2. Sometimes we become lost.
Scott drove with his foot pressing the pedal against the floor, the car swinging back and forth as it washed against the gravel road. His phone lay discarded on the seat, flying back and forth with each turn Scott made, its screen shining in the darkness, the seconds of the ongoing call ticking by.
Stiles hadn't spoken for five minutes.
When Scott had realised what was going on, when he'd realised that Stiles was in trouble, when he'd realised that Lydia's scream hadn't been for someone else, that it had been for him –
It wasn't too late, though. Scott knew it – he could feel it in his bones. Stiles was still alive, he was still here, he just had to find him as soon as he could, and –
Something blue reflected off his headlights in the distance.
Scott slammed on the breaks, the car to a screeching halt. Stiles' jeep sat alongside the road halfway in the ditch, silent and still in the darkness.
Shoving the car door open, Scott stumbled out of the car and began running through the woods.
His scent was easy to find. It were as though someone had painted a trail across the ground, leading him through the forest, weaving through the trees, following every step that Stiles had taken. Before Scott knew it he was flying to a halt in a small clearing, his eyes locking on an unmoving figure near one of the trees.
Stiles.
Scott immediately started running forward, before stumbling to a halt.
Stiles was lying across the forest floor, tilted slightly on his side, his head turned towards the dirt. His face was covered in blood along with nearly every other part of his body. His shirt was torn in pieces, clinging together by the barest pieces of threads. Shreds of skin were frayed alongside the fabric, both stained in so much blood that Scott couldn't tell which was which. His right leg was also clawed apart, four long marks ripped across his thigh.
Scott faltered forward, immediately sniffing the air around Stiles' body, trying to taste – trying to smell if he – if he was still –
Scott's eyes fell across Stiles' right arm, which was twisted unnaturally above his head, the skin turned completely black and blue. His eyes turned to Stiles' face, which was horrifically pale in the moonlight; his eyes were closed and for all that it appeared, he looked as though he were asleep.
Scott closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to smell every bit of Stiles that he could, searching for that one scent he wanted to find the most, that one little smell that would tell him that blood was still pumping through Stiles' heart, that he was still with them, that he would be okay, that he wasn't dead, that he wasn't actually dead –
The smell hit Scott like a punch to the face, snapping his eyes back open as he reeled back. It was a smell like no other, a smell so distinct and so precise. It hurt his nose, like rotting flesh only worse, because it only smelled this bad when it was fresh.
D –
Scott's mind recoiled from the thought as though burned, and he began shaking his head.
"No," he said, leaning forward. His hands were shaking as they hovered over Stiles' chest, pausing for a brief moment before he pressed his fingers against Stiles' throat, knowing that he would feel a pulse in any second. Any second now. Any second.
Any second.
Any…
Any…
Scott began moving his fingers around, searching for the artery that held the pulse. He must have missed it.
He pressed his fingers deeper this time, but they slid across Stiles' skin. He tried again, but again they slipped, digging into Stiles' hair.
Scott finally forewent finding his pulse and instead leaned down and pressed his ear against Stiles' chest.
Of course he should have been listening for Stiles' heart from the beginning, of course. It was the most obvious thing to do, to check and make sure it wasn't weak, that he would be strong enough to move instead of having to call an ambulance. He just didn't think of it before, what with all the panic and chaos and… and….
Scott closed his eyes, listening for Stiles' heartbeat with every bit of strength in his body.
…
…
…
Scott snapped his head back up, the air cold against his wet face.
It wasn't there.
Scott shook his head.
No. No this couldn't – this couldn't be happening. This wasn't happening. This was not happening. It was not. It wasn't, it wasn't – he refused. He refused to believe it. There was just no possible way this was actually happening. This wasn't happening.
This wasn't happening.
Scott brought his hands together and began compressions on Stiles' chest. Deaton had re-taught him CPR just two months ago, he knew exactly what to do. Calm down, breathe. Breathe.
One. Two. Three.
In a few moments Stiles would cough, and he'd have to make sure to tilt him on his side in order to keep the vomit from gathering, maybe even dig it out with his fingers but that was okay, that was totally okay because he'd do anything to make sure his friend was okay.
