Stiles used to love his bed. Those puffy pillows and big thick blankets used to look like heaven to him and it would be his absolute pleasure to sink into that well known mattress every night. Now his bed was a dreaded limbo where time didn't pass and sleep never came.

Lying in that bed for hours every night, begging his mind to turn off and let him sleep, only left him sore and more tired than before. Those precious hours that he did sleep were so rare now that it felt as if he was cursed, because along with all the other shit he had to deal with, night terrors had to be added to the very long list of bullshit in his life.

The insomnia made him long for sleep but night terrors… He felt like he never wanted to close his eyes again. Lying in his bed now, staring up at the ceiling and gripping his sheets tight in his fists, the boy let out a little whimper. He was so tired he was worried his body might shut down, eyes rolling back and body dropping to the floor empty of all consciousness, in the middle of class or whatever supernatural disaster they had to deal with next.

He was worried about Scott and Allison too. Scott couldn't control his shifts and Stiles didn't know how to help him, Scott hadn't even let him. Stiles mind took him back in vivid, terrifying flashes, of his best friend burying his own claws into his hands in order to stay human. The roar that had come from him, the pain in his face, the thick trails of red that filled his palms and rolled down his arms. And then Stiles had watched as his alpha had sagged to the floor, panting and exhausted from his efforts to stay human, to be in control.

And then there was Allison. Being haunted by her dead aunt, having hallucinations and ending up in places and not knowing how she got there. Stiles and Allison had known each other for a long time now and together, had survived some scary ass crap, but her hands had never shook like they did now. It was constant and Stiles hadn't missed it or the way she would put down her pen and sigh in frustration during class.

She was a hunter, but now she was a hunter that couldn't use a bow and Stiles knew how much that hurt her. The worst was when she would black out and wake up just in time to see her almost kill someone. Stiles and Allison were friends. He knew that she was terrified. She had vowed to protect people, her pack, her friends. And now she had almost killed them.

Stiles hadn't been there but had heard about what happened during the hunter and the banshee's archery practice. He had given Isaac a heartfelt 'thank you' when he heard the beta had saved Lydia. Stiles was supposed to come up with solutions, he was supposed to help, but the human had never felt more useless.

These night terrors were suffocating and inescapable. When he wanted to sleep he couldn't and when he wanted to wake up and end his stay in the hell in his mind he was trapped. It was maddening. He had told Scott he was having trouble telling what was real and what wasn't. He couldn't tell if he was awake or just trapped in another layer of a nightmare.

Last night had been a bad one. Waking up only to realize he's still dreaming then waking up again and again. And being trapped in his own mind until he screamed and fought himself back into reality. Or what he hoped was reality. Last night he had struggled awake and found himself in his father's arms, holding him against his chest and stopping him from thrashing around too much.

Stiles had clung to his father, listening to his soft reassurances and prayed he was awake for real this time.

"It's okay Stiles. I got you. I'm here, you're okay." His father held him and rocked slightly as his tears dripped onto his dad's arms. He hadn't been able to sleep again that night but his Dad stayed anyway, holding him for more than an hour before Stiles reassured him that he was okay.

"It's fine Dad. You should get some sleep. I'm sorry I woke you." Wiping down his wet face with his t-shirt he looked down at his hands, avoiding the worried eyes of his father.

"Stiles…."

And that tone. That apologetic, concern that he had caused. He hated making his dad worry. Finally raising his head, the boy spoke with as much confidence as he could muster.

"I'm okay. It was just a nightmare." His father nodded and left but they both knew it was more than a nightmare. Once his dad was gone Stiles counted his fingers. Ten. He sighed and sank back down into his mattress before counting his fingers again. He had to be sure because he was sure of almost nothing these days.

….

(The next night)

John sat at his kitchen table and looked guiltily at the cabinet he kept his lone bottle of scotch in. He knew Stiles hated it when he drank. He hated it when he drank. After a long, hard day at work he would often have a glass or two but when he really drank, those nights when his vision got so blurry he slept on the couch instead of risking the stairs, that's when the guilt came.

Because when Claudia died and their house, his bed, was empty and every scent and piece of their home reminded him of her, it was the only thing that made him sleep. The long stretch of years between then and now had helped ease the pain of her absence but now….. John could not lose his whole family in one house. If he lost Stiles, his son, his everything, he would never be able to come back to this empty building.

Tears dripped onto his notepad as it lay open on the table and The Sheriff wiped his face quickly, not wanting to allow himself to dissolve into grief before anything was confirmed. Ever since Claudia, John had been worried about the possibility of Stiles inheriting the disease and once the kid had hit his teenage years the father had kept a close eye on anything that could look like a symptom.

It had been so good for a while, his son was healthy and safe and happy. The Sheriff shook his head sadly. His son didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve this. No parent should have to tell their kid that they were dying. No child should have such a short time on this earth.

The list sat in front of him and even looking at it made him feel sick. There was no denying it now. Those three scribbled symptoms, so small yet so devastatingly painful to look at, had confirmed all of his worst fears. Slowly, mournfully, John wrote yet another one down.

-Night terrors.

Gripping his head in his hands the Sheriff closed his eyes and resisted the urge to get a drink. There wasn't any way to deny what was happening. If three's a pattern what was four? A diagnosis? God, how could this be happening? It wasn't fair.

Getting up from his seat The Sheriff was just about to go for the bottle in the cupboard when the screaming started from upstairs. The tired man's heart sunk and he dropped his notebook as he ran up the stairs, tears blurring his eyes as he went. His son needed him and although every terrified scream broke his heart a little more, he would remain strong.