Phone calls in the middle of the night are never a good thing.

Allison's got sixty horror stories flying through her mind before she even finds the receiver. Dad clawed to death. Lydia chewed up and spit out. Scott choked with wolfsbane.

When the phone is pressed to her ear and her heartbeat is sharp and sledge-hammer loud, when Scott's okay, just losing his mind because it's Stiles, just Stiles, she almost feels a sense of relief.

No, not almost. She is relieved.

Does that make her a bad person? Maybe it does. But you can't care for everyone. The few relationships she's managed to maintain after her mother killed herself are exhausting enough without adding a collage of acquaintances. There are already enough faces in her nightmares. There is more than enough blood without upping the death toll.

People around Allison get hurt. It's not her fault, but it's her responsibility. She's an Argent; the only female Argent left, now. She calls the shots. She's supposed to protect these people.

Emotions get in the way.

If she had seen clearly after her mother died, Gerard would never have been able to manipulate her. Emotions had her staring down at two kids through her rifle's sights and firing.

She thought, once, that her emotions, her innocence, would keep her from turning into Kate. But she had it all wrong. Kate was all emotion. She never thought; she just did. She killed nine people because it felt right at the time.

Emotions blind you. Revenge is an idiot's game. You have to be able to take a step back. See the whole picture, not just your angle.

So when Scott is near-sobbing that his best friend almost died and he's in a coma and they don't know if he'll wake up, Allison's vision doesn't go dark and blurred. It goes sharp and focused. She narrows her eyes. She breathes.

She says, "Scott, I'm so sorry," because that's what Emotional Allison would say, and Scott needs Emotional Allison right now.

She lets him break. Lets him sob.

Murmurs soft, stupid comforts. Promises she can't keep.

She lets him cry until he stops. Until he takes a breath, lets it out.

Then she says, "Tell me everything."

The Hale case hit a dead end, but Mr. Stilinski hunched over the file like it held the secrets of the universe.

Stiles wrote essays, did homework, and handed nothing in. He spent hours on the computer, looking up cures that could have saved her. There was an experimental treatment in Israel, another by the University of Pennsylvania. Another round, a higher dose. Maybe she could have pulled through. Maybe if Stiles'd found this sooner-

Dinner in the Stilinski household became a paper bag of burgers and milkshakes, with the occasional pizza pie for variety. Sometimes Mrs. McCall would cook something, or send over a salad. Somewhere between Stiles' mom getting sick again and her being gone, a friend had slid into position beside him. Scott McCall, age ten. He thought Stiles was funny, but laughing-with-you funny, not laughing-at-you funny. He didn't want to shut Stiles in a locker. He hated Geometry with a fiery burning passion. He thought it was cool that Stiles didn't. He had asthma, which basically canceled out Stiles' Adderall. His parents fought a lot. He didn't really talk about it, which was fine with Stiles, who didn't really talk about how his mom was dying and the whole world was falling to shit.

They talked about Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which Stiles'd used to watch with his babysitter, and Marvel comics, and Lydia Martin, who Scott agreed was pretty much perfect, if slightly evil, and promised he'd point in Stiles' direction if he ever, by some miracle of nature, became cool. Similarly, Stiles promised he'd find an awesome girl for Scott if he somehow grew out of his general Stiles-ness and turned into Danny, who everyone always liked immediately. Or an awesome guy, he added, if you want.

Scott shrugged. "I think it's girls for me," he said, and they spit-shook on it, which was gross and awesome.

