I don't own Teen Wolf. All characters, except for any original characters I might add to this piece of fanfiction, belongs to MTV. (Lord knows if I owned Teen Wolf, Sterek would've been canon since the very beginning.)

I'll just admit right off the bat that the main theme of this fic isn't very original. It's been done before. Many times. If you're expecting literary brilliance and a mind-blowing storyline from me, you'll be disappointed. This is just one of those regular slashfics where something supernatural happens that brings two men together in a series of very passionate encounters. Oh, and teenage angst. Lots of it.

What I'm trying to say is: if you're on the look-out for the next award-winning piece of literature, you're in the wrong place, buddy. This is going to be messy. I like messy. Messy is good.

Rated M for sexual content and violence. (And cussing.)
Pairing: Sterek (Derek + Stiles)
Setting: Beacon Hills, after season 5, senior year.
Warnings:
1. Author pretending to know shit about psychology when she really only took a course in high school. (I did get an A, though, so I'm not entirely clueless.)
2. Slight OOC behavior (which, to be fair, is super difficult to avoid when writing about something that's not canon).

Let's get started.

Chapter 1
Nightmares

The fog didn't even become him as he dashed through the forest, cheeks stinging from the cold and from the small twigs he kept running into. Stiles wasn't sure if he was running towards something, or away from something. He just knew he had to keep running.

The strength is within you.

Stiles jumped over a large rock with ease and landed perfectly on his feet. The stunt tipped him off. No way in hell was he that agile in real life. He was dreaming.

You are the key. Find the lock.

Yep, definitely dreaming. The female voice that kept whispering irritatingly cryptic messages was eerily similar to his late mother's, and that made him deeply uncomfortable.

The strength is within you. Don't let them steal it.

Let who steal it?

Stiles wanted to open his mouth and ask, but found himself unable to speak. It was as if his lips had been sealed shut with glue. Upon realizing this, a sting of panic started to stir below his ribcage. The sense of being air-deprived intensified as he tried breathing deeper with his nose, but it was as if the oxygen in the air was running out. His eyes started to blur.

Stiles gave a muffled whimper of fearful desperation as he glimpsed back, convinced now that he was indeed being chased. Maybe it was the panic messing with his head, but he swore that the branches behind him reached out like wolf claws, grappling at him as he rushed by. Stiles wanted to scream now. Call out for help. He didn't even know where he was. He turned his gaze back ahead and stopped dead in his tracks as he found himself staring straight into a pair of red glowing eyes.

"Fuck!" Stiles yelled out in shock, sat up and realized, to his immense relief, that he'd finally awoken from the nightmare. It took him more than a few minutes to calm down, however. The image of red eyes still danced in front of his blurry vision and he tried blinking it away, to no avail.

Still shaking slightly from the adrenaline rush he'd just experienced, Stiles managed to get up and stumble towards his small bathroom. He flicked the lights on and studied his reflection in the mirror. Despite how real it had felt, his unscathed cheeks proved that the dream had really only been that.

Was it normal to feel pain in dreams, though? He was pretty sure that it wasn't.

Stiles scowled and turned the water tap on, feeling a strong urge to wash himself off a little bit before heading back to bed. Get some of the cold sweat off.

Approximately one year prior, just before he was possessed by the nogitsune, he'd been experiencing a series of dreams that he could only describe as hellish hallucinations. He recalled just how terrifying that had been - especially not knowing whether or not he was awake. That was the truly terrifying part.

But this was different. Stiles would always realize, at some point, that he was dreaming. He never confused reality with his recurring dreams. Because they were recurring dreams - every night for over a week - with only slight differences each time. The woman didn't always speak to him, for instance. Sometimes she'd sing nonsensical words instead. Sometimes she never even made herself known. And sometimes Stiles never reached those red eyes.

He recalled, with a shiver, one particularly nasty version of the nightmare, in which he'd kept on running deeper into the forest until he found himself completely engulfed in darkness, so dark that he couldn't even see his own hands in front of him. So dark that even the stars in the sky had been devoured by the black. And he'd known, as he stood there in the compact dark, that he wasn't alone. Someone, something, had been watching him.

Stiles made a face and shook his head, trying to chase the unsettling images away. If he was going to stand any chance at getting a few more hours of sleep before he had to get up for school, reliving scenes from a nightmare he'd had over a week ago wasn't going to help.

He needed happy thoughts. Thoughts of puppies and his favorite computer game and the incredibly lame joke his dad told him last night.

"Stiles, what does an annoying pepper do?"

"I don't know dad. What does an annoying pepper do?"

"... It gets jalapeño face!"

The sheriff's face had already been red with barely contained laughter as he'd delivered the punch line, only to immediately break down in a fit of wheezing giggles, and Stiles couldn't help but to laugh at the sheer lameness of the joke. The sheriff was so easy to amuse.

