Of Blood and Pain, Brother.

His shirt is wet and sticky and his jeans are damp at the hip. It's not a pleasant feeling, especially since he knows why. He doesn't want to look, he just can't. He's running, and he doesn't think he's ever run this fast before. Still it feels as though he's crawling through mud. His heart is racing, his lungs aching and the pain in his side has ignited and is growing the further away he gets. He's sure he would've been dead had the adrenaline not kicked in.

His vision is blurry and he wonders vaguely if it's raining, then realizes it's probably a combination of sweat and tears that cause it. He blinks furiously and his vision clears and he wipes at his eyes with his sleeve as he runs. He can't be stopping for anything. Can't. Stop. Stopping would be bad. Really bad. He hears growling behind him and freaks out, runs even faster. His hand goes into his jacket pocket. He's never been particularly good at doing two things at the same time. Chewing gum while running, for example, has always been impossible. But he surprises himself when he slips and stumbles down the hill and at the same time actually manages to pull out his car keys from his pocket. His first instinct is to exclaim "yeah, that's right, baby"! And if he'd had the willpower, the time or the mindset he would've done a little celebratory dance as well. But this is so not the time or the place.

He's relieved to see that his car is where he left it, and intact. He sprints across the parking lot, risks a glance behind him and immediately regrets it. He works the key into the lock and it seems an eternity before the car door finally creaks open. Piece-of-shit-car. He doesn't mull over the fact that he's still stuck with the jeep when everyone else he knows have upgraded. He slams shut the door and winces at the pain in his side. Keys in ignition. Drive. Gas. Turn. Pedal to the metal. His breath hitches in his throat. Did he actually just get out of there alive?! Well, barely… But still.

He looks in the rearview mirror and sees them coming out of the woods and leaping onto the road. They're running after the car – all agile and animalistic - and he realizes that he didn't in fact get away. He whimpers. His fingers are stiff around the steering wheel and he can hardly see the road up ahead. He does that stupid thing again where he looks and glances down at his stomach and jeans. He's filled with an instant need to throw up but knows he can't. Bad. Bad. Really bad. Shouldn't have looked. He's crying now, for real, no getting around it apparently. He's going to die and he knows it now. That much blood just can't be good for your health. His hands are sweating. He wipes a hand on his pant leg and grimaces when it comes back all wet and sticky. It's blood. Jesus Christ, he thinks.

He steps on the gas and is relieved to find his pursuers are finally falling behind. He doesn't relax until they are completely out of sight though. He sighs with relief and thinks that maybe, just maybe he actually has a shot at making it to town and to the hospital before he bleeds out.

He doesn't see the other car. When he's rammed everything goes into slow motion; some kind of silent, painless out of body experience that is almost poetic. He can actually see it all happening before his eyes; his head smacking into the side of the car, the blood splatter, the windshield cracking, the metal bending in on itself and trapping him in his seat. He thinks one last thought before he blacks out; at least it wasn't Scott.

OOO

When he comes to it's to a full-fledged pain. He cries out then bites his lip against the ache. Be a man, Stiles, be a man, he wants to say. But it hurts too much for role playing games. He doesn't feel the least bit manly when a tear forces its way out and leaves a wet trail in its wake.

"He's awake."

He doesn't recognize the voice, nor does he know where he is. He's not in his car any more, that much he can tell. His arms and legs are heavy and his head is a throbbing mess.

"Ow," he whimpers softly. A stark light is suddenly turned on over his head. It blinds him and he blinks in agony. He doesn't know what else to do because he can't move, can't even turn his head. It's too painful.

"He's nowhere near awake. Poke him, dammit!"

He can't quite get his head around the words. Not awake? Nowhere near awake? Poke him? Poke him where exactly? He's hurting all over and thinks that he'd do just fine without any poking, thank you very much. He's not at all ready for what comes next. They actually poke him - and they poke him with some kind of poker and it burns like a hot poker. And hell, he never thought he'd use the words poke or poker so much in a sentence. It sizzles and he screams because if the pain was bad before, it's excruciating now. It is right around this time he realizes his arms and legs are heavy for a reason – when he pulls at the ropes to get away from the searing pain. The ropes, he thinks, suddenly there and aware again. His heart skips a beat. He's actually tied up and he has no idea why.

