FIRST OF ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL! Okay, so my roomie and I have recently ventured into the world of Teen Wolf- and holy hell. First off, HELLO ISAAC LAHEY AND STILESSSSSSSSSSS… AND DEREK! *Sexy winking devil emoticon* OK, mini fangirl moment, so anyway. I posed the question about Greenberg. We never see him; we don't know that much about him except that the Coach seemingly hates him. SO! What if Greenberg was actually the Coach's son? And no one knew?/? So I give you this! Let me know what you think! Scott, Stiles, Derek, Isaac and Jackson… along with many of the other main characters are MINOR characters in this story- set around season 1. Ok! Yes! Back to the point! Let me know what you think! And enjoy!

In the words of the Great Matt Smith: "How splendid!"

Peace out!

-KaseyBeth

...

Purple. He fucking hated the color purple. An ugly combination of red and blue intertwined together producing a distasteful and mind-numbingly awful color. Everything around him was purple. From the clock on the wall, to the secretary's shirt, to the plastic chair he sat on, drenched impeccably with this color. He pulled his hoodie farther over his head hoping that the black eye wasn't as visible as it felt. His blue sneakers slide across the floor as he stretched his legs, trying to find a more comfortable position for his freakishly tall body. He heard a scoff when his foot collided with the individual sitting across from him and he looked up to see his dim-witted opponent. He glared at him. The kid sat across from him wearing a smirk that made mother's cry, girls swoon and babies trust him. His smirk turned into a perfect smile that revealed his perfect white teeth accompanied by perfect dimples; blood highlighted his impeccably perfect blond hair while his perfect blue eyes shone murderously with blood boiling glee. He fucking hated this kid. He hated him more than anything in the world. He hated Jackson Whittemore.

Ever since Scott took over the team as team co-captain, Jackson had become a royal pain in his ass. Moody, arrogant, and irritable, like a girl on her period. He could hear yelling coming from the principal's office and could only imagine what distasteful words were being said. The secretary stopped eating her apple to glimpse towards the door then over at the boys halfheartedly. He glanced back down at his busted knuckles and started pulling the glass that had embedded itself beneath his skin. He watched as blood bubbled to the surface as its predecessor left his knuckles sharply. Jackson cleared his throat, and he looked up to see he had leaned forward. A sly smile spread across his face as if he had thought of something amusing. Doubtful.

"Hey asswipe, they're going to kick you off the team again," he leaned back in his chair slowly and crossed his arms, "it's not like we really need you anyway. Hell even Stilinski is a better player than you." He could feel a sarcastic comment climbing up his throat and clenched his jaw shut. The last thing he needed was another fight; another fight to kick him out of yet another school. He heard a loud slam and flinched slightly as the door swung open.

Jackson's parents stepped through seething in calm and collected personas; each sporting some type of fancy, finely pressed suit. They glared at him as them walked towards Jackson. "Jackson, sweetheart, are you okay?" his mother asked in a tone that dripped with sweet apprehension. Jackson put his hand towards his head gently, looking up at his mother, "Yes, I'm fine. I just don't understand why this happened." He said glancing back at the kid with a devilish smile. He could feel his blood begin to boil and wondered what Jackson would do if he punched him again, right there with his parents watching. "Come now sweetheart, let's get you checked out and see if this delinquent did any permanent damage." She placed a hand gently on Jackson's shoulder as he stood and led him out the door. Jackson nodded gently, and portrayed the same look a wounded puppy gave its master before stealing a glance back at the kid, smirking.

Coach Finstock came barreling through the door, his whistle slightly ajar around his neck and his hair a wild chaotic mess. He turned around to face the principal and pointed his finger accusingly as if to say something. The principal put his hand up, "I'm sorry Bobby; there is nothing I can do. He's off the team for a few weeks, either that or Mr. Whittemore can press charges. It's your choice." Coach made a noise that resembled a man trying to breathe, and turned back towards the kid.

"Come on Greenberg!" he growled grabbing the kid's sweatshirt and dragging him along with him. He yanked his jacket away from the Coach. He wasn't a baby, he didn't need to be led or watched or… rescued. The Coach stopped in mid-track and turned towards him, giving him a look that would kill, "Listen here," he said through clenched teeth, "I just saved your ass. They wanted to press charges all because you decided to start a fight with Jackson. If you don't come with me, you can prance yourself back into that office and deal with him." he said pointing an angry finger towards the office door.

