Shadows of Death

Summary: If the nightmares or recent deaths in town weren't enough, Stiles wakes up to find that he may actually be the latest victim of the newest serial killer to hit Beacon Hills. Stuck somewhere between life and death and with Lydia the only one who can see him, the gang have to work quickly before Stiles' temporary displacement becomes permanent.

Warning: Spoilers for pretty much all of season 3.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the show or these characters.

A/N: Firstly, this takes places somewhere around season 3b... secondly, because of the content of this fic, there will still be spoilers for later eps.

I'm hoping I can update this one pretty frequently. Ideally, I'd like to finish it before the end of the current season, but given how close we are to that end, I doubt that'll happen, but when I do finish it, I will then hopefully be able to start work on another lengthy Sterek fic because I miss writing Sterek and unfortunately I haven't found anyway to write Sterek into this particular fic yet (and I really wanna see how the rest of this season plays out before I start writing another Sterek fic).

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep,

And if I die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take...

Chapter 1

Nightmares were a regular occurrence for Stiles these days. He was no stranger to the suffocating darkness that would smother him nightly, or the deep chill that settled in at his very core as if he had been submerged in icy waters for hours on end. The tightening chest, the struggle for breath, and the desperate gasps for air in an endless vacuum of shadows; they were just part and parcel of the dreams that haunted Stiles on a daily basis.

The pain tearing through his left shoulder, that was new.

It ripped through him and woke him better than any alarm had ever been able to. He shot upwards, heart hammering in his chest and hands clammy as they automatically went to his shoulder. Shaking fingers raked across the fabric of his shirt, his gaze dropping down in search of blood or rips in his clothing that would explain the phantom pain that still lingered, as if expecting to find the nightmare wound was real, or worse – that the weapon causing it still pierced his flesh.

"It's not real, Stiles," he berated himself before scrubbing his hands over his face and up through his hair where they lingered, fingers entwined with the longer strands in a desperate attempt to cling onto something. "It was a dream. Just a dream..."

But such words had long since lost their effect on him. No matter how many times he said them, doubt still settled beneath them. It was easier to say that something was or wasn't real than it was to believe it. Telling reality apart from fantasy, trying to figure out when he was awake or when he was dreaming, that had become the true nightmare as of late.

Pushing the thoughts from his still muddy mind, he glanced around his room, taking it in in an effort to distract himself. It was still and serene, dust dancing in the sunlight that slipped through his slightly open window, a gentle breeze causing the specks to twist and twirl whilst the papers on his desk rustled. Sounds drifted up from downstairs, his father milling about, getting ready for the day. It was those sounds that eased Stiles more than anything.

He dragged himself from his bed and glanced down, taking in yesterday's shirt and jeans. But before he could question it, the sound of the front door closing had his head snapping up and his gaze snapping toward his window, brow burrowing and lips twisting into a frown. Given his exhaustion as of late, and the blackouts and sleepwalking, he could think of a dozen possible explanations for his clothes and apparent memory lapse – and they all led back to the Nemeton. But his dad leaving for work without a word? That was the thing that struck him as the most unusual.

"'the hell, Dad?" he questioned the air, making his way toward the window in time to watch his father pull away from the house. His gaze never left the car until it finally turned at the end of the street and disappeared from view, leaving Stiles alone with his thoughts.

It must have been the case. They must have had a breakthrough. It was the only reason Stiles could think of to explain why his father hadn't come to drag him from his bed and plead with him to just get his ass to school already; or worse – give him that concerned look whilst asking if Stiles was sure he was okay. He hated that look. He hated being the reason that his father would wear that look, eyes lined with worry and shoulders slumped from the weight of it.

"I'm fine," he tried to lie, but the words caught in his throat and he swallowed them instead, forcing himself to turn away from the window and focus on getting ready for school.

He had barely even moved a foot when he heard the distant sound of his ringtone. The music was muffled and so quiet that he thought he'd imagined it at first, but the more he strained his ears, the surer he was that it was his cell. On instinct his hands went to his pockets, searching his jeans and finding nothing but lint and a spare piece of gum he had long since forgotten about. He widened his search, heading to his bed and patting down his bedcovers before dropping to his hands and knees to search the floor under discarded books and days old laundry. By then, the music had faded into silence and Stiles still hadn't found anything.

But the day could only get better, right? Things could only improve from there.

Except, that sort of luck just wouldn't fit into Stiles' life. That sort of luck was the type of thing you read in fairytales, the kind that had had the Disney treatment. If Stiles' life was a fairytale, it would be the good old-fashioned Brothers Grimm style, and even that was being generously optimistic.