"Stop it!" he croaks. It's intended as a command, but his words come out in a pathetic slur. His head is definitely not right.

"Again," says the voice he's now come to hate. And then the poker is there again, burning a hole in his side – or at least it feels like it. He screams, really screams this time. "Why are you doing this?! Please, s-t-o-p."

He coughs out the last word and then gurgles blood. And he knows, just knows, that if they looked close enough right now they would be able to see his lung through his ribs. That's how badly hurt he is. He sort of whimpers and lets the blood run out of the corners of his mouth and trickle down his cheeks and jaw. Yeah, it's that bad.

"What do you want?" he forces out. "Who are you?"

He can hardly see through the tears and the sweat that seem to pour out of him like waterfalls.

"You hear that?" someone says, "The dog wants to know who we are."

Dog. Dog? What are they talking about? His head is so not in the game right now. "What?" he squeaks, because the other guy's tone makes him uneasy. It wasn't exactly a friendly tone. He's suddenly frightened because now he knows they have no idea who he is and no interest to find out either. It doesn't stop him from trying to explain though.

"Please, listen. I'm not what you think I am. I'm not. Okay? Please let me go and I'll explain." He doesn't know what else to say and the bright light currently piercing his eyes is quite intimidating. He feels like a lab rat, tied spread-eagled to a plank, and about to be studied and "worked on" and - let's face it – gutted.

"Shut him up!" It's that man again. Before Stiles knows it, a fist connects with his face and he blacks out again.

When he comes to, he doesn't want them to know. He just lies there, plays dead…or something. Frankly, he doesn't know what he's doing. The only thing he knows is that he's completely and utterly helpless and totally at their mercy. He just wants to be left alone. To not be poked at by hot pokers again. To not be tortured any more. He was about to die, why couldn't they just have let him?

He thinks about Scott again and wants to cry. No, do not think about Scott, he berates himself, "just don't go there, dude."

"Sir, come look at this," someone shouts suddenly and Stiles flinches, almost gives himself away. He hears footsteps and steels himself. This is it, he thinks. This is fucking it.

But it's not what he thinks. He cries out and then sort of chokes, because someone is digging their fingers into his side and it hurts so much he can't breathe. He opens his eyes and realizes that the blinding light is now turned off. He groans in agony and tries to twist away from the prodding fingers, but the ropes are pulled taut and he can't move. The fingers are removed and he gasps for breath.

"He's not healing. Shouldn't he have healed, or at least begun to heal, at this point?"

That's right, bitches, he thinks. I tried to tell you! He was just a regular human. And if they didn't know, regular humans needed just a little more time to heal. In his case he was pretty sure that he would need some serious surgery, blood transfusions and stitches to recover at all. It wasn't the time to tell them "told you so" though.

"That can't be possible! He was with them. He has the bite."

Stiles remembers suddenly and his body goes completely limp. Oh my God …The bite. He feels faint. How do they even know about the bite, or what it means? "Please," he whispers, "I can explain everything if you just let me." He's not really planning to tell them everything of course, but just enough to save all of their lives. Besides, they already seem to be in the know about the supernatural world.

Nobody says anything at first and Stiles begins to feel more than a little anxious. Then somebody cuts the ropes around his wrists and ankles and he is jostled off the table and dropped unceremoniously on the floor. He bites back a cry and tries to breathe through the pain. His vision swims back and forth and it's hard to focus on the blurry shapes of his captors. There are more than two of them, this much he knows. Even though he can't quite see them clearly, he can definitely feel their presence. "Geez," he mumbles. His head is throbbing like hell and the wounds in his side burn like fire.