Greenberg swallowed, "Coach, I-"

"Don't you dare Greenberg. You're in enough trouble as it is, so if you know what's good for you, you'll shut your trap!" He turned back towards the hall and began walking at murderously swift pace. Greenberg swallowed again, feeling anger and betrayal rising towards the surface. If only you knew what the fight was about, he thought. He clenched his fists tightly, biting back the words that he wanted so desperately to say. He looked down at his ratty sneakers and began following the Coach towards the locker room. At least he wouldn't have to deal with his stepfather yet. Not until he left school. Not until he stepped into that house. His breathing hitched slightly as his mind raced of thoughts of what he would have to face when he went home. He didn't want to go home. He didn't want to go back there. He didn't want to be with him.

He stumbled slightly, before catching his balance against a locker, as he realized he had stepped on one of his laces. Stupid shoes, always coming undone. The Coach turned around slightly, glancing down at Greenberg's worn out shoes then back towards the hall, "You're so clumsy, just like your old man." He grunted. Greenberg sighed and looked up at the ceiling, counting the tiles as he walked past, and drowning out the Coach's lecture. He wasn't entirely sure what the Coach was saying, but it involved lots of manual labor, suicide runs and afterschool detainment. Great, just what he wanted. He looked back down at his knuckles, flexing them slightly, wondering if there was any more glass left under his skin. Stupid breakable beakers. Stupid science experiment. Stupid Professor Harris. Stupid fucking Jackson Whittemore.

He rounded the corner and opened the door towards the locker room, stepping into the Coach's office. It was a closet of a room to say the least. The most interesting thing about it was the blue trimming around the windows and walls, which was supposed to make it look bigger. Pictures and old memorabilia decorated the walls, various papers scattered the desk and most of the floor, and duct tape was embedded on the back of his office chair in a previously horrendous chance to fix it. Coach stood there, behind his desk, hands on the back of his head, staring at him intently. He wasn't talking; hell, he didn't even look like he was breathing. He took a long exasperated breath and opened his mouth to speak.

"Coach, I-" Greenberg started again. He wanted to reassure him it wasn't his fault. He wanted to reassure him that it was a big misunderstanding. He wanted to reassure him he wasn't a fuckup. He wasn't what everyone believed him to be. He was a good kid. He was a good kid with dumb luck.

He heard a knock at the door and turned around to see Scott and Stiles idling in the doorway. They glanced at the Coach and then back at Greenberg. "Coach, uh, we can come back later." Stiles said drawing out the "later". God, he was an awkward guy sometimes.

"No, no, I'm almost done here. Go do whatever it is I asked you to do." Coach responded motioning for Scott and Stiles to leave the room. He straightened his whistle against his shirt and pressed his fingers against the paper covered desk.

"Um… you asked us to meet with you… about my name… on the back of my jersey... It says Bilinski… not Stilinski." Stiles replied slowly, eyeing the Coach, waiting for an inkling of realization to cross over his face. Man, this was painfully awkward to watch.

The Coach stared at them with a deadpan expression, "Your name is Stilinski. Really? Since when?"

Stiles turned towards Scott as if asking him for help, "Uh… since… birth."

Coach stood there for a second then clicked his tongue gently before saying, "huh." He crossed his arms and tilted his head as if trying to waver whether Stiles was telling the truth.

The awkward tension began to grow in the room and Greenberg wished that Scott and Stiles would disappear, or he would. He stood there playing with the loose thread at the bottom of his jacket before shoving his hands in his pocket and turning to leave. He had made it to the door before Coach cleared his throat, "Not you, Greenberg, stay. We're not finished here. McCall, Bilins- um, Stilinski, whatever the hell your name is, wait in the locker room. You sure your name isn't Bilinski?"

Stiles stared at him, throwing his hands up in the air slightly, before heading towards the locker room. Greenberg turned back towards the Coach and swallowed loudly. He braced himself for the lecture to start.

"Greenberg, what the hell?" the Coach yelled, "I mean come on man; you can't go around picking fights with whoever you want."

Greenberg clenched his jaw, "I'm not-"

"This is the third time this month! The next one will get you expelled! Is that what you want? You wanna get kicked out of another school? What the hell? You're about this close to getting kicked off the team…"

He felt his blood boiling again. He didn't want to get kicked off. He couldn't get kicked off. This was all he had. It was the only thing that his father was proud of. It was the only thing his father ever talked about. Or cared about… he felt his fist clench again and wondered slightly if Jackson would leave him the hell alone. Why didn't he see? Why didn't anyone see? I mean, Jackson wasn't exactly anonymous about it, he wasn't that smart. He stood there, feeling his black eye pulsing and wondered if the Coach had even noticed, or if he ever would.

