Drag Me Down Quick (So they don't notice)

Beacon Hills, California

     Dean liked classic rock. That much was obvious about two minutes into their cross-country road trip when Dean ceremoniously inserted a cassette into his tape deck and started blasting Metallica's Ride the Lightning album. 

     Sam and Cas didn't react at all, letting Stiles know that this behavior was considered completely normal for Dean. Honestly, Stiles didn't have anything against the music itself. He had never really listened to much music before, what with his Jeep's speaker having been broken since before he got it and with his ADHD that kept him from being able to sit still and listen to something, even something heavy or fast. The problem, however, wasn't the music. It was the memories. 

     An image came into his head as soon as the song began playing. It was his mom. She was driving his (her) jeep and he was sitting in the passenger seat, probably five or six years old. Stiles couldn't remember where they were going, but he vividly remembered screaming along with his mother to Fade To Black. It was a week before her diagnosis. 

     The sudden return of his memories had made it impossible to register them all. They were just sitting there, like gifts waiting to be opened (more like mines waiting to be stepped on). Now it was like a floodgate was opened that had been holding back all the painful memories of his mother. 

     His mother, shoving him away from her and asking Noah how a random kid had gotten into the house. 

     His mother, standing on the hospital roof about to jump, screaming at her husband that Stiles was trying to kill her. (He's trying to KILL me!!)

     His mother, dying, pulling her hand away, shoving him away from her and yelling for help.

     His mother, carving into his intestines with her fingers, pulling them out and shoving them down Stiles' throat. (Was that in hell?)

     There was liquid running down Stiles face, and running down his hand. He tried to rub it off but he couldn't. There was too much. Everywhere. On everything. In his eyes, in his lungs. He was choking, trying to expel the liquid forcing its way into his orifices, and then he was landing on his hands in gravel, throwing up the solitary pancake he had been able to stomach that morning. 

     His surroundings began to come back into focus. He was kneeling in the gravel at the side of the road. He could hear the Impala idling behind him and it was clear that he had made a hasty exit. Someone was patting his shoulder and asking if he was okay (stupid question, Scott). There was blood on his hands, mixing with the gravel that was being ground into his palms, and his face was suspiciously wet. He shook off Sam's hand and leaned back against the car, trying to regain his hold on sanity. (What sanity?)

     Stiles didn't know how long he sat on the ground, shaking and hyperventilating. He finally came to with Sam, Dean, and Cas all seated on the ground next to him. 

     "What triggered it, kid?" Dean spoke first. "Was it the car ride? Because we've only been driving for ten minutes and you having a panic attack and throwing up every few miles is going to get real awkward real fast."

     Cas looked scandalized. "Dean!" 

     "You can't just ask that, Dean. You have to give him some space!" Sam joined in. "I'm sorry about my brother, Stiles. No worries, just let us know if you want to keep going."

      "Well I don't want any vomit on my baby's interior so I think it's only fair." Dean grumbled under his breath. Stiles felt a hint of amusement. He cleared his throat.

     "It's. It's fine." He rubbed his hands together, seeing the blood from where he had scratched at his palms but feeling no pain, not like he should be. He bet that even if he could get a cigarette there would be none of the relief that used to accompany the burn. He bet he wouldn't even feel it. He remembered learning about leprosy in school: lepers didn't become deformed because of the disease. They became deformed because they couldn't feel pain, therefore they didn't even notice when rats chewed off their fingers and toes. That had been a particularly gruesome history lesson. Old Stiles had been queasy and unable to eat for the next three days. New Stiles was familiar with the feeling of digits being removed. It didn't make him lose his lunch anymore.