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Monster Out in You

Summary:

Stan is a werewolf.

He does not want to be a werewolf.

He makes this everyone else's problem. Brotherly bonding ensues.

Notes:

Had a super hard time tagging this so they may be subject to change. Apologies there!

Anyways, I wanted to write something for the Halloween season and werewolf Stan immediately popped into my mind. I just think he's neat. This first chapter was a struggle (they always are for me) but I'm aiming to get everything wrapped up by the end of October, but no promises because I know myself. Also, yes, the title is from the Alvin and the Chipmunks movie. No, I am not ashamed.

Please enjoy, mwah!

Chapter 1

Notes:

Had a super hard time tagging this so they are very barebones and will be subject to change. Apologies there!

Anyways, I wanted to write something for the Halloween season and Werewolf Stan was the first thing that came to mind. This first chapter was a struggle, but so far, the next one hasn’t been too hard. Hopefully I can get everything finished up by the end of October but no promises because I know myself.

Please enjoy, mwah!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Stan swears that he has a plan. It’s not a particularly thought out plan, (he was never good at thinking), but it was a plan.

Break the decade-long silence between him and Stanford and ask for help.

And that was it. Well, obviously there was how he was gonna get there (the Stanleymobile) and when (in a week’s time– before the next full moon) but past that, he put no thought into it. He couldn’t, because he couldn’t risk chickening out at the last second.

He hadn’t even called ahead. That is how dedicated he was to not thinking about The Plan.

It wasn’t because he was nervous to speak to his brother. At most he was just… skeptical. Ford was a self-serving asshole at the best of times, and there was no doubt in Stan’s mind that he’d rub his plea for help in his face for the rest of his stay in Oregon– if he let him stay at all.

Which he would. He had to. He was an unusualologist after all, and– if Stan knew his brother– a prideful one at that. He would jump at the chance to have a live subject to report on. And Stan was the only person he knew to have– what he had. So that must mean Ford would help him out, even if just because he’d get to slap his name as lead researcher. Hell, maybe he already was an expert on this kind of thing. He probably had loads of dumb nerd books that explained at least seven different ways to cure Stan’s problem, ready to go and eager to put them to the test.

Before he even left that morning, he had convinced himself that Ford would have a cure whipped up by the time he got comfortable.

But, two hours into the intimidatingly long car ride there and that hope was dwindling fast. Stan’s mind reeled at the possibility that Ford would say no, or that there was no cure, or he wouldn’t make it on time and have to suffer through another full moon–

He clenched his jaw. Remember Stan, don’t think about The Plan.

That rhymed.

Now forcing himself to ignore– well, himself– Stan heard more than felt his stomach rumble. Great, just what he needed. Damn curse (or infection? He wasn’t sure) making him so ravenous all the time. He’d nearly eaten up a month’s worth of food budget in just a week alone. Between gas and keeping himself fed, no wonder his bank account tanked.

Just another reason to be cured as fast as possible.

Not that he needed much more convincing. His life had become ten times more difficult in the last year and a half that he had been living as a– well it didn’t need to be said. He hated saying it, even to himself. It sounded stupid, something that Ford would come up with to explain howling at night rather than admitting that their neighbor's dog was just a nightmare to live next to. But the lack of a name didn’t mean he could ignore it. If the transformations once a month weren’t enough, the excess hair growth (annoying by the way, he could never keep a clean shave, perpetually having a five o’clock shadow), noise sensitivity, and sudden allergy to chocolate were. Plus, everywhere he went there was a very obvious increase in household pets and local wildlife being torn into by what the news usually dubbed as a terror to the community. There was no other explanation, but Stan would be damned if he dignified it with a label. So he didn’t. He just focused on driving.

The highway he had taken was close enough to a city that he could see some fast food restaurant’s sign glow against the early morning sky enticingly. He should just power through, before this whole mess he would have been more than able to, but the temptation was too much. Besides, he’ll be able to focus on not focusing if he had a full belly.

He merged without using his signal (it was broken anyway, had been for a while, but the only people who use those are nerds and hippies. Stan was neither) and pulled off towards the greasy burger joint.

It had to be local. It wasn’t any brand that Stan recognized, and he prided himself (not really) on his frequency at fast food places all around the world. But it didn’t matter. If you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all.

A squeaky voice crackled over the speaker and Stan hardly glanced at the menu before he ordered. His stomach wanted more than he could afford, so he settled on two plain burgers and told himself to suck it up. The speaker garbled out his total– way too much but whatever– and he pulled around.

His mouth began to water before he was handed his food. He could smell the kitchen, even from inside his car. He hated it. He hated slobbering like a dog and not being able to control himself, but that’s why he was going to Stanford. That’s why he wouldn’t think about The Plan.

Some teenager handed him his food and Stan was unwrapping it before he got back onto the road. Some may call that distracted driving, but he knew what he was doing. He was a great driver.

