I hope people like this idea cause I really liked it and thought it worked. The only thing is I had to screw with the time table a little. So Supernatural is simply moved forward by seven years so Sam was born in 1990 instead of 1983. Nothing has really changed except that the month in Teen Wolf may be in the middle of the school year instead of the beginning of it.

Timeline: after season 3A of Teen wolf and during the episode season 2 x 10 in Supernatural where Sam leaves Dean cause he kept his father's last words from him.

He had to get away, that much he knew. He needed to breathe, and after the bombshell Dean had dropped earlier that day, the only way he could do that was by putting a good couple hundred miles between him and his brother.

Sam looked around first. It was late so no one should be out watching, but he'd rather not be on the cop's radar. No one was there, as he had thought, and Sam jimmied the ancient car's lock before getting in and jumping the engine's wires.

"Sorry, Dean," he mumbled, almost unconsciously.

~•~

10:50 P.M.

He had thought he was done with the heinous crimes—what with Jennifer Blake gone—and yet here he was again, looking at a bloody, mutilated corpse. But luckily—and there was something horribly wrong when a murder could be considered lucky—he had a clear suspect who admitted to the crime and was more importantly purely human. Of course she also claimed she blacked out after feeling an undeniable rage over a cheating husband.

Sheriff Stilinski sighed and nodded to the coroners who wanted to take away the dead man. His pocket buzzed but Sheriff Stilinski ignored it. At least he tried to, but the blasted thing kept repeatedly ringing.

"Not now," he snapped into the speaker without looking at the I.D. He ended the call and approached the victim's brother, who had been the one to call the police. According to his affidavit, he had forgotten to pick up the key for the office and had returned home. After entering the dining room and seeing his brother dead, he had called 911 and found his sister-in-law bloodied in a corner.

"And you didn't see anyone else in the house?" The sheriff queried.

Joshua Kyle, the dead man's brother, attempted to say no, but his voice caught. He cleared his throat roughly and shook his head, wringing his hands raw.

"No," he croaked. "And the, uh, doors were locked. God, I can't believe Chrissy would..." He broke off and wrought his hair with his hands. "Today was their one year anniversary."

Sheriff Stilinski was about to comfort the man when his phone vibrated again. He ignored it, but again it continued to buzz. Mr. Kyle, glad for the distraction but also confused, stared at the sheriff, pointing to the flashing gadget on his belt.

"Are you going to get that?"

The sheriff clenched his jaw and sighed. "Yeah, sorry. Excuse me." He stepped away from the witness, into the conjoining kitchen, and flipped open his phone. "Stiles," he sighed. "I'm working."

"I know," came his son's voice. There was a silence on the other end long enough for the sheriff to wonder if Stiles had dropped the call.

"Why are you calling me?"

"What killed him?" Stiles demanded in a rushed voice.

"A kitchen knife."

He paused again, although Stilinski heard muffled voices, like Stiles was covering the speaker with his palm. He exchanged a few obscured words then continued the bombardment on his dad. "Just a knife? No nibbling or teeth marks? What about sacrificial carvings? Cause the sacrifices looked like a psychopathic serial killer before we figure out Ms. Bla—"

"Stiles," the sheriff shouted a little too loudly. A few deputies glanced over curiously, but given everyone who worked in the Beacon Hills Police Station knew Stiles's tendency to involve himself in his father's affairs. "I'm busy."

"Yeah, but you never know—"

"It was a crime of passion. Wife thought husband was cheating and blacked out. When she came to, she was covered in blood and holding a kitchen cleaver. As tragic as it is, there' son need for you or your friends involved."

"Oh."

Sheriff Stilinski couldn't tell if his son was relieved or disappointed. There was more muffled talking over the line and the sheriff could tell something wasn't right. Stiles was planning something, the sheriff just knew it.

"Well, good. Your dinner is in the fridge—the veggie burger. I'm going to stay at Scott's for a while. Don't wait up." Stiles ended the call before his father could get a word in edgewise.

Yup, the sheriff thought, staring at the blank screen of his phone, his son was definitely planning something.

