(part of fic dump 'cause I've been neglecting )

River of Lead

There's no rational order to it.

It's like organised chaos, much like how his brain works.

It starts out as post-trauma dreams.

Then the sleep deprivation which is swiftly followed by the waking dreams-slash-hallucinations and the occasional nightmare when he's exhausted enough to fall asleep. Only it's at this stage that he feels the burning, sees the flames, and ends up smelling like burnt corpses.

A/N: Title from Aaron Sprinkles 'River of Lead'.

My attempt at going down the 3b 'lose your mind' theme. General spoilers for 3a and 3x12 Lunar Ellipse. Stiles post-reflective-Derek leaving flashback was actually a re-edited version of a drabble I did on my tumblr (that was a response to Lissie's 'I Bet On You'.) Just tweaked slightly.

Part 2 of Runaway Series

Partly inspired by the video for Dokken's 'Dream Warrior' (Nightmare On Elm Street 3). Just picture

T/warning: Panic attacks are pretty much a given, and at times, pretty horrific. Night terrors and nightmares, basically in line with 3b, and some 'imagery' that might be triggering.

Chapter 1: sleep tight, memories

Sleep tight

Memories

We've all got to turn in sometimes

Fall back

Take a seat

'Cause we never got past the headlines

And who could ever understand

The obligation that was forcing my hand

Another chance for grace to win

As I give in

Down this river of lead I roam

Feeling it move beneath

If the fire don't kill me the water will

Feeling it pull me underneath

Lay me down to sleep

I pray there's something left to keep'

There's no rational order to it.

It's like organised chaos, much like how his brain works.

It starts out as post-trauma dreams.

Then the sleep deprivation which is swiftly followed by the waking dreams-slash-hallucinations and the occasional nightmare when he's exhausted enough to fall asleep. Only it's at this stage that he feels the burning, sees the flames, and ends up smelling like burnt corpses.

After Jennifer, the root cellar, and the Nementon becoming a beacon again, Stiles dreams.

He dreams of what ifs and what could be's.

He dreams that he's too late getting to the others, that the dirt and soil and wood all fall around them and everyone dies. Sometimes he's not too late, but the bat doesn't withstand the pressure, and he ends up crushed, dying with the others, within the bone-breaking and suffocating darkness.

He dreams that he drowns in a metal bath-tub at Deaton's clinic.

Sometimes he never gets back from the white room.

Other times he's lost amongst the trees. Watching and re-watching the past over and over again.

They're just dreams and he wakes up.

Until they're not and he can't.

Because eventually everyone will start to realise that these dreams are something more… much like Stiles himself.

Stiles doesn't remember falling asleep but he finds himself waking in a room that doesn't look familiar. A bed that's too big. Or a body that was too small. Stiles doesn't feel himself either way.

He rolls on to his side and sees the moon glowing brightly within the clear sky. It calms him and he sighs with it.

He hears noises from somewhere below. Unfamiliar and yet, between the ugly tones and loud banging, there's a familiarity to it that Stiles has never known.

When he rolls back he can see the door to the room is slightly ajar, warm glowing light from the hallway leaving dancing shadows across the wall, a few dust particles fluttering in his line of vision. A loud scream followed by a chorus of snarls and a few howls.

Stiles feels the flinch within him but doesn't so as much see it on his body.

"Dad?" a voice that's not his own calls out quietly. It's younger than he is. A child.

The noises instantly stop and wariness creeps up within him.

Then hushed whispers. A soft voice that sounds like it's pleading. Begging quietly. A loud raucous laughter. Feminine but obnoxious.

He climbs out of bed and small feet carry him across a wooden floor.

He manages to slip through the open gap of the door.

There's a name on it but it's blurry and out of focus so he can't make the word out.

He tries to call out again. He takes a breath but then there's something there in his throat. Thick and clogging and he suddenly can't breathe. The floor disappears from beneath him… or at least there's a sense of falling, because he's suddenly not in a hallway that he was never familiar with.

