A/N

Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading! So, let me start out by saying that this is a sequel, the fifth installment of my Stiles Winchester series. If the titles "Blood on my Name," "Poisoned Youth," "The Ultimate Battle of Wits," or "Never Trust A Fox" don't sound familiar, then this story will not make any sense. If those titles do sound familiar, then welcome to the fifth! So this is a sequel to Never Trust A Fox, and it takes place two months after season 5b of Teen Wolf, (spoilers, also this story is one month before when season 6 is set,) and season 10 of Supernatural (spoilers.) Now, if you haven't read the other stories, basically Stiles is a badass Winchester but had a falling out with Sam and Dean. Like I said, this is two months after season 5b, which happened as canon. I will be pulling a lot of references and characters from my earlier stories, even the TVD ones, but if you haven't read those, the references can probably be glossed over. The title is a Led Zeppelin song. I should be updating the story on or before next Saturday. Thank you guys so much for the support for the last story, and without further ado, here is the next! As always, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!

Ch. 1

What Is and What Should Never Be

Stiles woke up with a groan, his back popping strangely as he stretched his hands towards his white ceiling, before twisting to the side to reach for his nightstand. It wasn't his choice move. Based on the light filtering gently through his windows, it couldn't have been later than 8 a.m, and on a Saturday, this type of behavior was inexcusable. But Stiles was willing to sacrifice his weekend morals if it meant silencing the shrill noise emanating from his treacherous cell phone once and for all.

In truth, the intruding ringing had been a relief. Stiles had been having that dream again; the dream where he and Scott were walking in the woods, and he had twelve fingers on his hands. The woods had somehow morphed to Allison's death, only Stiles was holding the katana, not some faceless Oni. That morphed to New Orleans, where he descended a grand staircase with two kinds of sociopaths and a silver mask on his face. At the bottom of the staircase, Stiles' foot had reached for a stone floor but found only grass as he stumbled next to the nemeton, Derek at his side and Kevin across from him, Theo's claws in his neck. Instead of letting Kevin go, however, like what had actually happened in reality, Theo instead flashed a trademark grin before tearing out Kevin's throat, splattering Stiles with his comrade's blood.

Stop that. Stiles chided, sitting up with phone in hand and hitting himself on the side of the head repeatedly. It was just a dream. A disturbingly old dream, but a dream nonetheless. When the first occurrence of him and Scott in the woods had happened, the night the Alexander/Meredith debacle was solved, it had been a warning about his possession. The world had gone to hell in a handbasket the next morning. But even after the nogitsune, Stiles still had the dream, along with the new addition of Allison's death. He hadn't been there, he hadn't seen her lose her life, but he knew enough details to imagine it. Horrifically. As Stiles' life got stranger and stranger, more and more occurrences were added to the dream. Sometimes, one of the many assassins that had tried to kill them made an appearance, other times, the Doctors reared their ugly heads. Once, even, Stiles was forced to watch Caroline's neck snap in slow motion. That night, he woke up screaming.

Now, though, Stiles held his phone, still ringing, in his hands. He looked at the caller ID and almost dropped it into the soup of covers around his legs.

Sam Winchester.

"Why the hell..." Stiles murmured. He hadn't seen Sam since the morning after the fall, months ago, when he and Dean had left Beacon Hills for good, and Stiles had whispered never to come back. He hadn't spoken to Sam since then, either. Stiles cancelled their weekly calling sessions, spending his Sundays instead with people who actually cared about him. Eventually, Sam had gotten the message, and stopped trying to reach him.

Stiles never had any missed calls from Dean.

Cas texted him updates occasionally, but nothing major.

So why the hell was one of them calling him now, two months after him telling them to scram?

As Stiles pondered this question, his phone continued to ring. And ring... and ring... and Stiles was running out of time to answer it. On the one hand, Stiles really didn't want to talk to Sam. On the other, he also knew that Sam also didn't want to talk to him. Which probably meant something bad was going down, and Sam was calling him as a last resort.

On the third and final hand, it had been two months, and Stiles' shoulder still hurt. He didn't trust Sam, not anymore. Both he and Dean had shattered something that would not be repaired for a very long time. Sam got himself into trouble? Sam could get himself out of trouble. Or better yet, Dean could sell his soul again and do it for him. That was the way it always went down, right? And then when the two had dusted themselves off and wiped away the blood of anyone who got in their way, they turned to Stiles, and wondered why he was so angry with them..

