. "What can I get for you?"
Stiles dug around in his pockets, scrounging up a soaking wet dollar and a moldy quarter. "Uh," he said, glancing up at the brightly colored menu. "I guess I'll just have a small cup of the dark roast."
The girl, who's name tag said STEPHANIE, gave him a very bad version of a flirty wink, and spun around toward the coffee brewer. He leaned on the counter, looking around again at the people in the cafe. Thunder boomed and he could see the lightening strike every so often, and so most of the people had cleared out of the café. There were two guys, probably about twenty two years old, hunched together and talking rapidly. They sat right by the window, with no regard to the lightening or things happening around them. He happened to catch pieces of their conversation completely by accident, catching 'wolves' and 'bloody accident' and 'must be killed, no matter what, Sam'. The words filled Stiles with a cold dread, and he didn't hear the barista calling for him until she tapped his shoulder lightly. Distractedly, he grabbed the coffee and headed their direction, almost spilling the hot beverage all over himself.
Of course, they could be national park rangers or something, but that would just be too good to be true in Stiles' life.
"Hi," he said a bit awkwardly, and both of them turned to look at him.
"Hello," said the older looking one slowly, looking him up and down carefully. "Who are you, and are you here to kill us?"
"Dean!" The other one, who looked similar to the other guy, but not quite identical, said with a shocked expression.
"What?" He replied, looking from Sam (at least that's who Stiles thought it was) to Stiles without a trace of guilt. "Well, come on. Killers come in all shapes and sizes. Look at yourself."
Sam gaped at Dean, and Stiles could only assume they were brothers. Their bickering gave him a chance to really look at them, without them noticing. They both looked tired and beaten down, but they also had that strong, rugged, camper-like look to them. Sam had a smoothly innocent face, and dark hair that curled around his ears. Dean looked like the fighter out of both of them, the tough guy, with light brown spiky hair and intense eyes, which were gazing at Sam in a way that Stiles knew well- the way that said "don't trust this freak!"
"I heard you talking about wolves," he said, trying to sound threatening but failing miserably. "I think we might have a problem."
Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Dean interrupted first, raising one eyebrow suspiciously. "What if we're just park rangers?"
"The way you said that makes me guess that you're probably not," he swiftly replied, and they both grinned.
He pulled a third chair up to the table and looked them both in the eye. "I'm Stiles Stilinski," he said, offering them a hand, which they shook suspiciously. "I know you don't know who I am, but-"
"You don't want us messing with your wolves," Dean finished, ignoring the shock on Stiles' face. "I understand."
Stiles controlled his urge to gape slash jump these two guys so they couldn't get anywhere near the pack by just smiling in surprise.
"But," he continued after a moment of silence. "We can't just have them mauling and killing people, either."
~
Stiles' mind was running in a million different directions, thinking things like: have I heard of a Sam or Dean near Beacon Hills? (no), did Derek mention killing anyone lately? (no), and is my hair looking weird? (probably yes).
"My wolves," he finally choked out. "Killing people."
Sam and Dean shared a quick glance at the mention of "his wolves", and stared at him.
God, did they like to stare. It was slightly unnerving.
"You haven't heard? You seem to know a lot about them," Dean said, passing him a newspaper off the windowsill, Sam rolling his eyes at the good cop / bad cop routine.
His eyes raked the front page, a large article explaining a increased amount of killings in the woods near the Beacon Hills Cemetery.
"What my brother means," Sam said a bit softer then his brother, "is that we don't think this is a grizzly bear who's really hungry."
"It's usually not," Stiles agreed, taking a sip of his coffee, then trying not to spit it out, which Dean got pleasure out of.
"Drink your coffee black often?" he said, a tiny smirk settling on his face, Stiles frowning at him.
"You and Derek would get along great," he muttered, swallowing the coffee even if it was true: he drank his coffee with half milk and a ton of sugar.
"I'm Sam Winchester," Sam interrupted them, glaring sharply at Dean, who just grinned back.
