Hum, some warnings/notices that I didn't post last chapter, because I was too anxious to post it. Hehehe. So, the demons from this universe are pretty much what demons are in Supernatural universe, only a LOT less organized. You'll get what in this chapter.
This was supposed to be a oneshot (yeah, I know, I have a MAJOR problem about writing little), so it won't be a LONG story, six chapters tops (I hope).
The name of the story comes from the song Universe, by Kids of 88, and it's in the OST for Season 1 of Teen Wolf.
Obviously, nothing you recognize belongs to me, including the idea of a demon!Stiles. Thank Tumblr for that.
Come Out and Play
In the beginning
He got hurt.
That was pretty much how it all had begun, and Stiles wouldn't even try to deny it if he was ever confronted about this – he got hurt in a stupid way, in a stupid fight he shouldn't even be near but was anyway, because, you know, all of his friends were there, and he might not be a hero, but he wasn't going to sit tight at home as his friends faced a whole pack of Alphas.
Things were pretty bad too – the Alphas had killed whatever it was that Gerard had become after his failed bite from Derek, and the hunters wanted revenge. Chris Argent, Allison's dad, had actually been the one to clean up that mess, recognizing that his father had gone a bit too far in his quest for survival. Which left Derek's pack to deal with the four crazy Alpha wolves who were trying to either recruit Derek or kill him and all the other wolves from Beacon Hills.
Not exactly the most peaceful times to live in.
And as all of this was going down, Stiles was struggling. He didn't feel right. He wasn't… happy. He could barely remember a time when he had been happy, as happy as Scott was when Allison was with him, or as Jackson was when Lydia took him back and helped him through his very frustrating first weeks as a wolf. Stiles didn't know happy.
He knew content in a moment, accomplished when he did something right for the pack or his dad, even glad when another day went by without anyone dying or being threatened with murder, but not really happy. No since his mother had died.
Things with his dad weren't the best lately either. He was always out late, running around and trying to save Scott or Derek or Jackson or Lydia, and being put aside a lot now that Scott had a werewolf BFF in Isaac, and being brushed as unnecessary now that, through Jackson, Derek's pack had Lydia for researching duty, and even Peter's presence didn't quite manage to frighten her enough not to be beside her boyfriend.
You know, the one who was able to be cured from Kanima-disease by her love.
But all in all, Stiles thought he was managing, he had a grip, and he talked to the school's counselor about some things, but not all of it, because he didn't… want to.
That's what it boiled up to be: he didn't want to talk about his fears of being abandoned by Scott, or being unnecessary to Derek – whom, by the way, he seemed to be developing the hugest crush on, and wasn't that just the icing on his freak cake? – or how he could kind of tell that his dad was pretty much done for with him.
Things were never really the same after his father temporarily lost his job because of Stiles' behavior with Jackson. It was like his father simply assumed now that Stiles would be in trouble, big time trouble, any time he was out of the house, and that hurt him deeply, because after all, it wasn't that he went looking for trouble because he wanted to, but because he had to.
To keep them, his friends, close. So that he wouldn't be… alone. He knew he wasn't as special as they were, he wasn't a werewolf, he wasn't a genius with supernatural immunity, and he wasn't a super hunter with incredible skills.
He was just a kid with ADHD, a lot of free time in his hands, a little cleverness, and a burning desire to be needed. He wasn't exactly proud of the way he was lying to his dad day in day out, or the fact that his father didn't trust him anymore – even if things were said as a joke, Stiles could take a hint. The night Matt attacked, the way his father had said he trusted Scott, that was burning inside of him till now.
But he tried to let it go, and he tried not to let his freakishness and weakness show.
Hence him, in the middle of a supernatural fight among werewolves. Him, the human, in the middle of it. Derek's pack and Scott won by a very tight spot, and he was hurt. He didn't like thinking about it, it involved his blood, and claws, and a jaw snapping way too close to his throat, and when he closed his eyes at night he could still feel the breath of the beast which almost killed him.
He had gone to the hospital for stitches, with Scott on his tail, so that they could make up a convincing story – his convincing story had been about him convincing Scott to go walk through the woods at night, looking for wolves, and him being bitten by some animal there. He took his stiches like a man, and took his father's very disapproving glare, and refused the painkiller they wanted to put him on, because it was just a small gash on his side. He could deal.
Scott was ordered to take Stiles's jeep home, while the Sheriff and Stiles went home in his dad's car – you know, the Sheriff's car.
His dad was silent.
He didn't utter a word the whole way home, and it was making Stiles fidgety and achy – ok, maybe the ache was from the cut and the stitches, but the silence was killing him.
His jeep was on the driveway, but Scott hadn't stuck around. The keys were under the mat, and his dad opened the door, got in, and just… stopped. His hands were on the back of the couch, his head hung low, and he looked as if he was just so… defeated.
"Say something?" Stiles said quietly, because seeing his dad like that was exactly what he didn't want to see. That's why he lied, and that's why he hadn't even told any of them about the beating Gerard had given him. Boyd and Erica hadn't said a word about it either, and now that they had both gone Omega, it wasn't like Derek was dying to talk to them. And Stiles wasn't going to tell.
