There's a life outside Beacon Hills waiting for you if want it. You don't know necessarily where or what, but you've got ideas and you've got dreams and you think you can figure it out easily enough. There's a jeep outside waiting for you and keys lying innocently on your desk and it'll take you anywhere if you let it; if you get up and dust off the insecurities and self-appointed responsibilities from your heavy laden shoulders.

There's a backpack in your closet and it holds three changes of clothes and a small bag of toiletries. There are no mementos in that small backpack, no little trinkets that'll make you stop short and remember this life. Inside that backpack is your new start if you just pick it up and take it.

There's a wallet in your desk and it holds the means to hopefully never be caught. The license has your face but not your name and there's enough money in it to last you over a year if you use it wisely. It means skipping a couple of meals and sleeping in your car, but that's okay with you. You don't eat much these days, anyways, and you've always loved that car.

There's a note carefully written under your mattress and it says the words you're too scared to say. You need to fix yourself and you can't do it in the company of your friends and family. You can't look at them, but it's not their fault. It's yours, but that's not surprising. Your hands aren't so much stained with blood but rather dripping these days. You don't know if you'll ever be able to mop it up.

You're not so sure you deserve it.

But there's a father downstairs that sits at a table and wonders if he'll ever be able to fix his screw up of a son. He'll slowly drink his worries away because the truth is he knows he'll never be able to help him. He's a broken shell of a man who's lost his wife and he knows he's slowly losing his son too. He tells himself the drinking helps, but when he wakes up with a bad taste in his mouth and an incessant pounding in his skull and his son no different than the day before, he wonders if any of it's worth it.

And there's a boy with a dead girlfriend who you call your best friend, your brother, but you're slowly losing him. It's something like moving a mountain to get you to face him these days, to put on a smile and force a laugh when all you see is her, standing behind him with a gaping wound in her stomach and accusation in her eyes. It's enough to get you to turn around in the opposite direction and pretend like you've never known Scott McCall a day in your life.

Seeing him with his pack, laughing and more confident in his skin than ever, you're almost sure you haven't.

There are more; people who you can say are important to you, like the woman you only knew for seven years before she became a stranger for three and is now rotting six feet underground. Like the girl you fell in love with the moment you first laid eyes on her that you now can't stand to look at because all you can see is fear and disappointment. Like the man you first hated and feared that became like an almost sort-of brother to you before he left and you realized you'll never be enough for anyone to stay.

You've never been enough for your father to stop drinking, you've never been enough for Lydia to love you, you've never been enough to keep your mom fighting, you've never been enough to keep Derek from leaving, and you've never been enough to keep Scott from hurting.

You've just never. Been. Enough.

You will never be enough.

You give yourself a week. Just one more week and you're leaving. One more week to see if you can make any part of your life right again. Just… one week.

But you've always been a liar.

You wake up the next day and go downstairs to see your father passed out on the couch, whiskey clutched in a lax grip to his chest. You swallow thickly at the sight and go about making pancakes and eggs and bacon, something your dad will hopefully appreciate. You're done making the bacon when your father stumbles into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and reeking of booze. He gives you a tired smile when you place his breakfast in front of him, then a confused one when he realizes it's real bacon, not turkey bacon and actual pancakes, not the whole-wheat organic ones you usually make. You smile and give some half-assed comment before you grab your backpack and head out the door, making an excuse when your father asks you if you're going to eat.

Like you said, you don't have much of an appetite these days.

The drive to school is peaceful, one of the only highlights of your day these days. You wish you could just keep driving, keep going, keep…

You make it to school at the same time Scott drives up in his motorcycle and coincidentally park right next to each other. You almost stay in your car, just long enough for Scott to get his stuff and start walking away, but you remember the promise you made to yourself last night so you open the door with only a moment's hesitation.

"S'up, man?" you ask, giving him a head nod.

Scott looks surprised for a second, and that hits you with the force of a freight train, but he quickly covers his surprise and smiles pleasantly at you. "Nothing much, dude. What about you?" His eyes shone with genuine concern.

You shrug, giving him a smirk, "As good as you can be when you've got an exam in approximately thirteen minutes. Oh, and a little birdie told me Finstocks gotta pop quiz waiting for us."

Scott gave a groan of irritation, "Really?! We're practically done with school, why?."

"I believe there to be few joys is Finstock's life, and this unfortunately happens to be one them."

He gave a snort and nodded. The both of you walked the way to the building in silence, the sounds of other students milling around and talking making it less awkward. You were just about to open the door when Scott's hand on your shoulder stopped you.

You raised a curious eyebrow, hiding the way your stomach was churning at the sight of your best friend's blatantly worried face.

