Stiles had categorized his nightmares; it was his own morbid way of coping with them. Recent months he may have created more intense levels of nightmare rating. But nothing quite compares to what he just suffered. It started off normal, he woke up with blinding sunlight filtered through the blinds. His dad was knocking on the door frame, "Stiles? Come on kiddo time to get up." his favourite mug had what remained of a particularly strong brew of coffee and the scent wafted into the room. Stiles groaned and stretched feeling the quiver of his muscles and a few joints settle.

He doesn't quite remember getting up and getting dressed, little bits and pieces of his bathroom routine. An average teenager waking up to early after going to sleep to late. When he got downstairs -his bookbag slung over his shoulder, a plate on the table with a good serving of eggs and turkey bacon was waiting for him.

He sat down and ate quickly almost needing to rush, he didn't need another teacher riding his case about tardiness. Before he left his dad gave a solid pat to his shoulder, "Stay safe ok kid?" he smiled. Stiles grinned, "Yeah yeah, you too alright? And no fast food were having casseroles tonight." his dad rolled his eyes before pushing Stiles out the door.

No one could blame him for not realizing it. Not noticing the blurriness at the corners of his vision, the way the day seemed oddly coloured. He felt normal, the ride to school felt normal. The only thing wrong was nagging feeling like he had left a paper or note, which was fine and normal.

What wasn't normal was the student vacancy in the parking lot. Or on the buses. Or in the halls.

No one could blame him for the way his heart started to pick up pace. The little hitch of breath stuck in his throat, a side effect of a stuttering heart.

The lights weren't even on just the emergency ones flashing red...when did the school install those? The usually cheery building was silent and his footsteps echoed which reminded him of the night Peter had attacked them in the school.

That's when it occurred to him that he hadn't followed through with his morning schedule. So slowly he glanced at the walls, he could read the words on flyers...but that didn't deter him from looking to his hands.

He was frozen to the spot. All ten digits shivering beneath a thick layer of dark copper. The floor beneath him bathed in red both flashing and staining. He looked up slowly, the staccato in his chest rising to his throat in a terrific cry of horror.

Bodies...lots and lots...of bodies. Some haphazardly laying on the floor, others reaching for door handles. Some of them were sitting up right against the walls. The wounds varied but each one had a violent set. Heads caved in and throats practically ripped out. Some of the faces were to mangled to recognize and others he knew too well.

He walked through them suddenly aware he couldn't feel his own legs. He was screaming though, crying out and crying tears. Bodies littered the whole building.

"Scott?" he called out meekly, his throat tightened and all awareness this was a dream had settled behind him, forgotten. He tried again,"Lydia?...Malia..."

He turned a corner and stopped again, empty. No bodies no flashing. Just solid red light and open doors. When he walked by them they would slam shut and he would jump back, his legs felt paper thin.

When the doors kept slamming and the hall got longer he started to run, run towards the doors that lead outside.

He lost time and space, and when he burst through the doors he was shocked so much that he fell to his knees. He rushed to catch his breath while the beginnings of a panic attack seeped into his mind. His chest tightened up and his hands shook. Only when he looked down at them did he notice the soft grass that tickled at his palms.

The field... he felt the words float around his head, not quite making sense. He was then filled with another sense of dread, looking down he could see a root burying itself into the soft dirt. He followed the root upwards to a far too familiar tree trunk, then up more; the sight that greeted him more terrifying then anything he had ever seen. Strung up in the branches of the large oak, his friends bodies swayed at the end of ropes. Their eyes were all open and some were still glowing. Scott's body was intact up to his neck which was tilted at a truly sickening angle. His eyes glowing like fresh embers. Unwavering eyes settled on him.

He doesn't remembering screaming, but the sound of it filled the air. Screams and Screams...mostly his own name; mostly they were his friend's screams.

His dad was even there, in full uniform his neck snapped backwards.

Stiles fell back and tried to push himself away but the roots had grabbed him, dragging him in closer to the tree and wrapped around his throat squeezing out his breath. He was hoisted up kicking and making strangled wrenching noises. He was only hoisted up enough that his feet didn't touch the ground.

He kicked and struggled his vision turning white and his lungs screamed. Certain he was going to die; he couldn't do anything but scrape at the root around his neck and frantically cry out for help.

Stiles...

He scrambled again wheezing. The tree swaying and the bodies turning towards him.

Stiles stop writhing like a rat...stop acting weak.

He couldn't make out the owner of the voice among the rest of the white noise, but something in it was soothing, sliding through the noise with a rush of clarity. Of course Stiles wasn't weak...he would never be weak. His mother's body was to his right, and the thought of dying like her made him panic more.

Let go...give me your hand instead.

And a hand extended towards him his blurry vision couldn't make out the figure only their two piercing blue eyes. Stiles grasped out and sure thick fingers curled around his wrist and pulled him free, sending him sprawling awake.

His heart was fluttering in his chest like he had just ran one of coaches famous suicide drills. He laid there regaining his breath before looking at his clock, it was four in the morning on a Thursday. And the moment he formed this conscious thought the details of the dream flickered away. He could only truly remember the horrific amount of bodies and blood, the Nematon with his hanging friends and family. And still through the haze he could see the blue eyes staring into his.

He had no intention of going back to sleep.