Swerving out of the way of a stop sign before he plowed it over, Stan exited back onto the main highway with only some honking and flipping off from his irate fellow drivers. He tore off the bun of his plain burger, tossing it to the side for future him to deal with. He felt like a weirdo, or maybe a monster, as he did so. These days, he only ever craved meat. If he were braver, he’d just order five patties and be done with it– would probably be cheaper that way– but something deep inside him that felt like pride (what little he still held onto, at least) refused to let him. He could only imagine the kind of things those snotty teenagers working the grills would call him. And honestly, he would deserve it. What kind of person would order just straight beef? Some kind of–

The word freak lingered just on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t dare to even think it. Years of schoolyard taunts had ruined the word for him. Now, it only brought visions of six fingers and broken glasses. Something that was just too painful most days to linger on.

He sunk his teeth down onto the mediocre patty, his tastebuds singing and stomach finally shutting up for once. Give it an hour, and it’d start right back up, but for the time being, Stan was satisfied. It was the small things in life.

He hadn’t even fully swallowed his last bite of patty before he got restless again. The town that Ford decided to hunker down in wasn’t exactly well known. It took forever for him to find a map that even listed Gravity Falls as one of the towns in Roadkill County– whatever kind of name that was. Stan hazarded a glance down at his map, stopped at a red light and drumming his fingers in a mindless pattern on his steering wheel. There was always the possibility that he could get lost on the way there. Or that Ford had moved and hadn’t informed anyone. Stan (and he would if he were smarter, or braver, or less stubborn) should call ahead and make sure.

But the very thought made his stomach turn with anxiety. If he called ahead, then Ford could turn him down. And that would ruin the simplicity of The Plan. It’s better to take his chances in person. At least then Ford would have to look him in the eye while he ruined the last small chance he had at having his normal life back.

A car behind him honked impatiently. The light had turned green. Sticking his middle finger out the window and shoving his leftovers under his passenger seat, Stan stepped on his gas and hunkered down to endure another however many hours of endless driving.

It was all going to work out, he assured himself, it had to. He had a week. He would make it. He would cure himself. He wouldn’t think about The Plan and everything would be ok.

 

***

 

Ok, so nothing was going according to The Plan.

It was so simple! So easy that even an idiot like him couldn’t have screwed it up! But somehow Stan had managed to run into a few former “friends” and knock himself so off course that he was passing the cheerful ‘Welcome to Gravity Falls!’ sign with only the rest of the day before the next full moon. 

Great, just absolutely fucking wonderful.

He growled– made a sound of frustration and gripped his steering wheel harder. He’d just have to be quick. It couldn’t be that hard to find Ford’s house, he had his address and everything. Ma had been overjoyed when he called. He didn’t want to think about how sad she sounded when he hung up not five minutes later.

He shook his head. Focus. Time was not on his side. 

His head was on a swivel as he drove down the roads of Gravity Falls. It was the definition of a backwater town: small and sleepy with maybe three businesses interspersing uninteresting homes with uninteresting people living inside of them. At least the woods were thick. Just in case he had to make a run for it.

But he wouldn’t need to. He was going to find Ford’s house because a diner styled restaurant called Greasy’s came into view, perfect for any lost traveler to ask for directions.

 

***

 

The bell above Greasy’s front door jingled pleasantly as Stan pushed his way inside. It was small, with a few booths lining against the wall opposite from their breakfast bar, and a couple of curious patrons craned their necks to get a look of the new guy that just barged into their local spot.

He sat down at the bar with a huff, joints stiff. Damn moon, it couldn’t wait until nighttime to start being a pain in his ass? 

He glowered hard enough that most other customers politely looked away. Good. He didn’t want to talk to them.

A waitress in a pink uniform walked over to him, her smile bright, “Hello!” she greeted, acrylic nails tapping against the countertop, “Coffee?”

“No thanks. Do you know where Gopher Road is?”

The diner went so silent you could hear a pin drop. The waitress– her name tag read Susan– blinked at him and her smile went tight.

“Why’re you askin’, stranger?”

“I need to see the guy that lives there.”

Her smile dropped, “You know it’s not all that safe up there. That guy does all sorts of weird sciency stuff,” she hummed before her eyes took an interested glimmer, “Unless you’re a scientist too?”

“No, I’m not. I just need to talk to him.”

“You’re working with that scientist up on Gopher Road?” a man who had previously been sipping on a cup of coffee a few seats down from Stan perked up, “I always wondered what he was doing up there. You got any fun stories to share?”

Susan gasped, “Ooh, yeah! I love fun stories. Please do share!”

“I don’t,” Stan insisted sharply, “I just need to talk to him. Do you know where he is or not?”

“But,” a woman sitting at a booth piped up, “If you’re not a scientist, then why would you need to talk to him?”

“Yeah, that seems awfully suspicious. You from the government?”

“Oh my god! I bet he’s from the government! He’s here to shut that science guy down for good!”

Susan’s jaw went slack and turned to Stan with a conspiratorial whisper, “If you do shut him down, Mr. Government Agent, will ya tell me what he has up there? I’d pay just for a glimpse.”

