Fic: Arrest Record

I wanted to try writing a Sheriff-Stilinski-finds-out-about-werewolves fic for a while. It seemed like a good time to get it out. AU for Season 3 in that all the deaths so far have been caused by a rogue Omega rather than a Darach.

Title: Arrest Record
Rating: G
Pairing: implied Derek/Stiles
Wordcount: 8067
Warnings/Kinks: none
Summary: He can’t wait for a pattern to reveal itself; he needs to do something before the next body turns up. Even if he has to arrest Stiles. Especially if he has to arrest Stiles.

Also on AO3.

There are already two new deaths on his head before it occurs to him. 

He stumbles away from the coffee machine and lands hard in one of the kitchen chairs, the thump of his hand against the table barely registering as a dull throb against the pain of the realization. 

John had thought that Beacon Hills had already dealt with all the fucked up shit a small town could have after the Whittemore kid had miraculously survived his evisceration on the lacrosse field during the state championship. Then again, he’d also thought that Argent shooting the cougar in the high school parking lot would end the animal attacks. So maybe, he thinks, it isn’t so surprising that he’d thought he still had time to repair his relationship with Stiles until the obvious came and hit him over the head.

The murders have a common element.

Stiles is the common element.

Jesus. 

John doesn’t want to think about it, knows he can’t be sure of anything anyway until he can check the case files at the station, but he’s a trained investigator and his mind connects the dots without his permission. 

Looking for half a body in the woods. Accusing Derek Hale of terrorizing him and his friends at the high school. Abandoning Lydia Martin at the winter formal. Kidnapping Jackson Whittemore. Knowing Matt was the murderer with no hard evidence and no motive. 

And those are just the big ones. There are other coincidences, smaller ones that John would normally overlook or excuse as typical teenage behavior that stand out like beacons now that the first flame has been lit. Like a bottle of Jack going missing the same night two hooligans turned up burnt to a crisp right next to the town’s favorite underage drinking spot. Or Stiles frequenting the Jungle the night six people were paralyzed by what they described as a gigantic lizard. Or Stiles rushing out of the house the night he lost his badge and then less than three hours later a girl died at an underground rave.

The stream of coffee from the machine slows to the occasional drop, and John drags himself out of the chair to pour himself a mug. He adds an extra spoonful of real sugar and considerably more creamer than necessary, but he feels like the emotional strain justifies a few physical luxuries. 

John ends up going in to the station half an hour before his shift starts to avoid facing Stiles in the kitchen. He knows it’s the cowardly thing to do, but he can’t look at Stiles until he’s certain one way or the other. There’s still some part of him holding out hope that he’s wrong and that the evidence will show him that this idea is just the product of too many sleepless nights and a too distant relationship between him and his son.

Once he gets to the station, the coffee is bad and the evidence is worse. 

With the exception of the video store clerk (who was killed  by an animal, not a human John’s mind supplies), John has no idea where Stiles was during the hours surrounding any of the murders or attacks. Except, of course, for the times when he was at the crime scene.

John grimaces and turns his chair around to look at the two case boards side by side, hoping that maybe he missed something, maybe there’s a victim he’s forgotten, maybe there was another time Stiles didn’t have the opportunity. He knows he’s grasping at straws, but his gut (his heart, a small traitorous voice inside him whispers) tells him he can’t know for sure until he’s checked and double checked. 

Laura Hale; animal mauling. (Stiles was in the woods the night of the murder. Stiles found the body buried on the Hale property. Who’s to say he didn’t bury it there himself?) Bus driver; animal mauling. (Stiles’s location unknown.) Video store clerk; animal mauling. (Stiles with John, thank god.) School janitor; cause unknown. (Stiles trapped in the school. Blamed everything on Derek Hale. The body turned up in the woods days later, too torn up by wildlife to accurately assess a cause of death.) Two drunks in the woods; burned. (Stiles’s location unknown, though likely near the crime scene judging from the missing bottle of Jack.) Lydia Martin; alive but mauled. (Stiles was her date, though he claims to have abandoned her. Abandoned Lydia Martin.) Kate Argent; throat ripped out. (Stiles’s location unknown.)

John swallows hard, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as he accepts the fact that Stiles had the opportunity to commit almost all of the crimes. He had the opportunity, but John still needs to have a solid case for motive and means before he’s willing to truly consider arresting Stiles. That and he needs to explain the video store clerk. Three is a pattern and four is an arrest warrant, but damn it this is his son and John refuses to act until he can explain everything.

He takes a breath holds it for five seconds before slowly letting it out and imagining his emotions flowing out along with it. An emotional response won’t get this done.  He moves on to means, because the how of the matter could easily topple the entire theory without forcing him consider the mental state Stiles would have to be in to become a serial killer. A serial killer, shit. He can hardly believe he’s thinking of his son in those terms now. 

