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Dean can’t stay away.
It’s not like this hasn’t happened before, because it has. Sometimes he’s slipped up over the years, has trekked out here when Sam was sleeping, or when Sam was halfway across the country, fucking around with Lucifer--or so Dean thought--and ignoring the memory of Dean he tried to force away. He’d come out here and check up on little ‘ol Beacon Hills, to check up on the life he never even gave a chance when he chose his job over his kid.
It’s the first time he’s bringing Sam, though, and it isn’t because Dean wants Sam to find out,
finally
, because he doesn’t. That’s the last thing he wants, for Sam to sit there in all of his judgmental glory and find something else to hate Dean for--before, if it wasn’t the way dad treated them, then it was the way that Dean handled it, and if it wasn’t how Dean never applied himself, it was how Dean
let
dad never let Dean apply himself. He doesn’t want Sam to know what he doesn’t need to know, but he can’t wait any longer, either. It’s been a few years, and the phone calls had stopped when Dean had been pulled out of hell, when he was forced to change his number, and he imagines that there’s a whole stack of letters waiting for him in a post office somewhere.
But that--
Doesn’t seem so important now, maybe. It sometimes seems like those letters weren’t even meant for him. Dean isn’t a
father
, he just has a kid. A kid that he’s never personally talked to, just some kid that has his genes and maybe looks like him a little, but he doesn’t have the right to consider himself an actual dad.
He doesn’t know anything about him other than the fact that he has some douchebag name and lives some douchebag lifestyle that Dean grew up to hate.
So. Maybe Dean isn’t the best father--no, he definitely
isn’t
--but he can’t coerce himself into believing that staying away from him for any longer would be a good thing. The world’s ending, falling apart as they know it, and yeah, it sounds corny as fuck; like something Dean would never admit to
feeling
, but he thinks he might want to try. To talk to him, once. To see if his kid is someone that Dean would’ve been proud of.
Dean--Dean doesn’t think anyone could blame him for that.
(Except maybe Sam.)
*
It’s almost been two years.
Dean--
Dean really can’t wait any longer.
*
“The area around that town is clean, Dean,” Sam says, sounding utterly exasperated.
Dean ignores him, mostly, because Dean’s decided that they’re already going to go, and even if he has to make a thousand bullshit excuses to get them there, it’s
going
to happen. Dean’s sure of it.
“There’s been some recent disturbances,” Dean argues.
It’s true, too, even if it’s not their usual MO.
Sam raises his eyebrows. “The local police departments seem to be doing a decent job of handling it, Dean, and it’s probably not even our type of case.”
“Yeah? Well, Sammy, what if it
is
?” Dean prompts, and doesn’t wait for Sam to answer before continuing, “What if it
is
our type of job, and we ignore it ‘til it bites us in the ass? Then
what
?”
“Dean.”
“I just think it’d be stupid of us not to at least check it out.”
“Fine,” Sam sighs, put-upon, and normally it’d grind on Dean’s nerves, would rub him in a way that would make him want to ride up to the local bar, pick up some drinks and an equally as-easy chick, but now he just sinks back onto the bed in satisfaction.
“It’s just,” Dean licks his lips, “that we’ve ignored problems like this before. And it’s never turned out to be something good.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, “yeah. I know. I was just hoping to stay in one place for more than a few weeks.”
Dean doesn’t answer him, just sinks back into the bed, and can’t help but feel a clenching in his chest, because
soon
--soon he’ll see him again.
*
They pass through Sioux Falls before they head out to California.
Partly because Dean wants to get Bobby’s opinion on the whole thing, but mostly because they haven’t seen him in a while, and Dean would never openly acknowledge it, but Bobby’s the only thing he has except for Sam.
“You boys stayin’ a while?” Bobby asks.
Dean wishes he could say yes.
“No,” Dean says, “just passing through. We’re heading out to Beacon Hills--”
“That little good-for-nothing town?”
Dean raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment, instead says, “There’s been some disturbances.”
Bobby nods, flipping through some papers. “There’s been some murders, strings of murders.”
“Strings as in plural?” Sam asks.
“Happened within a few months of another. ‘Fficials don’t think it’s the same guy, but the guy from the first round was never caught.”
“Oh,” Sam says, looking slightly chagrined, like maybe he should’ve listened to Dean a little more.
“If you’re headin’ out that way, might as well talk to the Argents if you need help. Idjits only hunt werewolves, but they’re who you need to talk to if you have questions. Be careful what you mention ‘round them. They’re not aware of everything that we know.”
Dean thinks, idly, that being ignorant to what’s out there must be nice, to think that there’s only the black and white, the cut and dry of the supernatural world. That maybe there isn’t thousands of supernatural creatures, that there’s only a few, that the world may be safer than it actually is.
Dean thinks it’s probably somewhat peaceful.
*
Stiles is having a shit day.
Like, so shitty that the day spent treading water with a two-hundred pound werewolf doesn’t even come
close
. And that--
Was horrible.
So horrible that Stiles still has nightmares about it, still sometimes takes double his dosage of Adderall to get through the days without having to think about
it
. About how he almost died, how he almost died,
painfully
, even.
Stiles doesn’t enjoy how high the times-I’ve-come-close-to-death quota is this month.
But anyway, shitty day aside--because it’s not like Stiles has time for his
own
problems anymore, not when he’s chasing admittedly stupid and selfish werewolves around town, trying to protect their asses--he bounds across the hallway where Scott’s heading off to lunch.
Stiles follows him, because it’s known around the school that Scott is his only friend, and while that’s been questionable lately--because even though Scott’s been getting better at the whole bros-before-hoes and dicks-before-chicks thing, he’s still significantly less observant than Stiles hopes he’d be by now--he’s still the only person Stiles can remotely trust. Even if Jackson has been getting a little too close for comfort lately.
Yeah.
Stiles--
Stiles still doesn’t understand that part, either, but he’s mostly hoping that Jackson will grow bored and go away.
(He hasn’t.)
So, Stiles finds Scott sitting at a table pathetically close to Allison’s, and normally Stiles would slap his tray down loudly next to Scott’s and berate him about not being subtle enough, but he just throws a casual smile in Allison’s direction and whispers, quite loudly, “
Dude!”
“What?”
Stiles shoves some fries into his mouth before hissing, “I have something really important to tell you. This is like, Peter-Hale-is-the-Alpha level important.”
Scott manages to turn his attention on Allison away and looks at Stiles with interest. “What?”
“So I was passing by the Argent house this morning on my way to school,” Stiles says, and then leans in closer to Scott’s ear so Allison can’t hear them. “And I saw this Impala parked in the front. A
1967
Impala. Like, is everyone in that family a douche or what?” Stiles asks, kind of rhetorically, before letting out this strangled laugh when Scott doesn’t laugh along with him.
And--
Stiles is
totally
hilarious, okay.
Scott doesn’t say anything.
“What? It’s a valid observation! I think you can totally back me up on the fact that everyone in that family is a little prick.”
Silence.
“Except for Allison, wow, she’s like, awesome.”
Scott just stares at him, equally unimpressed and incredulous, before making this tiny little sigh in his throat, like his best friend is possibly the most infuriating human being on this planet--which
no
, no; dude, totally not.
Scott--
Scott is so much worse.
Much worse.
Scott is Derek Hale level horrible, only he’s less badass,
remarkably
less scary, and can’t pull off a leather jacket for his life when Derek works it like it’s his own personal calling.
And like seriously? How does someone make a leather jacket look so good?