Fic: I'll Find My Way Tonight | Teen Wolf/SPN | Pre-Sterek | ONESHOT
title: i'll find my way tonight
beta ego_centrisme
rating: PG13
spoilers: all of Teen Wolf, up to season 6/7 of SPN
warnings: Possession? (can that even trigger anybody?) pre-slash, smiting of alphas (that are not Derek), temporary character death [Spoiler]
(Peter).
word count: 8K~
note I regret nothing.
I'LL FIND MY WAY TONIGHT
(... so i can find my way to you.)
Stiles says yes to the wrong angel.
. . .
Everything burns cold.
There's ice in his lungs, burning the air passing through his nostrils, burning his throat, spreading out into his veins and nerves and sinew, burning everything. He's locked up, frozen, imprisoned in a cage of clear ice His arms are moving, his legs are walking, his vocal cords are vibrating in his throat, but his eyes are stinging. His head throbs in pain and everything is just so bright, it's so hard to breathe. There's a roaring in his ears covering the voices. A brief flash of pride spiking through his awareness, but nothing feels right- nothing feels wrong- and he's being pulled sideways and forwards and backwards and apart. He's splitting at the seams, young body unable to take the torment and, oh God, he feels frozen. He feels glacial. And it hurts.
Everything burns cold.
And Stiles is burning.
. . .
He had groceries in his hands with no way of opening the Jeep's door when he actually noticed the woman sitting in the driver's seat, cool as fuck. She looked strange, familiar, like an itch that just wouldn't leave, with long brown hair and a peaceful look to her face, despite the blood trailing down her temple. And the strangest thing was, she opened the door for him, held it out while Stiles just gaped at her. He looked around, tried to see if anybody else was witnessing this because strange, familiar looking women in Stiles' Jeep was something everyone would puzzle over, not just him. Yet, the whole parking lot was empty. Completely and utterly empty.
He looked at her closely, now that the door wasn't in the way, and the familiarity of her punched him in the throat, left him breathless, because suddenly, suddenly he recognized her, knew who she was, and it was impossible. Holy fuck, was it impossible. Because his mother's been dead for close to a decade, and there was no way she could just be sitting there in his Jeep. He wanted to scream, wanted to shout, wanted to jump her and hold her tight, but he still had groceries in his hands, weighing him down and keeping him anchored, and by now he'd seen far too fucking much already to just calmly (and pathetically) accept this new turn of events.
"Who are you?" He asked, shoulders tense as his heart pounded away in his chest.
His mother - this thing inside his mother - smiled sweetly, lips curling oddly over the dried trail of blood down her face. "You're not going to ask if this is real?"
No, because he'd just walked out of the groceries and didn't have time to fall unconscious. Unless someone had hit him with some sort of fainting magic or something. Stiles scowled, anger at the thing using his mother's face fueling his foolhardy courage, and he repeated in a hiss. "Who the fuck are you?"
His mother sighed, shaking her head with a tut. "And here I was, thinking third time would be the charm. Nick didn't like it, Sam didn't like it, and obviously you don't like it either. Strange humans."
Which meant crap, he needed to correct his question. "Okay," he breathed in deep, calming his rapidly beating heart, "What are you?"
The thing grinned, sharp and oddly proud, and answered, "I'm an angel."
. . .
The first thing he hears when the burn lessens, is laughter. His own voice, laughing. The sound of him, laughing. It's jarring, hearing himself laugh without his consent, jarring, when his eyes blink without his consent, and he sees himself in a reflective mirror, throwing his image back at him. He's standing there, in a red hoodie and black jeans, a pleased look on his face, body loose, relaxed and dangerous. The Stiles there, in that mirror, winks at him, knowingly. And while he knows, just knows, it's a message to him, the Stiles inside who can't control a damn thing, he wonders why is he so surprised anyway?
He'd been told what to expect.
He hadn't been lied too.
The Stiles in control looks away, the sight he's seeing shifting as the Stiles in control looks at the situation they're in. The Stiles inside, the Stiles with the big mouth and sarcastic comebacks, sees the pack - his pack - staring at him wide eyed, confused and panicked. He sees his dad's lips moving, one syllable, always the same, over and over again. Stiles realizes it's his own name, his dad's calling for him, picking up on the sudden tension in the room and the way the alpha pack had stopped, the way everybody had stopped.
The Stiles in control chuckles, the sound reverberating inside, shaking the frost cage, igniting new burns everywhere.
And takes a simple step forward among the sounds of screams.
. . .
He's going crazy - it's the only plausible explanation. Something broke loose when Gerard beat the crap out of him and it's now rattling away in his head, causing all these problems. The man is sitting in his chair - thank god he's not wearing his mom, anymore - and twirling round while Stiles flips through old books. If Stiles didn't know better, he'd say the angel wa bored, but that's impossible, right? Eternal damnation was probably boring twenty four seven to the point the word boring ceases to exist. The angel snorted, obviously privy to Stiles' thoughts, and twirls once before coming to an abrupt stop.
"A single moment in time can make an eternity of boredom worthwhile."
This doesn't make sense. Stiles wants to speak up and say t out loud, ut he sort of has a habit of ignoring problems until they just went away. If he acknowledges this- this- thi hallucination, then it would stick around, fuel itself to be stronger, and Stiles would never win. And he needs to win; he doesn't have the leisure of going mad.
The man tutted, wagging a finger at Stiles reproachfully. "You're not the first to try that whole 'silent treatment', bucko. The last one gave in. Or so I heard, anyway." He starts spinning again, pushing himself along with his feet with a thoughtful hum. "Wasn't there to actually witness it though - it would've been so very nice to see."
A hallucination. Nothing but a hallucination. Of course Stiles' mind would be clever enough to make the damn thing intriguing. Because he had ADHD and read too much and lived with freaking werewolves. Nothing more.
The man smiled and quoted with fond look, "Only this and nothing more."
. . .
"You're lying!" His dad's screaming. "He didn't- he wouldn't- let him go!"
"Oh, but I don't lie," his voice says, and holy shit, that's his voice, that's Stiles voice practically crooning out of his throat. That's his body moving sinuously from one enemy to the other, smiling down at their burnt corpses, and holy fuck, that's the power of an angel - no matter how fallen - in his body, raising the hackles on the werewolves backs, and making Allison and Chris aim their weapons at him. "I don't need too."
. . .
Focusing in school became a challenge. The man - he refuse to acknowledge it's name - wasn't always in every class, but whenever he came something happened. A beaker exploded. The projector went up in smokes. The school intercom let loose nothing but white noise. Little things. Things that generally pissed people off but nothing major. Stiles ducked his head and carried on, refused to pay attention whenever it happened, changed the subject when Scott bitched about the white noise. He didn't pay attention to the man bemoaning the cafeteria food, hunched his shoulders and ducked his head in chemistry when the man aired everyone's dirty laundry.
Even if it was prime data to check if any of it was true or not.
"Oh, now that's interesting." The man purred, jerking his head down the row at Lydia. "That i reall interesting."
He wouldn't give in, wouldn't show any sign of curiosity, even if his heart did break a little again on seeing Lydia. The man noticed his glance - Stiles couldn't help himself - and grinned victoriously. Then he waved a little at Lydia, as if she'd be able to see him.
"No her," the man purred. "But her hallucination."
Despite his mantra, Stiles looks at him, eyes darting from the man's smug face to Lydia and back again. Behind him, Jackson perks up, glowering threateningly at Stiles, warning him off, and a quick glance back to see Isaac watching it all with narrowed, thoughtful eyes. Stiles hadn't spoken to anybody but Scott since the whole kanima thing, and he wants to keep it that way, but the man is already talking, eyes trained on Lydia and voice bored, as if none of this was entertaining to him.
"Some guy who," a bored sniff, "attacked her, I think? She's scared of him, but she still keeps a strong face. Just like you, right? Except I'm real, I'm so much more then a mere hallucination, and unlike that," a nod in Lydia's direction, "I'm not going anywhere. Not until I get what I want."
'And what do you want?' Stiles thought desperately, keeping his mouth shut through sheer force of will alone. He is biting his pen, viciously tugging at the end with his teeth, anxiety bleeding out of him in waves enough to make Harris glare at him. The man didn't stay silent for long. He let a beat pass, two, three for dramatic effect. Then he leaned in, past Scott, who sat beside him unaware, and deep into Stiles' personal space.
"I want you to say 'yes'."
. . .
They're all dead - the alpha pack. Lying strewn around on the warehouse floor with their eyes burnt out, mouths open in silent screams, and nothing else. There's no blood, no sign of a struggle, nothing but their burnt out eyes and still bodies to show they're dead. Stiles would feel sick if he had control of his stomach.
Small blessing, that is.
None of the pack ask the right questions, they're too busy growling, trying to intimidate whatever they believe is inside Stiles body into getting the hell out. His dad is too worried, too panicky to even make sense. The only people in the whole place that seem to be keeping a level head are the Argent's. And Allison really isn't messing with that crossbow. (She's aiming right for the heart.) The only one who asks the right question is Chris - Chris, with his icy blue eyes, steel voice, and steady hand. Chris, with the handgun aimed right at Stiles' head, standing shoulder to shoulder with his daughter-
"What are you?"
Stiles can feel his mouth puckering in a pout, can feel his head being shook slightly from side to side, can feel his arms being spread out eagle wide. He can feel the thing's amusement, sparking low and stinging with that fiery cold fury always on a low burn, feels the way his body is turned in a circle like a display. Twirled. Showing off the lack of evidence.
"I go by many names," his voice comes out, cocky, confident, taunting. "But you know me best as-"
. . .