Animal attacks are never easy to duplicate, especially not attacks by an animal that doesn’t even live in the state. At the very least, Stiles would have had to get help locating and acquiring the wolf hairs that were found on Laura Hale’s body. 

The attacks themselves are also hard to explain. The coroner’s report says that every instance of death by animal mauling displays marks typical of wolf claws and teeth. The veterinarian’s report, however, states that the arrangement of the claw and tooth marks is not consistent with a wolf’s dental imprint or a wolf’s paw, but that the marks are consistent on each of the victims. 

Which means… something. 

John isn’t sure what it means. Whether it means the victims were killed by a pack of wolves or a pack of chihuahuas or something John’s never heard of, he doesn’t know. Maybe it was a human killer who had access to or made weapons from wolf teeth and claws.  A hunter would be the most likely person to have access to any of the possible murder weapons, but Stiles doesn’t hunt and he doesn’t know any hunters either.

Except.

John tugs at his hair. He knows he’s overheard Stiles say something about a family of hunters while he was talking to Scott. Looking at the board for inspiration, John lets his eyes wander over the victim locations again when it catches his eye.

Argent.

Kate Argent.

Things start to slot into place faster than John can keep up, and he consciously slows down his thought process to make sure he’s not just seeing the easy connection. 

If the Argent family were hunters, Kate Argent could easily have had access to any materials needed to make the deaths look like animal attacks. Hell, she might even have had a pack of dogs to do the killing for her. John doesn’t have any definitive proof that the Argents are hunters (except for how Chris shot that cougar in the parking lot, and does he really think that an untrained civilian could do that with the same aplomb as Argent even if he does sell weapons for a living?), but it makes sense. He might even be able to agree with the official decision and lay all the blame for the murders on Kate. 

Except.

Who killed Kate?

If no one else was involved with the murders, who killed Kate? Hunting dogs don’t turn on their masters.

Sighing, John admits to himself that blaming Kate doesn’t just raise one question, but several. There’s video proof that she was in a grocery store in Washington state the night Laura Hale was killed. He knows because he did some digging when the entire case wrapped up a little too neatly for his tastes. In his experience, nothing is ever as obvious as it seems, although in this case, John is beginning to wish he’d never thought to look deeper.

He can safely say that if Kate Argent committed the murders, she had help. He can also say the same thing about Stiles. 

Which brings him to the last point. Motive. John almost wants to skip ahead to the second string of deaths instead of thinking about what would drive someone (not someone, Stiles) to murder, especially when they (Stiles) didn’t know any of the victims personally.

Shaking his head, John looks at the picture of Kate Argent first. Her motive is easy; clean up. Hindsight is 20/20, and the entire town knows now that Kate Argent was the mastermind behind the Hale fire six years ago. Maybe one of her lackeys tried blackmailing her and she decided that she didn’t need any more loose ends getting ideas. That sort of thinking would certainly fit the profile of someone who burned down a house with children inside without an obvious motive.

John clears his head and tries to think of the sequence of events. Kate Argent receives blackmail from one of the people involved in the fire, and she returns to town to kill him. She doesn’t want to get involved unless she has to, so she contacts Stiles, someone with an in with the police, and somehow gets him to work with her. He agrees, and starts the murders with Laura Hale, presumably as a warning to Kate’s old cohorts. Kate continues receiving blackmail and decides to come to town to take care of it herself. She tries to have Stiles help her with the murders or the body disposals so that she can blame him for the crimes if the cover of an animal attack goes south. When the job doesn’t get finished until well after the mountain lion is dead, she tries to set up Stiles, who kills her out of self defense and pins the murders on her using the pendant. Which he only knows about because John told him about it.

The explanation works except for one point; why would Stiles agree to murder? He’s not easily threatened or bribed, and John can’t think of a single thing that Kate could have offered him that would have enticed him to commit murder.

Unless.

Stiles is brilliant; he always has been. What if Stiles were using Kate rather than the other way around?

Stiles could do it. He knows police procedure and he knows how to plant clues to lead them in the wrong direction. He knows that the best way to lie is to tell a partial truth, and he knows how to give himself at least one solid alibi to cast doubt on his involvement. 

And at least until now, Stiles had known better than to go after anyone who could be tied back to him. 

Like Harris. 

Another piece of the puzzle slots into place. Adrian Harris is the only person who was involved in the Hale fire who made it through the first set of murders alive. He’s also the only one who knows Stiles personally. 

And oh.

Oh god. 

Adrian Harris is the one who was initially set up to take the fall for the second string of murders. Because if the best way to eliminate a threat (Harris) is to get someone else (the police) to do it for you. 

Which means that Stiles had plans to get rid of everyone involved in the Hale fire. All he needed was a motive.

A motive like Derek Hale.