"…I mean seriously, what the hell! All for some dumb girl! You know I have to call your mother, right? How do you think she is going to react? I, your Coach, have to get yelled at by your mother, all for something you fucked up..."

Yeah, if you can find her… He added inwardly. He hadn't seen his mother in weeks. Last time he saw her, she was spewing something about a business trip to Barcelona or somewhere. God only knows where she is now.

"…and to think, we we're this freaking close to the semi-finals. Now I have to put Bilinski in as your replacement. We're going to lose…"

Greenberg smirked slightly as Stiles yelled "hey, I can hear you!" from the locker room.

"God Sam, what the fuck!"

He froze. Everything in his body stopped and he found he couldn't blink, he couldn't think and he couldn't breathe. Every bone in his body was chilled and his blood turned into a slushy-like mixture as his name was repeated. No one called him Sam, ever. Greenberg looked back at the Coach before storming out the door.

"Hey!" Coach yelled loudly. You could hear his footsteps growing heavy as he walked out of his office. Greenberg felt a grip on his shoulder as Coach spun him around to face him. His hood flew off his head and for a second, a look of concern flashed across the Coach's face before clouding over with anger. Greenberg pushed away from him and stumbled gently into Scott, before turning to leave.

"Samuel Aaron Greenberg, get back here!"

Greenberg whipped around, eyes shining bright with rage, "Don't you call me that! Don't you ever fucking call me that!" he yelled loudly. He could feel anger ripping through his body, clawing its way towards the top, begging and burning to be released. "You always do this!" He screamed, pushing the Coach bitterly into a locker. "You always fucking do this. It's always my fault. It's always my fucking fault. And now, because you missed out, you take it upon yourself to make up for lost time? I don't need you! I never fucking needed you!"

The Coach looked stunned for a second. He glanced over at Scott and Stiles who stood there, trying their best to look like they couldn't hear anything. "Greenberg, I-"

"No! Don't even bother. Look, you can stop trying to be my father again because you never were." He shouted, feeling his throat beginning to close and his eyes beginning to burn. He turned around and pulled his hoodie over his head and walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

When he was in the hall he sucked in a shallow breath. He felt lightheaded and swallowed harshly, willing himself to leave. He walked gently to the stairs feeling the world washing over him as he realized what he had just said. He paused. He felt sick. His hands were shaking and his face burning with hatred, regret, and disappointment. He took another deep breath and reached into his pocket, pulling out his army green headphones, plugging them into his iPod and pushing play. Asking Alexandria began to blare into his ears and he stood there for a second reciting the song lyrics over on his head; calming himself down. He pushed the doors opened and was immediately basked in the uncomfortable warmth of the September sun.

...

He stood in front of the house, staring at it. Like any other two-story house in his neighborhood, it lacked any special character that made it different from the rest. It stood, tanned and boring, lined with freshly trimmed bushes and iron gated fences. To many, like Danny, it was extravagantly breathtaking, but to him, it was hell. He prayed that somehow his mom's finances would plummet and they would lose all their money, because maybe then she would remember how to be a mother again. Maybe then, she would be happy.

He heard a clap of thunder overhead and watched as the clouds began to form. A thunderstorm was in the midst… how fitting. He looked over to his right to see Lydia getting out of her car, pulling out her bright pink purse of the day. She stopped, looked over at him, flipped her hair and continued into her house. Figures, princesses don't pay attention to peasants, even rich ones. He looked back down at his iPod realizing it had begun to play some type of Beethoven, and cranked the volume on high. He opened the gate gently and began to make his way towards the house.

His hand hovered over the doorknob as he realized he might not be home. His car wasn't in the driveway, and the windows weren't opened, which was usually a tale-tell sign he was here. A feeling of relief washed over him as he opened the door and stepped through. He could heard music being played in the kitchen and assumed the housekeeper, Gloria, was making something exotic and weird, but nonetheless good. He flicked his shoes off gently, hoping he wasn't tracking mud, and made his way into the kitchen. The hall was narrow and long, decorated with various books, vases and expensive looking portraits depicting them as the happy family they were supposed to be. Fucking bullshit.

"Gloria, God, you will not-" He stopped when he opened the kitchen door to see him standing there. "Why hello son, glad you're home." His stepdad answered gently, biting into an apple.

Greenberg flinched slightly, "Hello Brett."