Temper bubbling and then spilling over, Stan slammed his hand onto the wooden counter, “I’m not from the government! Do you hicks know where Gopher Road is or not!?”

The diner was plunged into silence once again.

“So, you’re not from the government?” Susan tilted her head.

“Sweet Moses– no, I am not. I just need directions!”

“Then why would you need to see him if you aren’t trying to shut him down? Nobody ever goes up there,” the man next to him asked.

Stan’s fists were shaking, that’s how hard he was clenching them. This town had to be filled with some of the dumbest people alive. They had maybe thirty seconds to get out of his face before he knocked their jaws clean off–

“He’s my brother. I was supposed to visit him today but I’m kinda running out of time–” he tried to force his words out evenly before the guy next to him spat out his coffee.

You’re brothers with that crazy science guy?

Oh, he was going to lose his mind. He opened his mouth to say something horrible, not totally sure what yet, when Susan leaned forward and jabbed her manicured nail in front of his face.

“I knew you looked familiar! You guys could be twins!” she screeched so loud that it made Stan jolt and his ears ring. He grunted, covering them and squeezing his eyes shut to stop the onslaught of pain. Did he ever mention how much he hated full moons?

When he finally looked up and uncovered his ears, Susan’s eyebrows were furrowed in concern, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he coughed, ears burning with embarrassment, “Do you know where it is or not?”

She glanced away from him, expression going unsure, “I don’t know… people have been reporting weird noises and lights up there… it’s not safe–”

“I don’t care,” Stan snapped, reeling himself back in, he rephrased, “I just need to see him and need some directions. Help a guy out.”

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn ya!” she huffed, “You just go down this road, take a hard left, then another one, keep going straight, a right, and then boom you’ll figure it out from there.”

He blinked, “Sure. Yeah. Thanks.” Those were some of the worst directions he had ever heard.

Susan just grinned and winked. Bleh

He left, making sure to glare at any patrons that eyed him as he did. It was just the result of living in a small town that didn’t see many newcomers, and especially if that newcomer was the brother of a super genius that held weird experiments in the woods, it was bound to be conversation worthy. Usually, Stan would be understanding. 

But he wasn’t feeling understanding, so instead, he took the time to rant to himself in his car.

“God! Are you from the government? OBVIOUSLY NOT. Are these people even from Earth? Did I– did I end up in some weird– dumb– uh– fuck! You know what I mean!” he wasn’t sure who the you he was referring to was, but he didn’t care anymore, “I fucking hate small towns. They all end up being the same: stupid!

 

***

 

A lot of aimless driving later, and Stan was lost. He blamed that waitress; Susan’s instructions were incredibly unhelpful. If anything, Stan was pretty sure he was more lost than he would have been if he just drove around randomly. He was certain that he had passed the same general store three times in a row and the poor Stanleymobile was starting to run low on gas. He’d need to fill up sooner or later. He glanced at his watch. He had the time, surely.

While he waited for his gas to be pumped, Stan had a while to curse his circumstances. It wasn’t his fault that he had arrived so late. On his way to Oregon, he had run into a few of Rico’s buddies and then gotten himself locked in the trunk of his car (not pleasant), not to mention that he frequently ran out of money for food and gas and had to resort to both theft and siphoning– not that he had any moral problems with that, but it sure was inconvenient when you were on a time crunch.

However, it was definitely his fault that it was nearly sunset and he still hadn’t found where the fuck Ford lived. A part of him wanted to blame the town. The roads were unmarked and frequently transitioned (somewhat randomly) into gravel or dirt that made the wheels of his car complain loudly. The entire damn city was laid out like the mayor had gotten high, picked up a pencil, and then declared that the streets would be modeled in the shape of his favorite dinosaur and then all his redneck employees praised his visionary ideas. But he couldn’t, because ultimately, he was the one that spent his last dime waiting impatiently for the prick that ran the only gas station in town to pump his gas for him and the rest of the day driving a wild goose chase that wasted every spare moment he had.

It was starting to get dark, the sun slowly descending past the trees, and the full moon’s influence over him only grew.

Stan turned down a dirt path that he swore he had been down on before, but he wasn’t thinking all that straight anymore. He should abandon ship, park his car somewhere and then run off to the woods so that he didn’t hurt anything– or anyone. But as stated before, he was an idiot, and a stubborn one at that. He had to find his brother’s house. He had to. His skin began to itch as the sun faded beneath the treeline fully and plunged the forest into a late evening twilight. Stan made a left, praying that he was following Susan’s directions well enough to get where he needed to be.

Where was that again? Oh, right, Ford’s house.

Letting out a wordless groan, he smacked his palms against the steering wheel. He was going up an incline now– that was new– and the sky grew darker. A horrible ache began to radiate from his nose and jaw. He should pull over. There wasn’t enough time and he was lost–

Hope reignited in his chest as his eyes blearily made out a wooden sign posted crookedly in the ground, just at the edge of a fork in the road: Gopher Road.

