"What the hell," Derek freaking Hale snarls at him, looking devastatingly charming in his bad boy leather chic, eyebrows furrowed and freaky eyes glowing blue.

Glowing. Blue.

Stiles drops the ratty old book he'd bought at the half-price bookstore with a surprised squeak. "Oh my god," he exhales, eyes going wide as saucers. "It worked."

Derek prowls around the inside of Stiles' crudely drawn mountain ash pentagram, nails frighteningly sharp and teeth elongated to points, growl resonating deep from within his diaphragm. "Why am I here," he roars. "What have you done." His eyes flash a brilliant blue once more as he hunches his shoulders forward, the movement clenched and hostile. "Answer me," he demands.

Stiles gapes, simultaneously intrigued and two seconds from pissing himself. "I didn't think it'd work," he chokes out hysterically. "I was just bored—magic isn't real!" And yeah, okay, so he's panicking. He's totally freaking out. But, given the situation, he thinks he's quite allowed to flip out about the fact that Derek Hale has magically appeared in his attic in a puff of white light, has fangs, claws, and eyes that glow. Seriously, they glow! What the actual hell?

"You have got to be kidding me," Derek snarls even as his shoulders relax. His pointy teeth and scary claws remain, unfortunately.

"This is a dream," Stiles says nonsensically. "Some really weird fantasy that I will never, ever, tell anyone about cause dude, my subconscious is on drugs and not the fun kind."

This only seems to further piss Derek off. "You're not dreaming," he says through clenched teeth, flexing his claws menacingly.

"You're not ... human?" Stiles says slowly, his voice hitching upward in pitch, questioning, as he stares at Derek with thinly disguised curiosity. His wary interest is winning out against the confused panic ebbing away at his brain, it seems.

"You don't say," Derek mocks, baring his teeth.

"Then what the hell are you?" Stiles asks, barely keeping himself from facepalming. Don't poke the snarling human-beast, he reminds himself.

Derek settles on glaring mutely at him.

Stiles crosses his arms stubbornly. He's not afraid. He's not.

Derek's lips pull back in a soundless snarl.

Okay, so, maybe he's a little scared. But only a little.

Stiles sighs dramatically. "Look," he says, pressing his fingers to his forehead and then thrusting them outwards as if to make a point, "I found a that shitty book," he points at the worn book sitting innocuously on the floor, "in the used book store. I thought, heh, magic, that's utter bullshit—great way to spend my Saturday evening." He pauses, swallowing as he dares to sneak a peek at Derek.

And yup, still glaring. Awesome.

Derek makes an angry, jerking, go on motion.

"So I uh, tried one of the phony spells," Stiles says and wow, his throat is really, suddenly very dry. "And poof. Magic is real. Derek Hale is some sort of super creature. Good to know."

Derek frowns. "You know my name," he says suspiciously.

Stiles throws his hands up. "Dude—what? That's really off topic. Everyone knows your name! You're not exactly inconspicuous with your flashy car, usual aviators, and leather jacket. It's like you walked out of a really horrible romance novel"—oh, scary glare is back—"of course I know who you are!"

"Don't call me dude," Derek rumbles grouchily.

"Stiles," he says, figuring since he already knows Derek's name, he might as well offer his own in return.

Derek's face twists in confusion. "What is that."

Stiles glares. "My name, dude. Wow, has anyone ever told you that you suck and casual conversation cause let me tell you"—he inhales sharply at Derek's pointed glare—"shutting up. Shutting up now."

Derek appears to deflate slightly. "Stiles," he says, rolling Stiles' name off his tongue as if it has a bitter aftertaste. He seems to realize something, though. "Stilinski. You're the Sheriff's son."

It's not a question, but Stiles answers anyway. "Uh, yeah, that would be me," Stiles manages, feeling suddenly weak at the knees.

Derek eyes him and seems to relax fully; his claws start to retreat to normal looking human hands, the fangs disappear, and he no longer looks like some really horrible Hollywood werewolf.


Stiles eyes widen. "You're a werewolf," he sputters, taking himself—and Derek—by surprise. "Aw, man, how are werewolves even a thing?" He looks at Derek just in time to see him stiffen. "Oh shit, I'm not supposed to know that, am I?"

Derek glares. "Undo the Circle," he demands.

"No," Stiles refuses stubbornly.

"Undo the circle. Now. Or I'll rip out your throat," Derek snarls, "with my teeth."

"Dude, that is so not going to help convince me to let you, the scary werewolf, out of the creepy pentagram circle," Stiles says, waving his hand nonchalantly. "I mean, seriously. Tact, man, you could use some."

"Stiles," Derek growls, eyes pulsing bright blue.

"Okay, okay! Sheesh!" Stiles exclaims, exasperated, as he steps forward, harried and harassed, to rub a line through the mountain ash with the tip of his foot.

Derek's over the broken line in a flash, pressing Stiles up against the dusty planks of his attic wall with a surprisingly gentle grip. Stiles blinks and finds Derek's attractive face way too close to his own. "I should kill you," Derek snaps, but there is no heat behind the words; it's an empty threat.

