The Inn Called World's End

Abby Ebon

Note: This is a mix of Anita Blake's werewolf and wereleopard twins Gregory and Stephen Dietrich, Teen Wolf's Derek, Lydia, and Stiles, Alison and Isaac and a OC and Supernatural's Dean Winchester and mixing them all together in Sandman's World's End; and you know, getting away with it.

There's a free house called the World's End, it's an inn. It's not the first of its kind and it's not the last, it's one of four. Because they say every world has four corners. The name is important, because one might need to find it one day – when the world is lost, adrift between this reality and that. Reality isn't a very solid thing, although it can feel like it is, it's not stone – or maybe it is, stone can shatter.

Yet the inns, they are like pillars, a shelter from storm and shattering reality, where anyone can come in and sit down and have something to drink and share a story. Sometimes it's their story – and sometimes it's not. Charlene Mooney gives the hunter that just strolled in his favorite drink, though he hasn't yet said a word, and he looks at her and sees someone human, like he is – although most everyone else isn't all human here.

He takes what he sees and says nothing, though he does nod in thanks for the drink. It's probably as close as an invitation to stay as he's going to get.

"How much..?" Charlene looks at him with raised brows. He's cute but not stupid. No hunter is.

"Didn't you read the sign outside?" Carlene knows what it says, although she's never seen it for herself. She's not left the World's End since she was carried in, bleeding and thinking she'd die of blood loss and cold. She hadn't died and so she gives her life freely to the World's End, which saved her. She knows she would be dead otherwise. She could die if she leaves, so it is best she doesn't go anywhere – besides, she likes it best here.

"Free house, huh? Just let anyone stroll in?" The hunter looks over the World's End patrons, who avoid his gaze. There are patrons in here he would kill if he could. Charlene chuckles.

"That's the idea, yes, and yes – your drink is on the house, hunter." Charlene says it first, what everyone here knows – so he knows they know, and yet there is peace here. Here, Death will not enter. This is a place of Destiny.

"My name's Dean Winchester." Charlene smiles, bright and warm like fire.

"Charlene Mooney, welcome Dean Winchester to the World's End." Dean sips his drink and looks over the inn, and spots the pool table. It's a temptation, a spot of normalcy as the world wrecks itself like sea upon sand. Charlene knows where he'll go, but before he does he looks into her eyes and she sees his pain, his shadows. Whatever world he's coming in from, it's wrecked him, and she thinks he's seen the eye of the storm. And lived, it would make an interesting story – if he ever wanted to tell it.

"If you see my brother, his name is Sam." Dean says, a plea and Charlene nods, putting the name away to memory. There are so many names, and some she never sees the face of.

"There are other inns, Dean Winchester. You may see your brother again, do not yet give up." Dean nods thoughtfully and goes to mingle near the pool table. He finds that by watching a game that it never ends and there are no bets going. He joins in on the game between two twins who are playing each other, just for something to do, blond and blue eyed - beautiful men. There is something strong in their frail looks, as if they've been broken and mended and won't be broken again.

"Stephen Dietrich." Says the one that smiles up at Dean like a doll, eyes half closed as if lazy. Dean grips his hand and shakes it, not fooled for a moment, and knowing that Stephen is more than he seems. Everyone here is.

"My brother, Gregory..." Stephen tilts his head to his brother, and Dean knows that there is a likeness between Gregory and Dean, deeper than that of the twins. Dean and Gregory are both protectors of their own blood, and they do what they have to, make the hard choice - anything, everything – to keep their family whole at the end of the day. Even if it means breaking their soul bit by bit; Gregory nods and Dean returns it.

It's Gregory who racks the balls up and hands out the cue sticks.

"Let's play." Gregory declares, voice rumbling like a cat's purr as he offers Dean his. Dean wonders what they are – and he carefully doesn't think about it for the rest of the night. He doesn't want to guess, they are all safe here, here, he can't be the hunter he was raised to be. He hits and bags and over his back the twins exchange a glance. Dean's been a bar league pool player since before he was legal to drink. His skill is obvious enough.