John blanches as he thinks back to that night at the Jungle. What if Stiles had been telling the truth? He could easily have been using the comment about his sexuality as a cover up, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. And all of Beacon Hills knows that Stiles has a type: attractive and unattainable. What if the entire string of murders were some kind of twisted courtship display for Hale? 

Kill Laura and use her to draw Kate back. Bury her body on the Hale property and accuse Derek to get his attention by talking to him in the back of a police cruiser knowing he’d be released and Stiles would be cleared of any suspicion once it came out that she was killed by an animal. Eliminate everyone related to the Hale fire to prove himself to Hale. Entice Matt into framing Harris. Remove Matt from the equation when he looked like he might talk.

It sort of makes sense, in a twisted way. It makes enough sense that John believes it’s something Stiles would do, in a world where Stiles is capable of cold-blooded murder. And isn’t that a like a knife to the chest, having to consider his son capable of murder. A few weeks ago he would have laughed at anyone who suggested it, but then again, he would have laughed at anyone who suggested Stiles would kidnap a classmate and call it a joke. 

John takes a deep breath and pulls back from that line of thinking. Stiles obviously has the ability to be more cold-hearted than John ever expected, and now he has to consider the implications of Stiles branching out into murder. 

So if the first two sets of murders were a courtship dance for Hale, what are the murders now for? Maybe Stiles and Hale are working together, John thinks bitterly, then shuts it down. He’s brought Hale in before, and while the man isn’t exactly a model citizen, he’s not a killer either. This is Stiles on his own. Maybe Stiles is trying to use a string of unrelated murders to cover up the one important death among them (Heather? John’s mind whispers at him or is he going to go for Harris again?). John can’t wait for that to happen though, he needs to do something before the next body turns up. Even if he has to arrest Stiles. Especially if he has to arrest Stiles. 

Jesus.

He needs a second opinion. Even if the suspect in question weren’t his son, John wouldn’t feel right doing anything about his theory without a second, maybe even third opinion. So he stands up and lifts the case files off of the desk, holding them in a white knuckled grip as he walks to Deputy Cobb’s office. 

“Deputy Cobb, may I borrow you for a moment?”

Cobb looks up from his paperwork and pushes back his chair, preparing to stand. John holds up a hand, stopping him. “No, I just need a second opinion on these.” He sits down at the desk across from Cobb and holds up the two case files. 

“Those cases are closed, sir,” Cobb observes, looking warily at the sheriff. John sighs; he knows it’s never a good sign when a superior comes in asking about a closed case, but he also knows this is something he has to do.

“They are,” John agrees tiredly, letting the folders land on Cobb’s desk with a smack. “But I think there’s more to them than we previously thought.”

His deputy nods hesitantly. The entire station knows there’s more going on than meets the eye with the crazy that’s invaded Beacon Hills the past few months, but no one can get enough solid evidence to put a name on it. 

“I think-” John swallows and folds his hands on his lap, taking a deep breath before starting again. “I think that Stiles is the missing link.”

In front of him Cobb pales and sets his hands on the desk, clearly struggling to keep his expression stoically professional. “Your son, sir?”

“Yes,” John says, and it feels like a confession. “He’s… been more distant since the murder of Laura Hale. And there are. Other factors.”

“But, sir,” Cobb objects, looking uncomfortable with the topic at hand. “For all that he was a curious kid, he never displayed any behavior that would indicate he is capable of… something like this.”

“The best ones never do. And his mother… my wife loved him. When he was little, she was the one who. I worked long hours and… My wife loved him.”

A look of understanding dawns on Cobb’s face, and John is glad he doesn’t have to spell it out. Glad he doesn’t have to admit how much he was absent from Stiles’s life when he was little (or when he got older the traitorous voice whispers) and how he would have missed any warning signs Stiles might have displayed. They share a moment of silence, and John is grateful for the time to pull himself together before he forges ahead. “I think that he may have become… obsessed with Derek Hale. That the previous killings were to eliminate everyone related to the Hale fire, and that the past three murders have been an attempt to prove himself.”

“Should we bring in Hale?” Cobb says, latching on to the topic in a clear attempt to get away from suggesting they arrest Stiles. 

“Do you think it would do any good?” John asks, not looking for an answer so much as a confirmation.

“No, sir. I don’t.”

“Neither do I.”

“I’m not sure we should detain anyone yet, sir,” Cobb says, his words slow and deliberate. “He’s only just turned seventeen. Could he really have done it?”

“That’s what I want your opinion on,” John says, laying out his theory.

_________

By the time the high school lets out, Deputies Cobb, Ryan, and Mueller have all independently confirmed that his theory has merit. None of them has been so insensitive as to agree outright that he should arrest Stiles, but John isn’t blind; he knows that’s what they want. Deputy Ryan has even gone so far as to fill in some of the holes in his theory, providing an acceptable explanation for Whittemore’s evisceration and concrete reasons for the selection of the last two victims.