One. Two. Three.
He couldn't believe that he'd let Stiles leave like that, rash and angry after their fight. He should have stopped him, should have told him to come back, should have made things right between them. If he had, then maybe Stiles never would have gone out to check the lines.
One. Two. Three.
He would've stayed with Scott and they could've checked the lines together. Then when the werewolf attacked – it was a werewolf, Scott could smell it beyond a shadow of a doubt – then he could have protected Stiles; he could have made sure that he was safe, that the wolf could never have gotten to him. That he could never have been attacked in the first place.
He should never have been attacked in the first place.
One. Two. Three.
But Stiles had always been like this. He had always had an impulsive and spontaneous streak that had gotten him – that had gotten both of them – into trouble more times than he could count. Scott had always been the more hesitant of the two, had always said they should wait and think about something before they went off and did it. It was a dichotomy that had always worked so well between them.
It did. It did work well. It would always work well.
One. Two. Three.
And to think – this all started because Stiles wanted to go into the woods. He'd been listening to his dad's radio and wanted to go and see if they could find a dead body, because they were young and stupid and thought that death didn't mean anything, that it was something to be marveled and gawked at, as though it were something so incredibly foreign that would never touch either one of them.
One. Two. Three.
They'd been wrong. They'd been so wrong. But they were young and stupid and thought that life in Beacon Hills was boring, that their lives were boring, so they took any opportunity at adventure – at what they thought was adventure – that they could. It was a young and stupid thing to do.
And look where it got them.
One. Two. Three.
They didn't realise that they'd been living in a landmine all their lives, that they'd been surrounded by werewolves and the supernatural and literally sitting on top of a gateway into another world. They didn't realise that all the gateway needed were two young idiots to open it up and unleash hell into their town.
One. Two. Three.
If they had wanted an adventurous life, they sure as hell got one and more. Scott would give anything to turn back the clock, to tell Stiles no, tell him that they had to stay inside, that they both needed to stay inside and never go out again because there were things out there; there were things that would try and turn them, try and possess them, try and kill them.
One. Two. Three.
There were things that would try and kill their family –
One. Two. Three.
– that would kill their friends –
One. Two. Three.
– that would make them understand that a dead body wasn't just a dead body it was a person, it was a human being with thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams and friends and family and –
Crack.
Scott's hands froze where they lay above Stiles' chest and the rib that he had just broken.
Everything was quiet.
Scott's eyes flickered to Stiles' face, which remained turned to the side, his eyes closed and mouth slightly open. He was still.
Scott's heart began to race as he closed his eyes, listening for something – anything – a heartbeat, or a breath, or a movement, or – or –
Silence.
Scott leaned back, unable to tear away his eyes from Stiles' face.
He couldn't… he couldn't….
The hospital.
The hospital, he had to get him to the hospital.
Scott shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone – why hadn't he done this earlier? Why the hell hadn't he don't this earlier – and searched his contacts, his fingers slipping and sliding across the screen until he finally managed to make the call. His eyes returned to Stiles' face as the phone rang, the moonlight shining across it.
"Hello?"
It looked like ash. Stiles was normally pale, very pale, but this – this was something else. He'd never seen Stiles' face as white as this, and there was this hint of grey that –
"Scott, are you there?"
Scott jerked back, taking a breath. "Mom."
"Honey, what's the matter? What's wrong?"
"Mom. Mom, I – I –."
"Scott, take a deep breath. Slow down and just tell me what's going on."
Scott took a shuddering breath, holding it for a few moments, just as he had when he was just a normal kid with asthma.
"Mom, it's Stiles. He's…. he's…."
"Scott, what about Stiles? Is he okay? Are you guys in trouble?" There was a hint of panic in her voice, cleverly masked by all her training and years as a nurse, but Scott was her son – he knew when she was worried.
She was always worried now, ever since they went out into those woods, back when they were young and stupid and –
"SCOTT!"
Scott jerked, coming back to the present. "Mom, Stiles is hurt. He's really hurt, he's bleeding and I – I don't know what to do –."