Screw it.

Stiles let the phone ring again, until the screen went black and Sam was abandoned to an uncertain fate.

Things might have turned out differently if Stiles had been the bigger person, if he had answered the call. Or not. There's really no way of knowing. But as Stiles shook his head to clear the troubled thoughts that sifted through his sleepiness, and as he gallantly threw his covers aside in preparation of the brave task of getting out of bed, and as his feet touched the carpeted floor that had been warmed by the morning sunlight, things were already set in motion. Poor Stiles had no idea.

Stiles, clueless as he was, stood up with another groan, stretching again.

Believe it or not, this wasn't the strangest start to his morning.

But first, he needed some coffee.

Someone must have read Stiles' mind because he came downstairs to find the coffee pot already boiling, a delicious but bitter smell filling the kitchen. The person responsible for this small miracle had his back to Stiles, currently searching through the cabinets for some mugs.

` "Screw being a prophet." Stiles called, causing the person across from him to still. "You're a freaking saint, Kevin."

Kevin turned with a grin, holding two recovered coffee mugs, one of which he set down in front of Stiles' usual seat at the table. "I'm very much aware, thank you."

Stiles grinned, and Kevin grinned back before snatching Stiles' mug away from him so it could be filled.

A few caffeine soaked minutes later, Kevin and Stiles were sitting across from each other in silence, Stiles tracing his fingers across the table, and Kevin studying him.

"Something's bothering you." Kevin said at last. "What is it? Did you have the dream again?"

"Yeah, I had the dream again." Stiles mumbled, the seriousness of the matter catching up with him. "But that isn't what's bothering me." Kevin quirked an eyebrow, and Stiles hastened to explain.

"Sam called me."

Kevin almost dropped his full-to-the-brim coffee mug. As it was, he jumped, and coffee ended up spilling down the front of his shirt. Kevin didn't notice, though, even as his skin was turning red from a slow burn. He was too busy staring at Stiles with horrified curiosity.

"Please tell me with all that used to be holy that you did not answer it." Kevin begged.

Stiles shook his head. "Maybe this will be the day that Sam actually learns to leave a voicemail."

Kevin laughed, but it sounded strangled. Leaning on the counter with his elbows, Kevin's face flited through several expressions- worry, hope, fearfulness, concern,- before settling on purely puzzled, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. "What do you think he wants?"

Stiles shrugged, the epitome of nonchalance, but in his gut, he couldn't help but mirror Kevin's concealed emotions. Worry, hope, fearfulness, concern. Was Sam in trouble? Was Dean ok? Was Cas still dying? Was today the day Sam finally sought to be forgiven? He squashed it all down, though. If Sam wanted forgiveness he could leave a freaking message. Or better yet, he could show up at the damn door acting like he still cared. (Not that Stiles would let him in, of course. The last time he was in arm's length of Sam, his skin crawled and his shoulder burned. No, Sam would have to stay very far away.)

"Why should we care?" he ended up saying. "It's been two months. It'll be a lot more time before they come around."

Kevin shrugged, mimicking Stiles. "I guess. Want some cereal?"

And that was that. Kevin and Stiles had a lovely breakfast, just like every other Saturday morning. Scott stopped by at around ten, bringing Liam, Mason, Corey, and a few video games, just like every other Saturday morning. Eventually Malia, Hayden and Lydia joined them, the nine of them lounging around Stiles and Kevin's living room, gossiping, strategizing, and arguing over who was going to make lunch.

"We had tacos last weekend, Malia." Stiles chided before turning to Scott, who was sitting on the couch across from him, Lydia's feet in his lap. "You hear anything from Isaac?"

Scott nodded. "He's back in New Orleans, trying to figure out how to become a witch. He and Davina are working stuff out... he won't be back for a couple weeks."

"What about Kira and Jackson?" Lydia asked.

Scott sighed. "Still radio silence from Jackson after he bailed. I haven't heard anything from Kira for a while either, but I'm sure she's fine. She'll probably be back soon."

Lydia nodded in understanding. "Well, I think the tacos last weekend were so good, of course we should have them again."

"Danny and Ethan?" Kevin inquired.