Isaac told them about the alpha pack three days after the whole kanima thing. Scott found out first, decided immediately it had nothing to do with him, and claimed that he just wanted to be normal. Isaac had responded by walking all the way to the Stilinski house and knocked on the door. Stiles' cheek still hurt, thanks to Gerard's sting, his bottom lip was still tender, and prone to breaking, and his ribs still ached. Still, he opened the door, opened it wide to let a hunched Isaac walk through.
It's been three days since the whole kanima thing and Isaac would be the first person he'd speak to besides Scott and his dad.
"Now that's not true," a voice said behind him. Stiles didn't even flinch and instead turned around, walking past the tall, blonde haired man towards the kitchen. Isaac dutifully followed after him, climbing up on a stool at the kitchen table as Stiles made his way towards the sink.
"So, what's up?" he finally asked, filling up a glass with cool water.
Isaac curled up against the counter of the small breakfast island, brown curls limp and eyes exhausted, and bluntly announced, "Erica and Boyd are missing." When Stiles didn't answer and only stare at him, Isaac continued. "And there's an alpha pack in town."
Stiles swallowed his water in three gulps, ignoring the body leaning beside him, keeping his eyes on Isaac."Like... a pack of alphas? Like... everybody's an alpha?"
A nod, and beside Stiles, the man - th angel - ade a little entertained noise and crossed his arms over his chest. "It really is interesting, seeing just how Father's creations have.. mutated."
Stiles frowned, eyes flicking to the thing beside him, ignoring the confused look Isaac gave him, and put his glass down. "Does everyone know?"
"Yeah," Isaac answered, nodding once. "You were the only one left. I thought you should know."
"Thanks. I'll... I guess I'll do some research, see how a pack of alphas eve works. You gonna be okay?"
Isaac's affirmative answer came with a smile, something small and weak but genuine, and the man- thing it- laughed to himself and said, "I can give you everything you need to know, Stiles. I can give yo everything."
. . .
He keeps his promise and lets Derek round everyone up and leave. He keeps his promise and lets Chris grab his dad by the arm, forcibly take him away. He keeps his promise and doesn't kill them all in cold blood like he did with the alphas.
He keeps his promise and it hurts so bittersweet.
Derek looked him in the eye right before leaving, looked Stiles in the eye right before leaving, his own eyes glowing red in promise. Stiles found some comfort in it, more when Chris grimaced like he tasted something sour and left with Derek by his side, because they were allies now. United together by the alphas, strengthened by Stiles' sacrifice. Allison is the last to go, after everyone streams out. She quietly whispers a goodbye as she slips away into the night and something, almost like sympathy, warms his chest. Sympathy that isn't his own.
(You're supposed to be evil.)
The mirror comes back into view again, whole and untouched. In it, Stiles is standing in his red hoodie and jeans, worn sneakers on his feet. He doesn't look like a teenager though, he looks other, wrong- no, right- no, different, something that isn't Stiles but so much more. In it, he spreads his arms again, just like before, and with a tilt of his head goes, "Because your book says so?"
Stiles doesn't so much as nod as simply said yes, because he's bodiless here, discorporate, incorporeal.
The body in the mirror tuts and the arms go down, the body in the mirror is standing loosely, relaxed. "I'm not evil, Stiles." The man sighs, fatherly disappointment thrumming through his words. "I'm just wronged. I'm a son that's been cast aside by his father, punished for loving too much, sent to isolation until the end of times."
(And is it? The end of times?)
A slow smile crosses over Stiles' face, and his body nods vaguely. "Not yet. But it will be."
. . .
Nobody listened to his plan.
Derek was all for sniffing them out and taking the fight to them. Peter preferred subterfuge, stealthily picking them off, one by one. cott wanted nothing but to ignore them. Erica and Boyd had gone missing, apparently on the same night as Gerard kidnapping them. Only Isaac remained of the trio and he was curled up in a corner broodingly watching them all argue.
Since nobody listened to him, Stiles pretty much gave up and dropped onto the floor beside Isaac.
"Remind me again why I'm here." He snarled halfheartedly, glaring as the three werewolves continued arguing over each other. "It's not like anything I bring to the table actually helps, right guys?"
Isaac snorted a little, uncurling from his fetal position to peek at Stiles from under his fringe. "They've been like this since yesterday." A pause, then, "I just want to find Erica and Boyd."
Wincing slightly, Stiles nodded and awkwardly patted the teen on the knee, looking down at his research's papers on alpha packs. He hadn't been able to find much, which was to be expected, but what he had found had been pretty obvious. The alphas were stronger, faster and more vicious. They weren't going to mess around with little attacks like the ones Gerard and Kate had done. When they attacked, they would do it in one swift move and wipe them out, humans and all.
"And they'll eat your hearts," a voice startled him, forcing him to twist and turn towards it. "They'll eat your hearts and grow stronger."
"Stiles?" Isaac's voice said quietly, confused. "Are you okay?"
Stiles laughed awkwardly, scratching at his neck as he forced himself to turn away from the smug face peering at him from the other side of the room. "Naah, I just thought I'd heard something."
Isaac frowned, looking pointedly down at his chest, at his heart, and maybe he'd heard the lie through the increased heart rate of Stiles' panic. "Are you sure? You seem spooked."
"And they're going to kill your dad too," the man kept saying, inspecting his nails for dirt. Stiles waved Isaac's concern away, leafing through his research and passing some on to Isaac, letting the kid read through and feel useful for a bit. "And Scott's mom. They're going to hunt down that Jackson kid, string him up as a message, kill his abomination of a girlfriend too."
Swallowing thickly, Stiles ignored the words, ignored the bland, clinical tone, ignored the frowned eyebrows Derek was suddenly aiming in his direction. The words on his research swam through his vision, but he kept at is with single minded stubbornness.
"But I could help," -'Where one male and one female fulfill this role, they are referred to as the alpha pair-' "I could tell you everything you need to know. Including their weakness. They're just wolves, when you get down to it, just stupid little wolves that play at being human. They don't even have a soul. Complete filth. Fun to play with, but abominations in the end. Just like that girl."
Frowning, Stiles dropped his papers beside him, grabbed the ones in Isaac's lap, and flipped to the third page. He read over the information, eyes tracking the words as an idea started to form in his head. Some of the research he'd read had seemed obviously wrong, talking about werewolves that ate heart and how only silver could kill them - that sort of thing - and he'd done nothing but dismiss it. The man pushed up off the wall he'd been leaning on, sauntering past Peter and towards Stiles, peering down at the paper as Stiles followed the words with his index finger.
Isaac watched him closely, confusion on his face as Stiles muttered "hearts, hearts, hearts," under his breath, and made a small noise of shock when Stiles cheered on discovery.
"Look, look - right here!" Stiles shouted, waving the papers in the air as Derek and Peter finally gave up on pretending not to watch him. "Peter, do werewolves eat hearts?"
Both Hale grimaced in disgust, but the shifty eyed look they gave each other spoke volumes. "Only the ones that have lost their way."
"But it makes them stronger, right?" Stiles pressed, ignoring the slow clapping happening right next to him, the slow sound of approval growing louder in his ears. "You gain strength via human hearts, and lose strength via sudden weakness to silver. That's why there's so much lore on silver in the first place: because the only werewolves hunters hunted or even knew about back then were the ones that went crazy and started eating hearts."
Derek looked slightly alarmed, visible by the small widening of his eyes and the way he looked to his uncle. Waving his papers in the air again, Stiles slapped it back down onto his lap and dug through his pockets for a pen, scribbling in the margin as plans filtered through his head. "We need silver, pure silver. I'm sure the Argent's probably have it since their surname means silver, and-"
"How did you know?"
"-What?" Stiles frowned, looking up with the pen still stuck in his mouth.
Peter frowned at him, suspicious and intense, and asked again. "How. Did. You. Know?"
Not catching on, Stiles responded with, "What, werewolves?"
"He means about the hearts, Stiles." Derek clarified with an exaggerated sigh. "And the silver."
The man beside him rocked back on his feet and looked pleased. "Yes, Stiles, tell them. How did you know?"
Shit. Stalling for time, Stiles closed his mouth and pursed his lips together, pretending to go angry as he glared at the Hale. "Oh, I don't know," he bitched, pitching his voice just right to imitate genuine irritation, and maybe he didn't have to imitate too much, since he really was irritated. "Maybe if you guys actually listened to me every now and then, you'd know. It's all here," he waved the papers, all of them, to demonstrate, "everything about alphas and hearts and silver! There's lore and legends and then freakin' common sense! What's the first thing you think about with werewolves? Silver. Duh!"
"So what," Isaac spoke up, tapping at his chin distractedly. "All we have to do is, um, shoot them with silver? Or stab them with silver? That's it?"
"It won't be that easy," Peter warned them, and the blonde haired man groaned in disappointment, displeased with how the conversation was getting back on topic. "They're still alphas, every single one of them, and have been doing this for years. Plus it's just a theory; nobody knows for sure if silver actually works. Or if eating hearts really does make you stronger."
Stiles opened his mouth to argue, since it made pretty damn good sense to him, but clicked it shut when the man's arm appeared in his vision and stretched towards Isaac, forcing Stiles to watch as the man softly played with Isaac's curls. "Pretty little boy. Do you really want him to die, Stiles?"
"-iles? Stiles!" Hands gripped his head and turned him around. Derek was suddenly in his vision, worriedly scowling down at him. "What are you doing?"
"Huh?" Stiles responded dumbly, realizing with a start he'd just started staring at Isaac's hair for no apparent reason. "Oh, uh, nothing! I, uh, I should go now. Don't want Dad to get home and see my Jeep missing, yeah."
Derek frowned, eyes glancing down to Stiles' chest, but he let go anyway. Not missing the chance, Stiles hopped to his feet, saying something about doing more research, maybe speaking to Allison to see if she and her crazy family had silver bullets, and ignored the strange looks the werewolves gave each other.