They ate lunch together, got detention together, avoided discussion of their home lives together. Talked about what life would be like if they ever became popular. They studied together, played Halo together (Scott beat Stiles' ass every time), shared notes (Stiles made two copies of his and a vague, involuntary disapproving noise at Scott's disorganized chicken-scratchings), played lacrosse, geeked out over Harry Potter (Heavily debated topic: Snape- evil, or just an asshole?), and attempted to start a punk/ska/reggae band. (Scott sang terribly; Stiles tried his hand at drums; and Ash, two years older and a pretty cool guy once he took the Rebel With A Cause thing down a notch or six, doing violent and vaguely terrifying things to a guitar; a squabble over potential band names had the three stubbornly not speaking for a week. It was one of the shittiest weeks of Stiles' young life. (He'd still insist that Testosterone High was a cooler name than Slagging Maggie anyday. He could see the album covers mocked-up in his head: Welcome to [band logo], Still On A [band logo]... They didn't even know a Maggie, he'd moan only half-jokingly. Never had. And what does slagging even mean, we're not British, we've never used that word in our lives...)) The band thing was soon good as forgotten; Stiles' abandoned drum set collected dust in his closet. The hierarchy of jocks and flawless princesses, aka Whittemores and Martins, pressed the two misfits closer together, took their bond from friendship to brotherhood, united against a common enemy (Jackson Whittemore on a good day, Camden Lahey on a painful and humiliating one) and toward a common goal (social acceptance and eventual popularity, through a complicated set of steps triggered by Stiles' hypothetically successful wooing of Lydia Martin through the implementation of the Ten Year Plan™). After a particularly traumatic incident led to a great Revenge Scheme which was impressive and only slightly disturbing and so worth the suspensions and forty weeks of detention it earned the pair of them, Stiles realized that Scott had superhuman amounts of heart inside that pale, wheezy chest, but also plenty of brain, and Scott realized that Stiles had superhuman amounts of brain inside that close-shaved, hyperactive head, but also plenty of heart. It was a very moving moment in their bro-hood. There might have been some tears. Manly tears of testosterone and manliness, of course. And some hugging which definitely crossed the line from "one-armed bro-hug" to "I love you, man, and I don't care if Camden calls me a fag. Did you know in England, fag means cigarette, anyway, and besides, Danny's a fag and he's awesome."

It was a very good plan, in any case. Camden pretty much shut up after that. Well, no, he was still an asshole, but he stopped violently assaulting half the student body, which was a definite plus. The little nervous cringe thing he did when he saw either of them was pretty satisfying, too.

"Stiles, if anyone's giving you trouble-" Sheriff Stilinski started, as Stiles tried to pretend he wasn't following his dad's eyeline to the liquor cabinet, and upon failing, tried not to worry too much about taking years off his dad's life.

"Dad, it's nothing, it was just this ass- sorry- anyway, it's over."

"Because I-"

"You're Sheriff, I know," Stiles said, suddenly exhausted.

"Because I'm your father. Stiles. If I could get in the middle of you and anything and everything that tried to hurt you I would. If I thought it would help, I swear to god, Stiles?"

Stiles chewed the inside of his cheek and tried not to cry. "I know, Dad."

"C'm'ere."

They hugged it out. Stiles was ten years old, but his father's arms still felt big enough to disappear in.

"I love you, kiddo," John Stilinski said.

"Love you too, Dad."

"You're still grounded."

Scott doesn't know much. What he does know is obvious.

He thinks it's a hunter.

He won't say it, but the boy is a terrible liar.

Allison doesn't have time to dance around awkward topics.

She dives.

"No claws," she says. "He was stabbed."

"They said-" Scott's close to tears again. "There was so much blood, Allison, I could smell it. I can still smell it."

Werewolf senses can be a bitch that way. Or so Allison's heard.

"It was a knife," Allison clarifies. Emotional Allison's time is over. She can't coddle Scott anymore.

"Y-yeah, they think so. One of those curved ones."

"Bowie."

"I think."

"Good," she says. "That narrows it down. The hunters I know like guns. No need to come close."

She wonders, suddenly, if the thought of her knowing an army of gun-toting hunters scares him. She wonders if she cares.

God, her life.

They talk for less than an hour. Once the few known facts are clear, there's not much left to say. Scott could ramble about his feelings and his fears for hours if Allison let him, but she shuts him down.

Emotions won't help Stiles. Won't keep anyone safe.

She has to talk to Dean.

After his mom died, Stiles stopped talking. Scott and his mom stopped by on the second day of shiva, the seven days Jewish people took to sit on low chairs and talk in low voices about grief and reasons and she's dead, she's dead, she's dead. Stiles didn't talk, and Mr. Stilinski was perpetually drunk, the kind of drunk that came with ranting and sobbing in equal measures, the kind that put an ache in Stiles' stomach and panic in his throat. Mrs. McCall sat beside Stiles and wrapped him in a gentle hug, and he hissed something vaguely tearful into her shoulder and ran for his bedroom, where he lay, flat and stiff and barely fidgeting, on his bed. He stared at the water stain on the ceiling and let his eyes empty out.