"I just told you my dad is the Sheriff," Stiles reminds him, words muttered quickly, desperate in his cockiness. "Killing me in his attic would be a little more than moronic." Not that he believes Derek will kill him. I mean, he's scary, sure, but his bravado doesn't scream murderer. Stiles takes a moment to soak in Derek's manly stubble, two big front teeth, and foreboding stare. Charismatic serial killer is much more of an accurate description.

Derek pushes Stiles against the wall, this time harder, causing a cloud of dust to erupt outwards from within the wall. Stiles coughs horribly, eyes stinging from the sudden onslaught of dust particles. "Oof," he exhales, momentarily winded. As he regains his bearings, Derek merely looks at him with this twisted, constipated expression that Stiles cannot decipher for the life of him. "Uh."

That seems to snap Derek out of whatever weird stare-off contest he's having with Stiles' person. "Tell anyone," he threatens, hands fisting into the thin fabric of Stiles' hideous plaid shirt, "and you'll regret it."

"Mum's the word. Gotcha," he squeaks in reply, heart beating too-fast.

Derek releases Stiles, brushes him off, and seems satisfied with himself as he turns by his booted heel to stalk off. He gets to the door before he doubles over, body convulsing horribly as he screams in pain, wolfing out in between one blink and the next. Stiles lets out a yelp of his own and rushes to the fallen man—wolf—whatever, skidding to a stop and dropping to his feet.

"Man—are you okay?"

The next second, Derek's grabbing Stiles by his shirt—shredding it, really, with his claws—and snarling in his face, eyes flickering from his normal, pretty tri-colored irises to burning, angry blue. "What did you do to me," he hisses, clutching at a phantom pain in his chest.

Stiles gapes like fish. "I—uh, hold on, hold on," he stammers, ripping free of Derek's grasp as he rolls across the floor, scooping up the discarded book, before hurrying back to Derek's side. As he kneels beside Derek, he begins to furiously flip through the pages until he comes to the one he dog eared earlier that day.

Derek seizes him by the wrist before he can completely focus on the words. Stiles looks at him, surprised. Derek's frowning, pressing at his skin with an odd, confused expression. "The pain," he monotones. "It stopped."

"That's... good?" Stiles tries skeptically.

Derek glares, brows pinched, and jaw rigid. "You're going to figure out what you did to me or I'll—"

"Rip out my throat. Right. Don't you have any other insults? It's been like ten minutes and that one is already old," Stiles snorts, lips twisting into a teasing smile.

Derek smacks him on the back of his head.

"Ow! What—"

"Find out. What you. Did. To me," Derek orders, eyes spelling murder.

"Pushy, gees," Stiles complains, frowning as he grumbles to himself and returns his attention to the ninety-nine cent book that's proving to be anything but a bargain. Derek gets to his feet and looms over him with what Stiles is beginning to recognize as his trademark scowl and glare. It makes the back of Stiles' neck prickle, having Derek's intense gaze focused solely on him. He chooses to ignore it and instead lets his eyes wander across the dog eared page.

Familiars, and other personal demons or spiritual companions, the title reads. Stiles spares a glance at Derek, whose eyebrows climb up angrily on his face like some sort of scary caterpillars.

He forces himself to look away and back at the page.

…every young witch or warlock must, in a time after puberty, perform the ritualistic summoning and bonding of their familiar, personal demon or spiritual companion. Familiars serve as guides, helpful, clever creatures of great power that assist a young witch or warlock as they come into their power.


"Uh," Stiles says, swallowing thickly, suddenly cotton mouthed. "Um."

He can practically hear Derek grit his teeth. "Spit it out," he snaps, patience waning.

"Don't get mad," Stiles begins slowly, "but I think I'm a warlock."

Derek's eyebrow twitches, but he doesn't roll his eyes. Stiles finds himself oddly proud of Derek's restraint.

He laughs nervously. "Which you probably already figured out." Cool. Awesome, the hot neighborhood werewolf knows what he is before he does. Stiles wonders hysterically how this has become his life. He should have left that damn book to rot in the bottom of the bargain bin.

"Yeah," Derek prods gruffly. "And."

"About that...," Stiles scratches the back of his neck, heart fluttering in an irregular rhythm. "We, uh, I, actually, I need a," he coughs to cover up the next word, "familiar."

Derek does not look pleased. "What."

Stiles pulls his lips back for into an apprehensive smile as he squints his eyes. "A familiar," he repeats, tensing up.

For one long, strained moment, Derek merely stares at him. The tension fills the room like a thick fog, encasing them, and making Stiles feel like he can't breathe. When a minute stretches into a five, Stiles is quite certain he's broken Derek. "Uh," he starts, "did you hear me?"

And just like that, Derek looks like rage personified. "Reverse it," he orders, yanking Stiles to his feet, causing him to stumble backwards and almost topple over. Derek pushes him towards the silly, makeshift desk where the herb's he'd bought rest. "Now."

