Of all the things going on right now in his standoff with this group of kids that have rolled into town and have been terrorising the residents and roaming the streets like a pack of wild animals, he wasn't expecting this.

He's trying to talk to the gang of delinquents, but it seems to be having little to no effect. In fact, John is disturbed by the lack of attention they're paying to him.

"Look," He's holding up his hands in a calm gesture to who appears to be the ringleader, some kid named Adam Geoffreys. It's all been minor shit so far, but it's escalating. John's outnumbered eight to one right now, there's no way that he can arrest this kid, so he's trying to convince him to come quietly. He can tell he's not got much of a chance, but he'll keep trying, until he gets through or the backup he's about to call gets here. "Look, you're not in any big trouble, not yet. But you've been caught on CCTV vandalising and scaring residents. I can't just let that go."

Adam's just staring at him, head cocked slightly to one side and a bit of a smile on his face. It's creepy. The other kids – he calls them kids, they're all between the ages of seventeen and twenty three, he's guessing - just continue to drink and party in the street behind him. There's a radio playing music, the sound coming from one of the cars that has been broken into, the window smashed and the hood dented.

"I need you to come down to the station with me, so that we can sort this all out." John tries again. Adam's still eerily still, and John's pretty sure that drugs are involved now, because these kids are definitely behaving like animals. One of the other boys saunters over to Adam, and looks them up and down, with what the Sherriff can only think of as a hungry look.

"Can we eat 'em Addy? I haven't had fresh in ages!" He says excitedly. Adam rolls a sideways look to the kid. Before he can answer though, someone else pipes up.

"Really? What kind of eighties B movie did you idiots pop out of?"

He knows that voice. That's his son's voice. John is turning before he can stop himself, enough to look toward the source of the voice, but so he can still see Geoffreys out of the corner of his eye.

Stiles. Who is at this particular moment supposed to be grounded and in his bedroom working on maths problems. Stiles, who's ass is so much more grounded. His goddamn son Stiles, who is standing there in his hoodie and converse, a baseball bat hanging limply in his grasp.

What the ever loving fuck?

"What the hell – Stiles!"

He doesn't get any further than that, as Adam's attention's suddenly shifted to his son, and the little half smile that was playing on his face disappears. A cold frown comes up in it's place and he speaks for the first time.

"Who the fuck are you?" The air changes around everyone, and Adam's group are suddenly paying attention. It's downright creepy, the way the partying all stops and as one, they all focus on the standoff between Geoffreys and his son.

Stiles ignores the question.

"You know you're on my pack's territory right?" He fires off casually, in that lazy fashion of his. He's swinging the bat lightly from the tip of his fingers and rocking on his feet a little. It looks twitchy and out of control, but John's trained eyes tell him that this isn't usual Stiles nervous energy.

Jesus Christ his kid is part of a gang turf war?

"What pack?" The other kid shoots back almost laughingly. "Beacon Hills doesn't have a pack. Hasn't for four years now."

Stiles snorts.

"Wow, you're either really stupid or - no, you're just really stupid." His kid says, moving towards them. He stops before he can reach John, close, but just far enough to be out of his reach if he lunges for him, and still behind him a little. Little shit has learned that one. "Okay, let's make this easier for you as you're clearly having some trouble recognising my gorgeous face from a distance. I'm Stiles Stilinski. But you'll probably know me as the Spark."

There's – John has no other way to describe it – a pause. Like the whole world just stops for a moment and everything, everyone is still. The air is heavy with gravity, meaning.

"Spark." Adam spits. The others take it up and it ripples like an ominous whisper through the crowd.

There's a smile on his son's face, and it's not a nice one. "Ahhhh, see, you know that one!" He praises mockingly.

"So you're the Spark. So what?" Adam's trying to be nonchalant, but it's clear that it's rattled him a little. "Nothing's changed. I want Beacon Hills."

"I think you'll find my pack will take exception to that."

Geoffreys is starting to look very pissed off with dismissive tone he's getting. But it's the other kid that sidled over to Adam earlier that speaks this time.

"What pack?" He spreads his arms. "All I see is some jumped up kid that I'm about to leave scattered all over the street."

"This pack."

And John nearly has a heart attack when Derek fucking Hale practically materialises next to his son.

"Stiles. What the hell is going on?" He manages to ask. There's others besides Hale – Scott, because of course Scott's involved. Lord knows John loves his son, he's a bright kid. But his best friend's an idiot. When Stiles and Scott get together with an idea, they bring the GPA of the whole of Beacon Hills' student population down by two points.

Allison Argent is also there, toting a goddamn crossbow. There's a bolt nocked and she's aiming it at the other group. He quickly counts the others – Isaac Lahey, recently cleared of a murder charge, a young black man, some blonde girl who is looking like she's spoiling for a fight. But the most surprising one is the Whittemore kid. After the restraining order and all the fights that he and Stiles got into, he's the last person he expects to see. But nonetheless, there he stands, backing his kid.

Stiles doesn't get to answer, as Adam's face just... sags.

"Derek Hale." They all, the other gang, look taken aback.

Hale just growls. Growls. Like a dog.

"Down boy." Stiles jokes. And it's such a Stiles thing to do that John's shocked back to himself for a minute, before remembering where he is.

"Derek Hale is dead!" Some girl calls out in a panicked voice from behind Adam. "All of the Hale pack are dead!"

Whittemore rolls his eyes.

"Clearly, whoever told you that was wrong."

"Okay." Stiles cuts in. "Look, all of this means shit. Beacon Hills always has and always will belong to the Hale pack. Get out of our territory and don't come back."

"Or what?" The little upstart next to Adam asks.

"Or we'll kill you." Derek shrugs, raising a fucking claw and sneers with a mouth full of goddamn fangs.

John Stilinski's brain stops processing.

He looks around the rest of the group. Derek's not the only one. Scott – jesus Scott McColl's eyes are glowing yellow and he's got some serious sideburn action along with his own set of vicious claws. The black kid looks like he's hulking out. Only Allison and Stiles still look normal.

The rest of them look like fucking werewolves.

Stiles spares him a look and it's genuinely pained. Like he regrets not telling his dad that he's part of a werewolf pack.

"Sorry Dad."

John knows that they're going to have one hell of a talk later.