He had research to do.
. . .
The air outside the warehouse is too cold for this time of the year. Stiles knows it, can feel it in whatever it is that's left of him, but the only cold he actually feels is the one burning through his metaphorical veins, alighting him from the inside.
His vocal cords vibrate, laughter being emitted by his throat, and the thing controlling his body moves onwards into the cool air, the empty street, the silent neighbourhood "You know, most vessels aren't usually so aware." His voice says conversationally, leading them both down a street towards who knows where. "We tend to burn them out, use them up like energy, and leave nothing behind."
Panic stabs Stiles in the heart but there's nothing he can do but flounder in the murky depths of his prison.
The man - now a teenager - laughs at him, amused.
(What are you going to do?)
They pass by a store, its closed sign reflecting Stiles' long legs as he walks by, and the answer comes with a little pleased hum. "It takes two to tango, and the other half is missing."
Something lurks behind them, a shadow hidden in the lulls between the street lamps. Stiles is only peripherally aware of it due to his captor's extended grace.
Grace.
The irony is not lost on him.
"They say pride was my greatest weakness," the man- teen- boy- thing- huffs, privy to Stiles' thoughts and loving it. "They say it like it's a bad thing; pride. That I was too prideful to get on my knees for a little thing made out of mud and pledge my allegiance. But what about you?"
(What about me?) Stiles queries, icy tendrils wrapping around him and squeezing him in warning as a brief flash of red erupts from the surrounding darkness. They squeeze tighter, despite it being too late, because Stiles saw those red eyes and even he can't stop the burst of hope that plagues his being.
-You dropped to your knees and accepted me,-
The pressure gets too much, the ice is squeezing him, flooding his lungs, dragging him under and enveloping him, and he can't- he can't-
-You knew the consequences, you knew everything,-
He can't breathe, and he's set alight, burning from the inside, attached to the booming voice of the man-boy-teen-angel-thing connected to him, connected to the supernova that makes up this being's grace-
-You loved too much to refuse. Now you're paying for it,-
The red eyes, they slink out of the darkness and a body follows after it. Derek stands alone in front of the angel, the adversary, the morning star and he's alone. God no, Stiles can't- he won't just sit back and watch the idiot get ripped apart, get burnt out like those other alphas. He can't. He won't. But the cold is just too much. And he's burning and freezing and nothing makes sense-
-Love is a weakness. Not pride.-
(Don't hurt him. Please.)
Derek says the same thing, "Don't hurt him. Please."
The light bringer laughs, delighted by the synchronicity, and curls a hand in Derek's direction. Derek drops to the ground, onto his knees, a sick parody of the words still playing on loop inside Stiles' head. He's screaming, Stiles' screaming, trying to fight and escape and run and hide and not be forced to watch this, but the icy tendrils shock his nonexistant nervous system, adrenaline is coursing his veins, and he can't turn away.
"Don't." Derek breathes, still on his knees. "Take me. Leave him."
"And why should I do that?"
There's traces of red on Derek's lips, leaking past his mouth. His face is pained in the darkness, eyes bleeding on and off into red and back. The brightest angel to have ever fallen curls his fingers tighter into a fist and a pained noise escapes Derek, makes him curl in on himself, claws and fangs popping out to fight against an enemy he can't see.
"Because I'm stronger, faster." Derek breathes out, struggling to raise his voice to normal speaking level. "Because I'm a werewolf, and an alpha. And he's just a kid."
Stiles is screaming, screeching about vessels, threatening the angel driving his body with everything he can think off, daring him to take on Derek's offer, (because so help me God-)
The angel snarls, snaps his fingers-
Derek drops-
Stiles screams get cut-
And everything burns cold.
. . .
The first move of the alpha pack was to kill Peter.
"I can bring him back, you know,"
The second move of the alpha pack was to attack Mrs. McCall.
"I can keep her safe,"
And the alpha pack's third move was to kidnap the Sheriff.
"I can make them pay."
Stiles dialed Scott's number, hung up at the first sign of a dial tone and called Derek's, cursed when he didn't pick up and called Isaac's. After an eternity of rings, the click of an accepted call came through but all Stiles could hear was a sob. "Isaac?" Dread filled him as another sob came over the line and the Jeep never seemed like a more beautiful sight as he crawled into the front seat. "Isaac, where are you? What's happening? Isaac?"
"Stiles-" Isaac gasped, a wet, thick, noise rolling through his tone. "Don't come, no matter what happens don't- they killed Erica and Boyd and-" he cut off, words trailing into a scream as something snapped in the background, and Stiles almost vomited as he heard laughter mixing in with the sound of Isaac crying.
The phone made a strange noise - like it was dropped, then picked up again - and suddenly his dad's voice came over the phone, breathless and in pain. Stiles didn't hold back as he kicked his door open and vomited onto the pavement at the sound of his dad's ragged breathing.
"Don't come-" Derek. "Stiles, don't you dare come."
The phone clicked - the dial tone blared in his ear - and Stiles turned the ignition on.
"You can bring them all back?" He croaked, voice breaking on the last word.
The man beside him smiled softly, pleased with himself, because this was the first time Stiles had spoken to him since he'd first appeared. "I can do a lot of things, Stiles. I'm me, after all."
"No," Stiles insisted desperately, pulling out of his driveway and onto the street. "Can you or can you not bring them back in one piece, healthy and fine and not like zombies? Erica and Boyd and Peter." Hell, even Peter.
"Take this turn," the angel said distractedly, playing with the radio and pressing buttons. Stiles dutifully took the turn, pulling up into the downtown district, near Jungle, and carried on driving. "I can, Stiles. I can bring them back whole and happy, and make sure they never get hurt again."
"How can I trust you?"
A smile, peaceful and reverent, so at odds with the angel's history, with the angel's name. "Because I don't lie, Stiles. I don't need too."
The car stuttered to a stop by itself, the engine turned off. Stiles startled as he realized they were in front of a warehouse, in a part of town he didn't know. He turned back to the fallen angel, the morning star, the king of Hell, and flexed his hands on the steering wheel. "And me? What will happen to me if I say yes?"
The smile dimmed, went pained, sad, almost regretful. "It won't be pleasant, I won't lie to you. It'll be overwhelming, little bits you'll be conscious off. And you most likely won't survive once I'm done."
Swallowing thickly, Stiles looked back at the warehouse, heard the sound of Isaac's scream in his head, jumped when the sound of Derek's screams suddenly reverberated through the night, and tightened his hands as he remembered Peter's strung up body, Mrs. McCall in intensive care and how bad his dad must be hurt. The angel had said 'most likely' - he wasn't stupid, he knew, or could guess, the chances, but even one percent was still better than zero.
"Then yes." He whispered, looking down at his own lap before turning his attention to the angel.
"Then I say yes."
. . .
Everything burns cold.
There's ice in his lungs, burning the air passing through his nostrils, burning his throat, spreading out into his veins and nerves and sinew. Burning everything. He's swimming, set loose in a watery prison, pressure on every part of him drowning him, keeping him in it's murky depths. He's lying still, in his grave, dead to the world and everything but his own awareness. This must be what the afterlife is, what purgatory is, because heaven and hell wouldn't be so cruel. Everything hurts - there's pinpricks of pain starting to override the general cloudiness of his senses, starting from his toes and fingers, burning a trail of fire upwards to his center. There's a roaring in his ears covering his own train of thought, the sound of water, of drowning, dragging him under, keeping him in her cold embrace. He's splitting at the seams, his young body unable to take the torment- the pressure-, and oh God, he feels frozen. He feels glacial. And it hurts.
Everything burns cold.
And Stiles is alive.
He wakes up with a gasp, breaking the surface of his own imprisonment, and suddenly, his eyes are open and he's blinking and his fingers are curling in the dirt path that makes up the cemetery he's in. He can see it clearly, the headstones, the inscriptions, the platitudes of love for long dead relatives and friends and, most importantly, it's him, he's the one that's looking around and blinking and gripping the cold grass and pulling it from it's roots. He's the one that's crying out in pain when his feet disagree with the notion of movement. He's the one that notices the gravestone right in front of him, the one with the inscription the police department chose while Stiles and his dad grieved too much to be of use;
'A loving mother,
A loving wife.'
And- Jesus Christ- he's the one that finally scrambles to his feet, that trips and falls and scrambles right back up again, and gasps like a dying fish as he breathes in fresh, cold, air and burns his lungs with it. For once in his life, the burn feels good, sparking him from the inside and setting his nerves on fire. His blood is singing and telling him he's fine and alive and holy crap, he has absolutely no idea what happened, or why he's free, but he doesn't care.
Stiles stands in Beacon Hills Memorial for a minute, listens to the birds chirping as the cold morning dew freezes straight to his bones. Then he turns around and makes his way down the winding path towards the gate. The cemetery is on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, not too far but definitely not close enough for a comfortable walk, but Stiles is reveling in the feeling of his own two feet and the nerve endings in his skin telling him he's cold. He's reveling in being able to see his own breath puff out of him in white clouds, in being able to look left and right as he walks along the highway back to town, and reveling in the forest that keeps him company on his journey.
Soon enough, Beacon Hills appears in view - the houses, the different roads, the sign of honest-to-God life - and Stiles hesitates for a second (I can't breathe) but ultimately trudges on, worn sneakers leading the way to the closest building he knows of for safety; the police department.
