Unsteady | Sterek

Seventeen: Lost souls and reverie

They come for him during the night.

He can see them through the bars in the moments he knows he's awake, standing in the shadows. They watch him, watch over him, and he just stares at them until he surrenders himself back to the horrors his mind summons.

Sometimes he talks to Allison, sometimes he watches as she flickers between the pretty girl he'd been friends with and a horrible puzzle of rotting flesh and bone. He can never quite glimpse the bandaged face he knows is hovering just over his shoulder.

Nobody else sees him, locked away in his holding cell. Only the officer who brings his food, only to take it away, untouched, the next day. Even the Sheriff doesn't visit and when Stiles manages to feel something, pain ricochets through his hollow heart.

But they come for him and he embraces it, them, as the lock falls away and the door to his physical prison swings open. He thinks its a shame that his mental prison only strengthens. A hand grabs his elbow, the steady him not hurt him, and he's led out, into the crisp night.

He doesn't question where they're taking him. He doesn't really say anything at all and he welcomes the darkness with open arms as it comes for him.

***

Stiles is gone.

Derek stares and stares at his phone, the text staring back. It's the Sheriff and Derek wants to just call the man and say that it's all been a prank, that Stiles is fine and he's sleeping, hell he wants to believe it but he can't and the phone goes flying across the room.

"Such anger," Peter tuts, stepping forward. "So wasteful."

Derek snarls at his uncle, eyes flashing, teeth bared. Peter just waves him off. "Stiles escaped," Derek hisses lowly.

"Or was he taken?" A grim understanding passes between the two. Derek shakes his head and lets out a growl, pacing rapidly as he fights to keep his temper in check. The last thing he needs right now is to become a ball of anger.

Something in him points out that he's already way past anger and is edging into something territorial. He tells that part of him to shut up.

He's torn between calling Scott and Isaac, calling Deaton, howling at his uncle or just breaking down into sobs. He chooses none of the above and instead just makes a cup of coffee. He makes it halfway through before throwing the cup at the wall.

He salvages his phone and fires off a text to Scott, telling him to meet at Deaton's after school and the bring the pack.

They're gonna go witch hunting.

***

Stiles wakes up feeling clearer than he has in months. His hands don't tremble, he can breathe and he doesn't see Allison.

He's instantly scared.

He's also in control of his own body, presumably the reason why his hands were bound tightly by rope and he's slumped in a corner in a dark room that has a serious leakage problem. He scowls at the constant dripping.

"Hello?" He calls out, hearing his voice bounce of the walls and amplify. "Yo, witch bitches! You around?" No answer. He chews on his lip as he contemplates what exactly he can do in this situation.

He tugs on the rope and groans as it rubs on his wrists. He hates friction burn with a passion.

He pulls up short.

The last time something like this happened, he ended up trapping himself with the Nogitsune while actually sleep walking and calling Scott in his sleep. How does he know he's not doing the same thing again? The answer: He doesn't.

He has the vague sensation of dropping before he jerks awake, only to find himself in exactly the same position, except this time there isn't any rope. His hands are free and he can move. Suddenly, he doesn't want to.

"Of course," he mutters. "Stupid Stiles."

He sits in his corner and he waits, only to wake up once more in a different room, strapped to a chair. He can feel his panic levels rising, his breathing picking up. The chair feels eerily similar to the chair he'd given up in when the Nogitsune had threatened Malia.

"Please," he begs the darkness around him. "Please don't let him get me."

He swears the darkness roils in answer but he's waking up again before he can really be sure. This time, he's in his room, everything completely normal except for the word painted on his roof. He frowns at it as he lays on his bed.

M U R D E R E R

He gasps as he sits upright, finding himself at a desk in English. The girl in front of him turns around and he almost gags at the sleek brown hair and kind smile. "Stiles?" Allison says sweetly, looking very alive. "Is everything okay?"

"Help me," he chokes out. "Oh my god."

But she just frowns at him like she hasn't heard anything and he waves at her face. She doesn't react. Stiles looks down at himself, crying out when he realises his body isn't moving and his heart isn't beating.

Oh my god, I'm dead.

He stumbles into nothing and doesn't wake up again.