The memory made Stiles smile and after washing his face, he went back to bed, feeling a bit more relaxed. He yawned and turned over on his side.

"They're only dreams, Stiles," he told himself firmly and wrapped his blanket tighter around himself. "Dreams can't hurt you."

Eventually, Stiles drifted off into a somewhat tense, but blissfully dreamless sleep.

Sheriff Stilinski peered up from his cereal as Stiles entered the kitchen the following morning. Stiles was in a piss mood and couldn't muster up the energy to greet his old man. He'd woken up with a mean crick in his neck from sleeping in a strange position and felt sore all over.

He pulled out a bowl with an irritated sigh and scoured the cabinets for his own favorite brand of breakfast müsli.

"You're perky," his dad commented with a huff of laughter. Stiles only sent him an annoyed glare in response and went back to pouring müsli into his bowl. "Wow, somebody woke up on the wrong side of-"

A sudden surge of anger welled up in Stiles and he slammed his hand against the counter to silence the older man.

"Dad! Just... Not right now, okay?" Stiles said and sat down by the table without looking at his father. "Seriously not in the mood for your obnoxiously energetic morning personality."

"... Fine," the sheriff replied, but maintained a strangely amused smile as he opened up the morning paper and skimmed through the contents. He seemed to think Stiles was throwing some kind of petulant teenage tantrum. It irritated Stiles, but he wasn't about to tell his dad what was actually going on.

"I don't understand what's so good about mornings anyway," Stiles grumbled and poured yogurt over the mix of oats and berries. "Fucking brutal."

"Language," the sheriff warned in a sing-song voice, without taking his eyes off the newspaper that took up more than half of their table. Stiles ate his breakfast in silence, but the müsli he normally enjoyed tasted more like wet paper tissues than anything else. He put the spoon down with a sigh and directed his gaze at the paper his father was reading. Reading the title of the article upside down, he made out "Two bodies found near highway - animal attacks increasing?"

Stiles stopped breathing and felt a knot tighten in his stomach as the words sank in. Animal attacks? Not likely. Not in Beacon Hills. Did Scott know about this?

"Stiles?"

He looked up and met his father's concerned gaze.

"What?" His voice was oddly raspy. It made the worried wrinkle on his dad's forehead deepen.

"You okay, son? You've barely touched your breakfast."

Stiles nodded and tried acting normal, even going so far as to try and smile - which ended up looking a stiff parody of his usually relaxed grin. The sheriff did not look convinced.

"Yeah, sure," Stiles said and cleared his throat. "Just not very hungry. Didn't sleep well."

"Yeah," the sheriff nodded, stood up and made for their coffee brewer. His movements were a bit slower than normal, as if he was just trying to buy time. "You... You seem to be having some pretty vivid dreams."

Stiles gaped at him and suddenly felt a bit violated.

"You heard me last night?"

"Actually, I've heard you every night this week," the sheriff admitted and sent his son a curious glance over his shoulder. As Stiles expression turned into one of mortified horror, the sheriff turned around to face his son and leaned back against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You've been sleep talking a lot lately. At first, I thought I should wake you up when it happens, because frankly," the sheriff said and raised an eyebrow at Stiles, "it's pretty unsettling when you start rambling about keys and locks and eyes, but I read somewhere that waking you up right in the middle of a dream might just confuse you and do more harm than good. So I've let you be. Just haven't found the time to mention it until now. Mind telling me what those dreams are about?"

"Yes, I mind," Stiles muttered and got up, grabbed his bowl and shoved it into their sink with unnecessary force. "And they aren't dreams. They're nightmares."

The sheriff gave a confused scowl.

"Nightmares? You don't sound particularly scared, though. From what I've gathered, you sound more like you're searching for something."

"Well, I guess you'll just have to take my word for it." Stiles shrugged his backpack on and made for the door.

"Son, wait!" The sheriff placed his large hand on Stiles' shoulder and turned him around. Stiles kept his eyes down, unable to look at his father. "I didn't mean to keep quiet about this. I just thought this was one of those times when you'd prefer me to stay out of it. But it's been going on for a while now, and I'm getting worried. I can't help hearing you when you start shouting, though. We live in the same house. You understand that, right?"

"I get it, but that doesn't mean I'm okay with it," Stiles grumbled and squirmed away from his father's hand. They stood in silence for a few seconds. It was uncomfortable. Stiles couldn't take it. "I'll be late for school. Bye."

He left the house before his dad could stop him again and jogged down the street, desperately wanting to get away. The fact that his dad had heard him talk in his sleep was unsettling. Like realizing that someone had been reading his diary - only he didn't keep one.

Stiles eventually slowed down and struggled to catch his breath. His body still ached and he could feel a headache coming on. Jogging whilst sleep deprived had not been a good idea. He stopped briefly to massage his scalp before continuing the walk to school. He'd have to ask the school nurse for some aspirin if the headache got any worse.