“Do you want one of us to come with you?” Deputy Cobb asks, walking over to stand beside John as he checks his equipment and gets ready to take the cruiser out get Stiles. Arrest Stiles. 

“No,” John says, shaking his head. “He’ll come with me.”

Cobb nods. “We’ll be here if you need us.”

“I know.” John walks out to the cruiser, straightening his spine and steeling himself as he opens the door and sits in the driver’s seat. He turns the key in the ignition and imagines the roar of the engine drowning out his anxieties about what comes next. It doesn’t work, not entirely, but he convinces himself the comfort he gets from being in his element is enough. 

The lacrosse field is mostly deserted during the off-season, but Stiles and some of his friends are out playing a pick up game when John pulls into the high school parking lot. He’s running almost entirely on autopilot as he turns off the engine and steps out of the car, hands checking his belt to be sure his gun and his handcuffs are in easy reach. Once he assures himself that everything is in place, the sheriff walks purposefully towards the field. 

“Stiles!” he calls out as soon as he’s in range.

“Hey, dad!” Stiles calls back, running over to where John is standing. “What’s up? You’re supposed to be working til late, right?”

“I am,” John confirms. “I’m here to arrest you for murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you-”

“Are you seriously reading me my Miranda rights?" 

”-in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just told you?” 

For a moment, Stiles stands staring slack-jawed in shock, not responding. 

“Stiles?” John prompts.

“I… yeah. I understand.” Stiles doesn’t look any less shocked, but he turns around placidly and lets John handcuff him without protest.

“Stiles?” Scott calls from the field, grabbing his and Stiles’s bags and jogging over to meet them. “What’s going on.”

“I’m being arrested,” Stiles says, his voice breaking in the middle of the sentence. “For murder.”

“For murder?” Scott echoes, sounding indignant. “You didn’t murder anyone, Stiles.”

Stiles doesn’t give a verbal reply and John can’t see his son’s face, but a moment later Scott’s eyebrows rise and he nods at Stiles. 

“Thanks, man,” Stiles says, dipping his head in acknowledgement of whatever silent communication had passed between him and Scott.

“No problem, dude,” Scott returns, pulling Stiles forward into a crushing hug. Stiles squirms against him, trying to return the hug even though his hands are cuffed behind him. “Don’t give your dad a hard time, yeah?”

“I’ll try,” Stiles replies, his voice taking on a jovial tone John hadn’t heard in almost a year. 

Clearing his throat to get their attention, John speaks up. “I hate to cut this short, but we need to get back to the station.”

“Right,” Scott says, taking a step back from Stiles and looking a little embarrassed. “Sorry, Sheriff Stilinski.”

John doesn’t say anything, isn’t sure he could come up with anything appropriate to say, so he just nods at Scott and places a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, steering him away from the lacrosse field and into the cruiser. Stiles goes without resistance and manages not to stumble even once. It’s nothing at all like the clumsiness his son would have displayed just six months ago, and it tears at John’s heart.

Stiles doesn’t complain when John opens the back door for him, just ducks his head and sits down, letting himself be buckled in before John walks around to the driver’s side. He takes a minute to compose himself before he gets in, staring over the top of the cruiser at the lacrosse field where the pick-up game diffuses as the players pack their bags and head away from the field. He notices Scott staring over at them before turning to nod at a curly haired boy. Isaac Lahey, John realizes as they walk off together. 

It’s good to see that Scott has at least one friend who isn’t moonlighting as a murderer.

Stiles doesn’t talk the entire ride back to the station.

John isn’t really expecting him to. For all that Stiles can ramble about whatever topic has most recently caught his interest, his son knows how to play it close to the chest. John doesn’t try getting him to talk either. He’s not going to be the officer in the interview room with Stiles (he’s too emotionally connected to the case for that), so he doesn’t have to ask the difficult questions. He’s not sure Stiles would answer him if he did ask. He’s not even sure he wants to know the answer.

When they get to the station John has to open the back door and help Stiles out. He holds Stiles’s upper arm to steady him when he stumbles getting out of the car; the handcuffs throwing off his sense of balance. Stiles’s eyes meet his, and John can’t stay quiet. 

“I’m sorry.”

The words hang in the air between them, making Stiles’s silence more apparent than it was in the car. John finds himself straining his ears, hoping to catch a sound – any sound – that Stiles might make in response. When the tension between them rises too high John turns away, leading Stiles to the front doors of the station. 

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, so quietly that if John hadn’t been listening closely he would have missed it. He doesn’t give any indication that he heard anything, hoping that maybe if Stiles thinks John didn’t hear he’ll say something else. Something to prove his innocence. 

He doesn’t. 

John takes Stiles to the interview room and cuffs him to the table, pausing briefly to squeeze his son’s shoulder before he walks out. Deputy Cobb meets him at the door. 