Stan’s heart hammered, saliva pooling in his mouth and threatening to dribble onto his t-shirt. He swallowed, mind going foggy, a single thought pushing its way to the forefront: he was there. He was so close. Ford was going to help him he was going to see his brother he had time he had time he had time.

The Stanleymobile’s tires kicked up clouds of dirt as he sped down the trail. His head pounded. The sky was fully dark now, twinkling stars blinking under puffy clouds. It would have been beautiful.

The full moon glowed brightly. Stan could feel its pull. He panted, body going warm and sweat beading on his forehead. His legs cramped, hard enough to make him cry out and a familiar pressure behind his eyes made it difficult to keep them open. But he had to.

He was almost there.

A voice snarled in the back of his mind. What are you going to do once you get there? It hissed. Eat your brother? You ran out of time.

Stan slammed on his breaks, getting thrown forward as his car squealed with effort to fight against its own inertia. Not that he comprehended any of that. He threw open his door, car still running, and tore off his clothes in pure desperation.

He was itchy itchy itchy and hot and god did his head hurt owowowow his legs his arms make it stop make it STOP– please god make it stop. Stanford please–

Everything went black.

 

***

 

Ford stretched, blinking wearily around at his surroundings. It had been a productive day, the gnomes were conversational enough that he could finish his journal page on them (finally) and he had spent the afternoon inking his sketches. Although his back certainly complained, Stanford himself could not.

He stood from where he had leaned against a tree, gathering his things and starting down the path back home. It wasn’t an ideal time to be heading back. Usually he tried to get back to the cabin before it got dark, purely for safety reasons, but since he wasn’t very deep into the woods, then he’d be fine. Probably.

Best not to dwell on that.

Besides, it was such a beautiful night, he didn’t even need a flashlight. The full moon was bright enough to illuminate the path ahead of him, no supernatural creatures in sight. Ford enjoyed the gentle breeze that ruffled the trees and felt himself relax, the cramping in his back loosening the longer he walked. Up ahead, he could make out the bleary signpost that denoted the road home and sped up. He wasn’t too tired, but he could really do with some food soon. His stomach complained loudly, the last time he ate probably being around morning time. 

(He was a shining example of health.)

The walk to his cabin was a familiar one, with very few anomalies wandering onto it and a lack of traffic from the locals making it so that it was easy for him to space out. He was so lost in thought that it took him entirely too long to realize that he could hear a low rumble, not from an animal, but from a car.

 Ford raised an eyebrow. Just ahead of him, further on down the trail, was a red car with its engine still running, door open wide.

He approached cautiously, the closer he got the more familiar the car seemed. It was definitely an El Diablo, one that had seen better days, it seemed. Its trunk had a weird roughly fist-sized hole that had been duct taped closed, and the red paint on it was scratched horrendously. Its internal components ran just fine though, based off of its still running engine, so whoever was the owner hadn’t run into any car troubles. Ford stepped up to the driver’s side and froze.

“What the devil…?”

There were clothes strewn on the ground, leading in a panicked trail to the edge of the treeline. Ford tsked. It was most likely some teenagers sneaking off to get frisky in the woods and panicking when they heard him. Typical.

“If you’re going to be out here,” he called, agitated and already deciding that he wasn’t going to risk seeing whatever local couple decided to make a lover’s lane out of his driveway, “Then at least make sure you’re somewhere more secluded! Unbelievable.”

He passed up the car, not bothering to close the driver’s side door. That was their problem.

Ford only just made it to the front of the car, muttering to himself about the irresponsibility of the youth, when a different, lower growl cut through the night air. He stopped, brain stuttering, and he turned on his heel to check the hood of the car. The engine still purred smoothly, no smoke billowing from its hood. That hadn’t been from the car, it couldn’t have.

It sounded again, echoing off the trees. A cold shiver ran down Ford’s spine, and he spun around to stare into the dark void that was the woods surrounding him. So maybe it wasn’t a pair of teenage hooligans. Maybe he had miscalculated.

Taking deep breaths and trying to keep calm, his eyes scanned the trees. Facing off against an unknown creature was not ideal, but it was fine. He just needed to find whatever was growling at him. Then he could work on getting back home alive.

It sounded vaguely canine, probably larger in size due to how deep its growl was, and was definitely coming from the woods. Another growl, one that ended in a snarl and the snap of teeth clashing together, and Ford realized that whatever it was had moved from just behind him. It was circling him. He gathered enough courage to actually turn his head (slowly) and just to his right, his eyes caught on the green glow of animal tapetum lucidum glittering back at him. 

It knew it had spotted, it must have, because as soon as their eyes locked it snarled and stepped into the opening clearing of the path.

Definitely nothing local, but Ford had been right when he said it was vaguely canine. Emphasis on vaguely– its quadrupedal form was large and covered in shaggy fur, a short snout pulled back to reveal a row of sharp, shiny teeth. Any other details were lost in the haze his terror, Ford stuck in place and shakily trying to force his legs to move as the creature stared hard at him. It pounded towards him. Ford finally forced himself to leap backwards right as the creature’s jaws snapped forward. It missed him by a hair, and an involuntary scream ripped through his throat. 