"You remind me of a friend of ours." Stephen says with a laugh, after a good bit of teasing and flirting, things between the three of them are warm and comfortable. Dean is happy to play this game any way the twins want, and he proves able enough at it that they start having a good time instead of a wait for the worlds to settle.

"Oh, yeah…?" Dean asks, with a smirk. Gregory shares a look with his brother and laughs. He calls his shot and bags it and as if the bet is a story for the win, Gregory stares at his stick as if it's a mystery and speaks up.

"Yeah, Anita Blake, she's a hunter like you, got a Marshall badge and everything. The vampires, they call her the Executioner; she's cool, and lovely – though she doesn't think so. Thinks all her men are prettier than she is..." There is a curl to Gregory's lip that suggests he'd like to be one of Anita's men – whatever that might mean, and that Stephen is closer to her than he likes.

She might have driven the twins apart, if she had wanted one over the other of them – but she hasn't and Dean likes her for that. Stephen and Gregory talk about Anita Blake until Dean can see her in his mind's eye. It's not a bad picture. Dark hair and brown eyes and pale, scarred skin, able to bend, but so very strong because of that slenderness.

In their world, she saved them. In their world, ordinary everyday people know about witches and werewolves and raising the dead. A hunter has to be licensed there – like some kind of U.S. Marshal. Dean remembers all his fake IDs and has a laugh about it.

She kills the monsters, but not because they are monsters – but because they do monstrous things. It's a way of looking at things – at the world – that doesn't quite ring true with how Dean has seen his world. Monsters are always monstrous from what he's seen of his world and its ways. That's fine. Their world isn't his. He doesn't tell them that, if they had been in his world, he would kill them without worrying about if they deserved it or not.

"My dad raised me to be a hunter – only, he didn't know about the world having monsters in it until a demon killed my mother, gave my brother it's blood. Mom, though, she was born into the life. So it was meant to be, I guess. Dad's dad was one of the Men of Letters." Dean looks around at this place and wonders if he should start his own journal like his dad did. It's not the first time he's thought of it, a journal all his own – all that might stop him is what Sam would think if he saw – he'd want to read it, and there are things that Dean would want to put in a journal all his own that he wouldn't want his little brother to read.

It's his turn to rack the balls and chalk the sticks. He welcomes the mindlessness of it, of giving out the sticks and calls and hits and misses - but is glad when the twins break the thoughtful silence that falls between them. It's not a cold silence, but a silence that had been full of memories, most of them not so nice.

"Your dad was a real piece of work." Stephen says softly, shaking his head and Gregory gives a cue a savage hit. It sinks and just like that, what's said is said – and what's said is all that needs to be said. There is history in those words, between the twins, and between Deans's dad using him, making him into a hunter. Family shouldn't manipulate each other like that, and all three of them agree on that here and now.

Gregory talks about it, while Dean just listens into that seeping silence - how Stephen is a werewolf and Gregory is a wereleopard and Dean knows how the twins, born the same, came to be different breeds of lycanthrope beasts. He is perhaps the only person that knows the whole of that story but them. They are the only ones who know how he loves and hates being a hunter, how it is in him, defines him – in a way it will never to Sam, and how Dean thanks gods for that – and hates Sam sometimes, too.

It's later – but not too much later – actually, no telling how much later, really, when into the inn World's End strolls a couple of teenagers, like they belong here. This is a refuge for those whose world has ended, literally or fugitively, Dean is finding. None of them look like they are legally able to drink, but this is a inn, a free house – not a bar.

"Hi there fellows, I'm Lydia Martin – a banshee, this is my bestie Alison Argent, of the famed werewolf hunting family; our friend Stiles, human so-so and Scott McCall's bestie, he's Alison's beau; Isaac, who's sort of their bitch, I guess - and Alison's cousin, Alex, sort of the new kid. You three look like fun." Lydia has red hair and serious eyes for all that her words could be taken lightly.

Dean takes her hand that she offers, and shakes it, firm and warm.

