Hey! So here we have yet another angst filled fanfiction... I don't know, maybe I have a problem... But I thought I might as well share it with you all! So yeah, warnings: This has a kind of open ending for dramatic purposes (not because i'm a lazy writer, shhhh.), there is some gore, descriptions of violence, and angst. So yeah, just my usual I guess.
Please, please, please, leave a review if you like it! Or if you hate it! Just leave any sort of comment, because I love to read them.
So without further ado (I like that word... 'ado') onto the fanfiction!
Bleeding Out.
You never really appreciate your life, until you think it's going to end. It's the classic human flaw of wanting what you don't have.
Stiles wanted a lot of things. He wanted his life to be simpler, he wanted for his friends to not have to fear for their lives every second of every goddamned day, and sometimes he just wanted to be normal for a while. But right now, all Stiles wanted was to live.
Stiles had faced death many times. Whether it was in the form of a gun pressed against his forehead, the cold metal biting into his skin; or a claw held to his throat as he stared down an angry werewolf; or a demon eating away at his mind and slowly drawing the life out of him. He knew what it felt like to believe that this was it, and so many times he had tried to accept it. But somehow, he never could. Because despite it all, despite the giant shit-pile that his life was, Stiles liked being alive. Sure he was willing to die if it kept his friends safe, if it stopped them from getting hurt. But the finality of death was something he never could quite process. It scared him.
Of course, each and every time that he had faced death, Stiles had come out alive. His friends had saved him, because that's what they do. Mccall pack rule number one; you never give up, and you never abandon your friends.
Stiles had made it out alive every single time.
Well, almost every time.
Stiles was dying, and this time no one was here to save him.
And you know what the suckiest part was? He was dying alone.
He was completely and utterly alone, not a hint of another person in sight.
Stiles had always thought that if he was going to die it would be in the middle of some werewolf battle or by saving another member of the pack. But neverhad Stiles thought that he would die alone; bleeding out on the floor of some cold warehouse god knows how many miles out of Beacon Hills.
The hunter that had done this to him had left long ago. Stiles was pretty sure the man was psychotic. He had caught Stiles as he was driving home from school, on a lonely road that Stiles considered a shortcut. The hunter had blocked the small road with his car, and Stiles had to swerve in order not to plough straight into the man. Tires screeching, the jeep had swung round in a complete circle before jolting to a stop as the back of hit smashed into one of the tall trees that lined the road.
Once he had pulled Stiles out of his car, none too gently, the hunter had kept yelling, accusing his pack of killing someone called Grace. Stiles had assured the man over and over that his pack had done no such thing, but the Hunter paid him no heed. Instead he had knocked Stiles over the head with the gun he had been clutching, hard enough to send Stiles tumbling to the floor, and dragged him to a beat up looking Ford, tossing him into back seat with thick grey tape round his wrists, and ankles. Stiles had continued to protest, but it just seemed to irritate the man more. There was a spark in the Hunter's eyes that Stiles had seen many times before. He'd seen it in Peter's eyes, and Matt's, he'd even seen it in his own. It was a gleam of madness, a hunger for chaos and revenge.
It was a sign of a man with purpose, and a willingness to do anything to achieve his goals.
The hunter dragged Stiles to abandoned warehouse miles out of Beacon Hills and spent hours trying to get Stiles to confess to a crime neither him, nor his pack had committed. And with each of Stiles' denials, the man had grown angrier, and angrier, until finally he snapped.
The knife that tore through his stomach did not surprise Stiles.
Nor did the sound of the hunter's car screeching away in the distance.
Not even the pain, the burning hot, freezing cold, relentless pain, surprised Stiles.
But the blood did.
It flowed thick and fast from the wound, seeping through his shirt, pouring onto the ground and pooling around him. He held his hands over the cut, crying out as a wave of sharp pain tore through him, but the blood still managed to find its way through his fingers. Panicked sobs climbed up his throat and burst into the air in a convolution of tears and noise.
Stiles hadn't prayed in a long time. He used to when he was younger, back when his mom was sick. He would pray every night to a god he wasn't sure he believed in for his mother to recover, to smile again and for the dark circles under her eyes and her pale skin to go away. He had prayed and prayed to every single deity that he knew for his mother to get well. But she only got paler, and the circles only got darker, until the woman Stiles would visit every day was nothing like the mother he had once known.
Stiles stopped praying after his mother died. He didn't believe in god.
But now, he couldn't help but beg in a silent, desperate prayer for his dad to come find him, or Scott. Heck, Stiles even prayed for Derek to turn up. Anyone, as long as it meant he didn't have to die alone.
He didn't pray to live. He thought maybe it was asking too much.
The whole room was blurring, and lurching around him in sickening waves. Dark spots played before his eyes, swaying and gathering together in a dizzying dance that left him blinking again, and again in a desperate attempt to make them disappear.
Warm, smooth blood pooled in his mouth, bitter tasting and sickening. It slithered down the side of his face and joined the pool around him.
He desperately wanted to close his eyes and just rest, but a part of his brain that sounded surprisingly like Lydia kept ordering him to keep them open, to stay alert. But it was so hard when it felt like the air around you was pushing at you from all sides, suffocating you with its nothingness. It would be so easy just to let go, and get away from the hazy pain that was so sharp and yet felt like it was coming from a million miles away. But voice at the back of his head was screaming at him now. Stay awake, keep your eyes open. Just hold on. He wished it would stop, that he could make it go away. Don't give up. Stay awake. He couldn't make sense of the room around him, all the colours and shapes were blurring into one and he couldn't remember where he was, or why he was hurting so much. There was just the one thought, screaming at him. Stay awake. Stay awake. Awake awake awake … He was so cold. He just wanted to sleep, or curl up on the sofa with one of the hot chocolates his dad would always make when he had nightmares when he was younger. Don't close your eyes. He could almost feel the drink in his mouth. The smooth warmth of the chocolate as it slid down his throat. But this time it was different, it tasted bitter and metallic and burnt his throat when he tried to swallow. Stay awake. But he was so tired.
Would it really be so bad if he just closed his eyes?
Hold on.
Just for a moment.
Stay awake.
He was so tired.
It's going to be okay.
He wanted his dad.
I'm here son.
Just hold on.
Please Stiles.
Please.