“Deputy Ryan and I are going to take this case, sir,” he says, standing stiffly off to the side so John can close the door behind him. 

“Good,” John says. “I’ll be watching from behind the glass.”

“Sir, I don’t-”

“Not as a team member, Deputy. I just want to see what my son says.”

Deputy Cobb looks relieved and nods, glancing over his shoulder at Deputy Ryan and signalling for her to get ready. John follows her into the back room and settles down to watch. Deputy Ryan flips some switches and turns on the video feed of Stiles’s back, making sure he doesn’t have any surprises for them before she radios Deputy Cobb to let him know they’re ready.  

John watches the interrogation – it isn’t an interview or questioning, not really – feeling somewhat detached from reality. Cobb asks questions and Stiles either nods or remains still, never voicing an opinion, never contradicting what Cobb says, never verbalizing anything. He sits there in complete silence with a blank expression on his face. 

It’s almost worse than hearing him confess would be, John thinks. He’s seen Stiles angry. He’s seen Stiles excited. Scrambling to cover a lie, maniacally gleeful at a prank, beaten down after the third panic attack in a week. But he’s only seen Stiles looking blank like this once, and the memory of his son’s face when John came back into the hospital room with her coffee to find her dead is something he wishes he didn’t remember. 

He leaves before it’s over, not wanting to see the reminder of his failures as a father and a detective sitting in front of him handcuffed to an interrogation table. The paperwork for the last week is sitting on his desk, and it’s as good a distraction as any. 

Deputy Cobb finds him working his way through the largest stack half an hour later. He clears his throat when he enters the room, waiting for John to acknowledge him before he sits down. The silence stretches between them for a few long moments before Cobb answers the unspoken question.

“He didn’t say anything, sir. But we’re going to keep him in lock up regardless.”

John nods, not trusting his voice. Cobb returns the gesture and then stands, giving John and his thoughts some privacy. As soon as the door closes behind him, John drops his head into his hands and runs his fingers through his hair. 

Shit.

It’s not that he expected Stiles to incriminate himself; it’s that he never expected Stiles to do it by not talking. Stiles is incredibly intelligent – even if it he used it for questionable pursuits before becoming a murderer – and he could have easily talked circles around a police investigator without giving anything away. It would be just like Stiles to do that too. To treat being detained in a police station as a game to see how much he could aggravate his interrogator before he had to face the consequences. 

And maybe if Stiles had talked, John could have told whether or not he felt any remorse. Whether or not he had done anything to feel remorse over.

Maybe that’s why he stayed silent.

John shakes his head, pulling himself together. His shift is almost over, but there’s no reason to go home; not when the only person he cares about is stuck here too. He sits up and lifts his head, imagining himself breathing a breath of fresh air after climbing out of a dark pit. It doesn’t help much, but the air smells like paper and dusty folders, reminding him of how he could be better using his time.

A knock on the door startles him, and John is surprised by the late hour when he looks at the clock. The door swings open before John can invite his visitor in, revealing a somewhat disheveled looking Scott. Scott steps into into the office with a notebook and some folders sporting a sheepish grin on his face.

“Hi, Sheriff. I was… uh, wondering if I could see Stiles?” Scott gestures awkwardly at the papers he’s carrying with him. “He left his homework at the field and I thought maybe I could bring it over? So he doesn’t get detention for not having it tomorrow.”

John’s voice catches in his throat for a moment as he reminds himself that this is part of his job too. Telling Stiles’s friends that Stiles won’t be coming back. Why Stiles won’t be coming back.

“Stiles won’t be in school tomorrow, Scott,” John says gently, proud of the fact that his voice doesn’t waver.

“Oh, you’re keeping him for twenty-four hours then? I’ll bring his work tomorrow too.”

“Scott…” John trails off, not sure how to tell him this isn’t temporary. That unless Stiles can definitively prove he isn’t involved, he’s probably going to go away for life. “He’s not coming back Thursday either.”

“Oh,” Scott says, his face falling as he comprehends the severity of the situation. “But it wasn’t him.”

“We can put him at the scene of more than four murders, Scott. It’s more than enough for…”

“A warrant,” Scott finishes for him. “But it wasn’t him.”

It warms John’s heart a little to know that Stiles has such loyal friends, even if it’s a misguided loyalty. “We don’t know that for sure, and the evidence we have is strong. We – I – wouldn’t have brought him in otherwise. You know that.”

Scott considers for a moment. “Yeah, I guess. But I’d still like to bring him his homework, if that’s okay?”

“I’m not allowed to let a civilian back near the holding cells,” John says, bracing himself for Scott to plead with him. He knows he won’t be able to hold out; not when it means letting his son see his best friend for what might very well be the last time. 