"Back on Tuesday. They've still got a few days on their lease in Las Vegas."

"Okay." Kevin said. "In that case, I also vote for tacos."

"Excellent." Malia said, grinning wolfishly in a way that, despite pleasing her, made Kevin shiver. "Stiles, you're the tie-breaker." she said gloatingly. "Tacos or pizza?"

"An epic showdown for the ages." Mason commented dramatically, while Liam burst out laughing hysterically next to him. "Burnt cheese on soggy bread versus the Americanized Mexican classic. Cheddar versus Mozzarella. Tomato versus spicy salsa. Perfectly toasted corn shells versus the monstrosity Costco dares call a crust-"

"-You've made your point, Mason." Scott chided, doing his best to hold back a smile while he stared Mason down. The two had an epic staring contest, Mason's eye twitching furiously, until finally, with twin sighs, they gave up, turning to Stiles questioningly, who looked very much caught off guard.

"Uh..." Stiles said, his cheeks beginning to feel warm, his palms moist. His heart started racing furiously. Why was he always the tie-breaker? Why must all difficult decisions be foisted on him? What if he chose wrong? What if his call led to disaster, a war, the nuclear apocalypse. This was an impossible task. No one in his shoes could do it, the weight on his shoulders was so heavy, he was staggering into the ground. The pack stared deadly serious at him while Stiles stewed. This was it, the moment of truth. The fate of the afternoon rested on his shoulders. The time had come to choose. Tacos, or pizza?

Stiles took a deep breath. "I choose-" but before he could reveal his choice, there was a knock on the door, two short, powerful raps. Everyone who had been leaning forward eagerly in their seats collapsed in disappointment as Stiles made to disentangle himself from his packmates and head to the door. He had barely walked two steps when Scott's arm shot out, wrapping around his elbow, holding him back. Surprised, Stiles looked down at Scott, and saw his friend's face scrunched up in concentration. Scott was analyzing the person at the door, and he looked worried.

"Problem, Scott?" Stiles asked, and another knock sounded, same as the first. Stiles looked imploringly at the arm wrapped around his elbow, and Scott, albeit reluctantly, released it.

"I don't understand." Scott whispered. "I know who it is, but it's all... wrong..."

The quaint mood of the late morning vanished as all of Stiles' friends leaned forward again, this time with a darker intent.

"Do you want me to get the door?" Stiles asked seriously, "or should I call my dad?" Silently, he looked at Malia, Liam, Hayden and Corey, who all shook their heads, indicating they sensed nothing wrong. Stiles' eyes rested on Lydia, however, whose mouth was pulled into a tight grimace. Seeing Stiles' concern, she waved him away. It was probably nothing. Another knock sounded.

"Get the door." Scott said. "No one else finds anything wrong. I'm probably just being paranoid. I'm sure you'll be happy to see them."

Sitles sent Scott an inquisitve look but neverhteless obeyed, walking the 20 steps from the living room to the door before wrapping his hands around the handle, taking a deep breath, and flinging it open.

The lone figure standing there was so shrouded in stunning sunlight, it took Stiles a full minute to make out it's profile, let alone gender and identity. Once he did, however, he was struck dumb. The guest's hair was a little different. It was longer, combed to the side in a way that Stiles did not like, and his hands twitched, anxious to fix it. His shirt, the newcomer's shirt, was a deep maroon that Stiles had never seen before, the white buttons down the middle and on the pockets forming a kind of ironic cross. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his arms were at his side. His eyes had the same haunted look as always, but with a new mirth that he must have picked up somewhere along the road. His smile, though... Stiles couldn't remember the last time he had seen Dean smile like this. Uninhibited, carefree, grinning from ear to ear like a hunter in a gun store, and not like those small grins that were much more frequent, like when Dean had felt guilty to be happy while his world crumbled around him. Now, though, Dean's smile lit up the freaking room. Or at least it did once he shoved Stiles aside and invited himself into the house.

"Dean-" Stiles said reproachfully, a little thrown from the manhandling. "What are you doing here?"

"What, a guy can't drop by to visit his baby brother?" Dean asked gleefully, looking around and seeing Stiles' pack in the next room..