"Hey, hey, woah, down there Cujo—I just found out I'm a 'warlock' ten minutes ago, if you'd recall!" Stiles grumbles, shaking off Derek's fist angrily as he turns to glare at him.

"I said now," Derek repeats dangerously and okay, yup, the fangs are back.

Stiles, however, finds he's no longer scared of Derek and his empty threats. Well, mostly. "I don't know how," he yells back, incredibly peeved. "I don't know even know how I managed it in the first place!"

Derek looks like he's one word out of Stiles' mouth away from committing homicide. Which, Stiles would very much like to keep his head, thanks. Instead of gutting Stiles like he really probably wants to, Derek snatches the book from his hands, slams it down on the makeshift desk and thrusts his pointer finger at it. "Then figure it out." And just like that, he's grabs the only chair in the place, slams it against the floorboards, sits down on it, and scowls at Stiles as if the mattered is settled.

"Fine," Stiles snaps, turning away from him and glaring down at the book.

An hour later, Derek hasn't let up on the broody glaring, and Stiles has found exactly nothing. He's so screwed. He's going to become a werewolf's chew toy. Man, his day was so much better earlier when he thought magic was a hoax and werewolves something only shitty teen shows on MTV were about.

"Well?" Derek questions, his stupidly expressive eyebrows bobbing.

Stiles scratches the back of his neck nervously. "Er," he begins. "I'm still working on it?"

Derek purses his lips, furrows his brows, and gets up out his chair so fast it momentarily disorients Stiles. He snatches the book out of Stiles hands and glares at it as if he can spontaneously light it on fire with his gaze, which—"Can you light stuff on fire with you mind?"

What, It's an honest question.

Derek side-glares at him as if he's single-handedly responsible for world hunger and tightens his grip on the book. "Where did you get this," he demands instead of answering Stiles' very valid question.

Stiles eyes thin to slits. "Dude, we've been over this. Were you listening to anything I was saying while I explained how holy shit magic is real and oh my god Derek Hale is in my attic?"

Derek snorts, but doesn't look at him. "No."

"You are the worst villain ever," Stiles complains, throwing his hands up dramatically.

Derek rolls his eyes. "Book," he says, snapping the back of his hand against it, "where did you get it."

"Bargain bin," Stiles shrugs, "Half-Priced Books."

Derek's expression sours exponentially.

Stiles nods along. "I know man, totally not a bargain at all."

He thinks Derek almost smiles but it's a near thing and no matter how much he squints he's still not sure if he imagined it or not. Derek stares at the book, a considering expression slotting into place. "We're leaving," he orders simply.

Stiles gawks at him. "We?"

Derek turns his body to face Stiles, rolls his shoulders in annoyance and glares. "Yes," he says, toned clipped. "We."

At least he's not doing that growly, I'm a scary werewolf face. Small miracles, people.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Stiles tells him stubbornly. "I don't know you."

"I promise not to rip out your throat," he says dryly, smirk curling upwards on his lips. And woah, was that a joke?

"Because that is always persuasive," Stiles retorts, sarcasm laced within every syllable. "Look buddy, I feel like I just dropped into some lame ass episode of Supernatural wherein I'm apparently a warlock with the ability to summon a werewolf familiar. Which, no offense dude, but you are not exactly the sexy shewolf I would have preferred."

All traces of humor flee from Derek's face and are, instead, replaced by a seriously scary scowl. "I didn't ask to be magically summoned by some punk kid who has no idea what he's doing," Derek informs Stiles with an impressively dour expression.

"Guess we're both shit out of luck then," Stiles says airly, leaning up against his pathetic excuse for a workbench. "Because I'm still not going anywhere with you."

Derek opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and then exhales air forcibly out through his nose, going for angry and missing by a mile. Stiles blinks, 'cause, seriously, is Derek pouting? It would be hilarious if Derek wasn't also looking at Stiles as if he's plotting his early demise. Derek sighs, an irritated little huff of air, and frowns. "I can't leave without you," he says tightly, clearly vexed by this fact.

Stiles narrows his eyes, weighing his options. "Right," he nods amicably, "agonizing pain. I can see why you wouldn't want to repeat that particular performance."

Derek makes the most put-upon, annoyed expression of all mankind, and wolfkind too, he supposes. "Which is why," he repeats impatiently, "you need to come with me." Derek pauses a beat to simply stare Stiles into submission. It doesn't work, which only serves to further annoy the werewolf. "There's a man named Deaton. He can help us," he pauses, before tacking on grumpily, "probably."

"Well, that is certainly encouraging," Stiles quips, expression unimpressed.

"He's the only one I know who can fix this," Derek snaps, jaw clicking. "So do you want to go to him or wait for your father, the Sheriff, to get home?"

Stiles considers this. "You make a good argument, young padawan."

Derek stares at Stiles as if he's some sort of weird alien life form. It's better than the glaring. Stiles beams. "Right then, we best get going."

Derek eyes him skeptically. "Are you even old enough to drive."

This time it's Stiles' turn to roll his eyes. "Dude, I'm seventeen."