~•~

10:57 P.M.

Stiles stared at his phone screen before dropping it in his pocket and returning his gaze to the house encompassed by red and blue flashing lights. Scott and Isaac were looking at him expectantly, each from their spot in the blue jeep.

"He says it's not supernatural," Stiles stated.

"Yeah, but how often do these sorts of things actually happen?" Isaac asked softly.

"18.3 percent of the time in small towns," Stiles replied without hesitation. Scott raised his eyebrows in surprise, glancing behind him at his friend while Isaac sat in between the front seats stoically.

"Okay..."

"He said the woman thought her husband was cheating so she killed him. With a kitchen knife. Like a Christmas ham."

"Stiles!"

"Sorry." Stiles frowned and stared at his father's police car. Something felt off about this. Nothing happened in Beacon Hills that wasn't supernaturally influenced. Especially after they had done that spell to find the nemeton. Denton said there would be consequences, maybe this is the first of many things to happen.

"—we should go."

Stiles caught the tail end of what Scott was saying.

"What?"

Scott smiled shortly and repeated what he had said. "I still think we should go and check out the crime scene. I mean we're here and there's no reason not to make sure nothing's wrong."

Stiles nodded slowly. "They should be heading out soon. But I am not climbing through another window."

~•~

2:16 A.M.

Scott wrinkled his nose as soon as he stepped through the ground floor window. Stiles wondered what was wrong until he too smelt one of the foulest scents he'd ever smelt before. The tangy copper was so thick and overwhelming; Stiles could physically taste the pungent odor. He waved his hand in front of him in an attempt to blow away the smell, the light of the flashlight spiraling wildly across the family pictures in the living room. Scott caught Stiles's wrist and halted the movement, giving him "the alpha look" as Stiles had dubbed it.

"We don't want anyone to know we're here," he reminded his friend.

No sooner had he said it did Isaac crash through the open window, jumping to his feet and brushing himself off like nothing had happened. He nodded to his surrogate alpha then switched on his own flashlight. Stiles grinned at Scott before making his way to the hallway, glancing at the pictures as he went by. A petite woman with cropped brunette curls beamed in every picture and beside her was an equally happy young man. Compared to his wife, the man was a giant, probably able to put up his own against Derek.

Stiles's grin slipped off his face as he remembered off his face as he remembered this bouncy, giggling woman had just carved her husband up because of a hunch. Again, a feeling clenched his gut—a feeling that something was definitely out of the ordinary.

Stiles, closely followed by Scott and Isaac, stopped short the moment he saw the aftermath of the crime. Five enormous puddles of dried blood stained the off-white carpet like a star. Little flecks of blood deviated from the larger splotches and created a small outline of the deceased's body, like someone had painted with the blood. Stiles thought the imprint looked off, the size of the body much smaller than the ginormous man in the photos.

"Oh, God," whispered Isaac, pinching closed his nose.

Stiles stooped closer to the stains, angling his flashlight to get a better look at the figure. To him, it looked like the blood was purposely spattered, the way it was perfectly sprayed along the floor, and it looked familiar. Stiles just couldn't place where he had seen the scene before. It also didn't hell his flashlight was continuously cutting out.

"Scott, hand me your flashlight. I think mine's dying."

Scott passed his over, but even before it changed hands, the second flashlight sputtered a few times before it too died. The three friends exchanged glances. Isaac eyed his own light with trepidation, holding it like it might burn him.

"It's probably nothing, right?" Scott suggested. "I mean we use them all the time. They're probably just out of batteries."

"I changed the batteries two days ago," Stiles deadpanned. He smacked his flashlight a few times, earning a couple strobes of light, but in the end it stayed dead. "Great. Scott, Isaac, your spidey sense tingling yet?"

Scott made a show of sniffing the air, two glowing red eyes illuminating out of the darkness. Isaac followed the alpha's example. Not for the first time, Stiles felt a slight flicker of jealousy, but then it was gone. He didn't want to be a werewolf. He was happy being research guy, guy with a plan.

"Do you hear that?" whispered Isaac suddenly. He was asking Scott, but Stiles still attempted to hear whatever the beta was hearing.

