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Stiles woke up gasping and drenched in cool sweat. Dealing with werewolves would probably have given anybody nightmares, but his were just a bit more specific: when he was not dreaming about an unnaturally warm body pressing him down into the grass of the lacrosse court and teeth tearing into his shoulder, it was the harsh panting of burnt Peter Hale just before Derek slit his throat.
It was done. They had gotten rid of the big bad wolf. Everybody was a hero, yay! If only Stiles could sleep more than just an hour or two at a time, that would be great, but this was probably the only way his mind could attempt to deal with everything. After Scott, his best friend, had been bitten he had had no time to stop and sort out his facts. Until now – and when Stiles sat down the other day and tried to make sense of it, it was overwhelming.
It was barely light outside, the sky was tinged pale gray, not even the usual washed-out wintery blue of last week. Stiles decided he had no chance to fall asleep again. He shuffled to the kitchen and checked the note on the fridge where his father wrote down his shifts. Sheriff Stilinski would be home soon, after his night shift had finished, so Stiles started to make a few sandwiches, both for his dad and for himself. He had been hungry all the time, recently.
He was glad that his father strictly refused to eat fake bacon anymore. The stuff wasn’t bad but he had burnt a piece a few days ago and had to leave the kitchen to sit outside for half an hour. The smell reminded him too much of the charred flesh and scorched hair of Peter Hale.
And there he went again, thinking about the creepy wolfy uncle.
Stiles finished assembling the sandwiches, wrapped his father’s plate in foil, and took his own back to his room. After he was done with his breakfast, he took off his T-shirt, only to wince when the motion pulled on his barely healed shoulder. He dug out the first aid kit he had put together with Scott’s help, when he realized that werewolves in Beacon Hills meant that there was going to be enough trouble that he should be prepared, and went to the bathroom.
The bite shone red and puffy in the mirror above the sink, his skin was more torn than those neat punctures that Scott had. Who would have thought that werewolf bites could be considered neat…
It didn’t matter. Stiles’ shoulder was scraped and torn and he supposed he should be glad that there were no chunks missing or that some infection hadn’t set in. Who knows where Peter put his mouth before he chewed on him.
Damn it! He shoved away from the sink to let the shower run and heat up a bit while he brushed his teeth. Stiles wanted to forget the creepy Alpha, not think and dream about the dude all the time.
It was logical though. The older Hale killed a lot of people, threatened Scott’s mom and in the end Stiles helped to off him. That leaves a trace. Especially when Stiles had never considered himself a killer, but the events of the several last weeks had shown that he could and would end somebody’s life in cold blood.
Even Scott, when Derek offered him the chance to kill Peter, could not do it. He chased the rumor that killing the werewolf who turned him could make him human again, but backed out at the end, leaving Derek to tear his own uncle’s throat out. But Scott was a good man, really, even when he wolfed out he looked more like a confused puppy than a killing machine that the hunters said all ‘wolves were. Stiles, Jackson, and Derek understood each other though. They would do what was needed. Kind of like Argents, even though Stiles hoped he could stay saner than Kate had been.
Rinsing out his toothbrush Stiles noticed an earthy smell in his bathroom. He should probably check for mildew, he just hoped he didn’t forget a wet shirt someplace again. But when he turned he froze in place and stopped breathing.
There was a sooty black figure in his shower, soil and debris washing off in clumps and clogging the drain. One of the charred hands with claws reached for the body wash, crusted skin cracking with the motion. A familiar chuckle sounded in the small room.
A car honked outside and Stiles blinked. When he opened his eyes the shower was empty and he could breathe again. He looked around, but there was nothing out of the ordinary in the bathroom. Still, he decided to skip the shower for now. He reached out to stop the water and his hand shook violently. Stiles turned back to the mirror and decided to concentrate on his shoulder. Waking nightmares were no excuse for neglecting his health, after all.
Sniffing at his shoulder he could only smell himself, no rot or pus or anything else. Still, he disinfected the wound carefully and taped a piece of gauze over it. It would not do to let it rub raw under his T-shirt or something. He tried not to let anybody know that this happened, it was enough that Argents had already suspected he was a werewolf once, and he didn’t need any more trouble. He had had more than his fair share already.