Brett was a tall, stocky built man with the face of a snake, and the personality of a weasel. He might have been attractive once, but he no longer was now… or at least to Greenberg. His blond hair was always slicked back too tight and his green eyes always looked like they were hiding something. He was a charmer to most, and a fan of the ladies, parties, and alcohol. Whenever Greenberg's mother decided to make an appearance, Brett would dote on her hand and foot, acting like the perfect husband, but when she was away… when she was away, his personality shifted revealing his true nature, and he was the devil.

Brett set his apple down on the counter lightly and sighed, "I will never understand why you don't just call me dad." He said, his tone dripping sarcastically on the last word.

"Because you're not my dad." Greenberg said distastefully.

"Ah, been talking to your old man again? Tell me, how is that pathetic loser of a Coach anyway?" Brett looked up, eyes meeting Greenberg's, while a small smile toyed on his lips.

Greenberg bit back a response. Nothing good will come of this, he thought. He felt his feet moving slightly backward, begging for him to walk away, yearning for him to leave. He bit his bottom lip, trying his best to detain his remark, "He might be a loser but at least he isn't a doctor who has seen one too many malpractice lawsuits."

Brett pressed his hands gently against the counter. A small chuckle escaped his mouth and he put his finger to his chin rubbing the uneven stubble, "Good, that's a good one." He looked up again at Greenberg, and Greenberg could feel his breath hitching and his heart racing. He toyed with the loose thread on the bottom of his jacket, waiting. Brett brushed the crumbs gently off the counter, wiping away any dust that might be clinging to it. Tense silence was beginning to fill the air, except the soft chuckling coming from his stepfather. And then it happened.

Brett moved quickly around the counter as Greenberg raced out of the room. He swung the kitchen door backwards hoping it would hit Brett in the face, and slow him down. He ran into the hallway, sliding on the slick floor, wanting to get to the gate fast enough before Brett caught him. He pushed a vase down in the hall, and threw some old books on the ground, trying his best to create obstacles, trying his best to stop him. Greenberg was a fast runner, but so was Brett. "Get back here you stupid little shit! I should teach you a lesson!" He could hear Brett yelling after him and glass crunching as feet collided with the shattered vase.

He reached the door, yanking it open and stumbling slightly down the porch steps as he tripped over his ratty torn shoes. Stupid shoes, he thought, always getting the fucking way! He ran to the edge of the gate, ripped it open and tried his best to open it all the way, but it was caught on his stupid jacket. He felt a sharp tug on his shoulder and found himself being slammed on the ground. His vision faded for a second and ringing echoed loudly in his ears as multiple Brett's appeared in front of him. Brett's face was contorted in a mask of deadly rage, and Greenberg braced himself as the first blow hit. He yelped loudly, caught off guard with how strong Brett was, even though he had been through this countless times. He felt another blow to his ribs and turned slightly, gasping for the air that retreated from his lungs. He coughed harshly tasting bittersweet metal in his mouth. His vision swayed again as something hard collided with his face. He blacked out.

A few minutes later he found himself staring disoriented across the street. A pretty young woman clad in a bright floral dress was pushing a bright blue stroller down the sidewalk slowly. Greenberg screamed again and she paused slightly, looking up as the wind blew her long brown hair in different directions. She pulled the hood gently over the stroller as the baby began to cry, wanting to see his mother, wanting to know she was there. Greenberg cried out in pain as Brett's fist collided with his chest. And then, it stopped.

He looked painfully up at Brett to see him standing over him, wiping his knuckles on his purple button down shirt, "There, that'll teach you, you pathetic little wimp." he spat before retreating back into the house. Greenberg could hear the door slamming behind him and felt something wet beginning to coat his body. Rain, it was raining. He let the water wash over him, hoping it would take away the blood, hoping it would take away the pain. He glanced back over to the young mother, who had stopped to open her umbrella. She gazed apologetically towards the gate where he was, then continued with her journey.

He laid there on his back, staring up at the gray sky; letting the water soak into his jeans, jacket, and wash over his face. He coughed and inhaled harshly, trying his best to steady his breathing as his lungs finally accepted the watery wet air that surrounded him. He put his hand to his face, feeling something dripping from his nose, something other than water. He pulled back his hand, and squinted trying to clear his vision… blood. Of course it would be blood, because Brett never left until there was blood. He turned his body slightly, meshing his hands against the gritty unforgiving dirt and forced himself up. Every bone in his body protested as his world suddenly became upright. He stood gently, steadying himself on the gate and glanced down at where he had been. The stone pathway was slightly broken from the force and blood spots splattered the ground. Luckily the rain would wash it away. Something always washed it away.