His dad's cruiser is in the driveway, despite it being early morning and not his usual shift, but Stiles is just happy to see it. He pats it fondly and walks in, expecting to see Mindy manning the reception like she always did. But Mindy isn't at the reception. The stubble is the first clue, the tired exhausted eyes looking up to him in greeting, the aristocratic nose and expressive eyebrows and-
("Because I am stronger, faster." Derek breathes out, struggling to raise his voice to normal speaking level. "Because I'm a werewolf and an alpha. And because he's just a kid." Stiles is screaming, screeching about vessels, threatening the angel driving his body with everything he can think off, daring him to take on Derek's offer, (because so help me God-) The angel snarls, snaps his fingers- Derek drops-)
"You're-" Stiles chokes, suddenly unable to breathe past the shards of ice stuck in his throat. "A-A-Alive? H-How- but- he-"
Hands cut him off, wrapping around his head, cupping his nape and shaking him as Derek suddenly pushed into his personal space. Stiles can't see a thing, his vision is eclipsed by the sight of wide eyes before a flurry of movement bring Derek's nose up tight against his neck. Spluttering, Stiles waves his hands in confusion, wondering where to put them, feeling awkward and uncomfortable and absolutely ecstatic at the remainder of just how control he is of his own body. Derek could sniff him to his heart's content, because he was - is - Stiles.
"It's me," he confirms, twisting and stretching as Derek manhandles him this way and that. "It's really me- hoo boy, don't touch me there, holy shit, dude- I'm not the one that tried facing off the devil, how are you even alive?"
Derek frowns, his face pulling down into its default expression and making the breath hitch in Stiles' throat. It makes something well up in him, something like joy and sheer fucking gratitude, but Derek answers only with, "It let me go." which pretty much kills it all and has him gaping.
"What?"
Nodding absently, Derek moves aside Stiles' red hoodie, rucks up his printed t-shirt to get at the skin beneath, perusing the smooth skin for wounds or something. "You made a deal with it," the distraction disappears, and Derek hits Stiles with an intense glare as he carries on in a harsh hiss, "You made a deal with the devil, and it included none of us getting hurt."
Stiles only remembers that dimly, only remembers sitting in his car interrogating (begging) the angel to tell him what it could do, what it would do, and it had, hadn't it? It-he-it-thing had promised that none of his precious people would get hurt, and wow, thinking the word precious made him feel like Gollum, which- no, okay? Just no. Dad would get a kick of it though-
("You're lying!" His dad's screaming. "He didn't- he wouldn't- let him go!")
"Stiles? Stiles! What-"
"My dad," Stiles gasped, knees buckling under him and forcing him to the ground. "My dad, God, Derek, please tell me he's fine, that he's not dead-"
Derek follows after him, dropping to his knees, arms keeping Stiles up, and soothes him quickly. "He's fine, nothing happened to him, the- the thing healed all of us before leaving, brought back, Peter, Erica and Boyd. Everyone's fine, Stiles. Nobody's hurt."
Choking in relief, Stiles lets himself sag fully, his head dropping on Derek's shoulder, and lets the white cold of fear recede as Derek's warmth bleed into him. "I don't know why I'm here," he finally mumbles, his mouth never able to keep still. "I don't know why he's gone."
Derek's grip on him tightened, almost bruising, refusing to let Stiles get taken by an imaginary opponent. "What did it say?"
It was funny, Stiles muses dimly, how Derek keeps referring to the angel as an object; but then again, angels have no gender, so maybe he was right. "Nothing. He just got pissed at something I said and took it out on you. Next thing I know, here I am."
There's a voice calling for Derek from behind the reception, off into the main hall where all the offices and cubicles are cluttered together, but Derek doesn't answer. Instead, the werewolf grips Stiles' shoulders and pushes back, moving away just far enough to frown visibly at Stiles. "Your last memory is then? Of that night?"
Frowning, Stiles stares at Derek's face, suddenly noticing the stress lines that weren't there before, the dark circles under Derek's eyes, the police uniform Derek is wearing, and warning bells start ringing loud and clear in his head. "Um... Yes?"
Grip tightening, Derek's eyebrows furrow deeper. There's a brief flash of something in his eyes, followed by a brief flash of red, and Derek shakes his head wordlessly once, twice, and three times. Just for good measure.
"What is it?" Stiles asks apprehensively, hearing the voice from the office grow louder, more inquisitive, dimly noting the familiar cadence of it, soothing over his weary bones. "Derek, what the hell is it?"
There's a small television up in the corner, showing nothing but news. The voice is too low to hear anything but every third word. Eastern seaboard... danger... body count...
"Stiles," Derek says, actually hesitant. "You-" he breaks off, words failing off, growls quietly to himself and tries again. "Stiles, it's been just over a year."
Suddenly, the voice gets louder. Someone comes round the corner and the news makes sense. Stiles find he can't breathe and Derek is calling his name, the person - the newcomer - his freaking dad is looking at him like he has seen a ghost. He looks older- "Oh my God." Stiles is talking, his lips are moving, the words are probably making sense because his dad is staring at him like someone has just punched him in the gut. Derek is trying to stem the flow of words, trying to get Stiles to breathe. But he can't, because the anchorwoman on the small television is saying words that he understands, about a super storm, about the eastern seaboard, about casualties and the sudden spike of natural disasters around the world. And they're showing Russia - in the midst of the worst winter in history - Japan - earthquake, followed by a tsunami - Australia - a freaking power factory explosion - and that doesn't even make sense because it's man made, not natural.
He wants to- hell, he doesn't even know what he wants, but he's definitely okay with his dad shoving Derek aside and engulfing Stiles in a bear hug. He's definitely okay with it, more than okay with it, because suddenly he can control his arms again, they're not frozen in paralysis. He can hug his dad back. He can smother his own moving lips that just won't stop into his dad's shoulder, can suddenly realize he's crying and sobbing into his dad's uniform and Derek's talking, saying something over the soothing shushing sounds his dad is making.
"It's been like this on and off throughout the year. The super storm being the latest but nothing has happened here." In Beacon Hills, Derek didn't say. He didn't have to, because if nothing else, the angel didn't need to lie. And he certainly didn't need a fairly alright city in the middle of California. "Chris kept in contact with other hunters, followed the rumors, told us what he could, but nothing was ever concrete. It was all just rumors."
"It's alright, son," his dad murmurs, lips pressed against Stiles' temple as the teenager shakes. "It's alright."
"We-" Derek chokes, clears his throat, tries again. "Some hunters tracked it down to a last location a week ago, some place in New Mexico, but afterward, it was just... We thought that was it, Chris couldn't get anything anymore. Nobody could find it, or any sign of it. And nothing happened after the super storm."
"I lost you," his dad adds, calm in that broken, dangerous way of his when under pressure. "I lost you and I thought that was it. That thing took you away from me and never gave you back."
Stiles has to bite into his dad's shoulder, has to bite the material there, soggy with his tears, and holds his tongue as a flash of (pride, joy, grief) hits him along with a voice saying (finally). They're bathed in ice, cold trickling down his spine in a foreign sensation and Stiles knows without a doubt the angel isn't just fucking with him, isn't just hiding away inside Stiles' head waiting to pop out and go, "Kidding!" Knows it in the way he knows the angel won't ever pop back into his life like the virus he was, with a dry observation or a seductive offer.
((And is it? The end of times?) A slow smile crosses over Stiles' face, and his body nods vaguely. "Not yet. But it will be.")
Stiles realizes with a sinking feeling he'd misunderstood the angel's words. Because he thought about Apocalypse, Judgment Day, the end of times. But the angel, the angel had been speaking about-
("A single moment in time can make an eternity of boredom worthwhile.")
He had been talking about himself.
. . .
He's standing in front of his Jeep, groceries in hand, eyes narrowed as he stared at the woman sitting in the passenger seat.
"Who are you?"
His mother - the thing inside his mother - smiled sweetly, lips curling oddly over the dried trail of blood down her face. "You're not going to ask if this is real?"
No, because this didn't feel like a dream, didn't feel like a nightmare, and he'd seen far too much crap this past year alone to disregard the possibility of the impossible. Stiles scowled, anger at the thing using his mother's face fueling his foolhardy courage, and he repeated himself in a hiss. "Who the fuck are you?"
His mother sighed, shaking her head with a disapproving tut. "And here I was, thinking third time would be the charm. Nick didn't like it. Sam didn't like it. And, obviously, you don't like it either. Strange humans."
Which meant crap, he needed to correct his question. "Okay," he breathed in deep, used it to calm his rapidly beating heart, to warm the sudden cold sneaking inwards in his chest, "What are you?"
The thing grinned, sharp and oddly proud, and answered, "I'm an angel."
Stiles snorted, because seriously? Out of everything the thing could claim to be, it had to use something it was so obviously not? "Right." He drawled, rolling his eyes with a scoff. "And I'm the Tooth Fairy."
The thing claiming to be an angel tutted again, tapping his dashboard in steady beats that made no sense. "Let's not get hasty now. How about you hear me out?"
That was the last thing he wanted to do but Stiles has always been Curiosity's bitch, and she was yanking his chain with relative ease. "Yeah? Wait, let me guess first. The only angel I've ever heard of dropping down to speak to us lowly mortals was Gabriel. So, you him?"
His mother's face pulled down into a frown, dead eyes flashing before going blank again. "No. The only reason he was the Messenger is because he was already down here anyway." As Stiles opened his mouth to guess again, the angel - really? Puh-lease - held up a hand, and Stiles found no words coming out of his throat. His lips were moving, that much he could tell, but his voice wasn't working. Just gone, made silent, rendered obsolete. His mother smiled, warmly and with such saccharine sweetness it literally dripped. "I don't care much to hear you guess my brothers' and sisters' names, so let's just cut to the chase."
His voice still didn't work so Stiles simply dropped his groceries and waved his hands in a 'go on' motion.
"I'm an angel," his mother said, as Stiles exhaled and watched with sudden fascination the visible puff of air in the suddenly cold parking lot. "And my name is Lucifer."
. . .
Stiles has been gone for just over two years.
He laughs with tears streaming down his face when "just over two years" translates to six hundred and sixty six days.