Someone slaps him upon the back of his head. "Talk."

Stiles wipes his mouth with his sleeve and tries not to worry about the bloodstains on the fabric.

"Listen, someone's after me," he says. "Something very dangerous."

"Someone or something?" one of the men asks him.

"Something," Stiles confesses. No point in hiding that fact. His vision has cleared somewhat and he can see an artillery of weapons lined up against the walls behind the other men. They must be hunters, he muses. They have got to be. Won't save them though, he thinks grimly. "You said I was with them. I'm not exactly sure what you meant by that, but yes, I was with a group of people but I am not like them. I'm kind of the hanging-out-and-helping-whenever-I-can guy." He doesn't even know what he's saying. It makes no sense whatsoever. "…Funny story, eh?"

Somebody slaps him hard across the face and he sees stars. "Sorry," he squeezes out. "I don't know what to say," Yeah, he doesn't know what to say, but he knows that it's either tell them the truth straight up or be killed and he doesn't really want to die. He's only eighteen. He's jumping to conclusions when he speaks next; "I know you think I'm a werewolf. But I'm not. I would've healed by now. You said so yourselves." He's unsure of how to continue, hopes that they did in fact know about werewolves before he opened his mouth. If they didn't, things could get ugly.

"And the bite?" someone asks coldly.

Stiles feels sick to his stomach. In truth he doesn't know what it means. Doesn't know who or what bit him. There had been quite the commotion and he'd been too focused on getting out of there alive to really care what happened to him along the way. The slashes in his side though were another story. They had hurt as much psychologically as they had physically.

"I don't know for sure," he answers haltingly, "but there weren't just werewolves there." He swallows nervously because the rest of the story is almost too fantastic to believe even for him. Crazed, he thinks that maybe they will kill him before he can even finish telling it. Still, he figures sticking to the truth will be better than lying to them. "It was crazy," he says. "I'm talking like, circus crazy. Friggin' bears, cougars, wolves and coyotes everywhere. Just take your pick." He holds his breath, waits for his words to sink in.

Everyone is silent around him and Stiles is sure he will receive another punch or poke, or even worse, before too long.

"What the fuck?!" someone says.

"He's lying."

"It's so far-fetched it could actually be true," someone else adds.

Stiles feels a tiny bit of hope rising in his heart but it sinks just as quickly when he suddenly throws up. It's blood. A lot of blood. He feels lightheaded and completely drained of energy. He slumps forward, too weak to hold himself up. Somebody grabs him by the arm and drags him to his knees but Stiles can't seem to stay upright. The man soon realizes he can't release his grip without Stiles crashing to the floor again. He says something but Stiles can't hear what. All he knows is that he's dying. His peripheral vision blackens and the edges creep closer and closer until he can't see at all. He can't hear properly either. There's a lot of shouting but he can't make out any of the words. Dad, I'm sorry for lying to you, he thinks. I love you.

OOO

When the blindfold is removed she can hardly believe her eyes. The young boy before her looks more dead than alive. Blood is everywhere. The man with the gun urges her to go inside and she steps into the room hesitantly.

"Is there anything you can do for him?" he asks.

"I…don't…I don't know," she stammers. "I'll have to examine him first."

"Well, go ahead."

The room is filled with grown men with deadly weapons and she can't for the life of her understand why. The boy is unconscious and badly hurt. And despite all the manpower and the weapons, the boy is chained; hands AND feet. She feels sick to her stomach. So sick in fact that she can't even think about herself or the trouble she's in. She drops her bag and falls to her knees beside the boy. His wrists are rubbed raw, either from the cuffs or the rope that is still clinging to his wrists, she doesn't really care – either way it disgusts her.

"What's his name?" she asks.

"You don't need to know his name to do your job, do you Doc?" the man with the gun says. It's a rhetorical question.