As the morning continued on, it turned out his keys were missing along with his phone, and given that his father had locked the door, his only choice of exit was his bedroom window. That and the long walk to school had him slipping into first period late and without his books. He dropped into the seat beside Scott just as the coach looked up from the attendance sheet.

"Stilinski?" Coach called out, gaze roaming over the class and deliberately looking anywhere but at Stiles. "Anyone seen Stilinski?"

Stiles held up his hand in part acknowledgement and part apology, sitting up a little straighter but avoiding eye contact. "Yeah, sorry, Coach... Won't happen again."

But the coach said nothing, huffing out instead and scribbling on the attendance sheet before continuing on to read out the rest of the names on the list and giving Stiles the chance to lean across the gap between the desks to talk to Scott. At least it would have, if Scott hadn't been so distracted by the open notebook on his desk.

"Yo, Scott, what you got there?" Stiles tried, eyes narrowing on the movements of Scott's pen as the nib moved over and over the same spot on the paper. But whatever held Scott's attention, causing a crease in his brow, was hidden by his hand, and Stiles didn't have a chance to make it out before his attention was shook away from Scott and toward the loud bang as Coach dropped a large book onto his desk at the front.

"Alright then you lot, time to quieten down!" Coach called out. He turned toward the blackboard and grabbed a piece of chalk, scrawling across the board with it as he continued to speak. "Believe it or not, you're here to learn, not for gossiping and playing about with your blueberries and eye-phones. So listen up..."

The rest of his words washed over Stiles and with Coach's attention now focused on the board, Stiles took the opportunity to focus his attention on Scott. His best friend had yet to raise his eyes from whatever he was drawing on the paper, a mixture of concentration and anxiety playing across his features. It looked like Stiles wasn't the only one who had had a rough morning, and the longer the silence was drawn out, the more worried he became. "Scott... Scotty. You okay, man? You don't look so good."

Grip tightening on his pen, Scott bowed his head and let go of a sigh, a single name slipping out also, almost like a plea."Stiles..."

But before he could say anything further, Coach's voice had both Stiles' and Scott's heads snapping up toward the blackboard. "You got something to add, McCall?"

Immediately, Scott straightened in his seat, pen falling from his grasp. He cleared his throat, shaking his head as he did so. "No, Coach... sorry."

Stiles let out a breath and leaned back in his own seat, glancing briefly between his best friend and the coach. Great, so the coach was in one of those moods, which meant that Stiles would have to wait until after to class to find out what had Scott so distracted.

"No?" Coach continued, his fingertips resting against his desk as he leaned forward, eyebrows raised and eyes wide and focused on Scott. "Then maybe you'll feel like joining the rest of us here in reality and trying opening your book to the same page that everyone else is already on."

That sent Scott fumbling about with the book on the corner of his desk, leaving his notebook uncovered enough to reveal what he had been drawing, but before Stiles could get a good look at it, it was covered again by Scott's book. "Yeah, Coach..." Scott mumbled. "Sorry."

"And stop apologising, McCall... Or I swear to God I'll... I'll... I don't know what exactly, but I swear to God I'll do it. Now read."

"Uh, Coach," Stiles spoke up, the palm of his hand thumping lightly against his desk before rising in an attempt to catch the coach's attention before he turned away again, "I left my book in my locker..."

Nothing. Coach didn't even turn back to look at him.

"I guess I could learn without it..."

Still nothing.

"Or maybe I could be excused for just a moment to-"

A low beep cut through his thoughts, causing him to stall. It drowned out his words and seemed to echo around his mind, giving him pause. He glanced about him, taking in the downturned heads all focused on the books on the desks, no one reacting as another beep echoed through the air.

"Scott... you hear that?" he tried, but even Scott was oblivious to the repeated sound.

Another beep, followed by something else... the familiar sound of his cell. But that was impossible. That just... that wasn't possible.

"Scott... Buddy?"

No answer, just another beep breaking through the distant sound of his cell ringing.

He pushed up, his seat scraping and clattering against the floor in his hurry to be standing. Still no one reacted. No one reacted to the beeping, or the sound of his chair. No one reacted to him.

He was moving before the thought to do so had fully formed in his mind. He just had to get out of there. He couldn't think, he couldn't focus, he couldn't breathe... His heart quickened in his chest, nervous energy taking over him. Stumbling forwards, he forced his legs to move toward the door.