There was nowhere to go. There was no way that he’d be able to outrun this thing. He had to think fast. 

It reared its head back and let out a piercing howl. Ford recognized the move. It was about to charge.

Operating on pure adrenaline, Ford’s feet forced him backwards and he stumbled into the car, managing to fumble the door closed right as the beast shot forward. He yelped as it slammed into the side of the car, denting it and causing the whole thing to shake violently, but miraculously not breaking through. It growled restlessly, shaking itself off and sniffing at the car. He cringed at the sound of claws scraping against the metallic outside, gritting his teeth and hunkering down into the seat.

It let out a huff of breath, smacked the door once, and shuffled away. He let out a sigh of relief. No object permanence. Good for him, bad for the beast. Hunting would be incredibly difficult.

There was a heavy thud above his head, an ear piercing screech resounding from the flimsy metal of the El Diablo’s removable top. He had spoken too soon, way too soon. The thing hadn’t given up– it had simply changed strategies. And this one was much more effective. Its claws were quickly making their way through the thin metal sheet and Ford’s heart nearly stopped when he realized that either way– staying put or sprinting from the car– he was going to end up right in front of the beast.

His mind spun, eyes darting around wildly for something, anything, that he could use.

The glove department. Something shiny was sticking out from the glove department. He dove for it, managing to wrap all six fingers around it right as the beast tore its way through the roof. Its metal was cool to the touch, and Ford recognized it for what it was immediately: a revolver. 

He fired up blindly.

The shot connected, the boom of the gun ringing in his ears. The thing howled and fell backwards, its body thumping heavily onto the dirt before it shook itself and ran off, whimpering with each uneven step.

“Oh, thank Moses,” he gasped in lungfuls of air, letting his head fall back and catching a peek at the moon through the clean hole torn through the roof. 

The full moon. 

Ford’s fearful relief morphed into giddy excitement as the puzzle came together in his mind. A full moon, an abandoned car, and a beast that behaved similarly to a wolf? There was no doubt about it.

Stanford Pines had just encountered his first werewolf!

And he was probably in said werewolf’s car, if the scattered clothes were any indication. Straightening up and switching back to scientist mode so suddenly that it made even himself a little dizzy, Ford dug through the trashed fast food wrappers and crumpled up lottery scratchers that covered the passenger side floor for any clues of who this poor soul could be. A local? Not likely, he would recognize this specific model of car even if he didn’t go into town often. It looked exactly like–

Gritting his teeth, Ford focused on the mystery laid out in front of him. The only thing even minorly useful was a farmer’s almanac, the moon cycle section dog-earred and the full moon of the month circled in red marker. He twisted in his seat and peered at the backseats. It was just as messy, covered in old papers and boxes. Whoever this werewolf was had been clearly living in the car for a while, Ford could make out old clothes crumpled in the bottom floor boards and boxes of packed up personal items.

He grunted and forced himself to fit in between the two front seats, torso resting precariously on the middle console. One of the boxes was just in reach to push at with his finger tips, and he managed to turn it around just enough to make out the logo on the front.

Stan Co. A Name you can “Trust”!

Ford reeled back, eyes wide.

That wasn’t right. That couldn’t be right. This wasn’t his car. Whoever this person was was just… a fan of his scammy products. Those people existed. They had to! If Ford had seen gnomes, fairies, living tree people, and sirens in his time living in Gravity Falls then he could also come across a loyal Stan Co. customer.

Yeah, right. He stepped out of the car and slammed the door shut. That was about as likely as him getting married within the year. But he still didn’t want to believe it. This wasn’t his car because… it didn’t have that stupid vanity plate! Aha!

Already patting himself on the back for disproving his own paranoid ramblings, Ford marched around to the back of the car, peering down at the license plate, eyes straining against the dark.

STNLYMBL.

Ford’s stomach dropped.

It was Stanley’s car. Meaning that Stanley was a–

He had just shot at his brother.

If folklore was to be believed, only silver was able to harm a werewolf. So, logically (if that could even be applied to this situation) Stan was fine. Ford scrambled to check the chamber’s bullets. They glinted strangely, definitely not at all like copper. They were silver. Why did a werewolf own a gun capable of firing silver bullets?

Ford cursed, stupid revolver still clutched tightly in his palm, and he shoved it into his inward trench coat pocket as he took off after Stan. His stomach lurched at the name and the fact that he was following his brother’s blood trail, but he had more important things to focus on. Like how the hell Stan was a werewolf, and why he was here, and praying that he hadn’t just killed his twin.

The blood trail steadily led further and further into the woods, deep enough to where Ford had to stomp over low bushes and smack tree branches away from his face. For the first time in his years living in Gravity Falls, he hated its wilderness. He paused periodically to listen for any pained breathing for muffled whimpers, a mantra repeating over and over in his mind: Please don’t be dead. I’ll never forgive myself if you’re dead.