"Dean Winchester, hunter – the twins are Gregory, a wereleopard and Stephen, a werewolf. Welcome to World's End." Dean glances to where Charlene Mooney serves drinks and food; all those who want something come to her. She's no waitress, no bar keeper; she's more, like the inn is.

Alison nods a greeting to Dean, seeing him for what he is – and he nods back, smiling a bit. He wonders if there are any Argent's in his family tree – or Campbell's in hers. In this inn between worlds, anything seems a possibility.

Stiles, despite being the designated human, stand firmly enough between Lydia and Scott, a banshee and a werewolf - and Dean thinks that those two probably don't get along all that well. Alex hovers beside Alison, looking about as if he's her bodyguard, not a cousin, and Dean's never had a sister, but he's had a younger brother and doesn't blame Alex for his nervousness in a place as strange as this.

"Oh, we are fun, lovely - pleased to meet you." Stephen says with a smile and a wink for Stiles, the only human among his friends who's been 'outed'. Stephen has a way of looking at Stiles that makes it clear that the "lovely" endearment was all for him.

Stiles looks at Stephen once, twice and again, like he can't look away, liking what he sees. He flushes when Scott looks to him, inhaling, and then looking away quickly. Scott stifles the urge to smirk the time, Dean can see it – that he doesn't outright says a lot about what kind of friend he is to Stiles, and Dean sort of wishes he had a friend like that.

It's good having a brother like Sam, most of the time, but sometimes Dean wants more – more than hunting, something like friends and normalcy.

Eventually the six fall into groups, Stiles and Lydia taking to dancing with Gregory and Stephen, and it' s unique, human and banshee and wereleopard and werewolf rolling hips and twisting together, tangling and writhing and wriggling, it's intimate like sex, watching that kind of dance.

Dean thinks it's pretty easy to see why Stiles likes the attention that Stephen gives him and the edgy teasing Gregory laves him with. Lydia is his focus, but he likes being the focus of others, likes knowing that they care about him, and likes not being taken for granted.

Alex looks after Stiles with something like longing, once or twice, but sticks to Alison like he isn't sure that he's welcome. Lydia makes sure Stiles doesn't notice anything but dancing with her and the twins.

Alison takes to sitting at a table with Isaac and Scott at either side of her, watching the dancing, playing footsy and throwing glances toward the pool table where Dean and Alex play each other for the fun of something to do. Someone to get to know.

"Bad breakup?" Dean finds himself asking Alex Argent, who twists a wolf pendent between his fingers and shakes his head; it's like his lucky talisman. Alex, Dean knows, is a werewolf like he's never seen, one like Stephen and Scott, and Isaac, human inside – Alison is sitting between the two werewolves, like she's never going to be comfortable anywhere else.

They both very clearly care deeply for her, and are so very wary around each other, so they must care for each other too. Alison is a smart girl – has to be, to have been raised a hunter and survived it, she must see it – Dean only wonders when she's going to stop playing and clue them in that they can all play nice together.

Dean has seen stranger things.

Alex though, he's a hunter but puts his heart into everything - hasn't learned to hide it yet. So when Dean nods toward the four dancers, he knows without looking just where Alex's eyes goes. Knows that he's hurting for something he thinks he can't have.

"It never was like that. It could have been, maybe, it's complicated. Stiles is Scott's friend and Scott was bitten by one of the Hale's. Kate, my mother – she was Alison's aunt, she's dead now – well, she wasn't exactly sane when it came to werewolves like the Hale's - especially so when Scott and Alison got together." Alex looks over at them, and smiles and Dean knows he's not the only one who sees what Alison has and is doing in making Isaac and Scott learn to get along first before saying what she wants. It isn't exactly envy that Alex has for his cousin, but something more like pride and longing.

"I came into Beacon Hills with our grandfather, while Derek Hale was Alpha and had sort of formed a pack with Isaac and Scott. I didn't really care about all that. I was there for my family's sake, it would be Chris's wife who led - but I met Stiles and there was something there, between us. Or could have been, you know?" Dean nods, humming softly, and Alex only needs that little reassurance to blurt out the rest of it. Why he is what he is.