"No," he said.

"Yes." Scott threaded lightly over to the base of the stairs. "It sounds like it is coming from up there."

"What is it?"

The werewolves ignored their friend unintentionally and began to mount the stairs. They walked sideways, angling their heads to hear better. Stiles scowled and followed behind his friends, waving his arms widely.

"Feel like letting me in on the secret? Guys? Normal human here, with normal hearing!" Still receiving no reply, Stiles was left to watch Scott and Isaac as they neared to second floor.

"Guys—!"

"Stiles, shut up!"

Stiles snapped his jaw shut.

"It sounds like...someone's screaming in a whisper."

"Well that makes sense. Remind me to sign you up for a poetry class," Stiles groused sarcastically. He met Scott's glare evenly and continued in a slightly less aggravating tone, "can you make out what they're saying?"

"No," began Scott, but he stopped suddenly, causing Isaac to lightly crash into him. He held up a silencing finger before Stiles could break the quiet, but within a minute, Stiles didn't need an explanation from his supernaturally gifted friends. He saw it.

A woman stood on the landing of the stairs, shadowed by an ominous light behind her. She looked young with vibrantly golden hair that cascaded along one side of her head. She wore a radiant, silk gown that, under normal circumstances, would have been beautiful; however, in the baleful darkness, she had a monstrously beautiful appearance. Not to mention the blood that was coursing down her arms in rivers. Looking closer, more blood stained the golden evening gown like she had been leaning over a bloody surface. Or a bloody corpse, supplied Stiles.

"Get out!" The woman hissed, though Stiles was unable to see any actual movement. It was like the voice had come from the walls themselves.

"Uh..." Scott stuttered intelligently.

"Get out!" The lights everywhere in the house flickered on and off rapidly, the radio and T.V. flicking through every station and channel, the photos rattling against the drywall.

All of a sudden the woman charged, but not in any sense that made her animalistic or human. Her form flickered and reappeared as it lunged for the boys on the stairs. In their rush to escape the bloody apparition—because it is an apparition, concluded Stiles—Scott and Isaac tumbled bodily over each other and down the flight of stairs. They landed in a pile at Stiles's feet, and the three used each other as leverages to get out of the house. All three boys stumbled to the front door in the darkness, forgoing any thoughts or attempts at being stealthy. They shouted and yelped as they fumbled with the door, eventually pouring out onto the porch.

The flailing limbs continued as their eyes remained fixed behind them and they fled the house and whatever that woman was. However their flight was halted when they collided with a solid figure. Again, the boys called out in surprise, and fear.

"Dad?" Stiles squeaked.

Sheriff Stilinski was watching his son and his friends with disbelief, bemusement, and plain amusement. He glanced behind the boys before his gaze shifted to furious and fell on the three delinquents.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He hissed. "This is a crime scene!"

He ran a hand down his face, trying to rid himself of the stress he obviously felt, before he snagged the scruff of Stiles's hoodie and began dragging his son off the porch. Predictably, Scott and Isaac followed closely behind, still watching the front door with fear.

"You can't even break into a house without making a big scene," the sheriff admonished. "You could have woken the entire street with the amount of noise you were making. And what was the deal with the light show?" Stiles's father had directed them back to the blue jeep and lightly tossed Stiles against the contorted hood. "Not to mention, I already told you the case was un-supernatural!"

"Wouldn't it be referred to as normal at that point?"

The glare fixed on Stiles was enough to freeze the sun. His father pointed to the driver's seat without a word. Stiles dropped his head in shame but still didn't get in.

"Okay, fine. But listen—"

"No, Stiles. I told you to stay out of it—"

"But it's not—"

"—and you still went—"

"—we saw—"

Scott and Issac watched the back and forth dialogue silently. Both Stilinski's were climbing in volume as one tried to top the other.

"Enough!" barked Scott, his eyes flashing red. The two fell silent and stared at the alpha in shock. "What Stiles is trying to say is that it's not as normal as it seems."

The sheriff's face fell and he looked back and forth between the three teenagers. "What do you mean?" he questioned warily.