Instead there's the abrupt arrival of fire and screams. Thick flames lick up and around, burning him, and he comes to the sudden realisation that he is about to die. It's so fast and so left-field he doesn't get a chance to process anything. Like regret. Like's he's too young to die. Like how it would affect his dad. Because he was walking across hard wooden floors and now he's fucking burning to death.

That's not the worst thing though.

It was the screams.

Stiles comes to suddenly, jack-knifing up abruptly, mouth parted open in a silent scream. He blinks rapidly when he realises that this time he's brought something back with him. Thick, terrifying flames cover the walls, occasionally trying to flick out and lick at his body that was still trapped in a tangle of sheets. The sound of the fire roars loudly throughout the room, louder and wilder than any feral wolf could be.

He tries to scream again but nothing comes out and all he achieves is the feeling of thick, clogging smoke restricting his breathing and leaving him choking against it, despite the fact there's not a trace of anything except the angry red and orange flames that dance around him.

His door suddenly opens and Stiles tears his eyes away from the flames as his dad appears and wades through the flames as though they were never there.

Oh.

His dad stops just short of stepping fully out of its reach and it's all over him now, dancing up down his body, engulfing him. Stiles watches, fear and terror keeping him rooted to the bed, as his skin blisters and peels away.

His dad's lips move, Stiles not hearing anything except the roar and loud crackles of the flame, revealing stringy strips of muscle and exposed teeth.

Stiles screams some more, or at least he's pretty sure he did, and then some more when hands suddenly reach for him and shake him a little. His dad's face appears in front of him and Stiles watches it in reverse. Strips of muscle and skin fall back into place. Teeth, and jaws and bones get covered and Stiles can see the lips moving urgently within the loudness.

Wake up. Wake up. It's just a dream, Stiles. WAKE UP!

"- Up. It's okay, Stiles. You're okay," his dad's voice cuts in and the roaring has gone. Somehow the sheets have gone and he's been moved so that he's half leaning on his dad and half over the side of the bed. There's the distinct image of vomit – most of it splattered in a small pile on the floor but some, he realises with a grimace, had splashed across the bottom of his dad's pant legs. "You're awake now."

"Sorry," Stiles mutters shakily against him.

"It's okay," his dad murmurs next to him, running a cool hand against his forehead. "You're okay, but you do feel a little warm."

"I'm okay," Stiles croaks, instantly hating the way his voice betrays him. "It was just a bad dream."

"I've seen your bad dreams – if that's what you're calling them," his dad says, frowning at him. "That was the worst I've seen them. It was almost like a night terror."

"Yeah, I suppose it was a bit…" Stiles agrees with a shrug.

"Have you had it like that before?" his dad nudges him when Stiles drifts along for too long.

Stiles shakes his head, pointedly ignoring the fact that he had indeed had some weird ass waking dreams in Finstock's class and seemingly pointless images flickering between the Nementon, silent signing, doors and freaky shadowy images that leave him screaming himself silly.

"What about Scott and Allison?"

"They've had a few moments too."

"Like you?"

"I guess," Stiles gives a non-committal answer. In fact, apart from Scott's wig-out on the Lacrosse field and Allison's two – that she has recounted so far – both of them seemed to be fairing much better than he was. Maybe it was because Scott was now a freaking true alpha and, well to be honest, Allison had always been a little rough around the edges. She was an Argent after all.

"Maybe you need to talk to someone?" his dad ventures thoughtfully.

"Seriously?" he snorts. "Like who? You got someone in mind. Maybe you have a secret supernatural unit attached to the department that I don't know about?"

"Stiles…"

"Seriously dad," Stiles rolls his eyes, sitting up straighter. "The last person I spoke to about how I was feeling turned out to be semi-evil, so I'll think I just stick to my own peeps in the future. Besides, Deaton said we could talk to him if we needed to. Scott already has."

"And what about you?" his dad asks, giving his shoulder a nudge again.

"Deaton said this would be with us for the rest of our lives," Stiles says with a shrug. "I hoped it wouldn't be a big part. I've just been trying to ignore it, I guess."

"And how's that been working for ya, kid?" his dad asks with a raised eyebrow.

Stiles shrugs again and offers his dad a sheepish and watery grin.

