A/N: Moving this from AO3
Desecrated Soul
"Get out." Stiles blinked up at Derek's cold mien from his seat on the floor, gaping.
"What?" He asked; the Werewolf didn't so much as twitch, green-gray eyes serious as they stared icily at the sprawled teenager from beneath darkly glowering brows.
"Get. Out." the man said, a hint of a growl curling beneath the words. "You should never have been involved with this. You're not a Wolf, and you're not Pack. You're a hindrance, a human, too fragile and practically worthless when it comes to anything. You've no place here; you'll only end up dead, or getting my Pack killed when they try to help your spastic ass. Get out, Stilinski, and don't come back. Don't contact any of my Pack. Don't search any of us out. Don't."
Derek's words weren't just for show. They weren't just the usual bullshit insults and cruelty that occasionally fell from the Alpha onto Stiles, something that was just empty words and frustration. No, these words, these orders, were different. Stiles could feel the Alpha's orders rippling through his bones, sinking into him like the cruel, vicious claws they were. And, staring into those harsh, beautiful eyes, Stiles felt something in his chest break, and the hollowness that was left behind rose up to choke him for a moment. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, eyes never leaving Derek's, before he finally looked away in order to gather up all his things and turn towards the front door, passing the silent forms of the Beta's, and ignored the averted eyes and hunched shoulders, mind numb and something cold curdling in his stomach, seeping outwards like some conniving little spider, sinking it's fangs in every few skittering steps.
"Fuck you," Stiles managed to whisper through quickly-numbing lips, and he closed the door behind him, just barely managing to silence the whimper of pain that swarmed upward from that hollow space in his chest, at the finality that sang through the air as the door closed.
Desperately, he wanted to rip the door open, to beg for Derek to take it back, to take him back. He would crawl to the Alpha, if it meant he would say the words that would stop the horrible hollowness in his chest, which was slowly, but surely, turning into a building agony that Stiles was certain would kill him, and not quickly either... But, Derek's orders pushed him away from the door, feet dragging to his Jeep, until he found himself suddenly driving away, towards his Dad's house, more his than his Dad's since his father had begun drinking again and avoiding him like he was a worthless disappointment.
The hollowness in his chest pulsed, and Stiles choked on the wave of pain that had him stopping the car momentarily, just so he could re-learn how to breathe. Once it had settled, Stiles took shallow, stuttering breathes, wiped the tears and drool from his face, and carefully continued driving, far slower than he would have under any other circumstances. When he finally pulled into the empty driveway, he could have wept in relief. Instead, he dragged himself and his things from the car, up the steps, and into the house, the building pain in his chest forcing him into a hunch, his body moving in small shuffle and stuttering steps. He nearly fell down the stairs and, after a few more failing attempts at making it up to his room, he shuffled his way to the empty guest room/storage room on the first floor, the smell of moth balls and stale air curling through his pain-drunk senses as he weakly pushed random things off of the bed.
Moving ever-so-slowly, he pulled himself onto the bed, curling up on top of the blankets and head on the stiff, mildew-scented pillow, and curled into a ball, starting to shiver as pain and numbness fought for control of his body.
With a choked sob of relief, he passed out, welcoming the darkness which cut away the pain and cold and hollow place in his chest.
He wondered if it made him weak, to wish that he never woke up…
Time passed, too much to be normal, with only brief flashes of awareness, thoroughly smothered by painpainpainpainPAIN that was all he knew… Well, not all he knew. There was afraid and empty and lost and alone and betrayed and grief which echoed inside the consuming pain, small paper cuts that just made the gaping wound more painful, made his soul bleed that little bit more. He thought he heard his Dad calling his name at some point, caught the brief smell of disinfectant which would always mean hospital to him, and heard a constant, steady beeping that didn't make any sense.
None of it mattered, though, because the pain burned it all away, and he wondered if this was what Peter Hale had felt, when Crazy-Kate had set him on fire… And when Stiles had done it again, when the traumatized man was the insane Alpha. A new paper cut joined the mass, this one leaking steady streams of regret, holding within it the festering agony of knowing he had caused something like this in someone already broken.
More time, more pain, more voices, brief glimpses of what looked like a hospital room. Nothing comforting, nothing calming, nothing that made the agony in his soul diminish, nothing-
(Pack)
-that made him even want to stay awake.
But, one day, he found himself unable to go back into the serene safety of unconsciousness, and found himself staring blankly at the ceiling, listening to the constant beeping of the heart-monitor as the blistering agony he'd finally assimilated to roiled beneath his skin. He felt something to the side of him, something that brushed against the edge of the pain, something warm and comforting. Safe, it whispered.
Power, understanding, curiosity, anger, protection.