It was Saturday which meant his day was free, so he should figure out why he hadn’t become a werewolf after Peter bit him. That meant a lot of research. Stiles switched on his computer and settled in for a long day.
He woke up cold, lying on something wet and crunchy. He shot upright, afraid that he had overturned a glass of water on his printouts again, but when he looked around, he was actually in the forest. No, not in the forest, he was by the burned Hale house, nearly in the same spot where Derek finally killed Peter; the scorch marks were telling. Stiles nearly worked himself up to a panic attack, but at the end he just felt too numb and tired.
He looked around and found that he was all alone. It was dark around, only sliver of moon visible on the sky. At least he was still dressed, even if it was just the one T-shirt and sweatpants he put on in the morning. But apparently he did not stop to put on shoes, he had just socks on, soaked through and torn, as if he had walked the whole way here. Huh, no wonder his feet hurt.
Stiles stood up slowly, his whole body aching as if he had just finished a hard bout of lacrosse training, and took a few steps where he knew the old driveway was. He had no idea how he got here, what was he doing here or how long he spent in the place where he helped to kill the mass murderer who turned his and Scott’s world upside down. Somehow he didn’t even care. He was alive and Peter was dead and that was…
Stiles actually didn’t even know if it was okay or not. On one hand he was glad to know that he could protect others. On the other hand, he had to wonder where the line was between killing to protect, and murdering for revenge. Look at Kate, look at Peter. They were both certain they did what had to be done for the greater good. But the greater good was an undefinable thing. Stiles snorted. He had to hope that his own morals wouldkeep him from becoming a monster.
He was sure it took him several hours to reach home but he had no watch or mobile phone to check. He didn’t meet anybody on his way only a dog or two barked from houses he passed by. He felt no more awake, even though the walk should have woken him up, and as soon as he got home, he went directly to his bed and passed out again, not giving his dirty feet a single thought. In two hours he was up again, trying to forget the sound of a beaker shattering in the Alpha’s paw and the crackling of flames eating the dark fur on Peter’s arm.
He didn’t remember much from Sunday, only trying to fall asleep, having a nightmare, trying to surf the internet for more information on his condition, falling asleep by the computer again only to be woken up by another horror detail from his memories. At one point he did brave the shower, so numb that he recalled the hallucination only when he was toweling off, the steam around him scented by his shampoo and body wash with just a hint of decaying leaves and fresh soil in the air.
His father woke him up on Monday morning after coming home after his last night shift. They didn’t talk much, the Sheriff was tired and falling asleep on his feet. Stiles wasn’t doing much better, his shoulder still hurting but healing and the lack of proper sleep made him feel hazy. He didn’t drink coffee that day, the coffee maker overheated and made it smell burnt. Whatever. He could get some energy drinks at school from the vending machine.
How he managed to stay alert enough to drive to the school, Stiles would never know. The day passed in a haze for him, all sounds muffled by a fog. During his English class he had another waking nightmare; the burned werewolf appeared behind his teacher, holding a beaker that looked near damn identical to those he and Jackson used to set him on fire, splashing a clear viscous liquid over his cracked and blackened forearms. The burned skin dissolved with an awful stench, leaving dark pink scarring over Peter’s arms and black sludge slowly seeping over the floor. The teacher stepped in it, spreading smelly footprints as she walked all over the classroom.
“Bleach.” Peter’s voice was raspy and deep, but when Stiles looked at him, he smiled showing his fangs. The skin on his face cracked and oozed some oily substance.
“The best skincare for animated corpses.” The dead werewolf winked at the teen, poured the liquid from the beaker into his palm and splashed it on his own face. Suddenly he looked freshly wounded again and the oily thing became blood.
Stiles was already used to this happening around him, so he wasn’t surprised when nobody reacted.
The bell rang causing the macabre scene to disappear. Stiles packed his bag mechanically and left the classroom.
When he came back to himself, he was kneeling inside the Hale house, trying to pry off a floorboard with his bare hands. A few of his nails were torn off, leaving his fingertips aching, bloody and full of splinters. At least this time he had his shoes on. He got to his feet slowly and left the house, picking up his discarded bag and phone by the front door. He checked the mobile and cringed when he saw ten unanswered calls, six from Scott and the rest from his father. He powered the device off, not wanting to deal with them right now and started to walk down the now familiar driveway feeling sore and tired.