She shoots him an angry look but doesn't ask again. Instead she carefully rolls up the boy's shirt to assess whatever damage done to him. It's quite obvious from the blood and his ripped shirt that the worst injuries are on his torso. She's been a doctor for a long time but can't help but gasp at the huge gashes in his side. She sees burn marks and a big bite mark that couldn't possibly have come from a dog or a person. Several scrapes and cuts. Contusions... It's a miracle that he's even alive. She presses two fingers to his neck, feeling for a pulse. It's weak and quick. She opens the bag and pulls out her stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. The boy's blood pressure is low like she expects. She's annoyed to find that she forgot to bring a thermometer. So instead she puts a hand on the boy's forehead to check for a fever. He's hot. Not a high fever yet, but she has a feeling it's about to go up.

"I gather he's been attacked by some kind of animal," she comments. "Judging by the extensive injuries and bite and claw marks." She doesn't wait for a response. "He needs surgery. And I don't know how long he's been in this condition but he's going to go into shock if he doesn't receive immediate medical attention; blood transfusions, surgery, antibiotics...

"This is all the medical attention he's going to get, Doc, so you better make the best of it," one of the other men says coldly. "Work your magic."

She wants to strangle all of them but she knows she has to focus entirely on the boy. She digs around in the bag and grabs all the things she needs to stabilize him. She prepares a PVC and inserts it into the boy's arm. He doesn't move at all and she's glad that he doesn't. She's going to do worse things later on. Thankfully, the men had grabbed her at the hospital so she'd been able to bring stuff she doesn't usually carry with her. Like intravenous antibiotics, local anesthetics, morphine, several suture kits and a bunch of iv drips. She works quickly, administering the antibiotics first and then flushing an iv drip into the boy's circulatory system. She needs to get that blood pressure up and the fever down. And stop the bleeding. She lifts up the boy's shirt again to bare the gashes in his side. They are still oozing blood. And pus. The pus bothers her.

She cleans the wounds carefully and the boy remains still and unresponsive. She's unsure of what to do when it's time to do the sutures. With, our without local anesthetics is the question. She has a limited supply and might need them once the boy is awake. She decides to take her chances and stitch him up without them, and thankfully, the boy doesn't even flinch as she goes to work on the large gashes.

OOO

He wakes up with a soft moan and jerks when he realizes he's not where he last remembered being; on the floor, inside that weapons room. He's on the floor now too but he's tied up again and a woman looks down at him with a worried expression. He feels sick to his stomach, wants to throw up, but can only manage dry heaves. He's in so much pain that it's easier to pick out the spots on his body where it doesn't hurt rather than the places that do. He is one aching mess. He stares at her imploringly but can't find the words to talk to her. Luckily, she speaks.

"Are you in a lot of pain?"

He nods. His head is heavy and still throbbing like crazy, must be one hell of a concussion.

"My name is Lisa and I'm a doctor," the woman says. "And I'm going to help you the best I can." She retrieves a small vial from what looks like a sports bag and looks back at him. "Are you allergic to any drugs or antibiotics that you know of?"

He shakes his head. He doesn't know for sure because he's never been in the hospital other than when his mother was sick.

"Good," the woman says. "I'll give you some morphine for the pain then." She fills a syringe with a clear liquid and then injects it into his system via a plastic thing in his arm. "It should kick in within a minute or so," she explains. It goes faster than that and Stiles thinks that he has never felt that kind of relief before.

"Thank you," he says softly. "That feels better."

And it does. But over all, he's not feeling too hot. He has a fever – he can feel it - and his body is all weird and achy. The doctor does a lot of tests on him that he has no idea what they are for. He doesn't care though. He's just happy to be alive and for the moment out of pain.

OOO

The hunters are everywhere. Always one or two close by to make sure he doesn't go anywhere. He's told not to speak to the woman, unless to answer questions about his health. He's not allowed to tell her his name. The Doc, Lisa, speaks to him though, asks him lots of questions about how he feels and where it hurts. And she's always checking the dressings on his wounds. She has patched him up pretty good, he thinks, because he's not bleeding or hurting nearly as much anymore. He'd been sure nobody would be able to stitch up those claw marks. Those suckers had been fatal.