"But, Derek Hale, he was born a werewolf, and thought Stiles was his, somehow had a prior claim or something through Scott – and when Stiles didn't agree, he bites me, and makes me into a werewolf. My aunt, Alison's mom, she killed herself rather than be what I am. My grandfather wanted me to die, called my name cursed. But Uncle Chris and Alison wouldn't let me do it. Set Scott and Isaac to watch over me, make sure, you know?" Alex rolls his shoulders, Dean sees clearly enough how he still can't quite shake off his unease with what he is – what he was raised to hate, to hunt, to kill.

"They split from Derek's pack. Scott's some kind of natural Alpha and took me and Isaac in as his. Still, it's sort of my fault, you know? Stiles…it hurt him that Derek did what he did to me and that I wanted to end my own life and had to be forced through a few full moons to…get used to it. He thought he'd be enough for me to live for…but, I just…" Alex twists the wolf about his neck as if it's choking him.

"I get it." Dean says, and he does – because if something ever made a monster out of Sam or Dean – they'd want to do it themselves rather than put each other at risk, if they were still themselves enough to know what had been done. He'd kept Sam alive against the best judgment of other hunters, because Sam was his little brother, demon blood drinker or not.

"Talk to him before you lose your chance." Dean advises, because Alex deserves to hear it. Thoughtfully, Alex nods, and Lydia, as if she'd been waiting for that signal, comes strolling over with Stiles on her arm.

"I like that jacket." Stiles says to Dean, and Dean raises his brows at his bluntness. Perhaps at World's End he isn't as underage as Dean would have thought. Alex looks between them, something shuttered in his eyes, as if he thinks Dean will take advantage. Dean decides to teach them both that they need each other more than they think.

"Do you?" Dean croons, and Lydia tosses her hair and sways as she walks away as if she won't watch, she makes Isaac move so she can slide in beside Alison on the booth, practically on the other girl's lap. It's a nice little sight and Dean wonders if he's not the only one plotting.

"Yes, I do, I really do, I'll play you for it." Stiles picks up a cue stick as if he means to use it. Dean cocks his head as if he doesn't believe Stiles knows really what to do with it.

"You want my jacket if you win?" Dean looks to Alex and to the watching twins.

"Yap, you got it." Stiles pokes Dean in the chest with the chalked end, and Dean smirks as he takes a hold of it, pulling Stiles against the length of him.

"If that's what you want to bet, that's alright by me sweetheart, but when I win, I get your phone number." Dean murmurs, just low enough that only Stiles hears. His blush stains his cheeks and makes Alex step toward them, as if he'll separate them if he has to. He doesn't have to, because Dean lets Stiles and his cue stick go. Stiles eyes are wide and clear and what he had to drink is long forgotten, but Lydia laughs and he doesn't forget to be bold.

It's a game of dirty bending and obscene movements and by the end of it, no one is unaffected. Alex inhales and Dean knows what he and the other werewolves and one wereleopard smell, musky arousal and nervous sweat. Dean never told Stiles the rules he plays pool by, and when Stiles wins, it's as Dean wanted.

Stiles takes his leather jacket, puts it on, and it's big on him but he'll grow into it like Dean did, but Stiles is a better winner than Dean ever would be and writes out a number on the inner skin of his forearm that Dean will never call. Not if he wants to be human on the next full moon. Alex sees how close he came to losing Stiles tonight – and Dean doesn't expect to be thanked for what he's done, but Alex grows as bold as Stiles had been and wraps an arm about Stiles's waist, pulling them together, back to front.

"Dance with me?" Alex asks Stiles, but his eyes are on Dean, a glare that makes Dean raise his hands up, the marked numbers and name flashing on his skin like a white flag.

"Yeah." Stiles answers Alex, his voice only a little shaky but his eyes steadily only for the other young man.

They dance, and flirt, and it's all fun for Dean to see, this growing love between them.

