The first thing Stiles was aware of when he regained consciousness was the agonizing pain in his stomach. Though it was a slushy form of consciousness, he could hear voices. The voices of his friends; and his father. Something erupted in his head, and suddenly everything became real. His eyelids flung open, and instantly he was blinded by a brilliant light. He had to blink a few times before his vision could adjust. Once the light became bearable, he could see the silhouetted outline of a face, and it was looking down at him. Out of the blue, a muffled shout echoed into his ears. The sound zigzagged through his ear canal, not stopping until it reached his eardrum. It echoed again, and again, getting clearer and clearer until finally, he could translate the words.

"Stiles! Stiles, look at me! Look at me, Stiles!" It was his dad. His dad was speaking to him. Calling for him. And Stiles thought he saw a few tears dripping down his cheek. "Stiles, can you hear me?"

Stiles' mouth was dry, and as he drew in a shaky breath, hoping it would help him form words, a sharp pain pierced him in the chest. That's when he realized that he was covered in blood. His sense of touch started to return, and Stiles felt that his hands were sticky, sticky with blood. But what made it the most sickening was the fact that it was his. It was his blood.

"Stiles…" His dad stated his name again, although this time it was in the form of a sob. "Stiles….please…please answer me….."

"D-D-Dad…D-Dad I'm h-here…..I c-can…..h-hear you," The teen whispered, surprised by the lack of strength he had.

John lowered his head to Stiles, and for the first time the teen could see his face clearly. His father was sobbing hysterically, and his eyes….they were full of tears; they were glassy, and full of grief. The grief was so strong that Stiles could almost taste it. "You're not going to leave me,"

"D-Dad…I...I can't feel anything…." Stiles whispered, staring into his father's eyes with his hazy, unfocused ones. "Wh-what e-even h-happened…..?" His voice was weak, barely audible.

"Never mind that, Stiles. What matters now is getting you to the hospital," John replied, cradling his son's head in his arms, hugging him to his chest. "Just do me a favor, Stiles." He paused, staring at Stiles' paling face. "Promise me. Promise me that you'll keep your eyes open until the ambulance arrives."

Stiles drew in another shaky breath, his eyelids dropping lower. "I…I don't make promises that I can't….k-keep…." He stammered, the ability to speak rapidly slipping away.

"Stiles! Don't close your eyes! Stiles!" John cried, gripping his son's shoulders with his hands, digging his fingers into the boy's shirt.

Stiles' vision was clouding, and he couldn't hear his father's voice anymore. It had faded into nothingness, just like his mother's had when she died. He could see his dad's figure growing blurry. It was almost gone.

"Stiles…..don't give up on me now…please Stiles, please…" John whimpered, burying his face into his son's shoulder, holding the boy close to him as if that would bring him back.

Stiles' lips parted slightly, and a soft, whispering breath escaped his lungs. Then his eyelids locked together, shielding his eyes from the world, forever.

John felt Stiles' chest grow still, and the weak thumping that had been coming from his heart now ceased to exist. As he cried into his son's limp, lifeless body, a faint whisper echoed into his ears. He knew it was Stiles' last breath, the air that escaped from the lungs when someone died. But it wasn't just the excess air coming out of his body. It was Stiles' last words. The words that his father translated into the phrase: "I love you Dad".