You didn't deserve that.

"Stiles, I know we haven't really been talking since the whole…" Scott swallowed, but plowed through, "the whole Nogistune thing, but you're my best friend, my brother, alright? You can talk to me about whatever it is that's going on in that stubborn head of yours, okay?" he gave you a little warm grin, supposed to make you feel comfortable and at peace, but it had the opposite effects on you.

Nevertheless, you give him an answering grin, ignoring the way it stretched your face like dried wax, cracking and falling apart, "I'm fine, Scott, but thanks."

You made to push the door open, but stopped when you heard him speak again, angry and sorrowful, "The last time you said you were fine, Stiles, everything ended up going to hell."

Your chest seized painfully, the images of your time being a possessed vessel trickling through the walls you had forcefully built to save you from just a little bit of the pain you wholly deserved but couldn't handle, and you did the only thing you were good at.

You pushed the door harder than you should have, causing teenagers to scatter and stare at you, and blatantly ran away from Scott, trying your hardest not to give in to the panic attack looming over you. You heard him call your name, but you didn't stop, just sped up and sat down in your first class of the day, ten minutes early.

Students came trickling in, mostly ignoring you, but there are people you know, like Danny and Kira and Malia that give you funny little looks. You ignore them and you ignore the teacher, just finish your test and spend the rest of the class period staring out the window.

You're able to get by anyone who would be willing to talk to you when the bell rings, and even though you made yourself promise to try to pretend like everything was okay and you were still friends with the pack, you couldn't bring yourself to go up to them.

You kept your distance and observed, though. You watched the way they all smiled and laughed with each other, all the familiar looks and the newfound confidence they all possessed now.

They look liked a pack should. Like family. Like they've finally moved on from the clusterfuck you created and have come out stronger from it.

They… they looked good. They were surviving together and growing stronger. They'd found solace within each other.

And even though you'd been telling yourself this over and over, trying to make yourself believe and not feel so guilty anymore, you can finally see that it's true.

They don't need you.

The revelation is bittersweet.

You don't see the pack for the rest of the day, and this time it's not from trying. You make your way across the parking lot to your jeep after school has ended and there they are, congregating around Scott's motorcycle which is still parked right next to your car.

You don't know what to do, don't know what to say or if you even should, but your feet continue to take you closer, step after step.

You take out your phone and pretend like you don't notice them, clicking on some random game to keep you occupied. You almost make it, your hand about to pull on your door handle when you hear Scott calling your name.

You just barely stop yourself from sighing and turn around to face Scott, the rest of the pack staying put but no doubt eavesdropping anyways.

You raise your eyebrows at him, something you've picked up from Derek over the years, and silently urge Scott to say whatever it is he needs to say.

"Hey," Scott starts and rubs the back of his head, "Look, I'm sorry for what I said this morning. I was out of line, and I shouldn't have thrown it in your face like that."

His face became slightly red, and he stammered, "So I was just, uh, wondering if you would, um, maybe forgive me?" he ended in a question, puppy dog eyes begging for forgiveness.

You rolled your eyes and put on an easy smile, dismissing the entire encounter with a wave of your hand, "Scott, it's okay, man. There's nothing to forgive."

He beamed at you and went in for a hug. You couldn't help but tense up, but Scott, fortunately, didn't seem to notice.

You don't think you could have answered him if he asked.

"Hey, so," Scott began, pulling away, "me and the rest of the pack are gonna go over to Lydia's house and have a movie night, wanna come?"

You thought about it for a second, thought about how it would feel to pretend for a while. What it would be like to pretend that you hadn't screwed over everyone lives, that you hadn't killed Allison or Aiden, or that you hadn't caused Derek and Isaac and Chris to run away from the shit-show that is him and Beacon Hills, or how you hadn't caused your father to sink deeper into the bottle than he ever has before.

You tried to imagine what it would feel like to not be everyone's problem.

You can't.

You ignore the expectant looks of the pack, give Scott a sorry smile, and say, "Sorry, Scottie, I told my dad I'd cook dinner tonight."

"Oh." Scott says, his face sagging and shoulders slumping.

You pat him on the shoulder and say sorry one more time before you open the door to your jeep and climb inside.

"Maybe some other time, then?" Scott asked before you could shut your door.

You didn't trust your heart not to give your lie away, so you just smiled, shut the door, and drove away.

It's the last time you see Scott McCall.

You pull into your empty drive way some time later, your father's cruiser gone and him no doubt at work.

You throw your backpack down in the entry way and make your way into the kitchen. You set about making dinner, because you hadn't been lying when you told Scott you would be, and soon the smell of spaghetti permeates throughout the whole house.

