CHAPTER TWO

"Go! Go! Go!" the man next to him barks at the driver.

Stiles grabs hold of the seat in front of him as they speed up. "It's…him," he says softly and to no one in particular. He feels as if he's going to pass out.

The man next to him pulls out a gun from his waistband and leans out of the window to aim it at the creature.

"What the hell is that thing?" he yells frantically. He fires a round of shots but stops when he realizes the bullets have no effect.

"I don't know." Desperate, Stiles pulls in the cuffs that are securing his hand to handle bar in the door. "Could you please take these off?" The man pays him no attention; his eyes are on the road and the dark beast following them.

They swerve off the road and Stiles slams into the side of the car. The pain in his torso is instantaneous and unbearable. Eyes watering, he pushes off of the door and leans back in his seat. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe through his nose.

There is a heavy thump and then a deafening crunch as part of the roof is suddenly peeled off the front pillars of the car. Stiles almost pees his pants at that. It wants him badly, that's for sure. The driver makes a sharp turn to try and get rid of their pursuer but it's pointless and they all know it. Still Stiles can't believe his eyes when the creature suddenly appears on the hood of the car. It's huge. All muscles, with a thick, black, leathery skin. It has sharp teeth too. But it's the eyes that scare Stiles the most. The dark brown eyes of someone he knows so well. There's humanity there, but it's all wrong. The creature smashes the windshield with its limbs - Stiles doesn't know if it's arms or legs, or hands or paws he sees – and the glass shatters inwards. The creature grabs the driver by the throat, cuts it with a claw, and tosses him aside. The man flies like a ragdoll through the air before he hits the ground with a deafening thud. Stiles and the other man gasp. Since there's no foot on the gas pedal anymore, the car slows down and eventually comes to a complete stop about fifty yards off the side of the road. Stiles and the other man look at each other in shock. Then the creature is gone. Stiles whips around and glances through the windows, eyes searching everywhere. Everything is still again, except for the motor that is still running. Stiles and the other man both hold their breaths. The man gestures towards Stiles' side of the car with a questioning look. Stiles shakes his head. No. No creature there. He gestures back, wondering the same thing, and the man shakes his head as well.

They hear a low growl and Stiles wonders how high of a pulse one can have before having a heart attack. He's sure his pulse is at least 180. His gaze falls on the other man and they exchange a look of pure terror. Then something slams into the car's rear hard enough to send it spinning across the ground. It spins hard and fast and Stiles and the other man hold onto their seats for dear life. Thanks to the cuffs, Stiles manages to stay on his side of the car. The man, though, tumbles around like laundry in a washing machine. Once the car stops, they gasp for breath, nauseated. Stiles tries to fight the bile rising in his throat but loses and vomits into his own lap. He feels like shit.

Can't the thing just get it over with, he thinks. As if on cue, a leathery limb reaches into the car and snatches the other man by the leg. He's pulled out through the window screaming and kicking. Stiles closes his eyes, hears the sounds of bones breaking and then the screaming stops. Strangely, this is when he starts to cry.

Panic overcomes him completely and Stiles can hardly breathe through the sobs and the tears. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. He leans to the side, as far as the cuffs allow, and peers through the other window. The creature is just standing there. The sun hits its back and casts a big enough shadow for Stiles to go completely cold. His heart beats so hard and fast he can hardly hear anything but the thumping in his ears. The creature does nothing and Stiles can't do anything but wait to get mauled. He looks down at his already broken body. The gashes in his side have started bleeding again. Great, just great.

"Come on then!" he says suddenly, surprising himself. He stares at the creature's shadow, looking for any sign of movement, but the creature remains still just outside the car. None of them move for a long time until Stiles can't take it anymore. "So, what are you waiting for?" he challenges. He swallows nervously and looks at the creature's shadow again. This time the creature moves. With his heart in his throat, Stiles watches as it circles the car. It's huge at first. All Stiles can see is a leathery hip, or hind leg, or whatever one would call it, through the window. But as the creature moves along, its shadow grows smaller and smaller and its leathery hide transforms into skin – human skin. When it comes to a stop outside the door on Stiles' side of the car, it looks completely human. Stiles can't see the creature's – well, person's – face, but its shoulder, chest, torso and hip all look human to him. It burns like fire in his chest and he realizes suddenly that he's been holding his breath. He scoots towards the middle of the car, arm outstretched since he's still cuffed to that damn handle bar. This is it. Thank you life, for giving me eighteen whole years, he thinks sarcastically. You were okay in the beginning but, to be honest, you've been pretty crappy lately. And I will never forgive you for taking my mom away from me.