He sees the trouble though, when a young man comes through the doors of World's End like he owns it, and stops short at the sight of Stiles in the arms of Alex. Scott growls low and threatening and Dean knows who he's seeing is Derek Hale.

"Stiles!" He shouts out, gaining all attention, none of it positive.

"What are you doing?" Derek demands, gesturing to Stiles and Alex as if he's got something to prove, as if Stiles should be ashamed of what Derek's seen.

"What I want to do, Derek, whatever I want to do. Whenever I want to do it, wherever I want to do it." Stiles kisses Alex and it's long and deep and there is tongue, he comes up for air panting and triumphant. He's just claimed Alex for the whole of World's End to see, and Dean wolf-whistles his approval, Lydia giggles a little madly but claps for all she's worth.

When Stephen and Isaac and Scott stand up, Scott's eyes glaring red, Derek Hale goes, as quickly as he can. He's the big bad wolf with his tail tucked to his belly, scampering and submissive.

Lydia laughs, mocking and triumphant, holding onto Alison's hand, and Dean knows she means to keep her bestie by her side and not running off to hunt down a Hale werewolf – even if Dean silently whole-heartedly agrees he deserves it.

To distract Alison, or for Lydia's own reasoning entirely, she brings Alison's hand to her lips, and at the touch of those lips on her skin Alison's eyes go to her best friend, curious and cautious and enough off guard that she won't be running into the ruin of worlds for a hunt.

Perhaps, that is all that Lydia had wanted, but her leer dares Alison to ask. Maybe, one day, Alison will – but tonight, only Dean Winchester saw what passed between them, and he's not going to blurt it out. It can wait and grow.

Charlene Mooney clears her throat and leads Alison and Stiles and Scott to the door of World's End –and where they go, Lydia and Alex and Isaac will always follow.

Stephen tilts his head as he watches them go, and Gregory nudges him gently.

"What is it?" Wereleopard asks werewolf, and Stephen draws in a shaky breath.

"You didn't feel it? What they are? What they have inside?" Stephen's doll like beauty has a tragic look to it as his twin shakes his head.

"Obviously not…" Stephen answers his own words, and takes a breath as if he can only really breathe now.

"Perhaps it's because I'm a wolf, and we had a special place in Viking tales of Odin's Valhalla, but werewolves are taught that all worlds are fed by the Wells in the roots of Yggdrasil. There was darkness in them, in Alison and Stiles and Scott – a deepness of abyss and beginnings, water-like. I think they have the Wells within them - Urdarbrunnr, Mímisbrunnr, andHvergelmir." Stephen is shaken by what he says, and Gregory wraps a warm arm about his brother, comforting him as best he can. Stephen leans into it, seeking it.

"How could that happen?" Dean asks with a frown, having a good idea what storm has shaken so many worlds like mere limbs of a tree.

"They must have a lupanar, a scared place for their pack, but if they have munin…" Stephen shakes his head, and Charlene Mooney comes to his side and puts a hand on his shoulder. Her smile is soothing, and Stephen loses his tenseness, bit by bit because of her words.

"It was a Nemeton that did this, a sacred tree of the Druids. In their world, wolves and Druids still often work side by side; such is the strength of their bond with Yggdrasil still." Stephen nods, slowly to show his understanding of her words and acceptance to her meaning.

Charlene leads Stephen and Gregory away, opening their way past the door of the World's End.

Dean takes a final look at what's within the free house, shakes his head, it isn't for him - and when Charlene comes for him, he's ready to go.

"Will I remember this?" Is all he asks, soft into the silence, the peace and serenity, his world dawning a new day.

"If you want to, World's End will always be here." It isn't goodbye, but Dean Winchester has noticed that Charlene Mooney only ever welcomes people; she never dismisses them with goodbyes. It makes him wonder who else she once saw walk out the doors he's about to step through the threshold of.

He takes a breath and walks out into the world, never says goodbye, never looks back.

He waves though.

Dean keeps it close in mind as he does so, that to wave is both a farewell and a hail.

Merry Christmas CryKing, it's your fic prompts!