I can't turn this around

I keep running into walls that I can't break down

I said I just wander around

With my eyes wide shut because of you

I'm a sleepwalker walker walker

I'm a sleepwalker walker walker

Let me out of this dream

The nights were the worse for Stiles. His medication began to wear away and his dark cell seemed to warp into ungodly demons. Every time he closed his eyes, he could feel the hot breath of demons on his throat and cheeks. When he drifted off, head lolling forward, he would snap awake, chest lifting fast as he looked around wildly. When he did succumb to sleep, his nightmares were horrible, the wolf always waiting with its red eyes.

Some nights, the lack of sleep drove him mad, reducing him to a screaming, sobbing, begging mess. When his caretaker came by in the morning to give him his pills, he'd be behind a barricade of sheets and pillows, or underneath the bed, curled up and crying.

He wished they could give him pills for the night, something to douse the nightmares and swirling shadows. But no matter how hard he begged, cried, asked, they just wouldn't do it. Some patients said that it was so they could you observe without the meds dumbing everything, others said they wanted you to suffer. Stiles didn't really know what to think.

Sometimes it seemed like the doctors care, other times they were strapping you to a table and sticking needles in your arm.

Stiles leaned back against the slightly padded wall, eyes drooping. It must be at least one in the morning by now. He had spent the entire night fighting back demons and sleep. But now he felt exhausted, bone-tired and hungry. He always got hungry at night. It must be a teenager thing.

Early in the day, the doors had opened to the head-doctor, Dr. Deaton and another, unfamiliar man. His muscles strained against his tight-fitting shirt and his strong jaw was locked, probably in annoyance. His eyebrows were creased down, and his mouth in a tight line. He was handsome, Stiles had given him that credit, but he looked too angry, too uptight for Stiles to like. Isaac had seemed pretty interested though. He had straightened up in his seat and was driving Stiles mad from the way he kept wiggling.

Dr. Deaton was looking at a thick folder, gesturing around the room with his hand, then pointing right at Stiles, still talking. Stiles and the stranger had met eyes for a moment, awkwardly and it seemed way too intimate for such circumstances.

Stiles remembered feeling self-conscious in his standard shirt and pants, his worn slippers. He knew his eyes were sunken in, his skin too pale from the lack of sleep, his stupid freckles, his shaved head, his uneven hairline. His lack of muscles. He knew he was gawky and awkward looking, actually pretty hard to look at. He was unhealthily skinny. And then the stranger had looked away, which Stiles was thankful for.

Dr. Deaton talked to a few of the patients mingling in the room, clapping a hand on Boyd's thick shoulder, smoothing Erica's frizzy hair down. He looped around the room, still talking, probably going over procedures. He stopped at Stiles' and Isaac's table.

"Isaac! Stiles! How are you two?" Isaac smiled wide, blue eyes brightening.

"I'm good!" Stiles couldn't help but be reminded of a eager-to-please puppy.

"Me too." His voice wavered slightly, quickly relocating his eyes to the plastic tabletop. Dr. Deaton pressed a hand to Stiles' shoulder. He squeezed slightly before turning to his companion.

"This is Derek Hale. He'll be meeting with you, Stiles, for a few months. It's for a school assignment. A meeting has already been scheduled for tomorrow morning at 9, alright?" Stiles stared at Derek out of the corner of his eye. He was focused intently on Stiles' hands that were unconsciously tracing a crack in the plastic surface.

Stiles knew it was mandatory to respond politely, compliment them. But Stiles couldn't bring himself to speak. It felt as if there was a block in his throat. It was getting hard to breathe.

Dr. Deaton offered Isaac another smiled and touched Stiles' cheek before moving on.

Isaac talked happily, his bad mood gone. He talked about today's meal, his chores, his jokes. Stiles smiled and listened, but he didn't feel too good. He skipped the dinner meal to go to bed early.

Stiles sighed loudly, closing his eyes. He was too tired to keep his eyes open any longer.

Stiles opened his eyes to find himself in a dark forest. Mist was curling around the black trees, moonlight glinting off of the fallen leaves. Stiles frowned and turned around, confused. Where was he? He could've sworn he was in his cell a moment ago-

Run.

The voice that echoed out from the trees and mist was deep, growly. Stiles' legs had a mind of their own. He pounded through the forest, tearing through low hanging branches and tripping more than a few times. Blood ran from his palms and knees.

Run.

The voice was closer, deeper.

Stiles tried to stop from throwing up, tried to slow down so he didn't run himself into the ground, but when he turned around and he saw the red eyes, he pushed himself harder. His legs began to scream in protest, the muscles throbbing. A stitch in his side made it hard to breathe deeply. A huge log loomed out of the mist.

Thinking fast, he slid around the log and pressed himself into a crevice. He gasped for breath, a horrible, sick noise coming from his chest. The blood on his knees and palms were crusted with mud. The cold air misted around his nose as he breathed hard. The fog was thicker, more dense. He could barely see his own hands in front of him.

A loud growl rolled and bounced in Stiles' head. He tried to burrow himself deeper into the wood, the bark tearing and ripping his shirt. He felt very much like a rabbit being hunted. His heart was pounding like crazy.