Slowly, shivers of excruciating pain lashing his senses as he did so, Stiles turned his head on the soft pillow, pulling slightly at the oxygen tubes in his nose as he stared at the man sitting in the visitors chair next to him. A man, a Werewolf, was there, sunglasses perched on his nose as he leaned forward on his cane, chin resting on his crossed hands, face serious and calm. He looked to be in his late thirties, early forties, and handsome, with dark hair and a light five o'clock shadow curling around his sharp jaw.
"He did a number on you, didn't he," the man murmured quietly, English accent shifting in the back of the words. Stiles took a slow, deep breath as the pain grew claws and began to knead the shredded remains of his being. "He was never meant to be an Alpha, you know," the Werewolf continued casually. "He never learned all the aspects of an Alpha, the power and responsibility in it. It's not all fighting and controlling. Its protection, and caring and healing. And it's knowledge. Because he was never meant to be an Alpha, he knows nothing of Severing Pack Bonds." As he spoke, the man leaned forward now, moving partially onto the hospital bed, and running his nose gently against Stiles cheek, scenting him softly while Stiles followed him with dull, pain-darkened eyes.
"To sever a Pack Bond, is to rip away a part of the Wolf's soul," the stranger murmured softly, hand coming up to gently drag through Stiles slightly-greasy hair, which was longer than it had been when he'd gone to 'sleep'. "Omega's aren't Severed, they're runaways. Severed Wolves will often have to be put down, the damage to their being driving them insane. It's because a Werewolf has a dual soul, two souls mended together beneath the power of the Moon, Herself. It is almost a sacrilege to Sever a Pack Bond. A Wolf is sooner killed than Severed, and it has never been done to a human Packmate…" He moved, and, suddenly, fire-red eyes were glowing over the top of the sunglasses as the Alpha rested his forehead against Stiles, sharing the same air as the two simply stared at one another for countless moments.
"You should be dead," he murmured finally, and Stiles gave a slow blink as the pain was forced down a bit more by the Alpha's…Aura, was the only word he could think of. "It would have been a mercy, to end you, instead of leaving you here like this," the Wolf continued, hand lifting to stroke Stiles face gently, and Stiles pressed against the Alpha, body seeking comfort weakly, muscles straining from the sudden movement after so long. "That was what I was deciding to do, you know," he continued quietly, breath hot against Stiles cold, numb mouth. "Peter Hale called me, and informed me of what his foolish nephew had done, and I could not, honestly, believe that such a thing had happened. That a Hale had actually Severed the very human who, if Peter is to be believed, has kept said Hale and his pups alive. And then I found you here, and have seen that he had. I was going to make it quick," he whispered, glowing red eyes never blinking. "But, then you opened your eyes, and turned to me, and I saw that you are still aware, though you are, perhaps irrevocably, damaged. You didn't react to me, however, but to an Alpha." He turned his head, rubbing his cheek firmly against Stiles face, and some more of the pain pulled back, as Stiles recognized the action of scent marking, of claiming, and a soft whisper of a whimper escaped him, eyes becoming a little more alive, edged with something desperate now as the pain spiked sporadically.
"You don't want to die," the strange Alpha murmured, eyes glowing even brighter and fangs growing in his mouth. His tongue curled out, licking up Stiles neck, which he weakly but willingly bared. "You want Pack," the Wolf growled, and another whimper escaped Stiles as the Alpha rose over him, glasses gone, having fallen off during his actions. "You'd be welcome with us, pup," he growled, rubbing their noses together softly. "You could come into our Pack." Stiles breath hitched, and the weak whimper turned into a pathetic, whispery whine, longing and desperate and begging and a deep rumble curled out from the older man's chest, making Stiles limp and boneless and silent once more, head tilting back to bare his throat, eyes locked on the Alpha and awaiting his next move. A low, pleased note entered the soothing rumble, and the Alpha placed his fangs against that throat, before pulling back to lick it gently.
"Take the Bite, pup," he murmured against Stiles throat, red eyes glowing. "Become a member of my Pack. We will never leave you, pup. Not even in death," he whispered, and Stiles felt more of the pain slide away, and weakly shifted under the Wolf, until his weak, trembling hand gripped just the barest edge of the Alpha's clothing. The Wolf sat up carefully; red eyes on Stiles face, and the boy met those eyes and gave a slow, long sigh, and tilted his chin up, lowering his eyes, and making a soft, agreeing sound. "My name," the Alpha growled quietly, "is Deucalion." When Deucalion's fangs slid through the flesh of his left shoulder, the pain of it was a relief compared to the agony his soul was tormented by.
And, as the wound healed over in less than ten minutes under the pleased caress of his new Alpha, something that had broken in his chest was replaced. It wasn't a perfect fit, but it was stronger, tighter, and Stiles slipped into sleep with a content sound as the pain fell lower and lower, until it was nothing more than a dull simmer in his bone marrow, sinking in there where it would probably remain for a long, long time, but Stiles didn't mind that.
He had Pack, now, and they would help him bear the pain.