"You can always talk to me. "

"I know," Stiles instantly says. His dad raises his eyebrow even further, expectantly. "Just… not right now? I will talk to you. It's just I'm tired and icky and I feel and smell like vomit right now."

"Yes and yes," his dad agrees wrinkling his nose. "And you've also not been sleeping as much as you should be."

"I think the waking up screaming part showed that I was in fact asleep," Stiles objects with a poorly executed flail of the arm.

"Falling asleep from exhaustion is not the same thing. Sleep deprivation can cause a lot of things you know," his dad frowns at him, planting a wide palm across the top of his head and tilting it so he could scrutinise the obvious greyness under his eyes. "When you do talk to me I want you to tell me the truth. Now that everything is out in the open there's no excuses." Stiles inwardly snorts when he re-edits it what he hears in his head and comes away with 'now that the werewolf's out of the bag'. "But it does mean you have to start being honest with yourself."

Stiles huffs a heavy breath out and nods, gingerly moving away from the fresh vomit.

"You should go to bed," Stiles announces and waves down to the floor. "I'll clear that up."

"No," his dad argues at him and shoves him gently upwards. "You're going to have a shower and I'll clean that up. Then you're going to bed."

Stiles tries to protest but his dad herds him out of his room with a fresh set of pj's and the softest towel he's ever had the grace to touch. By the time he's back, freshly warmed, smelling the nicer side of vomit, the floor is scrubbed clean and the bed-sheets have been changed. His dad ends up tucking him into bed which is both nice and totally mortifying.

His dad insists on staying until he's sure Stiles is asleep, so he does what he does best and feigns it until his dad yawns loudly and makes his way back to his own room.

Stiles opens his eyes and vows never to sleep again.

Instead he thinks back to the day after they'd pulled everyone out of the root cellar. When Scott had turned up after mysteriously disappearing on him and taking an even more mysterious phone call which he vehemently refused to tell him about. When he re-appeared he'd told him, head still tender and bruised, stitches pulling across his temple, that Derek and Cora had left.

It left him reeling more than any head-wound could.

Stiles is pissed. In fact he's more than pissed. He's downright outraged.

Derek's gone. With Cora. And he's fucking mad, okay? He's just gone. Like none of it mattered. Not one fucking bit. And he knows it's not Cora's fault. She just wanted a better life. A new start. And she's Derek's sister. Of course he wanted those things for her as well. And him. A new start. A new beginning. But he's still pissed at her. Because this was their hearts that they played with. His. Scott's. Even Isaac's. He saw how Isaac's face had changed when he heard they had left and although Scott was denying it, he looked bummed too.

Stiles had taken a chance with them. How many times had he saved Derek's life? Cora's? How many times did he have to lay his life down? He feels fucking ashamed, now, that he'd actually cried in front of Derek (he'd thought they'd been at that stage of their little fucked up lives, that tears and grief and small gestures of comfort meant something) because it was all for show.

He can't help but think that they're little bitches for this. Fucking cowards. It's not like he can just up and leave like that. He has commitments. He has family. And he's glad for that. That his dad and Mrs McCall and Scott are alive. And Lydia - despite the google-eyes for Aidan - because whatever they're going to become, it's going to be something.

He shouldn't deny their happiness or the fact that Cora gave Derek a reason to leave. Derek's had a lifetime of shit and he actually has something to live for. To fight for. But they shouldn't have to do that. To fight. Cora should be able to grow up anew, get her own life, and have her own family. And Derek will get to watch and maybe get his own too. He's still young. He's still got a chance.

Stiles thinks, a little meanly, that she'll probably leave him. And because he's still bitter about everything he thinks 'I hope she leaves you, like you did us…'

(he doesn't mean it)

His dad keeps him off school for a few days until he's sure that he's not running a fever. Although it's pretty apparent straight away that the hot flush to his skin had been a residue of the hot flames that danced across his skin but due to the fact Stiles refused to talk about what he'd dreamed about, and his dad was none the wiser, he just went along with it.

By the third day though his dad was satisfied enough and insisted on driving him to school. Stiles jeep was still on the drive, unused and un-drivable, on the account that they were still a little short on the money to get it fixed, and Stiles wasn't really in the mood for the bus. Or people in general.