"What we mean," Stiles said, taking the lead, "is that there is no way that woman killed her husband without a little help."

~•~

—A few days later—

Sam wasn't sure this was his best plan, but he didn't really have any other idea or choice. He'd just have to hope Ellen wouldn't turn him in to his brother, who would without a doubt be murderously pissed. He had ditched his phone after the fourth call, and he had only just picked up a new one when he thought of a plan.

Steeling his reserve, Sam parked his stolen station wagon and walked into the Roadhouse. It was just as he remembered, which was comforting since everything in his life was so recently turned upside down. The bar was still inherently dark and stuffy, and most of the patrons were either drinking and playing pool or cleaning various weaponry and bragging about a recent kill. Sam guessed today was one of those days where hunters outnumbered the normal people ten to one. Actually normal people were too frightened to enter a den like this.

Behind the bar, buffing the counter, Ellen stopped mid-stroke as her gaze fell on the man who had just wandered in. Sam froze, waiting to gauge her reaction, and let out a sigh of relief when she smiled.

"Sam," she greeted. "What brings you here?"

"Hey, Ellen," he smiled in return, plopping down on a bar stool. "I wasn't sure if I should come seeing as what happened last time I saw you and Jo."

"Nonsense," the bartender waved him away with a slight smile.

"How're you? And Jo?" He asked while fiddling with the edge of the wooden counter. Ellen caught Sam's glancing about the bar and casually went back to cleaning her station, this time picking up a few glasses and scrubbing them clean with a rag.

"I'm good. Now Jo, I'm not really sure," Ellen said without meeting Sam's eyes. "She sends post cards now and again, but I haven't seen her in weeks." She smiled sadly and slid a beer over the counter. "After she worked that job with you boys, she decided she wanted to keep on hunting. I said 'not under my roof,' and she said 'fine.'"

Sam fingered his glass awkwardly and smiled guiltily at the floor, not wanting to meet Ellen's accusing glare. Finally he muttered, "I guess I'm probably one of the last people you want to see then." When he looked up, though, Ellen's expression was anything but accusing. Instead it was softly pained, maternal.

She gave a throaty laugh, "Oh, don't get me wrong. I wish I could blame the hell out of you boys. It'd be easier. Truth is, it's not your fault, Sam, none of it is. I want you to know that I forgave your daddy a long time ago for what happened to my Bill. I just don't think he ever forgave himself." There were tears in her voice but Ellen shook her hair out of her face and rested her arms against the countertop. "Now, tell me what's wrong."

Sam paused deliberately and took a gulp of his beer before replying. He wondered how much of the story he could avoid talking about, if he could get what he wanted without mentioning Dean once. His hopes were dashed as Ellen seem to sense his inner turmoil.

"You wanna tell me why you're not with your brother?"

Sam's gaze met hers sharply. "He called you?" he inferred softly.

"He's been calling, worried sick, looking for you. What's goin' on between you two?"

Sam's jaw tensed and he glared fixedly at the water sweating down to side of his glass. He was probably angrier that Dean had kept it from him than what his father had actually said. Sure it disturbed him beyond anything that his father told Dean he might have to kill his little brother, but Dean should have trusted Sam enough to tell him. But Dean didn't trust him. Sam was just his rebellious, idiot brother who ran away after having a temper tantrum, and apparently the next time he has a fit, his big brother may have to put him down, like an animal, a monster.

Sam ground out between clenched teeth, "he lied." He forced himself to breath in and out in an attempt to calm himself down. He looked to Ellen imploringly. "Look, I just need some help from Ash."

Ellen frowned, but when she realized she wasn't going to get anything more out of him, she nodded her acceptance. She excused herself momentarily to fetch the ex-MIT student and busied herself with cleaning the bar after she had returned with him; although Sam could tell she was still listening to his and Ash's conversation.

"You want me to do what now?" The man drawled.

"Make a nationwide search. Anyone who had a nursery fire the night of their six month birthday." Sam tried to ignore the feeling he was being watched. He had chosen the farthest corner of the bar and was talking as quietly as he could, but he still felt like someone unwanted was listening. "I need to find other people, other psychics, like me."