"Is he conscious?"
Scott's eyes fell on Stiles' sleeping face.
"No."
"Okay. I need you to start CPR. You remember how to do it, right?"
He was so still. He was never still. Stiles was always moving, always fidgeting, always tapping his fingers against the steering wheel or the desk or –
"Scott, honey, I need you to pull yourself together. You can't help Stiles if you don't listen to me, okay?"
"Mom, I already did it. I tried – I tried CPR already and it didn't… he's not awake, and I – I think I broke his rib and –."
"How long did you do it for?"
"I don't know. I don't know, I – ten minutes?"
There was the briefest pause, and then, "Where are you?"
That, Scott did know. "In the woods. North of town, along the bridge road. He was checking the lines, he was just checking the lines, and –."
"How far in the woods are you? If I send an ambulance there, can they get to you?"
"No –."
"Then I need you to take Stiles and get him back to the road. Can you do that for me, Scott? I need you to pick him up and carry him back to where you parked your bike."
"I didn't take the bike, I took the car," Scott said vaguely, never taking his eyes off Stiles' face.
"It doesn't –." His mom took a breath. "Okay, the car. I need you to pick him up and take him back to the car. I'm going to have an ambulance waiting there for you, okay? They're already on their way. They'll be there as soon as you get there."
He was so still. Why was he so still? He should be coughing, or breathing or talking or something –
"Scott!"
Scott started and suddenly his vision came back into focus.
Stiles. Ambulance. Hospital. Right.
"Okay Mom, I'll – I'll be right there. I'm going now, I'll meet them there."
Scott clicked the phone off and shoved it into his pocket. Without waiting another second, he slipped his arms beneath Stiles' body, picked him up, and began running through the trees.
Scott didn't know how much time passed, but soon he found himself sighting a pair of headlights in the distance, and with the distinct smell of humans he knew that he was nearly there. Seconds later he burst through the trees and into the ditch by the road, where an ambulance and three paramedics were waiting for him. One of the men immediately started running towards him, while the other two unpacked a stretcher and set it on the road.
"Scott, what happened?"
Scott's eyes snapped up to the paramedic – Jason, a veteran, a guy he'd known since he was a kid – and he spoke as quickly as he could. "It's – there was an attack. He – we were in the woods, and there was an attack and he – he's hurt real bad, he's really hurt and I – I need you to help him. He's lost a lot of blood. You have to help him. Please, you have to help him."
Jason began speaking words that Scott didn't listen to, and then suddenly Stiles was being pulled from his arms. Instinctively Scott resisted, trying to pull him back, refusing to let him go – but then another paramedic – Mark, another veteran, he'd been at the hospital for six years now – started shouting in his face.
"SCOTT! Scott, you need to let him go! You need to put him on the stretcher, you need to let him go!"
Scott blinked, realising what was happening, and forced himself to place Stiles on the stretcher.
As soon as he put him down the paramedics began wheeling him over to the ambulance, his body shaking along the gravel road. Scott watched as they lifted up the wheels and slid him into the back of the ambulance.
He was safe. He was safe, he was okay – the ambulance was here, he was going to be okay –
"-tt! SCOTT!"
Scott blinked and looked up, and saw that the paramedic was waving him over, yelling at him to get inside. Scott quickly ran forward and jumped inside, just as the back doors closed. The engine started seconds later and they began racing down the road and towards the hospital.
Scott watched as the paramedics began talking to each other as they ran their hands over Stiles' body. They ripped the rest of his shirt open – it was bloody, it was completely soaked in blood – and began cleaning his chest, trying to see what was underneath.
Scott felt as though the air had been punched from his lungs when he saw the clawed gouges torn across Stiles' stomach. His entire chest was black and blue, barely a speck of white skin to be seen. Scott turned away.
He was going to be sick.
Scott took a breath, steeling himself before turning back. He faltered when he saw that the paramedics were no longer moving. Instead, they were looking at him with soft but resigned eyes.
Scott blinked, wondering why they weren't doing anything.
No.