Stiles was immensely sick of constantly aching. As if having nightmares in which he could somehow feel pain wasn't enough - the pain followed him even after he woke up.

The crick in his neck hadn't loosened up yet. He cursed silently under his breath and envied Scott's super abilities to heal more than ever before.

As the image of Scott popped up before his inner vision, so did Scott's red eyes. Stiles furrowed his eyebrows and attempted to sort through his thoughts, despite the throb that made it feel like his entire head was pulsating.

Those damned red eyes. He kept seeing them in his nightmares. Not every night, but often enough for Stiles to understand that they were of some importance. And Stiles only knew one alpha. What the hell was Scott doing in his nightmares?

Unless, of course, the nightmares were influenced by bad memories. There had been other alphas in the past. Alphas that weren't quite as friendly as Scott McCall. Like Peter Hale.

But Peter had lost his alpha powers, Stiles reminded himself, and wasn't an issue any longer. Why would he be guest starring in Stiles' nightmares?

Then there was Deucalion, who was still a bit of a riddle to Stiles. The man had some pretty weird ideas about what it meant to be an alpha. But the last time Deucalion had made an appearance, he hadn't posed any threat - quite the contrary - and Stiles sincerely doubted he'd show up to try and suddenly try to maim him. Stiles was merely human, and Deucalion was only ever interested in alphas.

So unless those red eyes belonged to Scott, who the hell did they belong to?

Stiles snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of a motorcycle driving up next to him on the road. The driver pulled his helmet off and sent a crooked grin Stiles' way.

"Want a lift?" Scott asked and held his helmet out to Stiles.

"Dude," Stiles said and quirked an eyebrow. "Let's be honest - the idea of me sitting back there and hugging you from behind freaks us both out. So, no thanks. I have enough nightmares as it is."

Scott laughed and rolled his eyes.

"Fine. Be that way." He got off the bike and walked up to Stiles with the kind of expression that told Stiles that he was about to receive some kind of pep talk. Suppressing an irritated twinge in his chest, Stiles gritted his teeth and allowed it. "Still having nightmares?" Scott asked and gave Stiles a look that was probably meant to convey concerned support, as he placed his hand on Stiles' shoulder, much like his dad had done just five minutes ago.

"Yes," he replied and put his own hand on Scott's shoulder with a slightly exaggerated version of the concerned scowl Scott featured. "But Scott. I'll live. Don't be scared. I'll never leave you."

Scott's concerned expression quickly morphed into a guilty one and he removed his hand.

"Sorry," he said and scratched the back of his head. "I did it again, huh?"

"Big time," Stiles said and crossed his arms over his chest with an amused smirk. "But hey, it does make me feel loved and appreciated. Belittled and patronized, yes. But loved."

"Habit," Scott sighed and rubbed at his forehead. "Or should I say, occupational hazard?"

"Being an alpha is a lot like being a dad, huh?" Stiles laughed and put his hands in his pockets, adopting a more relaxed stance.

"You laugh, but it's not that far from the truth," Scott groaned. "Liam has been going through some shit lately and I've talked to him about the way he's been acting but he won't listen and I'm scared he'll end up doing something stu-"

"Scott, may I remind you that I'm not one of your betas?" Stiles pointed out and gave Scott a patient smile. "You really don't have to take care of me. You have enough to worry about, and I don't need your shoulder to cry on."

"Not a beta, but you're still my best friend," Scott retorted, almost looking a bit hurt. "Of course I worry. You don't sleep, you barely eat. You look like shit."

"Gee, thanks," Stiles deadpanned. Scott went on, playfulness twinkling in his eyes, apparently intent on teasing Stiles into a good mood.

"No, really, you look awful. Like a big pile of garbage. Like a zombie about to deteriorate-"

"Scott."

Scott laughed and threw an arm around Stiles' shoulders, unfortunately unaware of the crick in Stiles' neck. The surge of pain was instant and intense, it felt like the tendons in his neck were about to snap, and Stiles reacted before he had time to think about it.

"Get off!" He growled and shoved Scott away violently before bringing a hand up to the aching area with a pained wince. After massaging his neck for a few seconds, bringing the level of pain back to the dull throb he was actually able to handle, he carefully glanced at Scott who looked shocked and hurt. "Shit... I'm sorry."

"What happened? Did I hurt you?" Scott asked, worry evident in his voice. Stiles really did feel like a pile of garbage now. Scott checked his hands to make sure his claws weren't out and Stiles shook his head carefully.

"No... Well, actually you kind of did, but don't worry. I slept in a weird position and this spot is still pretty sore," Stiles gestured to the area, "so... you kind of pressed the red button for a sec there," he explained with a pained smile. Scott looked immensely relieved upon hearing this, but quickly adopted a more sympathetic look.