He tries to talk to her, between antibiotics and morphine injections, between redressing of his wounds and checking his vital signs. But it's hard to talk about the supernatural to any regular person, let alone a doctor whose whole world is built around facts and logic. Doctors are rational and since he has to mask his every word, he gets nowhere with her.

The hunters, though, are not stupid and they detect the meaning behind his words. He's been pushing it, he knows that, but he also knows what's after him and that they are all in danger. They need to keep moving. And the doctor needs to be in the know.

They gag him and it's the worst thing they can do to him. Stiles is never quiet. Silence gnaws at him, eats away at his soul. He has a restless soul and a hyper personality. Quiet is horrible. He can't tell her anything now, can't warn the hunters either. He's immobile and forced to silence. They've wrapped him up like a nice little gift for the taking.

OOO

A week goes by and he sleeps for most of that time. The doctor thinks his fever is too high for comfort and the wounds in his side are still oozing pus. It doesn't take long before they're out of antibiotics and then the morphine's gone as well. The antibiotics he can live without, Stiles thinks, but he misses the drugs and the way they numbed him. It's what he wants right now, to feel nothing. He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to have to worry. They are all in danger but there's nothing he can do about it.

He rarely speaks to the doctor anymore and his captors mostly leave him alone. He doesn't know what they are planning or what they're waiting for. It gnaws at him and makes him anxious and nervous. Except for the occasional bad dreams that people have, he hasn't had any nightmares since his mother died. But now they are back. He dreams and every night he wakes up covered in sweat and screaming behind his gag.

The doctor thinks it's the fever causing the nightmares but Stiles knows better. Even a week after the fever has subsided, he dreams about Scott, of the werewolves, of cougars and wolves and coyotes. And Lydia. But mostly he dreams about his mom.

OOO

"Kids are resilient creatures," one of the men comments. It's the day that they've decided to see the doctor off. "Give them some drugs and some time and they pop back strong as ever." The man grabs Stiles by the arm and drags him to his feet. Stiles is passed between the men, each of them pushing him in a different direction. He goes where they push, says nothing, but hates them all fervently. Strong as ever is a relative term, don't they know? Stiles is anything but back to form. He is in constant pain and still weak from blood loss. The doctor has told him how the body can produce new blood cells, but that it takes time, and that he will feel weak and strung out for quite a while. Understatement of the century, he thinks. He has no energy whatsoever. The only thing that keeps him going is the thought of his dad, his friends and of coming home.

OOO

They sit cramped together in the backseat of the car. The boy, she still doesn't know his name, one of the older men and herself. It's a long and uncomfortable ride. Next to her the boy is twitching nervously and she tenses. She's not sure why, but she should know. During all their time together she's come to know his mannerisms. He's a hyperactive, frenetic, angst-ridden boy… He fidgets A LOT. She's pretty sure he has some kind of letter combination. Most likely ADHD, she thinks. He's a sweet kid and he has curious, intelligent eyes and she is happy that he's alive. It'd been touch and go there for a while but he'd pulled through.

They have spoken many times but have never really talked about anything of value. Nothing about the important things at least. She has no idea who he is, why he's been hurt or why the other men keep him prisoner. There has been a code of secrecy to everything. She hasn't been allowed to know his name. They have been warned not to speak of anything that doesn't directly correlate to his care. There has always been someone watching them, making sure that they do not break those rules. In a way she's happy she knows so little. She has no idea where she's been, or who with. She doesn't know any of their names. She hasn't really worried about her own safety until now. They don't need her any more now that the boy is on his way to recovery.

The boy's gaze jumps from window to window. He turns in his seat to look at the road behind them then sits back – though still fidgeting. "Do you think you could drive a little faster?"

It seems to surprise them all. The driver glares at him in the rearview mirror. "Shut your pubescent trap or I'll shut it for you".

The boy glances nervously through the window and draws a deep, shaky breath. "Yeah, didn't think so."