You're just taking the bread out of the oven when you hear your dad come through the door. You call out a greeting but receive no verbal answer, just the sound of something crashing to the floor.

You rush out of the kitchen and into the entry way where you see your father picking himself up from the floor, muttering unintelligibly and reeking of booze, and one of the picture frames that had been hanging on the wall shattered on the floor.

You stood there frozen for a second, unsure of what to do, but instinct kicked in and you ran to your father and helped him to a chair.

He collapsed into it and you stood there, trying to find words to say but coming up empty.

While you tried to find something to say your dad had already clasped his fingers around a bottle of jack that had been sitting at the table and was trying to work the lid off.

You snapped.

Your father gave an indigent cry when suddenly the booze he'd been clumsily trying to work open was snatched from his grip.

He looked up into your no doubt furious face and you finally said the only words you could think of.

"What the fucking hell, " You hissed, "do you think you're doing?"

His face was shocked but he quickly got over it and said in an equally angry voice, "What do you think it looks like? I'm having a fucking drink." He slurred and made a move to steal the alcohol from your grip.

You held it out of reach but your dad just kept coming. You fought over a lousy bottle, hands shoving and shoulders knocking, until the Sheriff knocked it from your hands and it shattered onto the hardwood.

"Now look at what you've done!" The Sheriff shouted, his face an angry red and eyes glassy. "You just can't help making a mess wherever you go, huh?"

You recoiled almost violently, but he just kept on going.

"You made a mess out of my life, your mother's life, everyone in this fucking town's life!" He spat, taking stumbling steps forward. You backed up with each step he took toward you until your back hit the wall behind you.

You stood there and took it, almost even wanted it, because it was everything you deserved.

"You've ruined my life." He said, jabbing a finger into your chest. It hurt, but not physically. You wish it did, though. You wish your father would just beat you like Gerard did, only if because it would hurt less than the truths your father was saying. But you deserve this too.

You deserve whatever it is that hurts most.

"You've ruined everything." He sobbed, stepping away from you like you were something to be despised. Like you were the monster that hunted and killed the people around you. Like you were some cesspool of filth and decay and agony.

You always thought you were and now your father weeps in front of you and confirms it.

You don't know if you can live with it.

"Your mother was right." Your father whispered, sinking back down into the chair he'd been sitting in before, and he put his head in his hands and wept.

You froze, terrified of the conviction in your father's voice, the disappointment and the sorrow. Something that had been thought over, not just created in a drunken stupor. Something fully believed.

You couldn't stay there, staring at your father unravelling in front of you after he had laid bare all that he thought of you.

So you turned tail and ran to your room, barely able to shut the door before you're sliding down the wall, knees drawn to your chest and tears in your eyes and sobs in your chest.

You don't voice them, if only because you don't deserve it.

"I'm sorry." You whisper, to anyone and everyone. To your neighbors and to your classmates and to Derek and Cora and Isaac and Chris and Allison and Lydia and Malia and Kira and Liam and Scott and your mom and dad and everyone else you've ever met or will ever meet.

You're just… sorry.

Unsurprisingly, it changes nothing.

Distantly, you hear the sound of the front door open and close, and you know your father won't be home for a couple of days, drowning himself in work and alcohol.

You take a glance at the keys on your desk, the closet that holds a backpack never used, the drawer that holds an old wallet, and the note that hides under your mattress.

You get up.

The Sheriff comes home Sunday night.

He rolls his cruiser into the driveway, sober and festering with guilt and trepidation. The last time he'd come home he'd been drunk off his ass and out of his mind. He'd yelled at his son, accused him. He'd just been so fucking angry and so fucking drunk and all he could see was this red haze and his son standing right in front of him, looking so much like Claudia it fucking hurt and all he could think about was her sickness and Stiles possession and he couldn't. He just couldn't.

It doesn't excuse it, though. He knows that now, figured it out when he woke up Saturday morning in his cruiser that was parked on the edge of the preserve with a pounding headache and tear tracks on his face and the recollection of what he'd done to his son.

He knows nothing is going to be the same again. They will never be the same. They'd been on shaky ground for a while now but that argument had been what finally split the ground between them. He doesn't know if they can every repair that gap, but he holds on to the hope that Stiles might throw him a rope one day.

He sighs, smacking his head on the steering wheel because he knows it could take a while, if ever. Stiles can hold a grudge like no other.

It doesn't matter though, he tells himself and he steels his resolve. Stiles deserves for him to try and make things right, so that's what he'll do. He'll make it okay. Even if it has to happen years from now, or perhaps even never.