“But it’s Stiles,” Scott says, as if it’s the only reason he needs. It really is, considering how many times those very words have excused the odd hobbies Stiles has a fondness for. 

“I can’t let you back there on your own,” John argues. 

“So come with me. Please.”

Scott looks earnest and just a little bit desperate, and John knew this was something he would do from the moment Scott stepped into his office. “I can’t be seen making exceptions for him just because he’s my son,” he says anyway, making a last token protest even as he opens the lockbox with the cell keys. 

“Thanks, Sheriff. I won’t say anything.”

John doesn’t say anything, just walks past Scott as he leads the way down the hall towards the station’s three holding cells. He’s grateful that it’s turning into night outside; just late enough for most of the day shift to have gone home but too early for the night shift to be on in full force. The lack of people at the station means he’s less likely to be seen escorting a minor to visit a suspected murderer, and the fewer people who know about that, the better. 

They pass through the hallway with the fire alarm Stiles had pulled on one of his previous visits to lock up and John gets a pang of nostalgia. It doesn’t matter that Stiles had already been involved with the murders of over six people at the time; John can only remember his shock at seeing Stiles next to a wrenched off door and a man disguised in uniform and wondering just how this prank had gone wrong. And when he’d asked his son for an explanation, Stiles had blamed the entire mess on the unconscious man. Stiles had looked so much like a four year old trying to explain how a raccoon had come in through and eaten the last of the cookies from the cookie jar that John can’t think back on the incident with anything but fondness. 

Scott grabs his arm just as they’re about to come into sight of the lock up room door. 

“I think I hear something,” he says, pushing John behind him and moving forward on his own. John huffs in annoyance; if there is anything in that room other than Stiles, he should be going first to make sure that the adult with a weapon can protect the unarmed minor.

Scott has the door open before he can protest, and a shout comes from inside the room that sounds like Stiles. 

“Don’t let him in here!”

“Sorry!” Scott yelps, slamming the door shut and pressing his back against it. “So, uh. I guess Stiles doesn’t need his homework. Maybe we should just go?”

John gives Scott a look. It’s the same look he gives (gave) Stiles when he blatantly edited his version of events to exclude anyone else (usually Scott) who might get into trouble. “You’re going to have to let me through, Scott.”

“No,” Scott says, swallowing visibly. “No, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Something crashes against a wall inside the room and someone yells. Scott winces. “Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s a bad idea.”

“Scott,” John says, lacing his voice with equal amounts of disapproval and disappointment. 

“No really!” Scott says, sounding desperate. “Going in there is just about the last thing we should do. In fact, why don’t we go back to your office and call… mom. Let’s call my mom.” Scott moves away from the door, placing a hand on John’s upper arm and attempting to steer him back down the hallway towards his office. It’s not the best plan, really, but John can give the kid credit for trying. It only takes him a moment to shrug Scott’s well-meaning hand off and take the two steps to the door, pulling out his service pistol and opening the door, waiting for it to swing open on its own rather than charging in like his instincts are telling him to. 

Scott is right beside him by the time John sees what’s inside, and he’s probably the only thing that stops John from emptying his clip right into the… the thing. It has looks like someone is wearing a bad Halloween mask with snap on canine extensions and yellow contacts. And stick-on claws. And ears. And John might even be tempted to believe that’s what this is, except for the way it turns and growls at him, baring its teeth snarling in way that no human could mimic. 

Scott’s hand is on his arm, forcing his gun back to his side before John even realizes he has the gun trained on the creature and his finger on the trigger.

“It’s okay,” Scott says, his grip tightening as John’s muscles try to pull the gun up again in response to the creature turning towards Stiles’s cell. “He’s contained.”

“I can see that,” John replies, strained. Because yes, he can see that Stiles is trapped. “I need to get him out.”

Shaking his head, Scott replies. “No, Stiles is fine. The werewolf is trapped.”

“Werewolf,” John repeats, trying to take that in even as he processes the fact that Scott just said it was trapped in a room with an open door and his son.

“Yeah,” Scott says, nodding his head like this is something he deals with every day. “Stiles lined the room with mountain ash. The werewolf is trapped.”

“Mountain ash,” John says, and it’s more of a statement than a question, but Scott answers anyway.

“Yeah, mountain ash,” he points at the floor to a line of black dust crossing over the threshold and continuing around the edge of the room. If John squints, he thinks he can see the black line crossing in front of Stiles’s cell too. As he watches, the thing (werewolf) roars and charges at the small window where he can see Stiles’s hair sticking up above the bottom edge. 

“Stiles!” John yells, surging forward only to be held back by Scott. The werewolf swipes its claws at the door, but John doesn’t hear the screech of nails on metal and the door remains unscratched. The werewolf howls in rage and flings itself at the door, once again failing to connect with its target.

“It’s a barrier to werewolves, we can’t cross it. It really is trapped. Stiles is safe, and we’re safe. And now we really need to call for backup.”