"Call me if you don't feel up for it," his dad says.

Stiles nods and fishes his rucksack out of the back and swings it up over his shoulders.

"Will do, daddio…" Stiles announces with a small wave. It's obvious that his dad's not going to leave until Stiles makes the first move so he turns on his heel and marches determinedly towards the door until he hears the familiar rumble of the cruiser pulling away.

He feels the tension building, the itchiness that he's grown accustomed to, and the irritability that, of late, is always there. He doesn't feel particularly sociable today and would like nothing better than to shut the entire fucking world out. He makes do with sticking his earphones in and flipping his hood up instead, tightening both hands around the straps on his shoulders.

He makes it halfway down the hall, just a few feet away from his locker, when something big and a little heavy slams down onto his shoulder. Stiles yelps and whirls, half-expecting something big and dangerous and ready to eat his face. Instead Isaac is there, hands up and placating.

"Whoa," Isaac says, eyes wide, mouth quirking amusedly. "You're a little jumpy."

Stiles can't actually hear most of what Isaac says thanks, mostly, to the fact that he'd cranked up the volume of his IPod. He plucks a bud out of one ear.

"I've been calling you for ages," Isaac says, winkling his nose. He makes no show at hiding the fact that he sniffs around Stiles for a few seconds. Stiles rolls his eyes and turns his back, heading the last few feet to his locker. "Couldn't you hear me?"

"Earphones," Stiles says, plucking his remaining ear-bud out.

"You look like shit."

"Thanks," Stiles mutters, coming up blank with a witty reply. Isaac seems to wait, expecting something from him. Stiles ignores him and turns his back again, shoving books randomly in. He has no time for Isaac today… well he doesn't at the best of times, but today – along with his building irritation and sudden, surprising head-ache, he's about a nano-second away from yelling in the werewolf's face. Isaac had been tolerable when Derek and the pack had been around, if not mildly annoying and obnoxious, but now Derek was gone, and Boyd and Erica were both dead, Isaac was spending more time with Scott. It was clear that there was something weird going on between Allison too but as Scott was now the only alpha he knew there was more Scott and Isaac time then there was Scott and Stiles time. Although, despite the fact he wanted to yell at him and tell the best-friend stealer to go fuck himself in mistletoe he was also somewhat relieved. It meant there was more time not to pretend that he was okay. He didn't have to smile and give half-hearted thumbs up and be someone's 'rock'. And Lydia? Well… she was off having sexytimes with one half of the block-head twins.

"So, are you coming tonight?"

"Tonight?" Stiles asks distractedly, as he rummages further in his locker.

"The pack-meet?" Isaac says and rolls his eyes as though it was the most obvious thing. "Scott's probably going to mention it to you in class. He said he tried to call you a few times."

Stiles ignores him further.

"It's just Derek wanted to make sure everyone was coming."

"Dere- what?" Stiles asks, abandoning the contents of the locker and snapping around.

"Shit… you didn't know?" Isaac blanches and then shakes his head in confusion. "I thought you knew."

"When?"

"Yesterday evening," Isaac shrugs. "He only just got back if that helps."

It doesn't because now he realises he's last to know. He ends up stalking off to his next class.

"I called him."

"Derek Hale?" Stiles hisses at Scott. "Of all the people you call, you call Derek?"

"Who else would I have called?"

"Why did you have to call anyone?"

"C'mon Stiles. Look around. We've opened a can of worms. I might be an alpha now but I have no clue what I'm doing."

"You're comparing this to a can of worms?"

"What do you want me to call it?"

Stiles shrugs and dumps his bag down at his desk.

"What about Deaton?"

"Deaton suggested I call him."

"Why?"

"I thought I just said why."

"That was the PG version," Stiles huffs, sitting down and looking at Scott with questionable eyes. "I want the real reason."

"If it happened to have escaped your notice, something weird is going on. Something that I don't think I have any control over. Or even any idea what it is," Scott sighs, sitting next to him. He turns worried eyes towards him. "And you're doing weird shit, man. I'm worried about you."