Stiles has been gone for just over six hundred and sixty six days.
Everything burns cold.
beta ego_centrisme
rating: PG13
spoilers: all of Teen Wolf, up to season 6/7 of SPN
warnings: Possession? (can that even trigger anybody?) pre-slash, smiting of alphas (that are not Derek), temporary character death [Spoiler]
(Peter).
word count: 8K~
note I regret nothing.
I'LL FIND MY WAY TONIGHT
(... so i can find my way to you.)
Stiles says yes to the wrong angel.
. . .
Everything burns cold.
There's ice in his lungs, burning the air passing through his nostrils, burning his throat, spreading out into his veins and nerves and sinew, burning everything. He's locked up, frozen, imprisoned in a cage of clear ice His arms are moving, his legs are walking, his vocal cords are vibrating in his throat, but his eyes are stinging. His head throbs in pain and everything is just so bright, it's so hard to breathe. There's a roaring in his ears covering the voices. A brief flash of pride spiking through his awareness, but nothing feels right- nothing feels wrong- and he's being pulled sideways and forwards and backwards and apart. He's splitting at the seams, young body unable to take the torment and, oh God, he feels frozen. He feels glacial. And it hurts.
Everything burns cold.
And Stiles is burning.
. . .
He had groceries in his hands with no way of opening the Jeep's door when he actually noticed the woman sitting in the driver's seat, cool as fuck. She looked strange, familiar, like an itch that just wouldn't leave, with long brown hair and a peaceful look to her face, despite the blood trailing down her temple. And the strangest thing was, she opened the door for him, held it out while Stiles just gaped at her. He looked around, tried to see if anybody else was witnessing this because strange, familiar looking women in Stiles' Jeep was something everyone would puzzle over, not just him. Yet, the whole parking lot was empty. Completely and utterly empty.
He looked at her closely, now that the door wasn't in the way, and the familiarity of her punched him in the throat, left him breathless, because suddenly, suddenly he recognized her, knew who she was, and it was impossible. Holy fuck, was it impossible. Because his mother's been dead for close to a decade, and there was no way she could just be sitting there in his Jeep. He wanted to scream, wanted to shout, wanted to jump her and hold her tight, but he still had groceries in his hands, weighing him down and keeping him anchored, and by now he'd seen far too fucking much already to just calmly (and pathetically) accept this new turn of events.
"Who are you?" He asked, shoulders tense as his heart pounded away in his chest.
His mother - this thing inside his mother - smiled sweetly, lips curling oddly over the dried trail of blood down her face. "You're not going to ask if this is real?"
No, because he'd just walked out of the groceries and didn't have time to fall unconscious. Unless someone had hit him with some sort of fainting magic or something. Stiles scowled, anger at the thing using his mother's face fueling his foolhardy courage, and he repeated in a hiss. "Who the fuck are you?"
His mother sighed, shaking her head with a tut. "And here I was, thinking third time would be the charm. Nick didn't like it, Sam didn't like it, and obviously you don't like it either. Strange humans."
Which meant crap, he needed to correct his question. "Okay," he breathed in deep, calming his rapidly beating heart, "What are you?"
The thing grinned, sharp and oddly proud, and answered, "I'm an angel."
. . .
The first thing he hears when the burn lessens, is laughter. His own voice, laughing. The sound of him, laughing. It's jarring, hearing himself laugh without his consent, jarring, when his eyes blink without his consent, and he sees himself in a reflective mirror, throwing his image back at him. He's standing there, in a red hoodie and black jeans, a pleased look on his face, body loose, relaxed and dangerous. The Stiles there, in that mirror, winks at him, knowingly. And while he knows, just knows, it's a message to him, the Stiles inside who can't control a damn thing, he wonders why is he so surprised anyway?
He'd been told what to expect.
He hadn't been lied too.
The Stiles in control looks away, the sight he's seeing shifting as the Stiles in control looks at the situation they're in. The Stiles inside, the Stiles with the big mouth and sarcastic comebacks, sees the pack - his pack - staring at him wide eyed, confused and panicked. He sees his dad's lips moving, one syllable, always the same, over and over again. Stiles realizes it's his own name, his dad's calling for him, picking up on the sudden tension in the room and the way the alpha pack had stopped, the way everybody had stopped.
The Stiles in control chuckles, the sound reverberating inside, shaking the frost cage, igniting new burns everywhere.
And takes a simple step forward among the sounds of screams.
. . .
He's going crazy - it's the only plausible explanation. Something broke loose when Gerard beat the crap out of him and it's now rattling away in his head, causing all these problems. The man is sitting in his chair - thank god he's not wearing his mom, anymore - and twirling round while Stiles flips through old books. If Stiles didn't know better, he'd say the angel wa bored, but that's impossible, right? Eternal damnation was probably boring twenty four seven to the point the word boring ceases to exist. The angel snorted, obviously privy to Stiles' thoughts, and twirls once before coming to an abrupt stop.
"A single moment in time can make an eternity of boredom worthwhile."
This doesn't make sense. Stiles wants to speak up and say t out loud, ut he sort of has a habit of ignoring problems until they just went away. If he acknowledges this- this- thi hallucination, then it would stick around, fuel itself to be stronger, and Stiles would never win. And he needs to win; he doesn't have the leisure of going mad.
The man tutted, wagging a finger at Stiles reproachfully. "You're not the first to try that whole 'silent treatment', bucko. The last one gave in. Or so I heard, anyway." He starts spinning again, pushing himself along with his feet with a thoughtful hum. "Wasn't there to actually witness it though - it would've been so very nice to see."
A hallucination. Nothing but a hallucination. Of course Stiles' mind would be clever enough to make the damn thing intriguing. Because he had ADHD and read too much and lived with freaking werewolves. Nothing more.
The man smiled and quoted with fond look, "Only this and nothing more."
. . .
"You're lying!" His dad's screaming. "He didn't- he wouldn't- let him go!"
"Oh, but I don't lie," his voice says, and holy shit, that's his voice, that's Stiles voice practically crooning out of his throat. That's his body moving sinuously from one enemy to the other, smiling down at their burnt corpses, and holy fuck, that's the power of an angel - no matter how fallen - in his body, raising the hackles on the werewolves backs, and making Allison and Chris aim their weapons at him. "I don't need too."
. . .
Focusing in school became a challenge. The man - he refuse to acknowledge it's name - wasn't always in every class, but whenever he came something happened. A beaker exploded. The projector went up in smokes. The school intercom let loose nothing but white noise. Little things. Things that generally pissed people off but nothing major. Stiles ducked his head and carried on, refused to pay attention whenever it happened, changed the subject when Scott bitched about the white noise. He didn't pay attention to the man bemoaning the cafeteria food, hunched his shoulders and ducked his head in chemistry when the man aired everyone's dirty laundry.
Even if it was prime data to check if any of it was true or not.
"Oh, now that's interesting." The man purred, jerking his head down the row at Lydia. "That i reall interesting."
He wouldn't give in, wouldn't show any sign of curiosity, even if his heart did break a little again on seeing Lydia. The man noticed his glance - Stiles couldn't help himself - and grinned victoriously. Then he waved a little at Lydia, as if she'd be able to see him.
"No her," the man purred. "But her hallucination."
Despite his mantra, Stiles looks at him, eyes darting from the man's smug face to Lydia and back again. Behind him, Jackson perks up, glowering threateningly at Stiles, warning him off, and a quick glance back to see Isaac watching it all with narrowed, thoughtful eyes. Stiles hadn't spoken to anybody but Scott since the whole kanima thing, and he wants to keep it that way, but the man is already talking, eyes trained on Lydia and voice bored, as if none of this was entertaining to him.
"Some guy who," a bored sniff, "attacked her, I think? She's scared of him, but she still keeps a strong face. Just like you, right? Except I'm real, I'm so much more then a mere hallucination, and unlike that," a nod in Lydia's direction, "I'm not going anywhere. Not until I get what I want."
'And what do you want?' Stiles thought desperately, keeping his mouth shut through sheer force of will alone. He is biting his pen, viciously tugging at the end with his teeth, anxiety bleeding out of him in waves enough to make Harris glare at him. The man didn't stay silent for long. He let a beat pass, two, three for dramatic effect. Then he leaned in, past Scott, who sat beside him unaware, and deep into Stiles' personal space.
"I want you to say 'yes'."
. . .
They're all dead - the alpha pack. Lying strewn around on the warehouse floor with their eyes burnt out, mouths open in silent screams, and nothing else. There's no blood, no sign of a struggle, nothing but their burnt out eyes and still bodies to show they're dead. Stiles would feel sick if he had control of his stomach.
Small blessing, that is.
None of the pack ask the right questions, they're too busy growling, trying to intimidate whatever they believe is inside Stiles body into getting the hell out. His dad is too worried, too panicky to even make sense. The only people in the whole place that seem to be keeping a level head are the Argent's. And Allison really isn't messing with that crossbow. (She's aiming right for the heart.) The only one who asks the right question is Chris - Chris, with his icy blue eyes, steel voice, and steady hand. Chris, with the handgun aimed right at Stiles' head, standing shoulder to shoulder with his daughter-
"What are you?"
Stiles can feel his mouth puckering in a pout, can feel his head being shook slightly from side to side, can feel his arms being spread out eagle wide. He can feel the thing's amusement, sparking low and stinging with that fiery cold fury always on a low burn, feels the way his body is turned in a circle like a display. Twirled. Showing off the lack of evidence.
"I go by many names," his voice comes out, cocky, confident, taunting. "But you know me best as-"
. . .
Isaac told them about the alpha pack three days after the whole kanima thing. Scott found out first, decided immediately it had nothing to do with him, and claimed that he just wanted to be normal. Isaac had responded by walking all the way to the Stilinski house and knocked on the door. Stiles' cheek still hurt, thanks to Gerard's sting, his bottom lip was still tender, and prone to breaking, and his ribs still ached. Still, he opened the door, opened it wide to let a hunched Isaac walk through.