"Well... no. What's going on? Where's Sam?" Stiles asked, concerned. Sure, he was glad Dean wasn't walking around with an anvil on his shoulders, but he was almost too jovial to make any logical sense. Something was off, and every single watt Dean added to his smile set off another alarm bell in Stiles' brain. Also, where the heck was Sam, and did this have anything to do with the call earlier? Also, why was he here? Why now?

Dean's smile faltered for a millisecond at the mention of Sam, but it was so quick, Stiles might have imagined it. "Sam's... busy." Dean said, completely transparent and unconvincing, but also sounding like he didn't care if anyone called him out on it. This worried Stiles. But as he opened his mouth to voice said worries, he was slammed into the wall as Dean strode past him into the next room, where all of Stiles' friends were sitting rigidly still.

"Kevin!" Dean roared, and the former prophet flinched. Good, Stiles wasn't the only one picking up on how wrong this all was. What wasn't good was Kevin's obvious panic.

"Dean." Kevin mumbled, back ramrod straight, looking grateful to be sandwiched between Liam and Malia, who looked at Dean with glares just shy of threatening. Dean was oblivious.

"Dean," Stiles said, recovered from being shoved into the wall, and sidling up next to his brother at the entrance to the living room. "Why don't you come with me into the kitchen. We can talk there." Stiles did not want to talk. Stiles did not want to talk to Dean. At all. But his friends looked poised to attack, and Stiles would draw the line at a massacre.

"Sure!" Dean chirped, and Stiles had to hold back a double-take. "I didn't mean to crash your party!"

Sure you didn't. Stiles thought bitterly, but as he was leading Dean into the next room, Scott spoke up.

"You sure that's a good idea, Stiles?" he asked, voice laden with something foreboding, almost fear, like he was trying to tell Stiles something without saying it outright. "Maybe I should come and-"

Dean's head whipped around fast and he stared at Scott with unhindered intensity. Scott recoiled then proceeded to make himself as small as possible on the couch, all under the weight ot Dean's glare. "On second thought," Scott continued, his voice strangely higher pitched, "you and Dean should probably talk alone. Yeah. See you in a few."

Stiles hit Dean on the arm in frustration as the two made their way into the kitchen, but secretly, he was relieved. That was more like the regular Dean. "Have a seat." Stiles said in a clipped tone, gesturing to the two chairs which he and Kevin had occupied an hour earlier. Dean picked the one closest to the door, and Stiles walked around the table to sit across from him, after setting the mountain ash and wolfsbane mixture over the doorway.

"So." Dean said, drumming on the wooden table, humming some old rock song as he did so, "You're probably wondering why I'm here."

"Way past wondering, Dean." Stiles drawled, leaning back with his arms crossed. "I'm beginning to think you've finally followed through with your threat of going crazy. It's been only two months. You and Sam have definitely had fights longer than this, and I'm the one who said never to come back."

"Me and Sam," Dean replied, snarling through his brother's name in a way that made Stiles' eyebrows raise, "are also fighting at the moment, in a way."

"Uh-huh." Stiles said dryly. "So you come crawling back to your other brother, for what, forgiveness? A place to stay?"

"A message." Dean growled, expression souring, a far cry away from the happy man Stiles had opened the door to. "Sam's going to call you, and he's going to tell you something ludicrous. He's got the wrong idea about things. Don't listen to him, just trust me."

"You're kidding me, right?" Stiles asked with an incredulous laugh, because what? "Dean, I don't trust either of you!" he hissed, trying to keep his anger from raising his voice. The werewolves couldn't hear this conversation, but Kevin, Mason, and Lydia could if Stiles wasn't careful. "Alright, I am not trusting either of you again after the crap you guys pulled last time you were here! The kid sitting next to Malia in the next room over? You freaking stomped on his throat until he passed out. And don't even get me started on Kevin."

Dean frowned. "I don't care what you think of me, Stiles, as long as you don't believe Sam. He's not in his right mind right now."

"Was he ever?" Stiles chided. "Are you? What the hell makes you so sure he's gonna call, anyway? It sounds like you two are a bit out of touch."

Dean grimaced. "I know my brother." he said, a phrase he's said a thousand times, but this time the words were twisted to be sharp and bitter.

Stiles sighed. "That you do. It so happens he's already called."