His father sighed, but didn't turn around, and Stiles fidgeted some more, dying to say something, but he didn't know what.
"I'm sorry. I now it was a stupid idea, I just… thought it'd be fun." The boy said, and not even he was buying his excuse, but his father was apparently tired of listening to his half-assed excuses all the time, because that got him to turn around, his head still low, and his arms crossed in front of his chest, leaning against the back of the couch.
"Fun? Really, Stiles, that's what you've got to say? I thought it'd be fun?" His voice was colder than usual, and that never boded well for him – it wasn't that his father would yell and scream, it was that he was so disappointed, like that night he had come home without his badge, "Why do you do this, Stiles? I'm trying to get you, but you are making this whole thing so damn difficult." Stiles looked down, fighting his desire to tell his father everything, if only to stop him from looking so… devastated, "It's not easy, you know, dealing with a kid like you, all by myself, but you didn't use to get in this much trouble, and now I don't know what to DO with you, Stiles." The sheriff's voice was becoming more agitated and angry, and his dad was never really angry at him, so this was bad. Really, really bad, "And now you try to sell me this stupid idea that you thought it'd be fun. Nobody, Stiles, not even you would think it'd be fun to go poking around the woods on a school night, and I'm the Sheriff, I got calls of a disturbance in the woods earlier today. What were you doing there, Stiles? What are you doing AT ALL these past few months?"
His father looked ready to either scream himself hoarse or shake Stiles out of his lying, cowering self, but Stiles couldn't say anything.
He couldn't betray everyone like that. So he just shrugged and looked down.
"You are so deep in this thing you've got going on you can't even see how much trouble you are getting into, how we are being perceived in this town. I've got a job in an elected post, Stiles. Having you being a delinquent is not helping anything here! And you are always in the middle of these messes; you are always around the murders, and the missing people, and the crazy teenagers! What are you doing? Why are you doing this? You were never easy to deal with, but this is just…" His father closed his mouth when he saw Stiles flinch. On the 'you were never easy' part, because, yeah, Stiles always knew he wasn't easy.
That was pretty much all of his problems nowadays.
The fact that no one would stick around for long, because he was just a little too broken, and hadn't any special enough skills to make it worth it for anyone to stick around him.
His father looked down, and ran his hands through his hair.
"I just wish your mother was here." He muttered, and Stiles actually took a step back, because that was something that haunted every single bad dream he had ever had with his dad. And John was staring at him as if he wanted to apologize, but he didn't.
And Stiles couldn't bring himself to say anything, so he just tucked tail and ran to his room, closing the door carefully behind him.
John knew Stiles had taken his words the wrong way, the way his son did every now and again. He meant he wanted Stiles's mom to help him deal with Stiles, but he would never, ever, wish Stiles had died instead of Sarah.
He promised himself he would apologize the next morning.
The only thing was next morning would be a whole night too late.
Stiles closed the door behind him, and let himself fall against it, fighting the tears in his eyes unconsciously. Damn, but that hurt.
He had been nine when his mother died. Back then he didn't take any medication for his ADHD, they had simply dismissed his poor learning skills as a very active child, a trouble maker in the making. He was a nightmare as a child, he couldn't stand still, and it was very hard for him to focus on anything for longer than a few seconds. His grades were simply poor, and his behavioral issues had filled many a file in his school.
His mom's disease had been long and tortuous, and so very hard on everyone around them, but Stiles didn't quite understand what was going on. He knew what cancer was, he also knew it could kill someone, but he couldn't grasp the concept that his mother might be dying.
Also, he developed even greater focusing issues with all the stress. So his dad pretty much had do juggle with dealing with his mom's disease and treatment, and being called away from his job three to four times a week to go to his school because of something Stiles had done. He used to hear, back then, a few of his classmates' parents talking about poor John and that wretched child that was the death of his mom. He heard that once, actually, and it had stuck. He tried to be good, but it was hard – it was damn impossible, and his mom tried to smile at him, and tell him none of it was his fault.
And at the very end, she had told him to be brave and take care of his dad, and then she was gone.
Those days were a blur to him, he couldn't see anything straight back then, and his dad's voice was no comfort at all. Soon after that, John had developed a drinking problem – it hadn't lasted long, it actually only lasted until the first time he had found Stiles with a cut on his hand from trying to break a whisky bottle, and failing in doing so – but it had happened. A few weeks after his mom had died the whole house was a wreck, and he was having panic attacks. His dad had to man up and take him to see a few doctors, and in seeing them to treat him for his panic issues they found out about his ADHD and he started taking his medication for it, which made him a lot better – if only a little too late.
He was convinced that he could have spared his mom's life if he hadn't been so troublesome back then. If she had had a more calm place to rest, if his dad could have paid more attention to her than taking care of him, if she could have rested a whole night without worrying about her troubled son – maybe she would be alive.