It's been three days since the whole kanima thing and Isaac would be the first person he'd speak to besides Scott and his dad.
"Now that's not true," a voice said behind him. Stiles didn't even flinch and instead turned around, walking past the tall, blonde haired man towards the kitchen. Isaac dutifully followed after him, climbing up on a stool at the kitchen table as Stiles made his way towards the sink.
"So, what's up?" he finally asked, filling up a glass with cool water.
Isaac curled up against the counter of the small breakfast island, brown curls limp and eyes exhausted, and bluntly announced, "Erica and Boyd are missing." When Stiles didn't answer and only stare at him, Isaac continued. "And there's an alpha pack in town."
Stiles swallowed his water in three gulps, ignoring the body leaning beside him, keeping his eyes on Isaac."Like... a pack of alphas? Like... everybody's an alpha?"
A nod, and beside Stiles, the man - th angel - ade a little entertained noise and crossed his arms over his chest. "It really is interesting, seeing just how Father's creations have.. mutated."
Stiles frowned, eyes flicking to the thing beside him, ignoring the confused look Isaac gave him, and put his glass down. "Does everyone know?"
"Yeah," Isaac answered, nodding once. "You were the only one left. I thought you should know."
"Thanks. I'll... I guess I'll do some research, see how a pack of alphas eve works. You gonna be okay?"
Isaac's affirmative answer came with a smile, something small and weak but genuine, and the man- thing it- laughed to himself and said, "I can give you everything you need to know, Stiles. I can give yo everything."
. . .
He keeps his promise and lets Derek round everyone up and leave. He keeps his promise and lets Chris grab his dad by the arm, forcibly take him away. He keeps his promise and doesn't kill them all in cold blood like he did with the alphas.
He keeps his promise and it hurts so bittersweet.
Derek looked him in the eye right before leaving, looked Stiles in the eye right before leaving, his own eyes glowing red in promise. Stiles found some comfort in it, more when Chris grimaced like he tasted something sour and left with Derek by his side, because they were allies now. United together by the alphas, strengthened by Stiles' sacrifice. Allison is the last to go, after everyone streams out. She quietly whispers a goodbye as she slips away into the night and something, almost like sympathy, warms his chest. Sympathy that isn't his own.
(You're supposed to be evil.)
The mirror comes back into view again, whole and untouched. In it, Stiles is standing in his red hoodie and jeans, worn sneakers on his feet. He doesn't look like a teenager though, he looks other, wrong- no, right- no, different, something that isn't Stiles but so much more. In it, he spreads his arms again, just like before, and with a tilt of his head goes, "Because your book says so?"
Stiles doesn't so much as nod as simply said yes, because he's bodiless here, discorporate, incorporeal.
The body in the mirror tuts and the arms go down, the body in the mirror is standing loosely, relaxed. "I'm not evil, Stiles." The man sighs, fatherly disappointment thrumming through his words. "I'm just wronged. I'm a son that's been cast aside by his father, punished for loving too much, sent to isolation until the end of times."
(And is it? The end of times?)
A slow smile crosses over Stiles' face, and his body nods vaguely. "Not yet. But it will be."
. . .
Nobody listened to his plan.
Derek was all for sniffing them out and taking the fight to them. Peter preferred subterfuge, stealthily picking them off, one by one. cott wanted nothing but to ignore them. Erica and Boyd had gone missing, apparently on the same night as Gerard kidnapping them. Only Isaac remained of the trio and he was curled up in a corner broodingly watching them all argue.
Since nobody listened to him, Stiles pretty much gave up and dropped onto the floor beside Isaac.
"Remind me again why I'm here." He snarled halfheartedly, glaring as the three werewolves continued arguing over each other. "It's not like anything I bring to the table actually helps, right guys?"
Isaac snorted a little, uncurling from his fetal position to peek at Stiles from under his fringe. "They've been like this since yesterday." A pause, then, "I just want to find Erica and Boyd."
Wincing slightly, Stiles nodded and awkwardly patted the teen on the knee, looking down at his research's papers on alpha packs. He hadn't been able to find much, which was to be expected, but what he had found had been pretty obvious. The alphas were stronger, faster and more vicious. They weren't going to mess around with little attacks like the ones Gerard and Kate had done. When they attacked, they would do it in one swift move and wipe them out, humans and all.
"And they'll eat your hearts," a voice startled him, forcing him to twist and turn towards it. "They'll eat your hearts and grow stronger."
"Stiles?" Isaac's voice said quietly, confused. "Are you okay?"
Stiles laughed awkwardly, scratching at his neck as he forced himself to turn away from the smug face peering at him from the other side of the room. "Naah, I just thought I'd heard something."
Isaac frowned, looking pointedly down at his chest, at his heart, and maybe he'd heard the lie through the increased heart rate of Stiles' panic. "Are you sure? You seem spooked."
"And they're going to kill your dad too," the man kept saying, inspecting his nails for dirt. Stiles waved Isaac's concern away, leafing through his research and passing some on to Isaac, letting the kid read through and feel useful for a bit. "And Scott's mom. They're going to hunt down that Jackson kid, string him up as a message, kill his abomination of a girlfriend too."
Swallowing thickly, Stiles ignored the words, ignored the bland, clinical tone, ignored the frowned eyebrows Derek was suddenly aiming in his direction. The words on his research swam through his vision, but he kept at is with single minded stubbornness.
"But I could help," -'Where one male and one female fulfill this role, they are referred to as the alpha pair-' "I could tell you everything you need to know. Including their weakness. They're just wolves, when you get down to it, just stupid little wolves that play at being human. They don't even have a soul. Complete filth. Fun to play with, but abominations in the end. Just like that girl."
Frowning, Stiles dropped his papers beside him, grabbed the ones in Isaac's lap, and flipped to the third page. He read over the information, eyes tracking the words as an idea started to form in his head. Some of the research he'd read had seemed obviously wrong, talking about werewolves that ate heart and how only silver could kill them - that sort of thing - and he'd done nothing but dismiss it. The man pushed up off the wall he'd been leaning on, sauntering past Peter and towards Stiles, peering down at the paper as Stiles followed the words with his index finger.
Isaac watched him closely, confusion on his face as Stiles muttered "hearts, hearts, hearts," under his breath, and made a small noise of shock when Stiles cheered on discovery.
"Look, look - right here!" Stiles shouted, waving the papers in the air as Derek and Peter finally gave up on pretending not to watch him. "Peter, do werewolves eat hearts?"
Both Hale grimaced in disgust, but the shifty eyed look they gave each other spoke volumes. "Only the ones that have lost their way."
"But it makes them stronger, right?" Stiles pressed, ignoring the slow clapping happening right next to him, the slow sound of approval growing louder in his ears. "You gain strength via human hearts, and lose strength via sudden weakness to silver. That's why there's so much lore on silver in the first place: because the only werewolves hunters hunted or even knew about back then were the ones that went crazy and started eating hearts."
Derek looked slightly alarmed, visible by the small widening of his eyes and the way he looked to his uncle. Waving his papers in the air again, Stiles slapped it back down onto his lap and dug through his pockets for a pen, scribbling in the margin as plans filtered through his head. "We need silver, pure silver. I'm sure the Argent's probably have it since their surname means silver, and-"
"How did you know?"
"-What?" Stiles frowned, looking up with the pen still stuck in his mouth.
Peter frowned at him, suspicious and intense, and asked again. "How. Did. You. Know?"
Not catching on, Stiles responded with, "What, werewolves?"
"He means about the hearts, Stiles." Derek clarified with an exaggerated sigh. "And the silver."
The man beside him rocked back on his feet and looked pleased. "Yes, Stiles, tell them. How did you know?"
Shit. Stalling for time, Stiles closed his mouth and pursed his lips together, pretending to go angry as he glared at the Hale. "Oh, I don't know," he bitched, pitching his voice just right to imitate genuine irritation, and maybe he didn't have to imitate too much, since he really was irritated. "Maybe if you guys actually listened to me every now and then, you'd know. It's all here," he waved the papers, all of them, to demonstrate, "everything about alphas and hearts and silver! There's lore and legends and then freakin' common sense! What's the first thing you think about with werewolves? Silver. Duh!"
"So what," Isaac spoke up, tapping at his chin distractedly. "All we have to do is, um, shoot them with silver? Or stab them with silver? That's it?"
"It won't be that easy," Peter warned them, and the blonde haired man groaned in disappointment, displeased with how the conversation was getting back on topic. "They're still alphas, every single one of them, and have been doing this for years. Plus it's just a theory; nobody knows for sure if silver actually works. Or if eating hearts really does make you stronger."
Stiles opened his mouth to argue, since it made pretty damn good sense to him, but clicked it shut when the man's arm appeared in his vision and stretched towards Isaac, forcing Stiles to watch as the man softly played with Isaac's curls. "Pretty little boy. Do you really want him to die, Stiles?"
"-iles? Stiles!" Hands gripped his head and turned him around. Derek was suddenly in his vision, worriedly scowling down at him. "What are you doing?"
"Huh?" Stiles responded dumbly, realizing with a start he'd just started staring at Isaac's hair for no apparent reason. "Oh, uh, nothing! I, uh, I should go now. Don't want Dad to get home and see my Jeep missing, yeah."
Derek frowned, eyes glancing down to Stiles' chest, but he let go anyway. Not missing the chance, Stiles hopped to his feet, saying something about doing more research, maybe speaking to Allison to see if she and her crazy family had silver bullets, and ignored the strange looks the werewolves gave each other.
He had research to do.
. . .