"I can take the pain, if you want me to," Scott offered and extended a hand towards Stiles, who held up his own hand in rejection to the offer.

"For a crick in the neck? Scott, we talked about this." Stiles gave Scott a careful glance and tried really hard not to sound too vexed when he continued. "You don't need to whip out your wolf powers at any given moment. Save it for when it's actually necessary."

Lately, Scott had made it into a (bad) habit to continuously offer his help, offer to take someone else's pain, even when it came to ridiculous things like paper cuts and stubbed toes. In conclusion, Scott was a bit too heroic. Stiles didn't like it.

Pain was part of being human, wasn't it? Yes, it sucked and yes, he wished the pain would go away - but letting Scott take it from him every single time he got a boo-boo just didn't seem right.

"Okay," Scott said, briefly looking like a puppy who just got yelled at, "Well, do you want to stop by my house after school? My mom may be able to get rid of it for you in a totally un-supernatural way," Scott said and gave Stiles a knowing smile.

"Nah, I promised dad I'd go straight home today," Stiles lied, not wanting to admit that he simply didn't feel like hanging out after school. The sleep deprivation was taking a toll on him. "Midterms are coming up. I should study."

"Yeah," Scott agreed with a slow nod. "I still can't believe we're going to college next fall," he said, expression tense, "I suddenly regret not spending more time on my homework last year."

"Grades do matter, Scotty," Stiles said with a satisfied sigh, knowing full well that he was doing much better than his friend when it came to academic achievements. "I've been telling you that since middle school."

"No, your dad has been telling the both of us that," Scott corrected with a disheartened grimace of a smile. "Only one of us took him seriously."

"Well, you still have nearly eight months to do something about it," Stiles said and gave Scott an encouraging pat on the back. "In fact, you should start working on it right away. Get your ass to school, alright? I'll meet you there in ten."

"Sure you don't want a ride? Because I'm totally cool w-"

"Scott," Stiles interrupted and looked straight into Scott's confused eyes with a stern expression. "Hugging. From. Behind."

The two boys stared grimly at one another for a few seconds.

"You're right, it's too weird," Scott agreed eventually and made an odd face, probably trying to imagine the scenario. Stiles nodded and gently steered Scott towards his rugged bicycle.

"I'll meet you there, okay?"

"Okay." Scott put his helmet back on and straddled the bike. "Outside the cafeteria. You clearly need coffee."

"Fine," Stiles agreed. Scott's bike came alive with a roar that made Stiles' headache return full force. He waved at his friend's back as the other teen drove away and waited until Scott had rounded a corner before he shot his hands up to rub at his scalp again.

After a few seconds of desperately trying to sooth the pain, Stiles gave up and started walking. The headache, combined with his lack of sleep and the fact that he was eating less than a toddler these days was making him feel a bit nauseated.

He couldn't help but to laugh, despite the circumstances. As if he wasn't suffering enough as it was. Throw in some nausea, why dontcha. It was just so fucking typical.

"Well, things can't possibly get any worse now," he sighed.

Stiles would soon come to regret those words.

Derek took a deep breath and relished in the familiar scents that surrounded his old family home. What remained of the Hale house was a pitiful sight. Blackened bricks and burnt pieces of wood were still scattered across what had once been their back yard. Of the actual house structure remained nothing. Not even the foundation. All he saw was a huge square of fresh cement, upon which a new house would be built eventually. He noticed that several trees had been cut down, too. Probably to make room for even more houses. Derek made a face and turned away from the sight.

He hated what it had become. Hated the painful memories. And yet, he'd somehow wanted to visit. The smell of pine trees and forest creeks reminded him of his childhood.

"Home, sweet home," he sighed and shoved his hands down his pockets, kicking a pine cone out of the way as he made his way back into the forest. As much as he would've liked to stay for a while longer and reflect on his past (and maybe to take a defiant piss on the not-entirely-dry cement), Derek had more urgent matters to tend to.

He inhaled deep and closed his eyes in order to sort through the many scents he picked up until he found the one he was looking for. His instincts reached out for it, grabbed hold of it, and assessed the direction of it.

As he opened his eyes, it was as if he could see the scent in the air. Like a colored ribbon amongst other ribbons. He scowled bitterly as he realized he'd been right. The source of the scent was indeed heading straight for Beacon Hills.

"Shit," Derek murmured and started running.

He needed to find Scott before they did.

TBC.

Only a little more than 4000 words?! Man, it felt like much more than than. I guess I'm a bit rusty. My chapters tend to get longer as the story progresses, though. Consider yourselves warned.

Anyway, that was a pretty decent start, no? Hope you enjoyed. Chapter 2 will be up as soon as I can be bothered to write it. (Which really shouldn't take too long.) Feedback is highly appreciated, but I'm also sensitive as fuck, so be gentle.