Lifting his bloody hand from his forehead, Stiles tried to peer through the smoke billowing out his hood. Oh, my poor baby, my poor head. Fumbling with the handle and then collapsing to the pavement, he surveyed the damage. Where had that truck come from?

Steel bands masquerading as arms grabbed him from behind. Stiles was lifted off his feet and carried backwards as he struggled feebly. "Well now", a cold voice. A known voice. The principal from hell's voice. "If it isn't our human pack member. You're going to tell us where he is Stiles."

Stiles tried to focus on the aging hunter. Seeing old fart twins could not be a good thing. "I have no idea what you", he pointed at one then the other wavering form, "are talking about". He kicked back briefly, straining against the hold but succeeded only in making his head hurt worse.

"We will have to see about that". Grandpa argent turned to his lurking shadows and discussed evil plans in a hushed, villain-y manner. Vision fading in and out, Stiles concentrated mostly on not throwing up.

What the hell. They ran him off the road and were now apparently kidnapping him, why was he worried about their shoes? "Thar she blows", he mumbled gleefully, spewing his awesome pizza dinner. His aim was spot on, splattering two of the hunter goons in foul spelling puke. "That will teach you to crash my baby."

With a look of disgust, steel arm goon hoisted Stiles into the back of the largest of the black trucks. Sandwiched between two vomit speckled hunters, Stiles felt his head spin as the truck flew down the road into the night.

"Isn't this against the code? I'm human. You are the most code break-ee-est code followers I've ever met. If fact you shouldn't even call it a code. Cause its totally a non code type code you guys have going on here."

Stiles' head slammed into the back of the seat. "Damn, only Derek gets to do that." His voice whined with dizziness but his shock was quickly clearing as fear started to bubble inside. Fear plus a head injury plus quickly growing car sickness equals...

"Dammit, pull over. The little shit is going to throw up again." Tires screeched, the sudden stop slamming his head into the front seat again.

How many concussions does it take to get to the center of a Stillinski roll pop? One, two, three! Head hanging between his arms, stomach heaving, an amazing large pool of vomit forming below him had him wondering just how much he ate. Really, this seemed excessive.

At the edge of his vision he saw it. Not Excalibur but then he was no Arthur. Curling his fingers around it he waited for a goon to come in range. "Get up!" Stiles allowed himself to hang limply in the ungentle grasp until the last possible second. Every ounce of energy, all his desperation, went into his trust. The deadwood branch aimed for his kidnapper's eye.

The branch lodged itself into the goons left nostril and wedged it's way upward, tearing flesh and ripping into the corner of the large mans eye. A guttural cry earned Stiles his freedom and he quickly dashed into the forest. Twisting and dodging, Stiles ran deeper into the woods until he no longer heard the sounds of hunter pursuit.

He slid down to the ground, pounding head resting against a pine and waited for the sky to stop spinning. No jeep, no phone, no idea where he was, this was becoming his worst night ever. And considering in the past year he had found a dead girl, his best friend had turned werewolf, and he was almost lizard chow on a regular basis, that was saying a lot.

Head wounds make time pass funny. The moon shimmered and skipped across the sky, a strange stop action camera motion. It had completely set by the time Stiles found that his legs would still work though they were wobbly and untrustworthy.

Staying away from the main road Stiles headed back toward town. Hearing sirens as he neared the town limits, he changed course until he reached the river. Looking upward he could see the bridge, the same from his abduction the night before. Little people ants scurried back and forth. The railing was twisted and broken, his baby blue jeep lying battered and torn in the river below.

Stiles scrambled up the embankment walking slowly up behind the multitude of cars. A voice in his head told him to call out, make a sound, but his mouth couldn't form the words. Derek would be shocked. Here I am, non verbal, mouth not working...whoa...look at the shiny lights.

"Stiles! Oh, god! It's stiles!" A red eyed, muscular teen ran toward him. Fancy clothes, fancy haircut, jaw chiseled from marble, it looked a lot like Jackson. And then the Jackson impersonator was hugging him.

"Did the pod people get you?" Stiles tried to focus on Jackson but it's hard to make eye contact while in a choke hold. "What happened?"

"God, Stiles. Your jeep is at the bottom of the river. We thought you were dead."

Jackson's cries had alerted the outer fringe of onlookers and quickly fanned inward. In a wave they turned. Stiles struggled to come up with an excuse. This many people looking at him at one time was never a good sign. He was grounded for life.

Then his dad broke loose from the crowd, eyes darkened with grief, hope not yet realized. A pause, shock, relief, a heart mended by the sight. Stiles was pulled into his embrace, one arm locked around his shoulders and back, the other encircling his waist. He hugged back feeling the slow spread of tears on his shoulder and knew that his own were soaking his dad's as well.

"Stiles!" Voice deep, the alpha growl barely held in check, Derek stood just behind the sheriff. With a final squeeze, Stiles was released from his father's grasp only to be immediately pulled into Derek's. A warm hand cupped the back of his neck as Derek crushed his lips in a breath stealing kiss.

"I thought you were dead." Derek pressed his nose to the crook of Stiles' neck, pressing his body against the smaller teens. His warm breath took in Stiles' scent, his mate, not dead.

Woozy, Stiles looked between his dad and his boyfriend slash life mate slash too old for me to be dating and dad doesn't know I'm gay but I'm not really gay it's just Derek and I love him oh god don't throw him in jail.

"Stiles breathe." Stiles found himself looking up into his father's panicked eyes. Derek was a solid mass supporting his weight. "I don't care if your gay and I'm not throwing Derek in jail. I'm just... Damnit son, there was all the blood and..." Another hug. When did his dad start reading minds?

"You're talking out loud," Derek whispered.

"So," Stiles blinked between the two most important people in his life. "Does this mean we can start having family dinners? I bet there's a game on Sunday."

AN: So if we all love Stiles so much, why do we keep beating him up? What did you think? Love to hear from you guys.