Stiles said that to gauge Dean's reaction, and he was not disappointed. Dean had spent the past few minuets coiled like a snake, and now he struck. He stood up sharply, slapping his palms down hard on the table with a thunk! so loud, even the werewolves would be able to hear. He leaned forward menacingly and shoot Stiles his most 'liquify-your-kidneys' glare. It took all of Stiles' instincts not to flinch at the sudden movements, noise, and change in demeanor.

"And?" Dean asked deathly quiet, a stark contrast to his overbearing presence. "Did you answer?"

"No." Stiles said swiftly, softly, doing his best to not show how internally freaked out he was. It seemed to do the trick, for that one word cut the strings on Dean's anger. Suddenly he was relaxed, leaning back in his chair with an easy smile.

"You know I could always call him back, though, right?" Stiles asked, eyeing the doorway out of the corner of his eye. He was beginning to regret sealing the two of them in there. Dean clearly wasn't emotionally stable, (well, more so than usual), and Stiles had no idea what the hell was going on. He needed backup, pronto.

"Doesn't matter." Dean said with an easy shrug- wrong wrong wrong wrong- "I got to you first. There's no way you'll believe him now."

"That is flawed logic." Stiles mused dryly. "But go ahead, state your case. Why should I trust you and not Sam?"

Instead of answering, Dean hummed, drumming on the table again, and if Stiles focused, he could almost make out the tune. It was very familiar.

"Sam tell you anything about what's been going on?" Dean asked, his hands dutifully tapping out what looked to be a drum solo.

"Well, no," Stiles began, as Dean resumed humming the guitar riff. "But you haven't either."

"I was ashamed about Gadreel. Sam didn't have much of an excuse."

The nonchalance of Dean's tone threw Stiles a little off. "You gave him one." Stiles retorted. "How do you think he felt, being possessed? I speak from experience when I say it changes how you see people." Dean's mouth curved upwards in a small half-smile at that but Stiles ignored it. Dean didn't like talking about the nogitsune. "But believe me, Sam had plenty of his own reasons." Stiles' shoulder gave a painful twinge, as if he needed reminding.

Dean nodded, as if considering Stiles' point of view. He spent several more minutes humming and tapping, and Stiles was beginning to grow restless. Dean was doing this on purpose, stringing Stiles out, so he would be totally rattled when Dean decided to drop whatever bombshell of info he clearly thought he had.

Stiles cleared his throat. "Look, you gonna keep humming, or are you going to tell me-"

"-did Sam tell you I died last month?"

"What?" Stiles' mouth dropped open and hit the floor, because What? Aside from being a dick move, Dean just sat and and smiled and hummed, taking in Stiles' flusteredness, like he hadn't just used the oldest trick in the book.

"No." Stiles said incredulously. "He didn't. Probably cause you're not dead, Dean. C'mon, even for you that's a little low."

"Yeah, you're probably right." Dean said casually, humming the opening bars of that song, nodding his head to the rhythm. "I'm not dead. I'm worse. But as for being low-" Dean leaned forward, suddenly, and Stiles nearly jumped back from the sudden movement. He didn't, though, which is why he and Dean's faces were inches apart when Dean's eyes flashed black.

"You have no idea."

This time Stiles did jump back. He stood up, so quickly that his chair tumbled to the floor, and had his silver knife out and raised defensively against Dean in another heartbeat.

"Give me back my brother, you son of a bitch." Stiles hissed, skipping past all the WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL stages of freaking out and moving right into anger, because it was pretty obvious what the hell had happened.

Dean laughed, sharp and wrong- how had Stiles not noticed sooner?- and also stood, slowly, grinning wolfishly at Stiles' poorly hidden fear.

"I am your brother." Dean said mockingly, but not without threat. He leaned forward again, and Stiles took a step back in disgust. "See, Sam," another grimace as he pronounced his name, "was gonna call and say the bad news. That I died. That my corpse went missing. That Crowley has some demon toting around in my meatsuit. Two out of three ain't bad. But see-" Dean laughed again, and Stiles had never heard a more terrifying sound. The sound of the demon's twisted use of Dean's laugh was akin to the sound of glass sliding against chalkboards, and Stiles just wanted to cover his ears before they started to bleed. He had fought werewolves and Dred Doctors and even his own pack, but this, his own brother...

"Sam's wrong." Dean, the demon, gloated with a trademark smug smile. "I'm the demon. Me. Not one of Crowley's cheap pets."