"Oh. My. God," Stiles turns a horrified look towards his friend. "You called him because of me, didn't you? What the hell did you tell him?" he shakes his head and hardens his eyes in accusation. "And I'm offended that you think I'm losing my mind. Thanks, man. Way to go."

"It's not like that…" Scott tries to plant a calming hand on his shoulder but Stiles shakes it off roughly.

"I'm not writing things backwards," Stiles mutters.

"Yet," Scott huffs under his breath and Stiles isn't entirely sure if Scott is joking or not but Stiles musters enough energy to quirk his lips, only thinking a little belatedly, that they might be making light of Lydia's previous mental state.

"Look at Lydia now. She's a picture of health."

"She's a banshee."

"Are you afraid I might be something else?" Stiles asks seriously. "Something bad? Because whatever the darkness is, it's not going to be nice is it?"

"No," Scott says, shaking his head hard, squeezing his elbow. "I'm just worried about you. When was the last time you slept?"

Stiles doesn't answer, knowing full-well it was nearly three nights ago, after he'd dreamt about fire.

"Your dad called my mom. He was asking about sleeping pills," Scott continues worriedly. "They're not for him, are they?"

"I'm okay, Scott…" Stiles says, looking away and avoiding the concerned look in his friend's eyes. "I just need a good night's sleep."

Scott looks like he's going to object to Stiles nonchalant dismissal but their teacher is coughing and eyeing Stiles coolly across the room.

Harris might be dead and gone but his dislike of Stiles still, it seems, remained strong. The new, replacement teacher, had taken an instant dislike to him. Unlike Harris, who had a somewhat rational if not unfair reason, Crabtree (or Crabby as Stiles had started calling him) had no apparent reason. Stiles wonders, a little amusedly and not beyond feasibility, if Harris had left notes on him.

Stiles ignores everyone, including Crabby, and pulls his notebook free ready to start the class.

They're nearly three quarters of the way through the class when Scott notices a stutter to Stiles heartbeat.

Scott leans forward until he can see the side of Stiles face. His eyes are blinking sluggishly open and closed. Every time they open Scott catches the way they stare glassily ahead. The pen, which he'd previously been writing with, was now being squeezed tightly between clasped fingers, the creak of plastic and rustling paper loud against Scott's ears.

Scott looks down, expecting to see the familiar words of wake up across the page, but instead all that's there is the equations and numbers and copious amount of writing that Stiles had copied down from the chalk-board. Somewhere, though, Stiles had stopped writing and the words and numbers had disappeared into a wonky line as Stiles dragged the pen across the paper. And he didn't stop, tight trembling hand dragging it right and then left until the rest of the paper was nothing but a mixture of diagonal lines.

"Stiles?" Scott asks quietly.

Stiles doesn't respond, hand drifting across the paper. Another stutter to his heart-beat. A small hitch to his breath.

"Stiles?" Scott whispers again, slowly planting his hand hesitantly over Stiles and the pen.

As soon as Scott makes contact with him Stiles body becomes fluid and he slides heavily off the stool until he's a heap on the floor.

"Stiles!" Scott yells in alarm, dropping to his knees beside him, trying to reach for him, only for Stiles to writhe on the floor and letting out a scream that's too loud and alarming. Scott has to bite down on his lip and bring his alpha into play to stop from wolfing out.

Lydia appears, shoving gawkers and uncomfortable gigglers out of her way, Aidan, Ethan and Danny quickly following.

"What happened?" she gasps.

"I don't know… I don't…" Scott shakes his head, unsure how he can explain what has been happening to the three of them, especially Stiles, but he knows his touch is not calming him.

Lydia doesn't hesitate and plants her small perfectly manicured hand across Stiles forehead. "It's okay, Stiles. You're okay."

The effect is immediate. Stiles eyes fly open and he jumps, trying to fight his way free from where Lydia is trying to push him back down. Scott instantly tastes smokiness against his lips, the distinctive smell of charcoal and burnt skin in the air.

"I'm awake," Stiles chants quietly on the floor, heaving heavy breaths out between the words.