The air outside the warehouse is too cold for this time of the year. Stiles knows it, can feel it in whatever it is that's left of him, but the only cold he actually feels is the one burning through his metaphorical veins, alighting him from the inside.
His vocal cords vibrate, laughter being emitted by his throat, and the thing controlling his body moves onwards into the cool air, the empty street, the silent neighbourhood "You know, most vessels aren't usually so aware." His voice says conversationally, leading them both down a street towards who knows where. "We tend to burn them out, use them up like energy, and leave nothing behind."
Panic stabs Stiles in the heart but there's nothing he can do but flounder in the murky depths of his prison.
The man - now a teenager - laughs at him, amused.
(What are you going to do?)
They pass by a store, its closed sign reflecting Stiles' long legs as he walks by, and the answer comes with a little pleased hum. "It takes two to tango, and the other half is missing."
Something lurks behind them, a shadow hidden in the lulls between the street lamps. Stiles is only peripherally aware of it due to his captor's extended grace.
Grace.
The irony is not lost on him.
"They say pride was my greatest weakness," the man- teen- boy- thing- huffs, privy to Stiles' thoughts and loving it. "They say it like it's a bad thing; pride. That I was too prideful to get on my knees for a little thing made out of mud and pledge my allegiance. But what about you?"
(What about me?) Stiles queries, icy tendrils wrapping around him and squeezing him in warning as a brief flash of red erupts from the surrounding darkness. They squeeze tighter, despite it being too late, because Stiles saw those red eyes and even he can't stop the burst of hope that plagues his being.
-You dropped to your knees and accepted me,-
The pressure gets too much, the ice is squeezing him, flooding his lungs, dragging him under and enveloping him, and he can't- he can't-
-You knew the consequences, you knew everything,-
He can't breathe, and he's set alight, burning from the inside, attached to the booming voice of the man-boy-teen-angel-thing connected to him, connected to the supernova that makes up this being's grace-
-You loved too much to refuse. Now you're paying for it,-
The red eyes, they slink out of the darkness and a body follows after it. Derek stands alone in front of the angel, the adversary, the morning star and he's alone. God no, Stiles can't- he won't just sit back and watch the idiot get ripped apart, get burnt out like those other alphas. He can't. He won't. But the cold is just too much. And he's burning and freezing and nothing makes sense-
-Love is a weakness. Not pride.-
(Don't hurt him. Please.)
Derek says the same thing, "Don't hurt him. Please."
The light bringer laughs, delighted by the synchronicity, and curls a hand in Derek's direction. Derek drops to the ground, onto his knees, a sick parody of the words still playing on loop inside Stiles' head. He's screaming, Stiles' screaming, trying to fight and escape and run and hide and not be forced to watch this, but the icy tendrils shock his nonexistant nervous system, adrenaline is coursing his veins, and he can't turn away.
"Don't." Derek breathes, still on his knees. "Take me. Leave him."
"And why should I do that?"
There's traces of red on Derek's lips, leaking past his mouth. His face is pained in the darkness, eyes bleeding on and off into red and back. The brightest angel to have ever fallen curls his fingers tighter into a fist and a pained noise escapes Derek, makes him curl in on himself, claws and fangs popping out to fight against an enemy he can't see.
"Because I'm stronger, faster." Derek breathes out, struggling to raise his voice to normal speaking level. "Because I'm a werewolf, and an alpha. And he's just a kid."
Stiles is screaming, screeching about vessels, threatening the angel driving his body with everything he can think off, daring him to take on Derek's offer, (because so help me God-)
The angel snarls, snaps his fingers-
Derek drops-
Stiles screams get cut-
And everything burns cold.
. . .
The first move of the alpha pack was to kill Peter.
"I can bring him back, you know,"
The second move of the alpha pack was to attack Mrs. McCall.
"I can keep her safe,"
And the alpha pack's third move was to kidnap the Sheriff.
"I can make them pay."
Stiles dialed Scott's number, hung up at the first sign of a dial tone and called Derek's, cursed when he didn't pick up and called Isaac's. After an eternity of rings, the click of an accepted call came through but all Stiles could hear was a sob. "Isaac?" Dread filled him as another sob came over the line and the Jeep never seemed like a more beautiful sight as he crawled into the front seat. "Isaac, where are you? What's happening? Isaac?"
"Stiles-" Isaac gasped, a wet, thick, noise rolling through his tone. "Don't come, no matter what happens don't- they killed Erica and Boyd and-" he cut off, words trailing into a scream as something snapped in the background, and Stiles almost vomited as he heard laughter mixing in with the sound of Isaac crying.
The phone made a strange noise - like it was dropped, then picked up again - and suddenly his dad's voice came over the phone, breathless and in pain. Stiles didn't hold back as he kicked his door open and vomited onto the pavement at the sound of his dad's ragged breathing.
"Don't come-" Derek. "Stiles, don't you dare come."
The phone clicked - the dial tone blared in his ear - and Stiles turned the ignition on.
"You can bring them all back?" He croaked, voice breaking on the last word.
The man beside him smiled softly, pleased with himself, because this was the first time Stiles had spoken to him since he'd first appeared. "I can do a lot of things, Stiles. I'm me, after all."
"No," Stiles insisted desperately, pulling out of his driveway and onto the street. "Can you or can you not bring them back in one piece, healthy and fine and not like zombies? Erica and Boyd and Peter." Hell, even Peter.
"Take this turn," the angel said distractedly, playing with the radio and pressing buttons. Stiles dutifully took the turn, pulling up into the downtown district, near Jungle, and carried on driving. "I can, Stiles. I can bring them back whole and happy, and make sure they never get hurt again."
"How can I trust you?"
A smile, peaceful and reverent, so at odds with the angel's history, with the angel's name. "Because I don't lie, Stiles. I don't need too."
The car stuttered to a stop by itself, the engine turned off. Stiles startled as he realized they were in front of a warehouse, in a part of town he didn't know. He turned back to the fallen angel, the morning star, the king of Hell, and flexed his hands on the steering wheel. "And me? What will happen to me if I say yes?"
The smile dimmed, went pained, sad, almost regretful. "It won't be pleasant, I won't lie to you. It'll be overwhelming, little bits you'll be conscious off. And you most likely won't survive once I'm done."
Swallowing thickly, Stiles looked back at the warehouse, heard the sound of Isaac's scream in his head, jumped when the sound of Derek's screams suddenly reverberated through the night, and tightened his hands as he remembered Peter's strung up body, Mrs. McCall in intensive care and how bad his dad must be hurt. The angel had said 'most likely' - he wasn't stupid, he knew, or could guess, the chances, but even one percent was still better than zero.
"Then yes." He whispered, looking down at his own lap before turning his attention to the angel.
"Then I say yes."
. . .
Everything burns cold.
There's ice in his lungs, burning the air passing through his nostrils, burning his throat, spreading out into his veins and nerves and sinew. Burning everything. He's swimming, set loose in a watery prison, pressure on every part of him drowning him, keeping him in it's murky depths. He's lying still, in his grave, dead to the world and everything but his own awareness. This must be what the afterlife is, what purgatory is, because heaven and hell wouldn't be so cruel. Everything hurts - there's pinpricks of pain starting to override the general cloudiness of his senses, starting from his toes and fingers, burning a trail of fire upwards to his center. There's a roaring in his ears covering his own train of thought, the sound of water, of drowning, dragging him under, keeping him in her cold embrace. He's splitting at the seams, his young body unable to take the torment- the pressure-, and oh God, he feels frozen. He feels glacial. And it hurts.
Everything burns cold.
And Stiles is alive.
He wakes up with a gasp, breaking the surface of his own imprisonment, and suddenly, his eyes are open and he's blinking and his fingers are curling in the dirt path that makes up the cemetery he's in. He can see it clearly, the headstones, the inscriptions, the platitudes of love for long dead relatives and friends and, most importantly, it's him, he's the one that's looking around and blinking and gripping the cold grass and pulling it from it's roots. He's the one that's crying out in pain when his feet disagree with the notion of movement. He's the one that notices the gravestone right in front of him, the one with the inscription the police department chose while Stiles and his dad grieved too much to be of use;
'A loving mother,
A loving wife.'
And- Jesus Christ- he's the one that finally scrambles to his feet, that trips and falls and scrambles right back up again, and gasps like a dying fish as he breathes in fresh, cold, air and burns his lungs with it. For once in his life, the burn feels good, sparking him from the inside and setting his nerves on fire. His blood is singing and telling him he's fine and alive and holy crap, he has absolutely no idea what happened, or why he's free, but he doesn't care.
Stiles stands in Beacon Hills Memorial for a minute, listens to the birds chirping as the cold morning dew freezes straight to his bones. Then he turns around and makes his way down the winding path towards the gate. The cemetery is on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, not too far but definitely not close enough for a comfortable walk, but Stiles is reveling in the feeling of his own two feet and the nerve endings in his skin telling him he's cold. He's reveling in being able to see his own breath puff out of him in white clouds, in being able to look left and right as he walks along the highway back to town, and reveling in the forest that keeps him company on his journey.
Soon enough, Beacon Hills appears in view - the houses, the different roads, the sign of honest-to-God life - and Stiles hesitates for a second (I can't breathe) but ultimately trudges on, worn sneakers leading the way to the closest building he knows of for safety; the police department.