And in the dark of the night in those first months, he would think that maybe, just maybe, his dad would have preferred Stiles dead instead of his mother. He whispered the question to his dad once, but he never answered, already sleeping by the time Stiles had gathered the courage to ask.
When he started seeing things a bit more clearly, when his childhood self was completely left behind, he was eleven, and his panic attacks were finally under control. He was taking his meds, and he started trying to make good on his promise to his mom: to take care of his dad. And mostly he had succeeded, until the whole werewolf thing happened.
Because Stiles was a bit of a trouble maker still, he wouldn't want to go look for a body in the woods if he wasn't, but he never got hurt, his dad was never involved in those things. The officers in the force even thought that his fascination with crimes came from a desire to become a cop one day, and they kind of encouraged it – back, when he wasn't hanging out with murderers and the body count wasn't quite so high.
And now his dad had said pretty much what he had always feared to hear.
He was crying, and he hadn't even noticed.
Jesus Christ, he was so damn miserable. It was like something physical all around him.
He was completely and utterly useless.
Not even his dad could take him anymore. Scott had Isaac now, and Lydia had Jackson, and even Derek, the most unrequited crush of all time, would never, ever, need him again, and probably thought he was a nuisance, because he was the one who needed to get treatment for his injuries, risking exposing every single wolf in town.
Why was he even alive at this point?
He lay down in bed, and tried to feel less like a complete waste of space, but it was so difficult. He just wanted to stop feeling this pain, this agonizing burn that made him feel so completely lost and unnecessary. He was begging for some relief, any kind of relief, begging as if it was a silent prayer.
A silent prayer someone heard, and answered.
"Dark Creatures" is a very ample term that, if said Dark Creatures were to ever analyze it, they'd find it insulting and close minded. Dark Creatures could relate to anything that wasn't human and had a higher level of thought than, say, a koala bear or a turtle.
Werewolves were dark creatures, and so were Kanimas and vampires and the other things that looked human, but weren't.
Demons were called dark creatures because they could take over a human, and, therefore, look human while existing – it was quite a distinction to being a human being. No human could become a demon like they could become a werewolf: a demon exists. That's all. It doesn't have a body or even a form – it just is. It's a consciousness, an awareness, it exists, it thinks, and it wants to have fun. And its chosen method of fun is, pretty much, chaos, of the bad kind. Death, killing, misery, sadness, despair, panic, depression – it all sounded like 'sunshine, flowers and love' sounded to, you know, humans.
That's why it was unfair to put demons in the same category as werewolves and other human-based creatures. They weren't human, they were demons. You couldn't try to define a demon by a human perspective; it didn't have the same emotions or reactions, the same way of thinking or even the same level of understanding of many, many things. Demons don't know love, or compassion, or mercy. It's not that they are evil, not in their way of existing. They are simply beings with no capacity for those emotions.
They do not exist in their world.
The way any demon acts is very simple, and very effective. They want to have fun and play with the human they take over, so, of course, it can't be someone who's happy and fine with the lives they're leading – it has to be someone damaged, someone who's got it bad enough that they want something to come and free them. They have to want it.
Of course a demon could take over a perfectly happy person, and make their lives miserable, but that simply wasn't as fun as possessing someone who was already miserable to begin with.
It enhances the whole thing, makes the possession way more fun.
Also, demons don't take over humans indefinitely. A possession could last years, or just a few minutes, it depended, mostly, on the age of the demon, its strength, and how badly damaged the person they're taking over is. The older the demon, the longer it can stay. The more damaged the person, the more fun it'll be to play with them.
A demon could make the person do things he or she would never do, and then hide, leaving the human behind to despair over it. Two out of every five killing sprees that ended up in suicide were the work of a demon: it took over the body for days, weeks, months, even years, and then it killed all those people, and hid. Watching the despair and fear and horror grow, and knowing the poor damaged soul would end up succumbing to the despair and killing themselves. The perfect ending to a possession.
That's why, before even beginning to possess someone, a demon who knew what it was doing would shroud its victim's house in fear and confusion. Things would never come out of nowhere, but they would be worse than they normally were.
Say, when a father finds out his son has been injured and is in the hospital, his first reaction would be fear and worry – and then the demon comes along, and adds just a little bit of anger to the mix.
When arguments are getting out of hand, the demon can whisper wordlessly the right words to not only hurt, but to haunt someone. Like, for example, mentioning someone's dead mother in the middle of a dressing down.
It's all in the details, after all.
It's not that hard to understand why Stiles Stilinski was chosen to be a demon's plaything – he was perfection wrapped up in a package of low self-esteem, despair and fear of being rejected, sadness and just the tiniest bit of anger at everyone. Him and his certainty that he wasn't good enough, his despair at seeing someone he cares about getting hurt: he was everything a demon searched for in its next target.
It was all for the taking, and the demon took it.
It was ancient, and it was clever, and it wanted to play.
It was hidden, even when Stiles would become aware of himself again – it was watching. Because this kid had so many people who cared about him, so many people who loved him, that the demon knew he would have a whole feast when the kid was done for – and a lot of appetizers along the way.
I'm so proud of my demon!
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