"Sorry, man," Scott said after Stiles wiped his eyes and headed back to meet his friend in the kitchen, and then he didn't say anything, just stood beside him. And it was something. It wasn't- it wasn't helpful; she was still gone, and there were still a million strangers in the house, and Dad was wasted and sobbing into a deputy's shoulder. But it was... something. Just... having someone there, and not having to talk.

Everyone else kept trying to make him talk.

He's in front of the TV, finishing a beer and staring off into middle distance when Allison sits on the couch beside him and asks, "Did you do it together?"

His head snaps up; his eyes focus immediately. Hunter reflexes. She knew that. She must have always known that, even if she couldn't admit it to herself.

He relaxes in moments, breaks into a grin, shaking his head. "Alli. What're you tryin' to do, scare me to death? I could'a killed you!"

"You couldn't have," Allison says. Dean chuckles fondly. "Maybe. I haven't seen you in action, but if you're anything like your aunt-"

"I'm not," Allison snaps. Dean's already flushing, the humor gone from his eyes.

"I didn't mean-"

"I don't care," Allison says. "I'm nothing like her."

Dean's her favorite uncle. One of her favorite people in the whole world. That doesn't give him the right.

"Of course not," Dean says, and finishes his beer in one long slug.

"Did you?" Allison didn't come downstairs to watch Dean's lips curl around a bottle. Not that she hasn't considered it, but she's had enough Kate comparisons without adding dating Dean Winchester to the list. Besides, she has a boyfriend. Sort of. And more importantly, she has questions. "Did you hunt together?"

Dean doesn't even flinch. He sets the empty bottle down. Pulls a metal flask out from under his leather jacket.

"Nah. She'd never allow it." He unscrews the cap, takes a pull. Grimaces, then smacks his lips. Breathes. "Y'don't shit where you eat."

"Did you know?" Allison presses on. "About the fire. What she did."

"We didn't talk about the job." Dean screws the cap back again. "We weren't- Alli. We weren't just two hunters, shacking up because it was convenient. We were just people. We liked each other. I liked her, anyway. Maybe loved her, even, as if I know what the fuck love is. She had this great smile, y'know? Like she knew a joke you didn't. Always one step ahead. Nice tits, too." A smirk lights his face for a moment.

"Dean," Allison spits, disgusted.

"Always got a plan. She was just unstoppable, y'know? Fuckin' unstoppable. She was a fucking force of nature, and I loved it." He's drunk, rambling. "So maybe I should've realized the love of my life was a fucking homicidal maniac. Maybe I should've known that." He unscrews the cap again. His fingers are careful, controlled. It only takes him one try. "We didn't talk about the job. She trusted me not to fuck up, and I trusted her." A small, bitter huff of laughter escapes him. "Guess we both fucked up there."

"Would you-" Allison forces the words out, heart clanging against her ribs. "If you'd known, you would have stopped her. You would've-"

"I don't know, Alli, okay?" He sighs at the look on her face, like she doesn't have a right to be horrified at that. "That's God's honest truth. I don't know what I would've done. All I know is right now I'm sick to my stomach and most days I can barely-" He unscrews the flask again, chugs until he has to tip his head back to catch the last few drops. "I don't have the answers for you, a'right? I wish I did. God, Alli, I wish I had all the friggin answers. I wish my dead girlfriend wasn't a fucking psychopath. I wish this shit had never touched your life at all. You can't get away from it, you realize that? Once you're in, you're in till you're dead. " He pockets the empty flask; his hand trembles slightly. "The plan was to keep you out of it."

Protect the little girl. Of course.

If there's one thing Allison can't make herself hate her aunt for, it's the way Kate treated her like an actual person instead of some delicate princess Barbie. God, everyone would just love to shove her in a corner and have some giant idiotic pissing contest for her hand or the her eternal servitude or something.

Not Kate. Kate understood. Kate was the only one who understood.

And that scares Allison to death.

"You can't rewind and fix it," she says, cutting off her pseudo-uncle's depressing monologue before the instrumental track can kick in. "Stop whining about things you can't change."

