Bastian trembled as the cold began to close in around him. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't seem to keep his eyes open… and he was so tired… so weak and so tired…

He had been on his bed at some point, but in his feeble attempt to escape the clutches of his captor he had fallen to the floor. The young man wasn't injured, at least not in the fall. No, his illness was deeper set than some tumble. It was in his veins, in his blood, in his heart… in his mind.

"Poor baby," said a low voice, dripping with a southern accent. Bastian could barely hear it. His fingers twitched towards the object of his desire.

"Puh… please…" the boy breathed out. A thin string of saliva lashed out from his pale lips as he spoke.

"Aww…" After a moment of soft noise, a pair of bare, bloodstained feet appeared in his fading vision. "Even as your life slips away from you… you want me."

A soft hand rand through his dark hair, soothing the dying boy. After a moment, Bastian opened his eyes and looked up into crimson ones.

"This is what you get, you know… You're weak…"

Red lips came close and placed the kiss of death upon the boy's own and he finally passed into the void.

"…I can only hope the rest of your family's misery will satisfy my thirst."

"It's only for, like… a week, though, right?"

Stiles looked over at his friend, sprawled on his bed and bouncing a small ball off of the wall. Scott's apparent lack of concern only exacerbated Stiles' irritation, but he refrained from making a joke about Scott and his dog-like fascination with his stress ball.

"You don't get it," he replied, "I know my ultimate lack of supernatural mojo leaves a lot to be desired in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, but let's face it: if I leave and something murderous with fangs and scales and magical powers appears while I'm gone…" He paused and shrugged in defeat. "You'll basically fall apart."

Scott let out a laugh. "Fall apart?"

"Who else is as good at research as I am!? I mean, I'm the one who told you what you are!" Stiles exclaimed as he haphazardly threw more clothes into an old duffle bag. "I tried to convince my dad, but he seems set on making me go… He even accused me of just trying to avoid this stupid trip altogether." He punctuated his rant by hucking a balled up shirt at the duffle.

Scott sat up, eyeing his best friend suspiciously. "Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't really seem all that keen on going. And not-" he interrupted as Stiles whirled around to retort "-just because we'll crash and burn without your supreme sarcasm."

At this, Stiles seemed to relinquish his irritation to defeat. He plopped down into his computer chair and sighed. "Yeah, maybe."

"Hey, man," Scott said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to face his friend. "I wouldn't be all that excited about going to a funeral, either."

"We're surrounded by funerals, dude. It's pretty much a weekly event."

"So, what is it?" Scott asked, now unable to mask the concern in his voice.

A moment of silence passed. Scott waited patiently. After all those years of being best friends, he had become rather adept at telling whether or not Stiles was just being a drama queen or that something was truly bothering him. Despite his witty remarks, this was not a drama queen moment.

Finally, Stiles leaned forward and sighed. "It's just…" He sighed again and ran a hand through his overgrown locks, the tufts sticking out every which way. "Y'know… after my mom died… We sort of lost touch with that side of the family… I think it was hard on my dad." He didn't say anything about it being hard on him as well; he didn't need to. Scott may have been the only one who knew that Stiles was far from over his mother's death. The wit and sarcasm was just a shield. "And now someone else in the family dies in some… tragic manner."

"Were you guys close?"

Stiles shook his head. "No, I mean, we met a few times and he was cool and all, but you know how it is… Not all cousins are Dukes-o-Hazzard close." He leaned back in his chair. "It just sucks either way… And he didn't strike me as the 'junkie-type', y'know? Which – based on the fact that I have awesome powers of perception – means that no one else saw it coming, either. No one was able to stop it because they had no idea that he was even suffering."

"Stiles," Scott interrupted. He wasn't too sure they were still talking about his friend's cousin anymore. "No one can prepare for something like that." Stiles remained silent, so he went out on a limb and took the initiative. "I think you should go."

Stiles look up at his friend incredulously. "But-"

"No. Go. If anything, your dad needs you. You wouldn't let him face this sort of thing alone, would you?"

They stared at each other a moment before Stiles finally threw his hands up. "Well, damn, when you say it like that."

A grin spread across Scott's face. "C'mon, man! What're the chances that all Hell will break loose the one week you take off?"

"NO!" Stiles exclaimed, jumping up from his chair. "Do you know what happens when people say that!? That's it, I'm stay-"

A soft knock interrupted his speech, followed by the light creak of his bedroom door being pushed open. "Stiles?" came Sheriff Stilinski's voice. He stepped into his son's room, a visage of grim resignation. "You ready to go, son?"

Stiles glanced between his father and his best friend before letting out one final sigh. "Yeah, yeah, I'll take my stuff to the jeep. See you in a week, Scott. But don't forget to call me if anything happens! I mean it! Lizard men, killer tree stumps-"

"Stiles," Scott and the sheriff said in unison.

He nodded. "Right. Jeep." He disappeared around the corner, but not before leaning back around, staring at Scott, and mouthing 'call me' at least once. Scott just stood and shook his head as he moved towards the hallway.

A heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him before he made it too far. "Sheriff?" he asked, glancing back.

"…thank you," the sheriff stated, a sad, but grateful smile on his face. The teenager smiled in kind.

"Of course."