“We can’t cross it?” John is almost proud that it comes out as a question this time.

“Scott!” Stiles’s voice yells from inside the cell. “You’d better be done with your part of the plan if you’re standing there talking!”

“Sorry!” Scott shouts back, pulling out his phone long enough to send a quick text message to someone before looking up to address John again. “We should probably, um. Wait. For the backup to get here.”

“The backup,” John says, beginning to accept the fact that the werewolf can’t get to Stiles. He’s starting to feel useless, like all he can do is repeat everything Scott says.

Scott looks a little guilty at that. “Um, yeah. Werewolf backup.”

“You’re bringing in a werewolf. To fight a werewolf. Who is trying to kill my son. Because werewolves are real.” John says slowly, trying processing each bit of information as he says it. He thinks he does a fairly good job too, because knowing he’s been blind to the fact that werewolves and black fairy dust and possibly even magic are real for forty odd years is a tough pill to swallow.

“Yes?” Scott phrases it as a question. 

“Explain.”

“I… um. Think that might be better left to Stiles?” Scott says, the lift in his voice at the end of the sentence making it more of a plea than a question. John knows that Stiles will probably tell him, now that the cat’s out of the bag, but he needs to be sure about one thing first. 

“So the murders. Were done by werewolves?”

“Yes!” Scott agrees immediately. Then he pauses and ducks his head. “Well, mostly. They were all done by supernatural creatures of the night though. And Matt.”

“Matt actually was a serial killer?”

“Yeah, but he was controlling the kanima and using it to kill people,” Scott says, appearing pleased that John understands. He’s clearly gotten the wrong impression, because John understands less than he did ten minutes ago, and ten minutes ago he was convinced that his son was a murdering sociopath. 

“When we get my son out of here, the two of you are going to sit down and explain everything from the beginning. No details left out.”

Scott nods fervently in agreement. “We will, definitely. But first we need to fix this.”

“We could have fixed this sooner if you’d let me know when you were coming over here,” a new voice says from around the corner. John whips around to see who it is, and he’s not sure why he bothers to be surprised when Derek Hale walks into view. 

“Of course,” John sighs to himself. 

Hale ignores him, fixing his gaze on Scott instead. “You should have called me before you came.”

Scott rolls his eyes and holds up his hands in the irritated but placating manner natural to teenagers everywhere. “I would have, but you’d have tried to come in with me and you would have ruined everything.”

“I wouldn’t have involved the Sheriff,” Hale snaps. He doesn’t look dangerous like this, just exasperated, a feeling with which John is well acquainted. Hale raises his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Get the Sheriff home. Stiles and I will take care of this.”

“No,” John says, his voice firm. This isn’t something he’s willing to back down on. “My son is trapped in there with a… werewolf. I’m not leaving him alone.”

“It’s safer with you gone,” Hale says shortly, dismissing John’s concerns out of hand. 

“I’m not leaving,” John replies, ready to go head to head with anyone (even a potential werewolf) who would try to keep him from helping his son. 

A warm hand lands on his upper arm, and he feels Scott gently pulling him away from the door. “Sheriff, we really should go. Stiles has to break the barrier for Derek to get in, and it’s safer for everyone if the Omega only has one threat to go after.”

“One threat like my son,” John says vehemently, shrugging off Scott’s hand and checking to make sure he has a bullet chambered in his pistol. 

“One threat like an Alpha werewolf,” Scott says pleadingly, scurrying around to block John from going to the doorway. 

“An Alpha werewolf?” John says, directing the question at Hale. Hale tenses, but turns to face John, his eyes glowing read and fangs extending over his lower lip. “You’re sure you can take it?”

“Yes,” Hale growls out, the s sliding messily through his fangs. John sighs and accepts that he isn’t going to win this round, showing his surrender by holstering his gun.

“I expect you and Stiles in my office as soon as he’s safe. And I do not expect to see any property damage.” John holds out the keys to the cell, watching as Hale pockets them and nods in agreement. “Are we clear?" 

"Clear,” Hale agrees. “Now go.”

This time John lets Scott lead him back to his office without any fuss. John settles back into his chair and picks up his pen, staring idly at the paperwork littering his desk. It had been a good way to distract him earlier, but now his mind is buzzing with too much new information for the sheets to be anything other than clutter. A roar sounds from the back of the station, and Scott whines a little, curling in on himself. 

“What was that? What’s going on?” John asks, instantly concerned for Stiles. 

“Derek,” Scott replies, his eyes fixed on the floor, refusing to meet John’s.

“Is it a good sign?”

“Yeah. He roared the Omega into submission. This is the easy part.”

“The easy part,” John says dubiously. The easy part of what, is the first question that springs to mind, but he doesn’t think Scott will tell him that yet. So he asks the other question that’s been nagging at him since they left Derek at the door to lock up. “What are they going to do with it?”