Ellen suddenly appeared opposite them. "I thought not all of them fit the pattern. Not all of them had house fires as you did."

"No," Sam agreed. "But a few of us did, and that will have to be enough."

~•~

Ash emerged from his back room with a torn slip of paper in his grip. He dropped onto the bar stool next to Sam and picked up his half-drunken beer. Ash waited dramatically, flourishing his paper for attention. He sighed contentedly after a big gulp of Sam's beer. He took another swig, observing Sam from the corner of his eyes, and didn't set the glass down until Ellen scoldingly said, "just tell us what you got, Ash."

"Three folks fit the profile nationwide. Born in '90, mother died in a nursery fire, the whole shebang."

"Three?" Sam scoffed in disbelief. "That's it?"

Ash looked at Sam with offense, like he couldn't believe Sam would dare question his findings. He flicked his sheet of paper and held it at arm's length, reading aloud: "Sam Winchester from Lawrence, Kansas, Max Miller from Saginaw, Michigan, Andrew Gallagher from Guthrie, Oklahoma. Three names," the genius concluded proudly, although he still remained as emotionless as ever.

Sam deflated, though he tried not to show it, his eyes drifting to his hands resting on the bar counter. He'd been so sure there would have been more names, more children whose lives were ruined by the yellow-Eyed Demon. Ellen sighed and came around to the other side to stroke Sam's back comfortingly. It was only when a patron came to pay for his drinks did she go back to work after a few minutes of consoling Sam. The man set down his myriad collection of newspapers to take out his wallet, and he left without gathering them again. A slight breeze of fresh air wafted through the joint, rustling and upsetting any assembling of papers. The man's tabloids skittered off the counter and fell at Sam's feet, and he picked them up, half-heartedly glancing at the top story.

It was some Californian post from a small town. That wasn't what interested Sam. What did, however, was the coverage of a recent homicide. The reporter detailed the brutal crime, quoting a Sheriff Stilinski about having a suspect in custody. The suspect, Christine Kyle, claimed to have blacked out while experiencing a fit of rage. During the unaccountable time, she supposedly barbarically murdered her husband on the night of their one year anniversary over a suspected affair. The police are planning on prosecuting the woman.

Sam read and re-read the article. It wasn't that he had been looking for a job; he just needed a distraction. Plus, Sam figured, burning the hell out of a ghoul might be somewhat therapeutic. He tried not to think how much that thought sounded like something Dean would have said, or the fact that could be a sign of him turning to the Dark Side.

Ellen returned to the side in front of the counter and snagged the paper curiously. "You lookin' for a job, Sam?"

"No," Sam spun on his stool to better face the bartender. "Have you ever heard of Beacon Hills before?"

Ellen glanced at the paper silently. "Couple a times. There've been a few animal killings that have gained the attention of some hunters. No one' sphere now from what I know."

Sam nodded. He pulled out his wallet and dropped a few bills for the beer—which Ash drank most of, Sam thought dryly—but Ellen snatched them up and shoved them back into his hand, smiling motherly and sadly as she walked him to the door.

"Where you gonna go, sweetie?"

"California."

Ellen stopped in the doorway and bit her lip. "Sam," she started. "I gotta call Dean. I gotta tell him where you're at."

Sam froze, his hands inches from the car door. He shifted his weight and tried to think of a way to explain his feelings without the reason for them. "Ellen, Dean...he tried to protect me, but the way he did it made everything worse. I need to sort things out for myself, and that mean's without Dean trying to shield me from—everything." Sam waved his arm broadly.

Ellen still didn't look convinced.

"Please, Ellen," Sam pleaded. "Don't tell Dean."

Sam wasn't sure she was going to answer. Actually, he was pretty sure she was going to turn right around, pick up the phone, and hold Sam at gun point until Dean got there, but slowly and reluctantly, she nodded.

So tell me what you all think. As always comment

Also I will have Dean in the story, I'm using 2x10 as a guideline so he will be meeting up with the other characters