He remembered pain. White hot spikes of pain where their fingers had dug in, where their knives had cut away. Entire sections of flesh had been cut away from his arms, his legs. They had sliced into the flesh of his stomach, his chest, even his hands. A long thin scar ran across his right cheek when they had veered too close to his eyes, smirking and threatening. One had wanted to taste them, the other demanding that his eyes be left alone lest he not be able to see what they were doing.

"We can't damage him too much. You know that. But that doesn't mean we can't play . . . " He remembered those words, remembered the terror that had filled him. There had been times when he had wanted to die, just so that the pain would go away. But those words had stayed with him. They wouldn't let him die. They always stopped just before it became too deadly, just before it went too far.

. . .

"They think you're dead, you know." The words were spoken softly, almost as an afterthought. A knife slipped over his stomach as she spoke, and the dark-haired beauty dipped down, her long brown hair brushing feather-light against his side as she licked at the blood that had bubbled up. As she lifted herself up she licked at her lips, the last traces of his blood disappearing before she spoke again.

"It was so tedious! Planting the memories was the worst part - going from one person to the next." She trailed her fingers against his chest as she spoke, cocking her head to the side as she considered his body,a already littered with thin scars that, while healing, could be opened easily enough. She liked to create new scars, however, new conduits of pain. Something he knew all too well.

"But it's over now." Another touch of her too-sharp knife to his flesh, and Stiles blinked against the tears that filled his eyes, whimpering behind the gag in his mouth. Squeezed his eyes shut as she bent over his body once again. "They had your funeral today, did you know? Your poor papa was so sad! But even he has accepted your death now. He was the hardest one - he held on to hope the longest. But now he has the memory of your poor, broken body to mourn over." She smiled as she lifted herself up so that her face hovered just inches above his. Her lips were still stained with his blood, and Stiles forced his eyes to close against that sight. She tutted at the movement, a soft laugh escaping her lips. "Oh, don't be so shy." Her lips pressed against his - a soft, chaste kiss that was repeated several times. "We're just getting started."

. . .

How long had he been running? He couldn't remember. He remembered the fear as he had struggled against his bonds. He remembered the sharp tang of blood in the air as he re-opened one of the newer cuts across his chest, the pain that had flared up in his side. The bandage over one of the larger chunks of flesh they had cut away was soaked in blood, and he couldn't tell if he was dizzy from dehydration, sleep deprivation, or loss of blood. Not that it really mattered - he was probably suffering from all three.

He stumbled as he walked now, some of the adrenaline having left him. The pain flared with every step, but he forced himself to keep going, even as the edges of his vision darkened and the forest swam before his eyes.

Nothing looked familiar, but then again every tree looked the same as the last, the same as the next. He had never been one for forests when he was younger, and he liked them even less now. Too many terrible things had happened in forests - happened to him, to his friends, to strangers he had only seen after his death.

But the human body was only capable of so much - and he was most definitely human. At last he stumbled, his forward momentum interrupted as he crashed to the ground with a soft cry of pain. The forest was silent around him, but even as darkness claimed him he knew that didn't mean safety.

Too many terrible things had happened to Stiles Stilinski in the forest.

. . .

When Stiles regained consciousness at last, it was to the sound of a softly beeping machine. He was aware of movement around him, but he kept his eyes closed lest he open them to find himself back in the tiny room - the room with the knives, the room of pain and darkness and everything terrible and evil.

But then, what was that infernal beeping?

"I know you're awake, Stiles." The voice was like a shock of cold water thrown over his face, and Stiles physically jerked with the force of his shock, his eyes flying open as he desperately sought out the owner of said voice.

Derek Hale sat in a hard plastic chair at the side of his hospital bed, his hands pressed together between his knees as he stared at the injured form of the only human to ever join a werewolf pack, as far as the older man knew. There was a light dusting of stubble acros shis chin, and his eyes had dark shadows beneath them as if he had not slept in several days.

For all Stiles knew he hadn't - he hadn't seen the man in months. He hadn't seen anybody save for his kidnappers for months.

He mouthed the older man's name, but found himself unable to make a sound as he stared with wide eyes at the werewolf. Derek stared back with a stony expression, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Stiles felt his heart leap into his throat at that.

"I saw your body." Derek had never been one to beat around the bush - not even when he had been seeking Scott's help shortly after the teenage boy had been turned he hadn't been particularly good at patiently working to get a willingness to help from the teen. That just wasn't his way. The familiarity of Derek's approach almost made Stiles smile.

Almost.

He wanted to come back with some quick, witty response like he used to. Like he would have the last time he had seen the werewolf. But he couldn't. Couldn't even bring himself to open his mouth, The despair was eating at him - what sort of a response was he supposed to make? How could he make the other man understand?