"And that is what you get for falling asleep," Crabtree sneers at them. "Stilinski get off the floor before I feel inclined to give you a detention. And I do not want to have a reason to see your face any more than I need to."

"He wasn't asleep," Scott snaps at him, although in hindsight it was probably not the best thing to say considering he was making it obvious that Stiles was now freaking out in the middle of the day while he was fully awake.

"I'm sick?" Stiles offers weakly, allowing Danny and Lydia to assist him to his feet.

"He is burning up," Lydia says. And Scott can see from where he's stooped that there's a slight sheen of perspiration across his forehead.

"Go to the nurse's office…" Crabtree dismisses him and waves at the door.

Scott tries to follow but Crabtree side-eyes him and shakes his head.

"It's fine," Stiles tells him. "I'll see you later."

"Answer your phone," Scott growls at him knowing full well he won't. He also, most probably, won't go the nurse's office either.

Stiles doesn't go the nurse's office. In fact he skips the remainder of school altogether.

He ends up walking aimlessly and although he's sure he doesn't have another waking dream or lose any time, before he knows it it's mid-afternoon and he has no idea how time moved on.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, rousing him from his musings, and he digs it out noticing that not only is there an un-read text from Scott but that his dad is calling.

"Hey," he greets his dad.

"Hey, you…" his dad greets back. Stiles instantly can hear the worried tones despite the casual words. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"The school called when they realised you left. They told me what happened earlier."

"I should have called you. Sorry."

"Where've you been? That was hours ago, kid."

"Just walking. Clearing my head."

"You want me to come and get you?"

"No. It's fine dad."

"Are you sure?" his dad asks, sounding determined and worried. "We can go to Deaton's."

"I don't need to do that," Stiles sighs and then takes a breath. "Derek's back. I'm supposed to go there after school. Everyone's going."

"He's back? Since when?"

"Yesterday? Don't be mad. I was the last to find out, apparently, if that makes you feel better."

"It doesn't," his dad grouses. "You need a ride there?"

"No," Stiles rolls his eyes. "Do I need to revoke the dad-cab ride privileges?"

"I'm just worried about you."

"Well don't be… look I'm going to go and buy some snacks and then head over there. By that time the others should be getting there."

"If this is official pack-meeting stuff then I should be there," his dad objects.

"I don't even know what it is," Stiles reminds him, although from what Scott had said earlier, he was pretty sure that he was on the list of topics. "For all I know it could just be a little reunion. Having the Sheriff there kind of ruins the party mood."

"Hmm," his dad muses over the phone. "If it is anything werewolf-related you'll let me know. No more bullshitting me."

"Language father," Stiles laughs and then finds himself nodding. "And yes daddy dearest, I'll let you know."

They say their goodbyes and Stiles disconnects only to slide Scott's message back on screen.

Derek's. Be there.

"We didn't have to come back."

"I know."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

"So why did we?"

"Don't you mean why did you come back?"

"Derek!"

"Cora!"

"God, you're so annoying," Cora says, slurping noisily at a slushie. "It's like having Stilinski in the car with us."

"I think you missed him."

"What? No way," Cora says, turning a disgusted look towards him. "He's got this face that I just want to…. punch, I guess."

Derek snorts and helps himself to the fries between them.

They're in the Camaro, eating a late lunch, before they head back to the loft for the meeting that Scott instructed they must have. He wasn't really that bothered, but Scott insisted on it, and Derek thought it would probably be a good way of getting Stiles there, considering he'd heard multiple accounts from various people over the last twenty-four hours on how Stiles had been avoiding the others.

He'd been surprised by Scott's call and even more surprised by the panic in the new alpha's voice.

"Something's coming, Derek. It could even be here right now. I don't know what it is. And Stiles… he's a fucking mess. There's something wrong with him.

He'd called Deaton later, who confirmed Scott's concern, but couldn't enlighten him any further.

"Scott's right. There is something."

"The darkness?"

"You know about this?"

"My mother spoke about it."

"Stiles refuses to come and see me despite there being an open invitation to him. From what I hear he's not doing as well as the others. I'm afraid of what the consequences might be."

