Psycho Loving [Teen Wolf/Sterek]

Part 1

Stiles could dimly register that he was screaming.

He was screaming and couldn't stop.

All he could see was darkness; oppressive black everywhere, pressing, squeezing his lungs and eyes. Through that, there was blood. There was blood everywhere. He could see it dripping, staining, a darker shadow in the already pitch color.

He didn't know how he knew it was blood, but he did.

Maybe because it always ended up being blood. All the dreams for the past two months had ended with his hands covered in the sticky red. And it was never his.

Sometimes the black would flash with light to reveal Scott laying bleeding; sometimes it was Lydia, or Allison, or Isaac. Sometimes he would be kneeling in dirt, staring down at Boyd and Erica's mangled bodies.

In the dreams, it was always their blood on his hands and it was always his fault that it was there.

Stiles couldn't stop his screams. He felt like he was at a rave, white lights pulsing behind his eyelids revealing the terrified faces of his friends. All because of him.

'This isn't you!'

It wasn't. It wasn't him. It was just a nightmare. A dream. Not real.

But every time it felt more and more like reality.

Stiles felt his body floating. There was nothing to tether him down. Nothing to bring him back or wake him up. His dad has stopped coming into his room by the end of the first week. There was no one to wake him. Stiles knew eventually, around dawn, that the terrors would stop on their own. Light always seemed to wake him- that's why he left the shades open. The sun was all he had left to keep him sane it seemed. Even then, sometimes Stiles didn't wake. Sometimes he couldn't, he was conscious and his eyes were locked shut and his mind wouldn't allow him to escape.

He felt like this was one of those times.

Stiles could feel his body trembling, letting loose another hoarse scream and he couldn't stop it. All he could do was lie there and watch blood trickle across his vision. He was paralyzed. Every muscle was tense. He could feel his back arching, clutching the sheet, neck falling back as he yelled yet again, but could do nothing to control his actions. Knives were stabbing at his body, thousands of needles in his brain.

It was torture. Pure torture.

Somewhere past the black fog clouding his conciousness, he felt hands. Perhaps, Stiles thought, he screamed loud enough this particular night that his dad had decided to wake him. Maybe the neighbors has complained. Maybe Scott was staying over, like he did on the bad nights, and Stiles he forgotten in the nightmare.

Whoever it may be, the idea of someone coming to wake him had him relaxing. The hands guided over his tensed, spasming muscles, soothing them. Stiles could feel his heart beating again, control his breathing, following the hands as they ran up his now relaxed chest and onto his face. They cupped his cheeks, rough and large, and Stiles knew immediately that they weren't his dad's hands, or even Scotts'. He fought to drag his eyes open, to ignore the dread creeping up his spine, threatening to send him back into a dream. There was a fear too, that kept his eyes sealed. Too many times had Stiles thought to have awoken, only to have ghosts and demons peering down at him. It was best to give into the mental pul until his brain was done playing tricks on him.

Almost like the owner could hear his thoughts, the hands weren't being gentle anymore. They were slapping, pinching, running back to his shoulders to shake his body violently. Impatiently trying to wake him.

Stiles realized with a start that he was awake. He wasn't screaming or moving. He had control.

If only his eyes would open.