He let his hand fall to his side as he trudged towards the house and pushed the door gently open. He could hear the TV blaring and Brett's annoyingly barbaric laughter echoing throughout the house. Broken glass and busted books still coated the hallway dangerously. I'll clean it up later, he thought. He pushed the door closed, leaving his fist there for a second and glanced back down at his shoes. The pathetic blue stood out against the pale white floor menacingly. He eyed them offensively, knowing they were always the reason he was in trouble. Stupid pathetic shoes, he thought as he walked slowly upstairs towards his room.

...

He stood there, underneath the hot, steaming water. Letting it run over his aching body; down his chest and past his bruises. He liked the water. He liked showers. It was the one thing he could look forward to at the end of the day. The one thing he knew he could always rely on to take the days stress away; the secrets; the lies; the pain; the memories. If he could, he would stay here all day and night until he shriveled into a small wrinkled ball of nothing; until there was nothing left of him. He took a deep breath, allowing the steam to relax his body and mind. He gradually ran a hand over the knob on the shower, dreading the idea of getting out. He turned the knob slowly, allowing the water to turn freezing cold, before finally shutting it off. He stepped out onto the light purple rug his mother had sought to pick out for his bathroom on one of her hella-expensive shopping sprees, and glanced at his reflection in the mirror.

His black eye had spread to his cheekbone thanks to Brett, and a nasty cut tore through his top lip crudely. The skin on the bridge of his nose was split slightly and he touched it gently, wondering if it was broken again. Bruises scattered his ribs and side, along with a few older predecessors that refused to go away until they had turned an ugly greenish blue color. He touched them faintly, feeling for anything abnormal, feeling for any broken bones. He put his hands to the back of his neck, rubbing it harshly, feeling a headache beginning to surface. Great, just what he needed. He rubbed the back of his shoulders hoping to relieve some of the tension and pressure. His right hand slid over the tattooed quote etched into his right shoulder blade, and he pressed his fingers against the words, willing them to feel each letter. A pack always sticks together. This was something his father use to tell him when he was younger… and for some reason it stuck with him. He cleared his throat.

He wiped away some of the condensation that had begun to build up on the mirror. He was an average looking kid to say the least. He was neither extraordinarily attractive, nor compulsively unattractive. He was tall, almost taller than his father and when he eventually stopped growing, he would probably be taller. He had messy black hair like him too; hell, his face even looked strikingly identical to his father's- all except for the eyes and freckles. He had his mother's piercing green eyes; ones that you would think would stand out in a crowded room. A few freckles brushed across his face peacefully, and out of place. He always hated them because it made him look younger than he really was.

He was weird, quirky and all-in-all, a clumsy sarcastic trouble maker. He was always in trouble, always getting yelled at, and always tripping into things or over things. In school, he had two moods, quiet kid in the back of the classroom or loud asinine kid who spewed whatever sarcastic word-vomit projected from his mouth. There was no in-between. He went unnoticed most of the time, and he didn't have many friends. Then again, it's kind of hard to make friends when you're deemed the school prankster, and when you are ousted by your father in front of the whole lacrosse team/ 5th period Economics class.

He shook his head slightly, letting his damp messy black hair shield his face. He didn't mind being viewed as the Coach's "least" favorite student, nor did he mind being regarded as that one weird kid everyone knew but no one talked to- he could handle it. He could always handle it. Besides, it was better this way. He didn't want anyone to know that Coach Finstock was his father, and he didn't really want to be popular. He slid under the radar at school and he liked it. No one bugged him, except for Jackson; no one tormented him, except for Jackson; and no one irritated him, except for Jackson. And when you come home to a house occupied with Brett, going unnoticed at school was a gift sent from God.

...

MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Sup Super Nerds! I'm back- FOR REAL THIS TIME! I will try my best to post on a regular basis! Yes, I am still continuing Grimm (next chapter half complete- on my computer), Once upon a time (idea, haven't started yet), and now, Teen Wolf. I am also posting a separate Teen Wolf story soon involving Isaac/ Derek Hurt/ Comfort (halfway finished)! Booooooooooommmmmmmmm! Please for the love of God- Let me know what you think! And if you have any special requests involving Greenberg! Any takers? Okay, seriously though, it's late, been working on this for a while with my nerdalicious roomie! Post feedback! WILL POST SOOOOOOONNNNNNNNN!

Love you!

-KaseyBeth

Also I have so MANNNNNNYYYYYY fanfics on my computer about so MANNNNNNYYYYYYY shows including but not limited to: Z nation, White collar and Merlin. Sorry if I post random fanfics!

Later Loves!