When he reached the main road and walked in the direction of the town, a familiar sports car showed up and slowed down next to him. Stiles stopped, not turning but paying attention to the Camaro out of the corner of his eye.
Eventually Derek sighed, stretched to the passenger side and opened the door. “Get in the car.”
They drove for a minute in silence, before the young Alpha asked, “Scott called me. Where were you?”
Stiles shrugged silently.
“What were you doing?”
Another shrug.
“Stiles?”
Silence.
“What is going on?”
“I don’t know,” the teen whispered. “I really don’t know.”
Derek pulled over and repeated his last question. “What is going on, Stiles?”
Instead of answering Stiles showed the werewolf his hands. “Can you help me with this?”
The examination table at Deaton’s was cold. Stiles sat on a chair pushed up to the steel contraption, his arms stretched forward and his hands flattened on a piece of gauze. The veterinarian drenched his fingers in disinfectant and pulled out the splinters with a pair of tweezers. Derek was looming, arms folded over his chest and his brows furrowed.
Deaton was the one who broke the silence after a few minutes. “Stiles, how did your hands get so damaged?”
The teen only shrugged. It would be logical to tell them, to let them know that he had black outs and hallucinations and that all of it was somehow tied to Peter, but he was so tired. To talk about it would be too much.
“You need to talk. Something’s going on.”
It was funny how Derek’s and Peter’s voice were not similar at all. Still, Stiles just wanted to sleep and forget about all of this.
A warm hand landed on his shoulder, right on the wound, making him flinch and hiss in pain.
“What is it?” The hand, Derek’s hand, squeezed a bit tighter.
Stiles shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing.” It was nothing, right? Just a scratch. And he was just having a few nightmares, so not enough rest. It was alright, everything was alright.
“You lie,” Derek answered and tightened his hand even more.
“No!” Stiles tried to slip from the hold but suddenly his wrists were held down to the table.
Deaton was looking at him closely now. “This is the first time you reacted like your usual self, Stiles. I think you really do need to tell us what is happening to you.”
The teen tried to jerk his hands away from the vet, but while Deaton was no werewolf, he was strong enough. And now Stiles felt Derek’s other hand pressing onto his other shoulder and the ‘wolf’s body pressing him forward to the edge of the table.
“No! Please!” Stiles could not form his words anymore. He was in some fog again, he could not find his way out. He struggled and tried to get away from the two men as much as he could, but the way they held him didn’t allow for lot of movement. “Please, let me go!”
“Stiles? Stiles!” Deaton’s voice was muffled even more than sounds at school were. “Stiles! Talk to me!”
“No!” The teen knew he had to get away right now. He wanted to get away. He needed it with all of his being. There was a flash of light and then nothing.
Waking up on Hale property was becoming fairly usual. His whole body hurt, every single muscle feeling sore and overused but his shoulder wound stood out throbbing in sync with his heartbeat and his hands hurt even more.
He was kneeling by an empty hole. Several of the floorboards were torn away and there was a lot of loose soil around. A familiar arm was hanging over the edge and he followed it up to see Derek lying unconscious next to him but breathing normally.
Stiles scrambled to his feet. Whatever could knock a werewolf unconscious was more dangerous than he wanted to deal with now. There was a slow clapping sound behind him and Stiles whirled around.
Peter Hale stood there, not burned anymore and smeared with dirt, his hair grown back. It was easy to see as the older ‘wolf was completely naked. He stood there unselfconscious and grinning maniacally, clapping.
“Bravo, Stiles! You made it!” His voice was just as deep and raspy as when he spoke in the previous hallucination.
The teen tried to back away from the creepy man but forgot about Derek, stumbled and fell down, his legs landing across the man’s chest. He cried out with pain when his damaged hands met the floor. “No! No! You’re not real! You can’t be real! We killed you!”
Peter tutted at him and wagged his finger. “Yes, yes, you naughty boys. You did kill me. Only not all of me.” He spread his hands. “And now you and my nephew had brought me back! Isn’t that nice?”
Stiles shook his head again, hyperventilating. “No! This is not real! This is just a nightmare!”
“Rude!” Peter scowled at him in a mock pain, flashing his fangs. “I’ve been called worse I admit but you are hurting my feelings now.”