His thoughts are interrupted when the car door is suddenly ripped off its hinges and he's hauled out of the car roughly. Before he knows it, he's lying on his back in the dirt. The sun is blaring down and he throws up an arm to cover his face, closes his eyes. "Jesus," he mutters.

"Stiles, I've been looking for you," it says and Stiles shudders at its voice. It's him, alright. He doesn't know what to say, he's too freaked out. Fleetingly he wonders what kind of gruesome death lies before him now that the beast has transformed. Its claws are gone and its fangs have changed into human teeth. Maybe he doesn't have to be ripped apart – not now at least. That would be an awful way to go, he thinks.

"And I've done my best to evade you." He doesn't dare look at the thing. He hears a soft snicker and it sounds so normal that he can almost fool himself into thinking that everything is fine. It isn't.

"Get up," it says. Surprisingly, it doesn't sound menacing at all. Stiles pushes himself off of the ground - he doesn't look – and stands on shaky legs. He's still cuffed to the handle bar and so he has to bend down to get the weight of the door off his wrist.

"Look at me."

"I'd rather not. You make me sick." He envisions himself being thrown clear across the road and then ripped to pieces for saying what he did.

"That hurts, Stiles."

Stiles shrugs. He doesn't know what to do but stand there awkwardly.

"They cuffed you to the door?" It's his voice, really his voice, and it's weird and creepy and awful to connect it with everything that has happened; the three murders that just occurred, the crap before that, the claw marks in his side… "Let me help you."

It, he really wants to call it it, grabs his cuffed wrist and Stiles feels sick to his stomach. Then a quick and sharp tug and a loud noise that Stiles doesn't recognize. He opens his eyes.

Scott gives him a small smile. "You're welcome."

Stiles glances down at his hand. The cuffs are still tightly secured around his wrist and the handle bar, except the handle bar is no longer attached to the car door. There's a large chunk of plastic, probably a part of the door, and attached to it is the handle bar. Stiles stares at it in awe. Scott had torn it clean off. He looks over at Scott again and does a double take when he suddenly realizes that Scott is naked. It's as if Scott can read his mind –and maybe he can, Stiles has no way of knowing.

"Yeah, I'm gonna need some clothes," Scott states. "Maybe one of these guys could borrow me his. What do you think?"

Stiles is stunned and disgusted and says nothing. Scott saunters over to the man he killed last. "Looks about my size, doesn't he?" he asks. Stiles shrugs. He can't look when Scott removes the man's clothing. The man is dead, it's not right.

"Damn it!" Scott exclaims in mock annoyance. "His shirt is no good. It's been ripped to shreds." He laughs low and cruel and Stiles shudders again. He hates him. He hates this Scott that isn't Scott, but still is. "Wait! The other one had a shirt on too, didn't he?" Scott continues. He walks up to the other man and leans over him. He seems pleased. Stiles turns his head away and listens as Scott moves the other man around to get the shirt off. A moment later Scott stands next to him and all Stiles can think about is that Scott is wearing dead men's clothes. They even smell of death.

"Okay, let's go," Scott says, grabbing Stiles by the arm.

Stiles shakes him off. "Don't touch me."

"A little touchy, are we?" Scott comments amused. He doesn't listen either. He grabs Stiles' arm again and digs his fingers into the flesh hard enough to bruise. Stiles doesn't care. It doesn't hurt at all compared to every other pain and ache in his body.

"I thought you wanted to kill me," he says flatly. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"

Scott leads him towards the car. "You'll find out soon enough." He opens the door to the passenger side and pushes Stiles into the seat. Stiles sits with a heavy groan. The pain in his side has gotten worse and his shirt has fresh bloodstains on it. He leans back, tries not to think about it. Absentmindedly he arranges the handle bar with the cuff so that it lies flat across his lap then he watches as Scott gets in the driver's seat.

"I hope I didn't totally ruin the car," Scott says as he grips the steering wheel. He smiles and it looks so sweet and innocent that Stiles wants to kill him. Well, you've ruined everything else.

"Okay, seatbelts on," Scott sniggers and revs the engine. He's gone, Stiles thinks sadly. He is really gone.

Save for the cracked windshield and windows, the ripped open roof and the non-existent rear door, the car runs smoothly. Scott drives and Stiles rests. They don't speak. They drive for hours and Stiles realizes that he has no idea where he is. For miles he searches for road signs to tell him where they are, but there are none. They drive well into the night before Scott stops the car. He opens the door for Stiles but Stiles doesn't move. "Where are we?" he asks. "And where are we going?"

Scott points to a neon sign sitting on a fence a couple of yards away. The sign is murky and only a few of the neon letters are visible. Stiles reads slowly; DOLLY OMLIN 24/7 MOTEL and almost laughs out loud when he realizes what the illuminated letters spell out. DOOM 24/7 MOTEL. Did they know we were coming? He chuckles and it does wonders for his soul.