Cora snatches the fries out of his grasp.

"I heard you on the phone. Are you worried about Stiles?"

Derek shrugs and plucks another fry away.

"Should we?" Cora asks again.

"We?"

"I came back didn't I?"

"You're worried," Derek deflects, allowing Cora to pull the remainder of the fries completely out of his reach, suddenly spotting a familiar figure in the distance

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am…" Cora starts and then rolls to a stop when she too spots the figure as it changes direction and heads across the parking lot towards the store they're parked in front of. "Is that Stiles?"

It is Stiles, only his face looks gaunter and his skin paler than when he'd last seen him, but there was a distinctive thump of a heart-beat, one that he was familiar with. His scent followed a few seconds later, slightly overpowered by the smell of burnt charcoal and smokiness. The added scent is more than a little overwhelming and leaves him frowning in confusion.

By the look on Cora's face she'd also picked up on it.

There's a sudden change in Stiles heart-beat. A stutter and a hitch. And then Stiles is lurching away, hands shooting out blindly until he braces himself against the side of the store and slides ungracefully to the dirty floor beneath him.

"Stiles!" Derek yells, flinging the Camaro door open and sprinting over to the younger boy, Cora hot on his heels.

By now Stiles is rocking on the floor and clutching his head.

"Stiles?" Cora asks, reaching Stiles seconds after Derek does. She tries to grab at his arm but Stiles actually shrieks at the touch and wrenches his entire body away.

"Don't," Stiles pants, eyes closed, head still in his hands. "It's okay, Stiles. You're awake."

Derek and Cora exchange worried glances.

He waves Cora off when she tries to touch him. The smell of burnt skin wafting over them every now and then.

"Stiles?" Derek asks instead.

"Derek?" Stiles says a little breathlessly. The rocking stops. The hands move away from his head.

Derek ventures a hand of his own to Stiles shoulder, expecting a violent reaction again but instead of flinching away, Stiles vomits all over the gum-covered floor.

"Whoa," Derek says, catching Stiles as he starts to pitch forward. "Okay."

Stiles vomits, violently, a further three times until it finally stops and there's few disgruntled noises from passers-by. Stiles seemingly doesn't care or he's completely oblivious and Cora ends up standing over them glaring at anyone who dares even to glance in their direction.

"I think we should get you to the hospital," Derek says when he's positive there's nothing left to come out.

"No," Stiles grunts at him, unabashedly leaning into Derek's side. "Just a migraine."

"That was not a migraine."

"Trust me," Stiles mutters tiredly into his side. "It could have been much worse."

By his tone and the lingering strange smell over their clothes Derek has to reluctantly agree.

"Don't stare," Stiles mutters up at Cora. "It's rude. Help me up and give me a ride to yours."

"Who died and made you queen?" Cora mutters at him, folding her arms across her chest.

"Me?" Stiles asks with a lopsided grin.

"Not funny, Stiles…" Cora frowns, kicking his foot gently.

"Haven't you heard about not kicking a man when he's down?" he asks as Derek easily tugs him to his feet. Stiles sways with it but allows Derek to drag him, by the hoodie no less, towards the car. There's only so much gentle tactile-ness he can handle before he has to give an equal ratio of roughness.

Despite the frown still firmly on Cora's face she manages a quirk to her lips.

"No."

"Was that a smile?" Stiles asks, even as Derek is shoving him into the cramped back-seat. He sticks his head back out of the door, preventing Derek from snapping the seat back into place, and Derek can see the mask fall into place. A curtain that wasn't there before. "Shit on a stick! Did Cora fucking Hale just smile?"

"Shut up, Stiles…" Cora groans at him, pushing him a little less roughly back into the seat and slamming the door in his face.

"See Derek…" Stiles huffs, voice muffled but still clearly heard from behind the closed door. "That's how you do it."

Cora catches his eyes before he has a chance to move around to the driver's side.

"What the hell was that?" she asks quietly, worrying her lips.

Derek shakes his head because he hasn't a clue.

Not one single idea and it freaks him out. Because Stiles? Stiles looks like death. And he smells so much worse.

tbc