“I don’t care. You are dead. You are dead. You are dead!” Stiles screamed the last sentence, kicking at Derek’s shoulder to wake the young werewolf up.
The older man laughed heartily and it would have been such a nice sound if they were sitting somewhere just talking. Here and in these conditions it was even more jarring and upsetting. “Oh, he won’t wake, don’t worry. You’ve done quite a number on him.”
“Me? What do you mean, me?” Stiles squawked. This didn’t make sense. Nothing about this made sense.
“Aww, but it does.” Peter’s reply made him realize that he said those things out loud.
The formerly dead werewolf stepped silently over the floor and crouched next to Stiles, looking at the teen. “I’ve known there is something about you since the first time I saw you. You know, out there in the woods, with your friend. There was a reason why I bit him and not you.”
“I don’t care! I don’t–“
A dirty finger pressed to his lips shut him up. “But you do, Stiles. You always have to know everything. And now I’m going to tell you more about yourself.”
He must have made a noise in his throat because the finger disappeared and now there was a palm over his mouth.This close Peter’s hand smelled of soil and decaying leaves with hints of apples, like an autumn garden.
Stiles tried to jerk away but he had no better luck than he did in Deaton’s office.
A second hand cupped his neck from behind, holding him in place with strange intimacy.
“Shhh,” Peter shushed him as if he was a small child. “You are magical, Stiles. Really magical. We used to call people like you Sparks.” The man leaned in and took a deep and demonstrative breath before continuing. “You smell like lightning and air after storm.” He smiled, corners of his eyes crinkling.
This was officially getting even weirder than Stiles could have ever imagined. Him magical? That was a load of crap.
Something must have shown on his face because Peter chuckled again. “Yes, you are, boy. I knew you would not turn if you didn’t want to, that’s why I offered and that’s why I bit that puppy of yours, not you.”
Stiles made an indignant sound. Sure, Scott was kind of a puppy but damn, only their friends were allowed to call him that.
“Ah, the fire in you!” Peter sounded delighted and that was enough to make Stiles go utterly still and silent.
The palm slid away from his mouth and fingers stroked his cheek.
“But you bit me,” Stiles whispered.
Peter shrugged, unconcerned. “Well yes, I needed a backup.”
“What?!”
The older werewolf did not like the loud exclamation because the hand was back over Stiles’ mouth and the hold on his neck tightened.
“I knew something was wrong, so I made sure I could come back. It could have been you or that friend of yours, Lydia.” Peter smiled at him again. “But she’s full of death and you are full of life. I knew you would be a better choice.”
The hand on his neck warmed up even more and Stiles felt fuzzy all of a sudden. “What are you doing?” he mumbled under the palm covering his mouth.
“You don’t have to be in pain Stiles,” Peter murmured, his voice breathy.
Stiles noticed that his muscles were not giving him as much trouble as they had beenjust a few seconds ago.
“You’ve knocked Derek out with your magic, you brought him here and you helped me out of that hole. You took care of me, now I’m going to take care of you.”
Considering that Stiles had taken care of Peter by killing him with fire, Peter’s whispers were perhaps not as reassuring as the older werewolf aimed for. Or, if he aimed for disturbing and frightening, he totally hit the spot. Still, not aching all over was really nice.
“Good.” The older werewolf sounded contented.
Stiles didn’t know what Peter saw in his face now but a satisfied creep was a less murderous creep in his opinion. Besides, it was hard to worry now that his muscles were turning into warm and relaxed goo.
Peter laid him down to the floor gently and let go of him, standing up.
“We will wait for Derek to wake up and then he’ll take you home. You will rest up and heal.” The werewolf’s voice was suddenly business-like and disinterested. “And then we will hunt those who killed my family.” He turned around and walked to the door.
It was hard for Stiles to speak but he managed to mumble “But you’ve killed Kate already. And you killed Laura yourself.”
Peter looked at him over his shoulder and this time his smile was bitter and sad. “Oh Stiles. Laura was cut in half. Where would I get a blade like that when the primary weapon for every werewolf are his teeth and claws? Think about it.”
Stiles tried to think, he tried to formulate some protests but the near silent footsteps and the feeling of Derek breathing under his legs, together with his exhaustion, pulled him under and he fell asleep within seconds.