Stiles deserves it.

With that in mind he opened the car door and made his way into the house. He takes out his keys to open the door, but when he puts his key in the lock the door opens by itself. Something hard and foreboding settles in his gut, and he rests his hand on the gun holstered on his belt.

Something wasn't right.

He slowly pushed the door open all the way, and took cautious steps inside. His boot crunched on something ominously and he looked down to see glass around him and a picture frame under his shoe.

He swallowed thickly and crouched down, fingers careful of the glass around him, and picked the frame up. He turned it over to reveal a picture of him and Claudia and Stiles, all dopey grins and carefree stances. Stiles had been six there and Claudia had yet to be diagnosed.

It was a better time then. Happier.

He can barely remember it.

He stood up, still holding on to the picture frame and walked further into the house. He found himself in the kitchen where it reeked of something old and rotten and found a pan of spaghetti sitting on the stove and a tray of garlic bread next to it, both with blue and green mold mixed into it to make a nauseating sight.

Why the hell hadn't Stiles cleaned it up?

That foreboding feeling in his gut intensified and he walked to the table he had been sitting at that night and found the smashed bottle of whisky still there, the liquid no doubt having stained the wood beneath it.

It was like he was still there in that moment, condemning his son and Stiles just standing there, taking it like some sort of pariah. Like he deserved it and wanted it. Like it was all he was good for, a scapegoat to place the blame on.

Where was Stiles? Where the hell was your son?

He ran upstairs to his son's room, the pounding in his heart matching the pounding of his steps.

"Stiles!" He yelled, barging into his room. Everything was as it usually was, his crime board filled with solved and unsolved mysteries, his coat jacket still hanging over his chair, his bed still unmade.

It feels like he's walking into the room of a ghost.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and dials a number he knows by heart, hoping that it'll pick up.

It goes to voicemail.

He growled in frustration and worry and began pacing the length of the room. He'd just finished redialing when he caught sight of folded paper on Stiles' desk, simply labeled 'Dad.'

He froze in his steps, lowering the phone from his ear where it simply went to voicemail again.

A new sense of dread filled him and he extended a shaky hand to grab the paper. Another paper fell out when he lifted it, and it read 'Pack.'

He sucked in a breath, his mind connecting dots and not liking, not understanding, the picture.

Against his denial, he opened the letter slowly and began to read.

Hey Dad

I don't really know what to say other than I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I'm leaving and that all I have to give to you is this letter. It's a shitty thing to do, but I have to do this. I can't stay here in this town when all I've done is fuck up everyone's lives. I can't keep looking at you and the pack when I've fucked up all of your lives the most.

I did a lot of bad things, Dad, and I just can't stay here and be reminded of it every single day. I look at you and only see the grief I put you through. I see Scott and can only think of how I put a sword through him and Allison and how I fucking liked it. Because I had power when I was the nogistune. I had control. I wasn't just some poor and defenseless child trying to keep up with beings who were so much more than I was. Because, let's face it. I was nothing. I still am nothing, but I'm hoping that if I could finally just get away from everyone, that maybe I could be something.

I'm just so lost right now, and I know if I stay here, trying to be something I no longer am, I'm just going to end up killing myself. There's too many memories here. Good and bad. I don't know what hurts more, to know that I've experienced good things and had maybe been something not so atrocious, or that everything has turned to shit and it's all my fault for all the messes that have been made. Because they both hurt, the memories of a life I can never get back and the reality of the shit-show of a life that I have now. I hate both.

So I'm going to try to find a life that could be worth something. Something that I could look at and not feel so fucking disappointed in. I need you to understand, Dad. I need you to understand that I need this, and that I think you do too. Don't try and defend yourself and say you don't, because I know what you think of me. I know and I don't blame you. I don't blame anyone but myself.

So just stay away, please. Let me stay away. I don't know for how long, or if I'll ever be okay enough to face you or the pack again, so I'm begging you, just let me go. Move on. Go live the life I never allowed you to. Be okay for me, please. Because I still love you, Dad. I'll always love you. But I think we both know that just because you love someone, it doesn't mean that they're good for you, and I'm sorry to say this but we just aren't good for each other. Not right now. Maybe not ever. But I'm going to try, I swear, I'm going to try to get better. And right now, better means leaving, and maybe further down the line better will mean coming back, or maybe it will mean staying away for good. I just ask that you'll respect whichever one it is.

Goodbye, Dad.
Stiles

The silence in the room was broken when he gave a choked sob. The letter trembled in his grasp before leaving his grip altogether. He paid it no mind and instead took unsteady steps backwards till the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress and he collapsed onto it.