"What's so funny?" Scott asks, but Stiles ignores him. He climbs out of the car and looks around, taking in their surroundings. The motel is old and not very big and he thinks that it's in serious need of a paintjob. He counts the numbered doors leading out to the parking lot and comes up with ten. The office is at the far end of the parking lot and next to it, cast in shadows, is a dog yard, Stiles reckons, because he's pretty sure he hears barking.

"Why are we here?" he asks Scott.

"To get some shuteye of course," Scott replies.

Stiles is confused. "Do you even need to sleep anymore?" He wonders whether or not a big leather-skinned supernatural beast really needs its eight hours of sleep per night. He doubts it. Scott takes him by the arm and leads him towards a door at the far end of the building. As far away from the office as possible, Stiles thinks. Great. Scott leads him to room 10. They stop outside the door and Stiles half expects Scott to pull out a key, even though they haven't even checked in yet. Scott puts his ear to the door and listens then nods approvingly.

"This is perfect," he says. Stiles doesn't respond. Scott grabs the door handle and pulls it out, taking a chunk of wood with it. Not unlike how he "freed" Stiles from the cuffs. Stiles glances down at his new bracelet; cuff at the wrist, chain link, then another cuff with a handle bar dangling from it. Nicest jewelry ever.

"Get inside," Scott orders and Stiles obeys. Room 10 is small. The space is cramped and can just barely fit a queen-sized bed, TV, and chair and desk. Stiles doesn't know where to go once he's inside. Can he take the bed? Or is he supposed to sleep on the floor? Will he be allowed to sleep at all? "Bathroom," Scott says, unknowingly answering Stiles questions.

Stiles hesitates, wondering suddenly what the hell Scott wants him in the bathroom for. He freezes. "C'mon," Scott urges. He pushes Stiles into the bathroom and points to the toilet lid. "Over there." Stiles sits and twitches nervously.

"Take a shower," Scott says. "You've got blood and vomit on you and you smell like shit."

"What?" Stiles mumbles, unsure if he's heard correctly.

Scott throws him a towel then slithers towards Stiles. He doesn't stop until his belly brushes against Stiles' face. Stiles jerks away as if he's been burnt and Scott sneers at him. "Still uncomfortable with taking your shirt off in front of people?" he mocks.

"No." Stiles forces out, although it is a bit of a lie.

"Good." And before Stiles knows it, Scott has grabbed him and ripped off his shirt. It falls off his body in shreds and Stiles feels violated in a way he can't even understand himself. He glances down at his torso and almost throws up. He looks like a Jack the Ripper victim; the bleeding gashes of the claw marks, the old and new wounds and the bite mark on his shoulder. Scars and various other cuts and bruises. He looks horrible. Scott leers at him. "Looking great, Stiles," he teases. "Totally ripped, man. Pun intended." He laughs and Stiles blushes without knowing why. It's not like he cares what a monster thinks of him.

Scott moves towards the door. "I'll go find you some new clothes. I'll be back in a bit."

Stiles is confused and a little weirded out by the fact that Scott is so confident in leaving him alone. But he figures it's because Scott knows he could outrun a cheetah if he wanted. Also, how hard could it be for Beast Scott to track down and recapture a badly injured human being like himself? Not hard at all is the answer.

When Scott has finally left, Stiles peels off his bloodied clothes and steps into the shower. He doesn't look at himself, just soaps up and showers off. Even the handle bar gets a good clean-off. He holds the shower head close to his chest and relishes in feeling the hot water run down his stomach and legs. He tries not to think about the bleeding gashes in his side, or the fact that it could actually be blood - not water - that he so thoroughly enjoys.

He's just stepped out of the shower when Scott reemerges from the bedroom. He tosses Stiles a pair of sweatpants and a college shirt and then steps out of the bathroom again.

Stiles considers going commando but eventually decides against it. He puts on his dirty boxers again. They are bloodstained and filthy but he hasn't got any others. The sweatpants fit perfectly and he's just about to put on the new shirt when Scott comes back. His gaze falls on Scott's hands and the small vial he's holding.

"What's that for?" he asks. He feels brave all of a sudden. Being alone with Scott and being alone with a terrifying beast are two different things. He's less frightened of Scott - something about them having been best friends since they were four maybe.

"I need some of your blood," Scott replies and it's not at all what Stiles expected him to say. He walks up to Stiles slowly and doesn't stop until he's invading Stiles' personal space again. It makes Stiles uneasy. He doesn't dare move. So he just stands there and lets Scott catch every drop of blood that seeps out of his wounds. Soon the vial is full.

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