"Sure." Stiles said shakily, eyes darting around the kitchen as he looked for a way out, the knife in his hand shaking in time to his voice. "Sam's wrong. Let's say that's true. Why walk into the home of the only other person alive who can kill you?"

Dean, no, the demon grinned even more smugly. "You can't kill me, Stiles." he taunted simperingly. "Even if you were the better fighter, even you, after all of the horrible things you've done, would draw the line at killing your brother."

Stiles recoiled, because yeah, that kind of hurt. Hearing that opinion come from Dean, even if it was just his voice, stung, and Stiles knew it was all manipulation but his brain was beginning to cloud from anger anyway. Or maybe it was getting more clear. Because now, even with Dean blocking the door, Stiles saw a way out.

"Hey Dean, think fast." Stiles said, and when Dean looked up, Stiles threw his silver knife directly to Dean's chest. It soared through the air fast, but not fast enough. Dean caught it expertly, but Stiles used the precious seconds in between the throw and the catch to leap sideways over the table and then turn into his momentum to kick Dean in the chest. Dean, still reeling from catching the knife, was just unbalanced enough to begin to fall backwards. He lashed out and grabbed Stiles' wrist, and the two tumbled over the kitchen doorway and the line of mountain ash, Dean on his back, and Stiles flung on his side beside him.

Stiles scrambled to his feet to the sound of his packmates running over in a panic, and he and Dean stood up at the same moment, locking eyes.

Dean's back was to the front door, but he didn't run. Instead he grinned at Stiles and the pack assembled behind him. "Not bad, kid." Dean taunted. "Not bad."

"Don't call me that." Stiles snarled. "Tell me why you're here and what the hell happened to my brother."

Dean- the demon- scoffed. "Your little werewolf gang doesn't scare me." he said, casting his black eyes around Stiles' pack, invoking more than a few shudders. "Besides, it isn't you I want at all. I'm looking for Sam, the problem is he can be damn hard to find when he wants to be."

Stiles grimaced. "What, you want bait?" he challenged. "You and I both know how bad of an idea it is to use a Winchester as bait. This won't end well for you."

Dean seemed to look thoughtful for a moment. "Well, I suppose we'll have to see." Then he rushed forward into a flurry of black and green, and everything went black.

When Stiles came to, he was tied to a chair, his hands splayed on the armrests in front of him. They were currently balled into fists, but that would have to change. Slowly, painfully against the ropes, Stiles raised his thumb.

One.

Bearings, he needed to get his bearings- no, he needed to deal with the fact that his brother was POSSESSED BY A FREAKING DEMON!

Two.

Stiles' chest started to heave rapidly, the threat of a panic attack oncoming, but quickly, he squashed it down. He hadn't had a panic attack since falling on top of the nemeton. No way would he break that streak now.

Three.

This had to be a dream, right? Maybe it was the dream again, the one he told Kevin about, the one that swirled all of his worst memories then tied them together with a string of fault. His fault.

Four.

Except he hadn't told Kevin everything. Sometimes, instead of Stiles holding the bloody knife, it was Sam or Dean, their posture imposing, their faces shadowed. Sometimes Sam ran Allison through with a sword, sometimes Dean tore Kevin's throat out.

Five.

Their faces. In every dream, Stiles could never see their faces. Where faces should have been, there was just black, black like Dean's empty eyes.

Six.

Demons lie. Demons lie. Some sick bastard was riding around in Dean's skin while Dean was helpless, trapped, or already dead.

Seven.

No. Dean was never helpless, never trapped. Either Dean was gone and dead, nothing but a corpse that Stiles couldn't save, or...

Eight.

Or that really was Dean. Somehow, his soul had been twisted beyond humanity. Was that even possible? No, demons lie.

Nine.

But they do tell the truth, if they think it will mess with you.

Stiles looked at his hands. Nine fingers were held up, splayed and exposed to the air. There was one left, and never had Stiles hoped more that that final digit would morph into two, three, that he could just keep counting until he woke up screaming.

Ten.

Stiles' eyes filled with tears. This was real, it was real. Oh, god, it was real, it was all real, and it was all true. In the pit of his gut, Stiles knew it was all true.

Dean was a demon, and this wasn't a dream.