"Shit," he whispered, heartbreak and despair leaking through his voice, "Shit."

He curled into himself, sobbing into trembling hands and gripping onto tendrils of hair.

He stayed that way for an indiscernible amount of time, guilt festering in his lungs and making it hard to breath.

We just aren't good for each other, God, what did he do? What kind of father gives his kid no other option than to leave because staying would only destroy them? A shitty one, and that's what he told himself he was. A shitty father who ran his son out of town.

But the thing is, he's almost sort of glad. Because he got out while he could, before shit hit the fan again and things got worse. Before Stiles didn't make it back home again. And yah, maybe Stiles isn't coming home again still, but at least he's alive. At least he'll maybe get better.

He just wished he could have been told. That Stiles trusted him enough to confide in him all that he'd been going through.

That's not fair though, he knows. He hasn't given Stiles any reason to believe that he could trust in him, could confide in him all that he'd been feeling. All he'd been doing was ignoring him and finding comfort in the bottom of a bottle.

He'd lost his right to be Stiles confidant.

And maybe Stiles thought so or didn't, but he thinks he lost his right to be called his father too.

He rubbed his face, smearing tears, and tried not to think of what Claudia would think to see him now. If she would blame him. Hate him.

He just… he tried not to think.

He lowered his hands from his face, and gripped the back of his neck. His eyes roamed wherever, to the soda stain by his foot, to the patch of rug that had been matted down and worn thin from whatever the hell Stiles did, and to the paper he'd dropped, turned over and blank except for a couple lines of print.

His eyebrows furrowed, having not turned it over and seen it, and he bent down to pick it up.

I know you feel guilty for what happened between us on Friday, it read in sloping ink, smudged and appearing fresher than the writing on the front, but I just want you to know that I'm not mad at you. I don't blame you. You're my dad, okay? That means I'm going to love you no matter what, and I mean that. I love you, Dad, and I hope you get better too.

Fresh tears welled up in his eyes, spilling over and splashing onto manuscript. He gently placed the paper on the bed-sheet next to him, and gingerly laid down. He gripped a pillow to his chest and breathed in the smell of his shampoo. It was lemony and it mixed in well with the scent of pine and the forest.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered into cotton and the smell of him. If he closed his eyes and imagined hard enough, he could almost believe that Stiles was there to hear him.

As it was, he would never know.

With each mile you put behind you, each rotation of your tires, your breath comes easier and the air becomes just a little bit fresher.

By the time you'd left it'd been dark, but that was hours ago and each minute lightens the sky bit by bit. It'll be sunrise in no time, and you can't wait. All you've ever experienced in your life has been sunsets, but now that you head east, a sunrise is waiting for you.

It feels poetic in a way, but you've never been much for poetry, so you just keep your foot on the pedal, crank the music just a little bit higher, and keep breathing in the morning air.

It's the closest thing to freedom you've ever felt, and you think that you could do this for the rest of your days and still be happy.

You think that maybe, just maybe, you could find a way to heal yourself out here, on the open road.

You hope so, and so you keep that hope tied up in a chest in the deepest part of your heart and hold on tight to it.

You're not willing to ever let it go.

The song ends, a commentary comes and goes, and a new song* starts playing. It's not a song you've heard before, and you're kind of sad you haven't, because right now, with the sun peaking above the treetops and the air smelling of pine and new beginnings, it's the best you've felt in a long time. Before werewolves and nogistunes were even a thing. Before your mother was still alive.

It almost feels like you're going to be okay. If you could just come back to this moment in time, as the song crescendos and levels out and the sun peaks higher and turns everything around it into brilliant hazes of oranges and pinks, you could get better. You could find a reason to keep on living. You could be something.

It feels like you're waking up.

You smile, something small but real, and feel tears in your eyes but aren't ashamed of it.

You grin wider and give a yell, something a little hysterical and teary but it's also full of hope and newfound freedom, and it feels good, so damn good and so you do it again and fist bump the roof of your jeep, laughing and breathless.

You're going to be okay.

Your tires eat up asphalt, and you keep going, keep driving, keep fucking breathing.

It's the highlight of your life.

*In Your Blood - Thom Byles

Why did I make this? I don't quite know, other than Stiles fucking deserves some sort of happy ending and this is actually very plausible to me that Stiles would leave Beacon Hills. Or maybe that's just what I want most for him. I don't know. And this song is just liquid gold to me also and it needed to be heard by others. So, hope it wasn't too bad and you enjoyed it, and please, pretty pretty please, listen to the song when you're reading that last part because holy crap, tears come to my eyes each time.