He's never thought about it before, but now –now that he has more than enough time for contemplative thoughts in the solitary confinement that is his brain- Stiles realises that even if he and his friends weren't all linked through the whole lycanthropy thing, they still had some epic abandonment issues in common. It's easy to blame the pack's touchy-feely nature on their wolf sides, but there's more to it than that. With an average of .5 parents and other involved family members between them, it's no wonder they cling to each other the way they do.

They're family, and a close knit one at that, but it doesn't erase the fact that Scott's father walked out on him, that Lydia's parents insist on trying to buy her affections, that Derek's family was murdered, that his own mother died-

A little emo, don't you think?

He's going to be like Derek soon, with his face set in a permascowl. And being demonically possessed at the moment, he thinks he's entitled to one or two Evanescence moments now and then.

I thought you would have cheered up by now. My offer still stands. Saul goes on. Think of it as a gift. I'm not even asking for your soul.

No, he's asking for permanent residence in Stiles' head. Is 'asking' even the right word when a supernatural thing shoves itself into your brain without so much as a please or thank you?

I tried to say thank you.

Stiles very pointedly ignores that and tries to lose himself in the Edgar Allen Poe story he couldn't have told anyone the plot of even under threat of having his throat ripped out. Normally he performs rather well under that kind of pressure, but the consistent voice in his brain is like having an old Britney Spears song stuck in his head and being forced to go through the day with nothing but the refrain on repeat. (Not that he's ever listened to enough Britney Spears for that to be a problem, of course.)

It's pretty selfish of you, if you think about it. There's no chance he's getting anything done tonight.

I like Beacon Hills. I like you. I like your furry friends- especially the broody one. I'm gonna be sticking around, lighting some fires, causing some trouble. Might as well get something out of it for yourself. If you don't say yes, I could always ask your dad. What do you think he'd say?

A few whiskeys in and his dad'll say and agree to anything where his mother is concerned. It's the only time he talks about her and most of the time Stiles can't bring himself to answer. Probably because he's always sober. That's what I thought. Drinking after work at the kitchen table and his darling son asks him if he'd do anything to bring his wife back from the great beyond... it's almost too easy.

If Stiles had been in control of his own body he wouldn't have been able to walk through the Beacon Hills cemetery as calmly has he had. Even regulated to the small corner of his brain that he was, he'd been a wreck as Saul strolled easily through the grass. The demon knew the way; Stiles may have avoided the place but the path to his mother's grave was still firmly ingrained in his mind. All Saul had to do was look for it.

Damn if it wasn't an odd feeling to want to throw up while having no stomach to do it with. Saul sat them down cross legged in front of his mother's grave and Stiles would have killed to be able to do something. Vomitting or crying would have been better than just allowing this.

Saul had only sighed, reaching out to trace his fingers over the lettering on the headstone. "If it makes you feel better," he'd said aloud. "Just remember you're not 'allowing' me to do anything."

Shouldn't the grass be slowing turning brown and dying while we sit here? I know how these things work, Stiles retorted. His attempts at defiant humor were halfhearted at best with Saul keeping their gaze focused straight ahead. Stiles wished his eyes would blink and obscure 'beloved wife and mother' if only for a second. Otherwise he was going to keep reading it and become more and more aware of the barely healed wounds the words were reopening and the grief he had no way of expressing.

"Chill, kiddo." Saul pulled his hand back but kept his eyes on the grave. "Calm down. Bouncing around in there isn't getting you you've got nothing to worry about."

At the time it had seemed stupid to point out that that was in no way true. Why are we here?

"You don't know what I do." Stiles felt his lips pull up into a grin.

Fill in for the Ghost of Traumatic Experiences Past? He would have been licking his lips nervously if he'd been able. Possibly running his fingers through the fuzz on his head if only to have something to do. Because you're doing a bang up-

"I could bring her back."

For once, Stiles shuts up.

He hasn't said a word since they left the cemetery, and though it's hard to ignore something that's living in your brain Saul is hard pressed to get a word out of him as he stares intently at his English homework. But he's shaking now, and his chest is tight, and there may or may not be three wet splotches on the page of his book and- oh shit. Yeah. He's crying. Quiet and slow at the start, but tears are making their way down his face at a steady rate. It's probably a good thing, Stiles tells himself. Not as if he can just cry whenever he wants these days. His body isn't his own anymore, so God only knows when the next time he'll be able to pull his knees to his chest and bury his face in his hands like this.

It isn't that Stiles hasn't wished to bring his mom back from the dead a million and one times and then some since she'd died. It's more that it's never gone quite like this, because apparently wishes can take a whole new spin once your best friends all end up as werewolves and you find out there're things out there that can actually grant said wishes. And not just your wishes either.

Saul's right, his dad would do anything to have his mother back. Even inadvertently sell his soul to a demon disguised as his son.

Five minutes. The demon sounds disgusted.I can't take more than five minutes of this. Pull yourself together, Genim. We're leaving.

He can't reply past the lump in his throat and doesn't want to anyway. If he's only got five minutes he's not going to waste them arguing with Saul. As undignified as sobbing alone in his bedroom is, it's better than being locked up in his head unable to express anything while a demon defiles his mother's burial site.

The problem is, Stiles isn't going to say yes. He's not going to let Saul bring his mom back from the beyond. He doesn't believe the horror stories Saul told him in the cemetery, because he knew his mother, and he knows that there's no way in hell that she would end up in... well, Hell. So everything Saul told him –the eternal torture, damnation, and suffering- is complete BS. His mother's in Heaven. She's there and yeah, it sucks that she's not there hugging him while he cries into his jeans, but using a demon to bring her back? It reeks of bad idea. Epically bad. Scott-level bad.

Besides, he's seen enough Buffy. You don't just go around ripping souls back down from Heaven.

But if he doesn't say yes, someone will. His dad won't know what hit him, and in ten years...

"Shit," Stiles mumbles, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "Shit, shit. Shit."

Saul laughs that echoy head-laugh that Stiles is beginning to absolutely hate. I like you so much, I'm even willing to give him fifteen years.

"Shut up."

Really? Three hours of the silent treatment later and that's all you come up? Is it that hard to say 'thank you'?

"Shut up," he says through gritted teeth.

There's a headache blooming at the base of his skull, his eyes doing this weird burning and throbbing thing that only happens when he gets likes this, and his throat is getting sore because crying turns him into some weird mouth breather what with all the snot.

There's a lot of snot.

Ninety seconds, Genim.

Ninety seconds isn't going to be enough time for Stiles to undo the damage Saul had done, taking him to that graveyard. The wounds are raw again, and as much as he'd like to pull himself together and not give the demon the pleasure of retaking his body while he's a pathetic mess, it's actually impossible. He's still crying and with his dad working a double shift that night, he would have happily cried himself to sleep.

Sixty seconds. This is really sad, y'know. I'm trying to-

"Can you please stop talking?" Stiles hisses.

"I didn't say anything."

His head jerks up toward his window. The window he doesn't lock anymore because even though he complains day in and day out about werewolves who don't understand how front doors and doorbells work, Stiles secretly reads Derek's refusal to enter his house through any other way as a trust thing. He's not climbing in to Scott or Jackson's bedroom in the middle of the night. Just his. And tonight, Derek's timing is perfect.

"Derek, I need you-"

Oh no you don't.

Suddenly Stiles can't even wiggle his own toes.