She was born to be a paratrooper, she could feel it in her bones. Grace Morris knew from the moment she entered the barracks that this was home, this was where she was meant to be.

It's just after his eighteenth birthday when Stiles comes to him, hot and hard and practically begging. His hands are white-knuckled, gripping the steering wheel too tight and Derek doesn't have to be a werewolf to know what this is about.

Deaton had told them that a door would be opened and Stiles had pictured flames, searing flesh, and blood-spattered walls. He imagined shackled wrists and ankles, electrocution, and wailing moans. Instead what he got was darkness.

Sam stalks forward and presses his hands against the wall beside either side of Dean's head. He leans in close, sucking up the air blowing out of Dean's lips. His brother freezes like a deer in headlights, and he can practically feel the thump of his heart against his chest.

His words slide over chapped lips and a devious tongue, and you're not quite sure why your heart is thumping so quickly. It's dangerous, really, and you bite back the urge to wrap your hands around him. He is the devil wrapped up in a man, and you have to see more. He is the first and last sin carved into splintered bone, and you have to repent.