His dad's cruiser is in the driveway, despite it being early morning and not his usual shift, but Stiles is just happy to see it. He pats it fondly and walks in, expecting to see Mindy manning the reception like she always did. But Mindy isn't at the reception. The stubble is the first clue, the tired exhausted eyes looking up to him in greeting, the aristocratic nose and expressive eyebrows and-
("Because I am stronger, faster." Derek breathes out, struggling to raise his voice to normal speaking level. "Because I'm a werewolf and an alpha. And because he's just a kid." Stiles is screaming, screeching about vessels, threatening the angel driving his body with everything he can think off, daring him to take on Derek's offer, (because so help me God-) The angel snarls, snaps his fingers- Derek drops-)
"You're-" Stiles chokes, suddenly unable to breathe past the shards of ice stuck in his throat. "A-A-Alive? H-How- but- he-"
Hands cut him off, wrapping around his head, cupping his nape and shaking him as Derek suddenly pushed into his personal space. Stiles can't see a thing, his vision is eclipsed by the sight of wide eyes before a flurry of movement bring Derek's nose up tight against his neck. Spluttering, Stiles waves his hands in confusion, wondering where to put them, feeling awkward and uncomfortable and absolutely ecstatic at the remainder of just how control he is of his own body. Derek could sniff him to his heart's content, because he was - is - Stiles.
"It's me," he confirms, twisting and stretching as Derek manhandles him this way and that. "It's really me- hoo boy, don't touch me there, holy shit, dude- I'm not the one that tried facing off the devil, how are you even alive?"
Derek frowns, his face pulling down into its default expression and making the breath hitch in Stiles' throat. It makes something well up in him, something like joy and sheer fucking gratitude, but Derek answers only with, "It let me go." which pretty much kills it all and has him gaping.
"What?"
Nodding absently, Derek moves aside Stiles' red hoodie, rucks up his printed t-shirt to get at the skin beneath, perusing the smooth skin for wounds or something. "You made a deal with it," the distraction disappears, and Derek hits Stiles with an intense glare as he carries on in a harsh hiss, "You made a deal with the devil, and it included none of us getting hurt."
Stiles only remembers that dimly, only remembers sitting in his car interrogating (begging) the angel to tell him what it could do, what it would do, and it had, hadn't it? It-he-it-thing had promised that none of his precious people would get hurt, and wow, thinking the word precious made him feel like Gollum, which- no, okay? Just no. Dad would get a kick of it though-
("You're lying!" His dad's screaming. "He didn't- he wouldn't- let him go!")
"Stiles? Stiles! What-"
"My dad," Stiles gasped, knees buckling under him and forcing him to the ground. "My dad, God, Derek, please tell me he's fine, that he's not dead-"
Derek follows after him, dropping to his knees, arms keeping Stiles up, and soothes him quickly. "He's fine, nothing happened to him, the- the thing healed all of us before leaving, brought back, Peter, Erica and Boyd. Everyone's fine, Stiles. Nobody's hurt."
Choking in relief, Stiles lets himself sag fully, his head dropping on Derek's shoulder, and lets the white cold of fear recede as Derek's warmth bleed into him. "I don't know why I'm here," he finally mumbles, his mouth never able to keep still. "I don't know why he's gone."
Derek's grip on him tightened, almost bruising, refusing to let Stiles get taken by an imaginary opponent. "What did it say?"
It was funny, Stiles muses dimly, how Derek keeps referring to the angel as an object; but then again, angels have no gender, so maybe he was right. "Nothing. He just got pissed at something I said and took it out on you. Next thing I know, here I am."
There's a voice calling for Derek from behind the reception, off into the main hall where all the offices and cubicles are cluttered together, but Derek doesn't answer. Instead, the werewolf grips Stiles' shoulders and pushes back, moving away just far enough to frown visibly at Stiles. "Your last memory is then? Of that night?"
Frowning, Stiles stares at Derek's face, suddenly noticing the stress lines that weren't there before, the dark circles under Derek's eyes, the police uniform Derek is wearing, and warning bells start ringing loud and clear in his head. "Um... Yes?"
Grip tightening, Derek's eyebrows furrow deeper. There's a brief flash of something in his eyes, followed by a brief flash of red, and Derek shakes his head wordlessly once, twice, and three times. Just for good measure.
"What is it?" Stiles asks apprehensively, hearing the voice from the office grow louder, more inquisitive, dimly noting the familiar cadence of it, soothing over his weary bones. "Derek, what the hell is it?"
There's a small television up in the corner, showing nothing but news. The voice is too low to hear anything but every third word. Eastern seaboard... danger... body count...
"Stiles," Derek says, actually hesitant. "You-" he breaks off, words failing off, growls quietly to himself and tries again. "Stiles, it's been just over a year."
Suddenly, the voice gets louder. Someone comes round the corner and the news makes sense. Stiles find he can't breathe and Derek is calling his name, the person - the newcomer - his freaking dad is looking at him like he has seen a ghost. He looks older- "Oh my God." Stiles is talking, his lips are moving, the words are probably making sense because his dad is staring at him like someone has just punched him in the gut. Derek is trying to stem the flow of words, trying to get Stiles to breathe. But he can't, because the anchorwoman on the small television is saying words that he understands, about a super storm, about the eastern seaboard, about casualties and the sudden spike of natural disasters around the world. And they're showing Russia - in the midst of the worst winter in history - Japan - earthquake, followed by a tsunami - Australia - a freaking power factory explosion - and that doesn't even make sense because it's man made, not natural.
He wants to- hell, he doesn't even know what he wants, but he's definitely okay with his dad shoving Derek aside and engulfing Stiles in a bear hug. He's definitely okay with it, more than okay with it, because suddenly he can control his arms again, they're not frozen in paralysis. He can hug his dad back. He can smother his own moving lips that just won't stop into his dad's shoulder, can suddenly realize he's crying and sobbing into his dad's uniform and Derek's talking, saying something over the soothing shushing sounds his dad is making.
"It's been like this on and off throughout the year. The super storm being the latest but nothing has happened here." In Beacon Hills, Derek didn't say. He didn't have to, because if nothing else, the angel didn't need to lie. And he certainly didn't need a fairly alright city in the middle of California. "Chris kept in contact with other hunters, followed the rumors, told us what he could, but nothing was ever concrete. It was all just rumors."
"It's alright, son," his dad murmurs, lips pressed against Stiles' temple as the teenager shakes. "It's alright."
"We-" Derek chokes, clears his throat, tries again. "Some hunters tracked it down to a last location a week ago, some place in New Mexico, but afterward, it was just... We thought that was it, Chris couldn't get anything anymore. Nobody could find it, or any sign of it. And nothing happened after the super storm."
"I lost you," his dad adds, calm in that broken, dangerous way of his when under pressure. "I lost you and I thought that was it. That thing took you away from me and never gave you back."
Stiles has to bite into his dad's shoulder, has to bite the material there, soggy with his tears, and holds his tongue as a flash of (pride, joy, grief) hits him along with a voice saying (finally). They're bathed in ice, cold trickling down his spine in a foreign sensation and Stiles knows without a doubt the angel isn't just fucking with him, isn't just hiding away inside Stiles' head waiting to pop out and go, "Kidding!" Knows it in the way he knows the angel won't ever pop back into his life like the virus he was, with a dry observation or a seductive offer.
((And is it? The end of times?) A slow smile crosses over Stiles' face, and his body nods vaguely. "Not yet. But it will be.")
Stiles realizes with a sinking feeling he'd misunderstood the angel's words. Because he thought about Apocalypse, Judgment Day, the end of times. But the angel, the angel had been speaking about-
("A single moment in time can make an eternity of boredom worthwhile.")
He had been talking about himself.
. . .
He's standing in front of his Jeep, groceries in hand, eyes narrowed as he stared at the woman sitting in the passenger seat.
"Who are you?"
His mother - the thing inside his mother - smiled sweetly, lips curling oddly over the dried trail of blood down her face. "You're not going to ask if this is real?"
No, because this didn't feel like a dream, didn't feel like a nightmare, and he'd seen far too much crap this past year alone to disregard the possibility of the impossible. Stiles scowled, anger at the thing using his mother's face fueling his foolhardy courage, and he repeated himself in a hiss. "Who the fuck are you?"
His mother sighed, shaking her head with a disapproving tut. "And here I was, thinking third time would be the charm. Nick didn't like it. Sam didn't like it. And, obviously, you don't like it either. Strange humans."
Which meant crap, he needed to correct his question. "Okay," he breathed in deep, used it to calm his rapidly beating heart, to warm the sudden cold sneaking inwards in his chest, "What are you?"
The thing grinned, sharp and oddly proud, and answered, "I'm an angel."
Stiles snorted, because seriously? Out of everything the thing could claim to be, it had to use something it was so obviously not? "Right." He drawled, rolling his eyes with a scoff. "And I'm the Tooth Fairy."
The thing claiming to be an angel tutted again, tapping his dashboard in steady beats that made no sense. "Let's not get hasty now. How about you hear me out?"
That was the last thing he wanted to do but Stiles has always been Curiosity's bitch, and she was yanking his chain with relative ease. "Yeah? Wait, let me guess first. The only angel I've ever heard of dropping down to speak to us lowly mortals was Gabriel. So, you him?"
His mother's face pulled down into a frown, dead eyes flashing before going blank again. "No. The only reason he was the Messenger is because he was already down here anyway." As Stiles opened his mouth to guess again, the angel - really? Puh-lease - held up a hand, and Stiles found no words coming out of his throat. His lips were moving, that much he could tell, but his voice wasn't working. Just gone, made silent, rendered obsolete. His mother smiled, warmly and with such saccharine sweetness it literally dripped. "I don't care much to hear you guess my brothers' and sisters' names, so let's just cut to the chase."
His voice still didn't work so Stiles simply dropped his groceries and waved his hands in a 'go on' motion.
"I'm an angel," his mother said, as Stiles exhaled and watched with sudden fascination the visible puff of air in the suddenly cold parking lot. "And my name is Lucifer."
. . .
Stiles has been gone for just over two years.
He laughs with tears streaming down his face when "just over two years" translates to six hundred and sixty six days.
Stiles has been gone for just over six hundred and sixty six days.
Everything burns cold.