"What are you doing?" he asked, staring at them in disbelief. "What are you doing?! Do something! Help him! He's hurt, he's bleeding, what the hell are you doing?! HELP HIM!"
"Scott," Jason said. "Scott it's over. There's nothing we can do to help him."
Scott could feel heat running through his veins, his entire body feeling as though it were on fire, his heart racing so fast it was almost ready to explode. "What the hell are you talking about?!" he yelled. "You're fucking paramedics, you're supposed to be helping him! Why aren't you helping him?! Help him!"
"Scott it's too late! He's gone, there's nothing we can do!"
Fuck them. Fuck them, fuck all of them they were lying. They didn't know what they were talking about. Stiles was a fighter, he was a fighter and he wasn't – he wasn't gone, he was still here they just needed to do their fucking jobs and save him.
"Jason," Scott growled, his voice low. "If you don't help him, I swear you'll be needing someone to save you."
Both paramedics suddenly started, their eyes growing wide as they leaned away from Scott. They exchanged glances, hesitating for only a moment before they began working on Stiles once more. Scott felt the fire abate and he could breathe once more.
Okay. Okay, good – they were working on it. There was still time. Stiles would be okay.
Everything was going to be okay.
They arrived the hospital a short while later, pulling up into the bay and throwing the door open just as the ambulance came to a stop. Doctors were already there to meet them, Scott's mom among them.
Scott let the paramedics push past him and out the door. He watched as they took Stiles down and began rolling him into the hospital, quickly disappearing through the doors. Scott wanted to run after them, he didn't want to let Stiles out of his sight, but he knew that he needed to let the doctors do their work.
"Scott."
Scott looked down and met his mother's eyes. She had a look on her face that made Scott's heart skip a beat; her eyes were wide and her face was white, and Scott could hear her heart racing. Weird.
Scott looked back at the hospital as he slowly got out of the ambulance. They were here now, Stiles was here. Everything was going to be okay.
"Scott, honey, let's get you cleaned up."
Scott frowned, staring at his mother briefly before looking down at himself and realising that he was covered in blood.
Stiles' blood.
How many times had he had his friend's blood on him before? How many times had he vowed never to let it happen again? And how many times now had he broken that promise?
"Come on," his mom said, taking his arm and leading him inside.
Melissa stood outside of the hospital room, holding her phone in front of her, Noah's name staring back at her.
She'd left Scott in the staff room to clean up, but she was certain he hadn't moved an inch from his chair. He'd probably be coming to find her, soon. He never waited long when it came to his friends. He had no patience at all when it came to Stiles.
She hadn't told him yet.
Noah needed to know first. He needed to be here. Stiles was his son, and he needed… he needed to be here.
They both knew their children led dangerous lives, they both knew that this had been a possibility, but neither of them had actually believed –
Chris. Chris had been the only one who knew how dangerous this life had really been. They should have listened to him when he warned them, should've taken control of the situation and kept their children safe, should've packed up and moved away, move to a different town entirely. Everyone needed nurses, everyone needed law enforcement – they would have been fine. They should have done that as soon as all this started. Why on earth hadn't they done that?
Melissa's thumb hovered over the call icon, but she couldn't press it down. She looked up, staring through the window of the door.
Stiles' body lay on the bed, a white sheet laying over it.
Melissa stared for a moment longer, then looked back down at her phone.
Noah needed to know.
She looked back up.
Melissa felt her body begin to shake, and she knew she had to sit down. Her eyes began to sting and she stepped back, turning away from the window. She pressed the phone and brought it to her ear. A few seconds later it connected.
"Melissa?"
"Noah," she said, her voice shaking. "You need to get to the hospital. Now."
She turned the phone off, knowing that Noah had already disconnected the call and was on his way.
Seconds later, she collapsed.
Scott was getting agitated.
It had been almost twenty minutes now. Where were they? Why hadn't his mom come back yet? She should have been here ten minutes ago, updating him on what was happening, letting him know how badly Stiles had been hurt. He didn't – he didn't even know where they'd put him. It wouldn't be hard to find out though, he just had to track his scent. He was a werewolf, he could do that as easily as breathing.