While the blood trail itself stayed steady, the light of the moon was slowly covered up by clouds, plunging the forest in a darkness that smothered any red against the green foliage. Ford was left stumbling around blindly.

What had Stan always said they had? Twin telepathy or some such nonsense. Ford had tested it many times in their youth: could Stan predict what number he thought, could Ford find him in a crowd without calling out, could they finish each other's sentences. Every test failed to show any correlation, and after one too many disappointing attempts, Ford had decided that there was nothing supernatural about the connection between twins.

After the science fair, he had decided there was no connection at all.

But now he was praying that he was wrong. He was going entirely based on luck. It would be so much easier if they had telepathy. Ford wouldn’t have even shot him if he could have intrinsically known that it was Stan–

A low howling caught his attention. He stopped, ears straining against the low whistle of the wind. It sounded again, hushed and pained. He sprinted towards it, trampling the low underbrush, lungs heaving and empty stomach churning.

Curled up between two large trees was a mound of shaggy fur. Its– his– Stan’s chest rose and fell in shallow, shaky breaths. The shot hadn’t killed him, thank god, but it had grazed his side and made movement difficult. Clearly, because as Ford approached, he jolted like he wanted to run off but only managed to scoot himself backwards a meager few inches before slumping back down with a sad whine.

Huh, interesting. His paws weren’t actually paws but instead human hands with nubbed fingers and long claws. Ford made a note to include that in the journal. He shook himself. Not the time.

“Hey, buddy,” he held up his hands as he slowly kneeled just out of his reach, “Please don’t snap at me, I just need to–”

Stan then immediately snapped at him, causing the long shaggy fur hiding his face to be pushed back. Ford gasped, easily dodging the halfhearted attempt to bite him, and stared slack jawed at his brother.

Werewolves, in both stories and more concrete testimonies, had always varied in appearance. Some claimed that they were just large wolves, others completely monstrous. What laid panting in front of Ford was somehow a combination of those two things, more horrifying than legend could ever really say and totally uncanny, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. His brother’s face had elongated, but not completely wolf-like, with his nose shrunken and upturned. The cartilage and skin on his ears had grown but not changed shape or placement, meaning that the useless bits of extra flesh dangled and got lost in the matted hair that grew longer on his head. His face was nearly completely covered in hair, thinner than the rest of his body, and his teeth had sharpened. His posture had very obviously changed to support walking on all fours, and as Ford peered down at the slash where the bullet had grazed, he noticed that his joints had been inverted and stretched to the point of causing nausea.

Taking a steading breath, Ford pushed down any discomfort and soothingly brought his hands up again, “I just want to look at the wound. You biting me isn’t going to help anyone.”

He growled and snapped his jaws again. So there wasn’t any ability to comprehend complex language left after transformation. Great. That would make this ten times more difficult.

Slowly, as to not disturb an angry werewolf that was almost certainly his estranged brother, Ford parted the coarse hair around the wound and waited for Stan to settle back down before getting close enough to actually make out how much damage had been done.

Ford let out a tense, dismayed breath. It was deeper than he’d hoped it’d be. Blood had matted down the surrounding fur and a large gash sliced from right under the curve of Stan’s ribs to right before his spine, nearly right on the fold of his hip. It would make walking difficult. His prodding obviously hurt: Stan’s breathing was hard and his body had a subtle tremor to it that betrayed how badly he wanted to run off. The wound wouldn’t be able to heal on its own. It needed to be clean and bandaged, but that couldn’t be done out in the woods.

He had to find some way to move an irritated and injured werewolf without being bitten or killed.

“Alright,” Ford sighed, sitting back on his heels and eyeing Stan’s horrific face, “I have to move you. Surely you can walk, right? And you won’t try to eat me?”

He didn’t even acknowledge that he had made a sound, eyes half lidded and hazy as they stared off past Ford.

“Oh Moses, you can’t walk. There’s no way I’m going to be able to carry you, how am I going to–” Ford gasped and shot to his feet, “The Stanleymobile! Stay right there! I’ll be right back!”

Stan just whined again and twitched his back legs like he wanted to stand. There was no time to waste, the less that wound was left out the fester, the better. 

Ford sprinted towards where he had left the car, a plan formulating.

 

***

 

Stan didn’t want to move from his spot in the trees. Ford couldn’t blame him. To an animal, being in the cover of the woods was the safest place to be while resting.

But this was extremely inconvenient.

“C’mon, Stan,” he patted his leg like he was calling a puppy, whistling, “I got the car all warmed up and everything.”

How he hadn’t been eaten already was a miracle. Stan only glared, drool streaming down the front of his chin and teeth pulled back. He panted, growling, but still did not stand, even as his front limbs twitched. It was almost as if the metal had a paralyzing effect on him.

Werewolf strength tranquilizers, what an idea.