Scott shrugs, like he knows more than he’s letting on. “They’ll restrain him and take him somewhere outside Beacon Hills.”

Relief washes over John as he realizes this means nobody will be dying in his station today, but he also knows it essentially means they’re making this werewolf someone else’s problem. “This werewolf has killed people though. Isn’t letting it go dangerous?”

Looking uncomfortable, Scott shrugs again. “A little, but submitting to Derek will influence him and let the human side come back. Also, the hunters know about where he’s going.”

“Hunters?” John questions. “Werewolf hunters?”

“It’s… uh… a long story,” Scott says, his face morphing from uncomfortable to distressed. 

“Fine,” John says, relaxing back into his chair and holding his hands up placatingly. “I’ll wait until Stiles is here and question him about it.”

“Thanks,” Scott mumbles to the floor, looking more relieved than he has any right to be. John might be planning to grill Stiles for information, but Scott is going to get his turn on the hot seat too. He’s been around Scott and his son for far too long not to realize when they’re neck deep in something together. 

His thoughts are interrupted by the door swinging open and Stiles marching into the office. 

“Thanks for coming on time, buddy,” he says sarcastically to Scott. “It’s not like I had him in there with me for hours before you showed up or anything.”

“Hey,” Scott says, looking wounded. “I got you the mountain ash, didn’t I? And I got you out.”

Stiles subsides looking slightly chagrined, and he laughs at Scott. “Yeah, you did. And dude, the extended hug to let me snatch the mountain ash packet? So not subtle.”

Scott huffs, but he’s smiling underneath it. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Stiles, come back,” comes a voice from just outside the door. And does Hale always do that? Addressing people before he actually enters the room? “I haven’t checked you out yet.”

“Dude,” Stiles says, waving a hand over his shoulder. “I’m fine. Totally fine. I don’t even have any handcuff marks, see?”

Hale grumbles and reaches for Stiles’s wrist, holding it gently as he checks to be sure Stiles is telling the truth. John looks on speculatively and thinks that maybe his original assessment about Stiles getting involved in this to impress Hale wasn’t too far off the mark. 

After a thorough investigation of Stiles’s hands and wrists and a very unsubtle sniff at his neck, Hale (you need to get used to calling him Derek now John’s inner voice taunts him) steps back. “You’re fine.”

John sees his opportunity to jump in. “You may be fine, but you are also grounded.”

“But Dad-”

“You have been lying to me for over half a year, running around on your own, putting yourself in danger, and hiding the fact that werewolves are real,” John says, giving Stiles a stern look. “We are going home, ordering the greasiest pizza in town, and then you are going to tell me everything. Absolutely everything.”

“But-”

“And if you expected anything else, I’ll send you in to have your head checked.”

Stiles aggressively rolls his eyes and moves to stand by the door. “Fine, but can Scott come with us?”

“Stiles!” Scott yelps, his eyes going wide.

“I wouldn’t dream of excluding him,” John says smoothly. “In fact, I think we might even want to invite Melissa over to enjoy dinner as well, don’t you think?”

Hale (Derek) nods from where he’s standing in the doorway. “That might be a good idea. She knows what’s going on.”

John turns to Scott, an indignant look on his face. “Your mother knows, but you didn’t tell me?”

It’s Stiles who answers, jumping to the defense of his best friend. “She kind of found out by accident? We didn’t want to get either of you involved.”

“Clearly,” John replies dryly. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. Derek is going to finish whatever it is that needs to be done.” Derek nods stiffly at him and lets his gaze slide over Scott and Stiles one last time before stalking out the door in the direction of the holding cells. John figures the less he knows about what Derek is doing the better. “And you two will be coming home with me and we will go over everything in excruciating detail. And then Scott can go home and you,” he jabs a finger at Stiles, “will be helping me come up with a good reason as to why you aren’t in the holding cell anymore.”

“Yes, sir,” Scott mumbles. 

“Sounds great,” Stiles agrees sarcastically, although he seems happy enough to go along with it for now. 

John will take what he can get, knowing that whatever Stiles plans to do to get out of his grounding will be dealt with after he’s been home long enough to officially be grounded. “Good. I’ll take you home in the cruiser, and Scott can follow us. We’ll pick up the jeep tomorrow.”

Scott and Stiles tumble out of the door, and John hears Stiles muttering something to Scott about not wanting to leave his baby to the not-so-tender mercies of vengeful Alphas who are pissed at having to rescue him from jail. John smiles to himself, shaking his head. Werewolves aren’t something he could have predicted, and probably aren’t something he’s going to be thrilled about Stiles being involved with. But it’s better than drugs or gangs or cults, and it’s certainly better than murder. 

And it means John was right about one thing; he does have time to repair his relationship with Stiles. And he’s going to make the most of his second chance.