After waiting three more minutes, Scott finally stood up and went out into the hallway, and began searching for his mom. Hers and Stiles' scents were intermixed, running alongside each other through the corridor and up the elevator. He followed them until he was on the second floor of emergency, weaving his way through the countless people until he finally spotted his mom sitting on a chair along the wall, her head in her hands.
Scott froze.
He could smell the salt wafting off her – she'd been crying. She was still crying. Except she shouldn't be crying. She shouldn't be crying because that – because that would mean –
"Mom?"
Melissa's head snapped up and she looked at her son, her eyes wide. "Scott –."
Scott turned to look at the door where Stiles' scent went into.
Melissa knew exactly what he was thinking. "Scott, honey, don't –."
Ignoring his mother's protests, Scott immediately walked over and slammed the door open, stepping inside.
Scott didn't even realise he'd stopped moving until he suddenly felt his mother's hands on his arm, trying to pull him away. But he wouldn't budge.
No. No it couldn't – it couldn't be. He couldn't actually be seeing this. He wasn't.
Dear God please, please don't – please don't let this actually – God, please….
"Did they –." Scott's voice broke, unable to tear his eyes away from the sheet-covered body. "Did they try everything?"
Scott could hear the tears in his mother's voice when she spoke. "They tried to see if they could do anything, but he was… but he was already gone when he got here. They did everything they could, Scott." He felt her hand rubbing across his arm. "They did everything they could."
Scott stared, unblinking. "I was talking to him less than an hour ago," he said. "I was… we were talking, he was talking to me. He was talking to me."
Scott heard a sob escape his mother's throat, but he still didn't look away. A moment later he felt his mother's arms wrap around him and pull him into a hug.
An hour later Scott found himself sitting on a chair beside the dead body of his best friend.
Beside the dead body of his brother.
Stiles' dad had shown up shortly after Scott had walked into the hospital room. What happened after… well, Scott didn't want to really think about that. Noah had left about five minutes ago and had yet to return, leaving Scott and his best friend by themselves.
Leaving Scott by himself.
Scott felt drained. He felt tired, he felt weak. He didn't think he could move from this chair even if he tried.
Stiles was gone.
Stiles was dead.
Scott felt his chest tighten at the thought – except it wasn't a thought, it was the truth, it was reality, this was now reality – and a lump began to form in his throat.
No. No, he couldn't cry. Not yet. Crying meant acceptance, it meant he'd stopped fighting, it meant despair. It meant it was over.
Maybe if he'd only gotten there sooner, if he'd somehow managed to get Stiles to tell him where he was sooner, then maybe – maybe he'd have gotten there in time. Maybe he'd still be okay, maybe he'd still be alive.
How could… this couldn't… how could this be happening? How could this have actually happened? Losing Allison had felt like his heart had been ripped from his chest, but this –
They'd known that they led a dangerous life, but they hadn't… they'd never actually believed that one of them would actually die. It just seemed… it just seemed impossible. They were two sides of the same coin – they were Stiles and Scott, and they were Scott and Stiles. They were best friends and brothers, they'd been together since they were four, they'd gone through so much together since then and now all of that had come to an end, and for what? Because Stiles had decided to go check the lines? Because he'd gone and done something they'd both done a thousand times, never having any problems, only this time they did because some fucking werewolf decided to attack him and try and eat him and –
Scott shook his head.
He sat in silence a few minutes longer, staring at the sheet that lay over Stiles' body, before he suddenly leaned forward.
He had to see – he had to check. He had to make sure that – that Stiles was – that he was really….
With shaking hands, Scott pulled the sheet back.
Stiles' grey and ashen face met him. His eyes were closed and his mouth was now too. Aside from the cuts and bruises that littered his face, Scott could almost swear he was sleeping.
He had never seen someone so still in his entire life.
Scott's eyes began to sting and grow hot, and he was suddenly feeling unable to breathe. His hands began to shake and he curled his fingers into the sheet. He brought his head down, burying it against Stiles' arm.
He began to cry.