The Stanleymobile was parked right at the edge of the trees, engine rumbling loud enough that if Ford strained his ears then he could make it out over the whistling summer night wind. It wasn’t a long walk by any means, but it wasn’t feasible for Ford to drag him the entire way. He groaned, shoulders slumping. Stan wouldn’t move. He had to improvise.

He jogged back to the car, jerking open the trunk and rustling through all of the boxes he had haphazardly shoved back there to make room for Stan in the backseat. He needed something to roll him onto, like a tarp. 

Ford would feel bad about the invasion of privacy that riffling through his twin’s stuff was if he had time to care. He pulled a box from the very back and, like an offering from the gods, a bedsheet laid folded on the very top of a pile of skimpy magazines. 

Class act, Stanley, Ford scoffed, but tucked the bedsheet under his arm regardless and slammed the trunk door closed. 

He went to run back to his brother, but stopped. If he tried to push him, Stan would bite; if he tried to pick him up, Stan would bite. He needed to somehow lead him onto the sheet.

It hadn’t failed him before. Ford went up to the front of the Stanleymobile. If his brother had this many odds and ends packed away in his car, then he would have to have some food fit for werewolf consumption.

He dug through the console and the glove box. Nothing but trash and a few spare silver bullets for the revolver. Ford grit his teeth, he might have to go all the way home and back for some meat to bribe him.

Before he resigned himself to that fate: a fast food bag shoved all the way under the seat caught his eye.

“Ha! I’ll never complain about your untidiness again, I swear,” he cheered, picking it up and digging through it. One spare patty, not enough to keep a large werewolf distracted but certainly enough to lead one onto a bedsheet. He couldn’t believe his luck.

Now for round two, this time much more prepared.

Once back in front of his brother, he stretched out the sheet right next to Stan, who was huffing and whining again, no longer focused on his surroundings.

Ford held the patty out in front of him, waving it enticingly, “You hungry, buddy? Need a snack?”

Stan sniffed once. Clumsily, he rolled onto his stomach and then his legs, shakily pushing himself up until he was standing. He wobbled, nearly falling before righting himself and shaking his head like he needed to encourage himself. Then, his head slowly turned and his eyes narrowed on Ford, an animal look of predation crossing his altered features. 

Suddenly, Ford didn’t feel like holding the burger anymore.

He dropped it like it was about to explode, right as Stan lurched forward and crashed onto the sheet, clamping his jaws down onto it. He chewed maybe once, before swallowing and letting his head drop with a heavy thunk. He completely stretched out, ironically a little cat-like, and howled lowly. Definitely still hungry.

“When I get you home, I’ll dress your wounds and feed you,” Ford gathered one end of the sheet in a firm grip, “I promise.”

With all of the strength he could muster, he dragged Stan all the way to the waiting car. The lack of friction against the forest floor helped, but it was far from an easy walk. Ford was sweating by the time he was close enough to help Stan onto the leather seats.

From an outside perspective, loading an injured werewolf was hilarious, but when you were the person doing the said loading? Not so much.

“Ok, just one leg at a time, don’t bite me–” he grunted, gently taking one of Stan’s paws and putting it on the edge of the seat. 

He was not a fan of this. He immediately jerked it back and barred his teeth, drool dripping from his fangs and body shaking from the force it took to keep himself upright. 

Ford was tired of being gentle. That clearly wasn’t going to work.

In one motion, cursing and praying that it wouldn’t kill him, Ford lifted Stan from under his hips– jostling the injury and causing him to yelp– and tossed him onto the back seat, slamming the car door behind him.

Stan’s entire body spasmed with pain, his strange misshapen limbs kicking out. He howled and made a few strange guttural sounds, scratching at the leather of the carseats and head whipping around like he was confused as to where the hurt was coming from. The Stanleymobile rocked from all the moving, but a few moments later, Stan collapsed, tired and hurting, and Ford counted to one hundred in his head before deciding that it was safe enough.

He hopped into the front and sped off, careful to avoid any potholes. He didn’t need to be jostling Stan any more than he already had, the man seemed like he was in a lot of pain, and Ford could only grimace at the occasional pained whine that cut through the silence of the car.

His home wasn’t too much farther. He would fix this.

 

***

 

Stan had clearly gotten worse. He didn’t even stir when Ford pulled up to his cabin and parked The Stanleymobile and, when he opened the back passenger door to let him out, his eyelids drooped, unfocused and glassy.

Ford’s heart dropped. What if it was too late? What if the silver had entered his bloodstream and poisoned him?

There was no time to be gentle or cautious, and Stan wasn’t exactly in a state to bite him, so Ford didn’t hesitate to manhandle his brother into an improper fireman’s carry. He teetered dangerously for a moment, something cracking in his back that would definitely cause it to be stiff, but he managed to stay upright. God was Stan heavy, and he didn’t even put up a fight, just laid limply over Ford’s shoulder and whined softly, more breath than an actual noise.

Each step was laborious, legs shaking from the effort, and Ford had maybe five seconds once he crossed his front door to decide where the hell to drop him off at before his legs gave out. 