"Your body, Stiles. Broken on some cold hospital slab. I hunted down the werewolves who killed you. I tore them to shreds." The werewolf in Derekwas rising to the surface, and Stiles would have taken a step back if he could - if his body didn't feel like it was made of lead, if he wasn't connected to so many hospital machines.

Derek drew a shaky breath, standing to his feet in a sudden movement that sent his chair skiddering backwards. Running his hand through his hair, he turned away from the bedridden Stiles, breathing deeply through his nose in an effort to calm himself.

As he did so, the hospital room door opened to admit John Stilinski. He looked worse than Derek, dark bags under his eyes. And he was too skinny - skinnier than Stiles had ever seen his father. Skinnier than Stiles had been before he was taken.

John took in the scene before him in one glance - Derek with his hands still caught in his hair and facing away from the hospital bed, obviously fighting for control. Stiles, staring helplessly at the two of them, his eyes wide. John's own breath caught in his throat, his hands shaking slightly as he stumbled toward the side of the bed that Derek had only just abandoned.

There were questions that needed to be answered. Things that needed to be said. Where have you been? Are you okay? Who did this to you? Why did they do this you? What were they - were they human? Was it werewolves? Where did all these scars come from? Did they have you the entire time? Why do I remember identifying your body? But none of those questions mattered right now. There would be time for all of that later. All that mattered now, was that he had his son back.

In the four days that had passed since Stiles had been found, they had exhumed his grave. His empty grave, filled with nothing but the cloth lining and a smell of wet earth. His empty grave, where John could clearly remember seeing his son's face, still and cold with death. He had those memories - false memories. Nobody could explain it to him - not Derek Hale, not Peter Hale, not Deaton. All that they knew, was that Stiles had been alive. Alive, and hurting. And nobody had come for him.

Had he known? Known that nobody was coming, that they believed he was dead? Had there been any hope in him that somebody would come fo rhim, that somebody would rescue him from whatever creature - be they human, werewolf or otherwise - had taken him? Or had he known that nobody was coming, that nobody would rescue him, that it was all on him? That there was no hope.

John placed his right hand against the surface of the hospital bed, the other hovering just over the skin of his son's face. There was a long, thin scar there, coming dangerously close to his right eye. John curled his hand as though he were cupping his son's face, though he didn't dare to acutally touch the teenager's skin. "Stiles."

Stiles still said nothing, his vision blurred by tears. He wasn't trapped. They hadn't found him. His family had found him instead. He didn't care why, he didn't care how. He was beyond caring what he looked like, how much Derek might hate him for the weakness of his tears.

Drawing a deep breath, Stiles close his eyes against the tears that filled them, clenching his teeth. His teeth hurt - his teeth always hurt. But he refused to think about why. Refused to remember why. When his father's fingers finally connected with the side of his face, however, Stiles didn't flinch away from them. Instead, he leaned his head into them, seeking the comfort of the first touch in months that he welcomed. The first touch in months that he knew wasn't going to hurt him.

. . .

Some time later, when Stiles had drifted into sleep and John had finally lifted his hand away from contact with his son's face, Derek and John stood outside the younger man's hospital room in silence. A police officer stood just outside the door, sitting in a hard plastic chair and reading a magazine. He was alert, though, and John was thankful for that. It wasn't a police officer that he knew - they weren't even in California, but rather in Portland, Oregon.

John had no jurisdiction here, and he knew it. But the local police station had been welcoming, understanding, and had worked with him from every angle. They had offered their help in every capacity they could, and even now they had officers scouring the area where Stiles had been found, attempting to find any sign of the younger man's kidnappers.

Nobody mentioned the fact that there had been a body. Nobody mentioned the funeral, the confusion over how his son could be alive. They simply accepted that somebody had hurt a teenaged boy - somebody had tortured the son of a police sheriff. And they didn't take kindly to somebody hurting their own.

"You don't have to stay." John finally spoke to the werewolf standing beside him, though he didn't look at the younger man. A grunt was all he got, and when JOhn finally glanced to his side he found the dark-haired young man scowling darkly in his direction. "You don't. He'll be alright. I'll make sure of that."

"You're only human." The words were innocent enough, but now that John knew of the supernatural he could also see them as a rather racist statement. "There's only so much you can do. I'm staying."

It crossed John's mind that he should probably be upset at that, but he couldn't find it in him to be upset. Not if it meant that his son would be that much safer.

So he said nothing, simply nodded. "I'm going to go and grab some coffee. I'll bring you back some."

Derek nodded his thanks, turning to go back into the hospital room and the sleeping form of Stiles. There was no way he was going to let the boy out of his sight for some time - and screw what Stiles might have to say about it. He wasn't losing the young man again. He wasn't losing another member of his pack, period.