A fist flies by her face so fast she doesn't even have time to react. It connects with the boy's face and he groans. "Shut it," the man beside her orders.

The boy rubs his jaw, looks like he wants to say something but doesn't.

OOO

He has this bad feeling that time is running out. He can feel and taste and smell it in the air. It's getting close. They need to keep moving. He's learnt to trust his gut and now it's telling him to run as fast as he possibly can. He knows it's after him – them now - and that it's closing in. He sits quietly for at least ten minutes then decides that he has to warn them, no matter the consequences. He swallows.

"Please, just hear me out," he says. "Something is after me. I told you that before… It's very dangerous and it's on its way here and we're all going to die if we don't get out of here as quickly as possible."

The driver grumbles something under his breath but doesn't answer. The other man sits quietly as well. It's as if they've finally had enough of him and are too fed up too even care. Fear grips Stiles' heart.

His eyes meet the doc's, and in her green orbs he can see that she believes him. They don't speak though. They almost never speak.

They drive for at least a half hour before the driver suddenly stops the car at the side of the road. Stiles looks at the barren landscape around them, not sure what the men mean to do. The doc seems to be just as confused as him. "This is where you get off, Doc," the driver says. The doctor looks frightened and Stiles is feeling it too. The man next to her gets out of the car and grabs her by the arm. "Time to go," he says. She doesn't go willingly though. The man has to drag her out of the car.

Stiles opens his door and leans out as far as the cuffs allow. "What are you doing?" he asks. Please don't kill her. Please don't leave her here. He peeks around nervously.

"Get back into the fucking car," the man roars at him and Stiles freezes.

The man goes to get a couple of water bottles from the trunk and hands them to the doc. "There's a town ten miles up ahead," he tells her as he passes her the water bottles. She takes the water, clutches the bottles close to her chest, and looks absolutely terrified. Stiles isn't sure what's got her more scared; his doomsday talk or having to walk ten miles in scorching heat alone. He feels for her.

"Please, don't leave me here," she begs, eyes pleading with the man in front of her, and it breaks Stiles' heart because it's his fault she's there to begin with.

"Just bugger off, will you," the man replies. He doesn't sound angry. When it comes to her it's just business to him. Stiles on the other hand…

She's crying now, tears welling, making her eyes gleam in the sunlight. Stiles thinks about ways to convince the other men to bring her with them and not leave her in the middle of nowhere.

At the same time he knows it's not safe to go anywhere with him. He suffers through a fleeting moment of uncertainty before he decides that it's actually better that they leave her on the road. She sobs and the man pushes her away from the car and out onto the road. "Just go," he says. She backs away slowly and Stiles barely manages to swallow the lump building in his throat. He leans out of the car again and fixes his eyes on her. "I'm sorry," he says. "This is all my fault and I wish none of this had happened to you. But you saved my life and I owe it to you to try and save yours."

Her sobs die down instantly. "What does that even mean?" she says, her voice in a cold whisper. She's angry because she doesn't know and Stiles thinks that they owe her that much; to be allowed to get angry.

He goes back into the car, heart heavy with guilt. The man on the road gives the doctor one last push before getting in the backseat with Stiles. The car door slams shut with scary finality. And before Stiles can even turn around in his seat they are off, car accelerating and speeding off in a cloud of dust.

The road is straight and without bumps and Stiles knows they will be able to see her for a long time before she disappears from view. But they don't get that far before he spots what he's been dreading all along; a black form appears a few miles behind the doctor, its shape growing in size as it catches up with supernatural speed.

Stiles' mouth opens in an O. He wants to scream, to yell out a warning, anything, but his voice is gone. And all he can do is watch as the creature catches up to the doc and dark sprays shoot out of her body - a mist of blood hanging in the hot air like an ominous cloud. He suddenly finds his voice and screams. It's a scream of fear and pain and echoing it are the shocked cries of the other men.

Reviews are greatly appreciated!