Another beep, barely audible now beneath the continuous sound of his cell. It seemed to grow louder the closer he got to the door, despite it still sounding distant, and by the time he ripped the door open, the metal of the handle cold against his fingers, it was all he could hear. Legs unsteady and shaky, he pushed himself out into the hall, tripping over thin air repeatedly, his chest tightening, as if a pressure had wrapped itself around him and was smothering him, like the darkness in his earlier nightmare, gripping him tight... drowning him in nothingness.

Then it was gone.

Silence buzzed around him before finally being broken by a small and questioning, "Stiles?"

He span on the spot, finding himself facing Lydia, confusion written across her face as she pulled her cell away from her ear.

"Ly-Lydia?" Stiles questioned, sounding and feeling very much like he had just finished running a marathon. "Wha-what are you doing here?"

"Stiles, are you okay?" She took a step closer, reaching out a hand, but before she could touch him, he pulled back without thinking, unsure.

He shook his head, gaze darting about the hallway, thoughts cloudy and thick. Something was wrong, something felt off, but it wasn't in the usual way. It was different somehow, and he didn't know if that made it better or worse. "I don't... I don't know. I... I..."

"Stiles...? Stiles, breathe. Just breathe, okay?" Lydia instructed, stepping to the side enough so that she was once again in his line of vision, and taking a deep breath, motioning with her hands for Stiles to do the same.

He found himself complying without thinking, holding his breath until Lydia let go of hers, nodding as she did so. Almost immediately he could feel the effect and after another deep breath, even his heart didn't feel so erratic. His gaze was still focused on Lydia, his lungs breathing in once more in time with her, when she reached out again, this time managing to lay her hand against his arm without him flinching away, her skin warm against his.

She frowned, her grip finding more purchase. "God, Stiles – you're freezing."

Stiles was still too lost in his thoughts to reply, and it wasn't until he heard Scott's voice that he found himself beginning to truly regain some form of grip, some fragile and barely existent grip, on reality.

"Lydia?" Scott questioned, and Stiles turned enough to see his friend close the classroom door behind him, entering the hallway.

"Scott, thank God," Stiles started, taking a step toward Scott, "I am seriously freaking out here, man. I swear, I don't know if I'm coming or if I'm... Scott, are you listening to me?"

Because if he was, he had a funny way of showing it, his attention on Lydia, his brow burrowed and eyes narrowed at her. "Shouldn't you be in class?"

"Bathroom break," she answered dismissively, waving off the question, but judging by the cell she now slipped away into her bag, Stiles knew that wasn't the real reason. Scott wasn't buying the response either, staring on in silence before Lydia finally continued on, lips thinned and smile tight. "Okay, fine... It's happening again. I've been hearing... noises, and it is driving me crazy."

"Noises? Like what?" Stiles jumped in, grabbing the opportunity to forget about his own mental instabilities for just a moment, and gladly pushing away thoughts of the noises he himself had been hearing.

"I don't know." Shaking her head minutely, she looked between Scott and Stiles. "I just don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean I don't know, Stiles. There's not exactly a guidebook, you know?"

It was Scott who spoke next, his words sounding strange and distant, his tone alien and not like Scott at all. "Lydia, who are you talking to?"

She narrowed her eyes, clearly confused by the question. That made two of them, Stiles was equally bewildered.

"You said 'Stiles'..." Scott continued, as if that explained his train of thought at all.

"And?"

"Stiles isn't here, Lydia."

That sent Stiles' head spinning in a whole different way to before. The breath left him and his mouth worked soundlessly around words he couldn't quite put together. Lydia was fairing no better, her own silence stretching on.

"Last night... Stiles, he... He got hurt."

Stiles took another step forward and into the path of Scott's gaze. "Scott? Buddy? What are you talking about? I'm right here, Scott. I'm fine. Scott... tell her I'm fine. This... this isn't funny. I'm right here. Lydia... Tell him. Tell him I'm right here."

When Lydia spoke, her voice was small and fragile, barely even there. "You can't see him, can you?"

"See who?" Scott questioned.

"Stiles..."

"Lydia, I only see you..."

"Then why can I see him?" Lydia asked, a mounting worry to her tone, fear clear in her widening eyes. "Why can I see him and you can't?"

Cold washed over Stiles, the look in Scott's eyes sobering him and causing his shoulders to sag. He didn't want to see it. He didn't want to acknowledge the truth, but it was staring him in the face the way Scott hadn't done all morning. "Because you're a banshee..."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Lydia, I think... I think I'm dead."

More to come soon...