His eyes flicker shock and shame, with a side of well fuck you too, and he closes them, hikes up his brow.

"So how's it work?" Allison rushes on. "You hunt alone, right? What if you need back-up?"

"Back-up means I have to rely on someone else not to get me killed," Dean says, still a little pissy. Maybe when this is all over- if this can ever be over- Allison'll take the time to hold his hand and let him braid her hair and throw a tea party or whatever the fuck he expects of her. "Means I'm worried about having to save some other son of a bitch's ass when I need to focus on the job. I hunt alone. I don't do anything stupid."

"Like burn nine people alive."

"Will you shut-" Dean inhales sharply. "Jesus, Allison, can y'drop the third degree? What d'ya want?"

It takes a while for Allison to figure out how to start.

Scott was the first one to get him laughing again. It wasn't a mind-blowingly funny joke, but it hit something that hadn't been hit in too long, and Stiles laughed. Not a full-bodied, open-mouthed, head-rocked-back laugh, but a grin, and a little huff of amusement. And Scott grinned too, and Stiles knew they were gonna be best friends forever.

The suspension meant Stiles was back with his age group at age eleven, but he didn't protest as much as he could have. Sure, he was backtracking, jumping from fourth to seventh and now backwards to sixth, but Scott was there, and Stiles tended to be bored out of his mind in the most advanced classes, anyway. He exchanged notes and comments with Scott, landing both of them in detention way too many times. Panic attacks and nightmares were balanced by the constant unwavering presence of Scott, who spent more and more time at the Stilinski home as his parents' fighting got worse. Somehow the year came and went without major incident, and Stiles got his humor back, and seventh grade, take two, looked like the perfect way to make up for the first go around.

Then, in November, Dad had his first heart attack.

Scott picks up on the fourth ring.

"I can't come into work for a few days," he says before Deaton can say anything. "It's- Someone- Stiles is in the hospital, he's been stabbed, and they don't know-"

"We need to talk," Deaton says, infuriatingly calm as ever.

"I'm telling you, I'm busy," Scott clarifies. "You can dock my pay. Whatever. I need-"

"What you need is for you and I to have a conversation," Deaton interrupts smoothly. "About Stiles. I made a promise long ago, and I intend to keep it."

"Wait, what?" Scott pauses to replay this in his head and see if it makes more sense the second time. It doesn't. "What do you mean, long ago? About Stiles? What are you talking about?" His eyes widen. "Do you know something about this? Do you know who did it?"

"No," Deaton says patiently. Scott deflates. "But I've been trusted with some information about his... condition. Your friend will need you more than ever to help him... adjust."

"He's got me," Scott says instantly. It's stupid that Deaton thinks he has to ask. It's kind of insulting, actually. "He knows that."

"It's not that simple," Deaton says. "You see, Scott, there's a very particular-"

There's a sudden cacophony over the line as what sounds like every animal in the clinic starts barking, howling, whining, or growling at once. "My office," Deaton says, barely audible over the rucks. "You can visit Stiles, but I expect you here immediately afterward."

"What do you want?" Scott demands, but the animals are still going nuts and Scott doubts Deaton can hear him over their alarm. He hasn't heard them this distressed since Peter's visit. "What's going on?"

The instinct comes, well, instinctively. One second he's pressing his boss for details, the next he's snapping, "Calm down!"

The line goes quiet so suddenly Scott is almost sure he accidentally hung up or something. Only the sounds of muffled conversation keep Scott from attempting a redial.

"-while I'm on the phone, Maya!" Deaton hisses.

"I just think you should-"

"Scott," Deaton interrupts Maya, whoever she is. "That was very impressive. I've never heard a Beta establish dominance over the phone before."

"Great," Scott says flatly. "Does this mean I can miss a couple days of work?"

"I expect you here," Deaton says humorlessly. "We have a lot to talk about."

"About Stiles," Scott recaps. "And some long-ago promise. To who? You moved here after I did!"

"Actually, Scott, I grew up in Beacon Hills," Deaton says. There's something almost fond in his tone, completely undermining his mysterious/dramatic act. "I left for the same reason I came back."

"For Stiles?"

"No," Deaton says. "For his mother."