He settled on the living room floor. At least the carpet in there could soften the blow.

Stan didn’t fuss when he was plopped on the living room floor with a heavy thump. He didn’t even move. Ford checked that his chest was still rising, terrified up until he saw his brother’s slow inhale and exhale. Extremely slow.

He raced to his bathroom for his first aid supplies, not wanting to waste anymore time. He dropped to his knees and tore through the cabinet under his sink, gathering all that he could. Arms overflowing with various bandages and sterilizing solutions, Ford sprinted back to his brother, who hadn’t even shifted, limbs still tucked awkwardly under his torso and face smooshed into the shag carpeting.

Was he asleep? Did werewolves sleep? Ford furrowed his eyebrows. It was not the time to wonder about that.

He busied himself with setting up all of his supplies, opening packages of gauze and popping the tops off of half used iodine bottles. Stan awoke when he once again parted the fur, flinching and finally shifting into a more comfortable position on his side. Ford didn’t complain– it made seeing the gash much easier. It had made great progress, somehow already clotting and not nearly as deep as it had seemed in the woods. The wonders of an increased healing factor, he supposed. A quick cleaning and a bandaging would do it wonders, though.

The cleaning was nerve racking, Stan kept whipping his head around and snarling every time it stung– which was often apparently– but Ford managed to complete it without being attacked. In comparison, bandaging was a breeze. Stan had once again fallen asleep, breathing slowly and labored snoring shaking his frame. He even let Ford shimmy his hips enough to where he could wrap the bandage tightly and secure it properly.

After it was all said and done, Ford wiped his forehead, breathed out a sigh, and realized that he was suddenly at a loss for what to do. Stan was asleep, bandaged, and probably would make it through the night now. What was one to do after learning that his deadbeat twin brother was a werewolf, nearly killed said werewolf, performed hasty first aid, and then was left with a passed out cryptid in the middle of his living room floor?

His stomach growled.

Eat. Said person could eat.

Now that things had calmed down, and the adrenaline was depleting, Ford’s body was delighting in catching him up on all the basic needs he had been ignoring.

His knees popped as he stood, and he took a moment to gaze down at the sleeping form of his brother. He wasn’t a bloodthirsty monster it seemed, more similar to an ordinary animal– if a very scary one. So it was fine to leave him alone while he got some food. Not unsafe at all.

Ford scrubbed a hand over his face. It wasn’t a great idea, he had to admit, but he needed something in his system or he would crash. He would just have to make it fast. Compared to his brother– and other male family members in all honesty– he didn’t have a very large appetite. He never had, so most of the food in his kitchen was prepackaged or canned, finding something that would be quick would be easy.

Padding to his kitchen, he beelined for his cupboard. Pushing aside questionably old cans of tuna and ignoring the singular bag of potato chips he had picked up on a whim, his eyes landed on a few ignored cans of soup. They didn’t even need to be heated up (as long as you had a firm constitution and a willingness to eat unpleasant food– Ford had both).

Perfect.

He grabbed a spoon, peeled off the top, and was back in the living room before Stan even had the time to shift in his sleep.

The first bite of cold, mediocre soup hit his tongue and he could have sworn that he felt his mood rise immediately. He shoved another two bites of barely cooked noodles before he swallowed the first and hardly chewed, eating so fast that he was definitely in danger of choking.

But someone else definitely seemed interested: Stan. His head had lifted up, nose twitching and eyes locked onto Ford. He paused, spoon halfway to his mouth, and swallowed nervously.

“You want some?” he asked genuinely, “This isn’t even meat. Are you not a carnivore? Perhaps you’re closer to a weredog if you’re an omnivore–” he turned the soup can around in his hand and stopped. It was chicken noodle soup, and Ford had lopped a large chunk of chicken meat onto his spoon. That’s probably what his brother wanted.

Stan growled, hackles rising and eyes still locked onto Ford. It was probably in his best interest to just hand it over. 

He tossed the can, and the soup splashed all over his carpet. Moses, was that a mess to clean up. Not his brightest idea but fine, because Stan immediately started to lap at the broth and ignore the pieces of noodle, carrot, and celery.

“So, you are a carnivore. Fascinating.”

It hit him that he was sitting there while the best opportunity to catalogue everything he had just learned and sketch a post-transformation werewolf was just sitting in his lap. He smothered a grin. He had so much work to do and so many questions to be answered. It was thrilling.

While Stan ate, he pulled his journal from his trench coat pocket and clicked his pen, already jotting down a few observations and thumbnailing the best way to show his brother’s transformed anatomy. He had so many questions, so many avenues to pursue, it was the most fun a guy could have without his microscope.

If only it hadn’t turned out to be Stan. But he could worry about that by the time morning hit. He had a journal to fill out.

Notes:

Stan and Ford share the ability to not think through any plan at all, but still manage to get it to work out ok. It’s a family talent.

I should have the next chapter out sooner rather than later, but no exact dates because I don’t trust myself lol