"That's my asshole of a brother, Dean. We're... On a road trip."
At the mention of a road trip, he watched Dean's features harden slightly, then slip right back into easygoing immediately. Hmm, he noted. Interesting.
He focused back on Sam, cocking his head slightly, giving him a stare to rival his brothers. "And what interest do you have in wolves and killings, not-a-park-ranger Sam Winchester?"
"We think it's a rogue pack," he said quietly, gaze flicking around the shop. "Of werewolves."
~
"Interesting," Dean noted, still staring at Stiles like he was some
strange creature. "No scoffing or eye rolling at the mention of werewolves. So, what are you, son-of-the-sheriff Stiles Stilinski? Wolf? Wolf slave, perhaps?"
His gaze never wavered as he spoke, and Stiles fought not to blush at the mention of a "wolf slave," which made him think of Derek (totally coincidenally!), which made him blush because, well, Derek.
"Neither," he said, feeling a bit like a lawyer in a courtroom, making his case. Sam seemed pretty nice, but Dean and his stares put Stiles on edge.
Erica liked to call him the pack "pet", Scott called him the best friend, but really he was just the researcher, the human that didn't have super smarts like Lydia or mega awesome archery badassness like Allison.
"I'm just around."
"Around," Dean repeated with a little nod, looking back out the window. "Say, Stiles, you wouldn't mind taking us to meet your pack, would you?"
He made honest to god air quotes around your, and Stiles almost fell off the chair in shock.
"Not if you're going to kill them," he said firmly, leaning back and crossing his arms in a way he hoped would seem a tiny bit powerful or something.
"We're not going to kill them, Stiles," Sam said calmly, staring at his brother intently. "Correct, Dean?"
His gaze swept lazily over Stiles and landed on Sam before he answered "Sure. Why not, let's make promises we can't keep."
"I'm not taking you to them," Stiles said stubbornly, trying desperately to hold his ground.
"Well, lets see," Dean said sarcastically, looking toward Stiles. "Your car is dead at least ten miles away from your town, it's raining, and-"
"How did you know my car broke down?"
"For gods sake, you could hear it clunking and wheezing all the way down the street," he responded, which Stiles supposed was true.
"Look," Sam said, looking at his phone. "It's getting late. We need to get moving, and so do you. You can drive us to Beacon Hills in our car, and you have my word we won't do anything until we talk to your pack with you."
Stiles was really beginning to like this guy, or maybe he just really disliked his brother, which forced him to like Sam. Whatever.
"Fine," he said with a long sigh, heaving himself up out of the chair tiredly. Sam was right. It was late, and he was wet, and cold, and about to get into a car with two strange and threatening dudes. Wonderful.
"I call shotgun!" Dean called with a devious smile plastered on his face as they neared the car, Stiles fighting the urge to groan.
"Why the long face, buddy?" Dean said, hand on Stiles' shoulder suddenly. "Don't wanna sit by me?"
"I don't like sitting by him either," Sam said with a sympathetic smile, crawling into the backseat.
Stiles remained quiet as he got into the front seat, Sam tossing him the keys lightly.
He turned on the ignition, the engine purring to life along with the radio, blaring some pop song.
"You a fan of One Direction, Dean?" he teased, glancing over at the other guy.
"Uh huh," he said distractedly, tapping at his phone. "Harry's so hot."
He literally had to put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing at that one.
To keep himself occupied, he pulled out his cellphone and dialed Scott, who picked up on the first ring. "Dude, where are you?" he asked immediately. "You were supposed to be back like an hour ago!"
"I got... Delayed," he said, trying to find the right words. At the mention of delayed, Dean called "You might wanna call him a toe truck!" as loud and annoyingly as he could.
"A toe truck?" Scott's voice was serious now. "Stiles, are you okay?"
"Yeah," he muttered, steering onto the highway. "I'm just fine."
~
"Dad?" Stiles called into the house, pushing the front door open. Sam and Dean (and their small arsenal of weapons and normal person things, like toothbrushes) were right behind him, inspecting everything carefully.