He should keep moving, keep running. Maybe he could out run it, run out of the forest and make it home to his father. His father, who was probably asleep at his overflowed desk with some greasy, fattening food close to hand. He had probably worked himself to the point that his eyes were red and fingers were covered in paper cuts.

Hot tears welled in Stiles' eyes but he refused to let them fall. He couldn't show weakness now, not when he was cornered.

Stiles.

The voice was right in front of him, right at the entrance. To Stiles' horror, a black muzzle loomed out of the mist, teeth bared and saliva dripping. Red eyes came next, anger and hatred swelling in them. The wolf was huge, taller than Stiles and could barely fit its own head in. A thundering growl drowned out every sound other than Stiles' heartbeat.

Stiles.

The wolf opened it's mouth, growls and teeth and spit, and spoke. Actually spoke, its ears flickering.

Stiles was trying his best to be invisible. How come every other time no one could ever see him but the first time he's being hunted, he's the center of attention.

The wolf was practically on top of Stiles now, spit covering the front of his torn and dirtied shirt. Stiles had to crane his neck upwards to make eye contact now. The wood groaned as it gave way to the beast's shoulders.

Stiles.

Stiles jerked upwards, kicking out at the hand on his shoulder.

His cheeks were wet and his hear was still pounding. It was a dream, just a dream. Everything was okay, he was still locked away in his padded cell, safe and sound. Everything was okay.

So why couldn't shake the horrible weight in his gut?

His caretaker, a man with a tattoo behind his ear, stood with a tray of pills. He looked bored and unconcerned. Stiles shakily took the small container of pills and downed them, ignoring the glass of water.

"Dr. Deaton wants you." Stiles stood up, made his bed, hands trembling all the while. He pulled on his slippers and shuffled out of the door after the man. Stiles knew every hallway in the complex building. He was smart, he could memorize everything if you gave him enough time.

The man pushed open a door and walked into the room with Dr. Deaton and Derek seated across from each other. Derek's shoulders were tense and his jaw was still locked. Dr. Deaton smiled and gestured Stiles to sit down and shooed away the caretaker.

"Stiles! You look tired, are you alright?"

Stiles managed a nod and slumped lower in his seat.

"Good. Derek here will be asking you a few questions, just mandatory introduction, and then you can be on your way. Understood?"

Stiles nodded again.

Derek must have intercepted the pause of silence to begin his interrogation.

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Favorite color?"

"I like them all."

"Favorite activity?"

"From the maybe two activities we're allowed to do? Neither."

"Favorite food?"

"Food? Is that what they serve here?"

That seemed to exasperate Derek a little, his eyes flashing angrily. Stiles could see the muscle in his jaw working.

Dr. Deaton was trying his best not to laugh.

"Any preference in music?"

"I prefer, y'know, screamo, death metal. The standard music that a mentally handicapped person enjoys."

Derek's grip on his folder tightened, crinkling the smooth surface. His jaw was grinding in anger now.

Stiles knew he was being obnoxiously annoying. More obnoxiously annoying than normal anyway. But it's hard to be level-headed with your skin crawling and heart still beating erratically. Dr. Deaton seemed to be noticing now. When did he not notice these things? His small smile that had been playing around his lips was gone, brow now furrowed in concern.

Stiles hid his shaking hands underneath the table when the doctor's eyes slid to them. Derek was angrily flipping through sheets of paper, his pen being chewed to pieces in his mouth.

He stopped and very manly slammed his pen down on the table top. Stiles flinched and swallowed loudly.

This was going to suck major biscuits.

"Look, I just need to get through this project, ace it, and then I'll be able to graduate with the expected grades of me. And I can't do that if you won't stop being a idiot, and actually answer my questions."

Very upfront and blunt. He ground his jaw when he was annoyed. His shoulders lifted, almost like hackles, when he talked. Stiles could tell Derek Hale was not a very chipper person.

Dr. Deaton was gauging my reaction. A caretaker had slipped into the room behind Stiles. If he put up any resistance, he would be easily stopped. Stiles wondered if he would manage to get a quick punch in before he was dragged away.

Derek was opening his folder now, hands quick. He wanted to get this over with soon and fast. He pulled out another sheet of paper.

"What is the hospital you stay at?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. "I think you know the answer to that."

Derek's eye twitched as he wrote. This kid was a smartass.

"What is your diagnose?"

"Hallucinations."

"Hallucinations? What are they about?"

Stiles went to talk, but he couldn't. He liked to talk. In fact, all he ever did was talk. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. It was getting hard to breath. Derek was expectingly staring at him, pen poised. He was starting to look even more annoyed now. And to Stiles horror, as he stared back, Derek's eyes glowed red and fangs ripped from his mouth, hair bristling along his jaw.

It was him. He was the wolf.

Stiles hear a high, keening noise. It sounded like someone was screaming. When Derek jerked back, eyes wide, he realized it was him.

Dr. Deaton grabbed onto Stile's collar and quickly began to soothe him. He nodded to the caretaker in the back who strode forth and injected Stiles with something in his arm. He slumped forward immediately.

Dr. Deaton looked up at Derek, who was staring wide-eyed at Stile's lethargic form.

"Mr. Hale, I think you're study session is over. Tomorrow will be a better day."

Sorry for the long wait and the errors in this chapter.

Sleepwalker - Adam Lambert