Stiles stepped inside and flicked the light on, noticing a note on the table.
Working late tonight, it said. Will be back in the morning. Dad.
"That certainly makes things easier," he said with surprise at his luck. "So. That just leaves, um, sleeping arrangements."
He tried really hard not to glance at Sam when he said that. He also tried really hard not to stammer. That didn't go too well.
Wouldn't it be fucking hilarious to see Derek's face if he (and his bed) were covered in Sam's scent. That lead him to wondering what he smelled like, probably like musk and wood and leaves...
He and Derek weren't a thing, but as Lydia so eloquently put it, they "had enough sexual tension to light a whole forest on fire. "
Snap out of it, he yelled at himself, trying to focus.
"You guys can sleep on the floor," he offered, motioning for them to follow him upstairs. "Or one of you can sleep in the closet, and one next to my bed, er, on the floor," he stuttered, going tomato red again. He pushed open the door to his room, glad he'd made an effort to clean it this week.
"I'll sleep in the closet," Dean offered, looking closely at Sam, who was not so secretly staring at Stiles' bed.
"Er, okay," Sam said, shaking off his trance and setting his stuff down on the floor. "Stiles, where's the bathroom?"
Stiles pointed out the door, grinning inwardly at the way he said his name. "Down the hall, second door on the left."
Sam nodded, grabbed his toiletry bag, and headed down the hall, humming quietly.
"You sooo have the hots for my brother," Dean noted with a straight face, startling Stiles out of watching Sam disappear down the hallway.
"I met you two like an hour ago, in a café," he said, flopping down on his bed and realizing he was still damp. "I'm a bit more classy then that."
"Doesn't mean you can't think someone's hot," he countered steadily, looking away from Stiles for once. His face burned a little bit, thinking of the possibility that he was speaking about him, but he quickly brushed it away. People like Dean Winchester attracted beautiful girls, not hopelessly dorky guys like himself.
There was a creaking by the door, and both their heads snapped up to see Sam standing sheepishly in the doorway, hair freshly combed and in a ratty Iron Man t-shirt and pajama pants.
He likes Iron Man, Stiles realized. Please god, let us get married.
He thought about changing right there, but then thought that Dean would probably get a little too much humor out of that, and decided otherwise.
"I'm just, um," he said, standing and quickly adverting his eyes. "Gonna get dressed quick. Sam, you can sleep in my bed if you want," he said shyly, then realized what he said when Dean collapsed in laughter on the floor.
"Shit," he said, with a short embarrassed laugh of his own. "I meant, without me in it."
Sam's face was completely unreadable as he strode toward the bed and stopped short of climbing in. "The floor is fine," he said quietly, staring downward.
"There's blankets and pillows in the closet," Stiles said, then got the hell out of there as quickly as he could.
He came back to Dean passed out in the closet like a drunk (he repressed the urge to take a picture) and Sam, sitting up on the floor.
"Can't sleep?" Stiles said, tiptoeing across the floor and taking a seat next to him.
Sam's brown eyes looked far away and sad as he answered. "Usually can't. Nightmares."
Stiles nodded, knowing exactly how he felt. "Well, being the Scooby Doo monster hunters you are, I'm sure you have 'em," he joked.
A pained look crossed his face, and Stiles knew he had said the wrong thing. He remained silent, not wanting to make the mistake again.
"I've seen people die," he said solemnly, seriously, like it was an everyday thing.
"Me too," Stiles echoed, and Sam looked over in surprise. "My mom." he explained, playing with the string on his shirt.
"Same here," Sam replied, with a certain kind of sadness in his voice. It made Stiles want to hug the hell out of him until he smiled again.
Surprisingly, he did, just a moment later. "I'm sorry," he said, shaking it off and rubbing his eyes. "Good night, Stiles."
As he watched him crawl underneath his blankets, on his floor, he almost forgot that he was there to kill his other family- his pack.
~