Stiles startled awake at the feeling of something hard connecting with his cheek, pain flaring from the site of the impact as he snapped his eyes open, his head jerking roughly to the side. He squinted his eyes, his vision slowly coming back as he adjusted to the brightness of the light overhead.

Once his vision had adjusted and the stinging in his cheek had subsided, Stiles turned his head towards his attackers. He wasn't sure who he was expecting, but Jackson's parents were very far down the list.

"Ah, finally awake again," David Whittemore smirked, leaning forward into Stiles' personal space. Stiles immediately tried to move away, memories of that night in the Argent's basement still very fresh in his mind. His effort, however, was thwarted by the fact that his hands were tied together behind his back to a chair, with his ankles tied to the chair legs. A look at his surroundings revealed an office, probably Mr. Whittemore's office in Beacon Hills, although Stiles was only guessing, he'd never actually been in Jacksons' dads office.

"What's going on?" Stiles asked curiously, more than a little confused. Why on earth would Jackson's parents kidnap him and tie him up? Other than his attempt at kidnapping Jackson (admittedly, not one of his best plans) he'd done nothing to them. He was pretty sure that they weren't hunters too, so that ruled out the possibility of a repeat of the 'Gerard Argent situation that shall not be mentioned…ever.'

"Oh, Just a little personal vendetta," Louise Whittemore shrugged, although Stiles didn't like the smirk on the woman's face. It made him think of Kate Argent at her most psychotic.

"What are you talking about; I haven't done anything to you guys?" Stiles argued. A hard punch sent his head snapping to the side, and Stiles winced as he felt his lip, only just healed again after Gerard's interrogation/beating, split open, blood tricking from the injury.

"Shut up," David Whittemore ordered, before a sadistic smile crossed his face, "although you are such a typical teenager, aren't you? Thinking that everything revolves around you."

"Well, you're the one who decided to tie me to a chair," Stiles pointed out sarcastically, struggling against his bonds, "You're the one who seems to think I'm involved in this vendetta thing of yours."

David Whittemore straightened to his full height, leering down at Stiles, before he walked away from him, towards his desk. Stiles felt his gut churn uncomfortably as he saw the array of tools spread out on the large, wooden desk. An electrical extension lead, a belt, a large, sharp pair of scissors, a golf club and a large roll of electrical tape were positioned on the desk, and Stiles had a nasty gut feeling what they were going to be used for. Perhaps more alarming, however, was the fact that Stiles could see a gun sticking out of the back of David Whittemore's pants.

A sick feeling began to build in Stiles' gut as he remembered what Isaac had said about Jackson being shot, fairly certain he was looking at the man responsible. What the hell had driven David Whittemore to shoot his own son, and why on earth was Stiles, of all people, being dragged into it?

Stiles swallowed nervously as David Whittemore studied the array of objects lined up on his desk, his fingers hovering over them as the man obviously considered what he was going to use first. Eventually David's fingers closed around the belt, looking over his shoulder at Stiles and giving him a menacing stare. Stiles tugged uselessly against his restraints, and was surprised when Louise Whittemore rose to her feet and roughly cut the tape binding his hands and feet. Stiles' shock, however, evaporated quickly when she dragged him to his feet and pushed him against the wall with a surprising amount of strength, lifting his arms above his head and tying them tightly to a rope that Stiles' hadn't noticed earlier. Stiles looked up, ignoring the way moving his head swim slightly, and noticed the other end of the rope he was being tied to was securely anchored to an exposed joist.

Even without the electrical wires it was still a very vivid reminder of how Erica and Boyd had been tied up in the Argent's basement, and Stiles shuddered as the memories that he'd been trying to repress from that night came flooding back. He was so absorbed in his memories that he wasn't aware of David's approach, up until the metal clasp of the belt slapped into his side, causing him to startle violently, his breath catching in his throat.

"Gag him, we don't want him screaming and someone hearing." David ordered, and Louise hurried to do his bidding, fetching the electrical tape and using it to cover Stiles' mouth. She also brought the scissors, and used them to roughly cut away Stiles' thin t-shirt, leaving his pale chest and back exposed, not seeming to care when she accidently cut Stiles' skin with the sharp scissors. The minute Louise moved away, David stepped up into Stiles' personal space.

"You know…I was so disappointed in those goons I hired to keep you out of the way until I'd settled in Beacon Hills and built up my reputation. I mean, the moment that I give them the order that they dispose of you, the abandon you in the woods. I had meant that they, I don't know, throw you off a pier or something at the other end of the country, or at least in another state…they didn't even take you out of the county, but they were punished for their mistakes…nice shallow graves out in the desert where the coyotes could pick them of bit by bit until there was nothing left but chewed bones and coyote shit. They were lucky that I killed them first; my initial plan was to paralyze them somehow and leave them out there until they died of dehydration, but I didn't want someone finding them, and then risking them blabbing their mouths about my plan. Still, at least killing them meant that I didn't have to pay them, so there was that upside. Paying them to keep you with them would have been a costly exercise, although they told me that once they'd beaten you up numerous times you learned to keep that little mouth of yours shut. I didn't care about what they did to you, as long as they held off on killing you until I knew that my rouse with your brother was successful. I only needed one of you to enact my revenge, after all, and my plans with your brother had worked out so well, better than I even hoped. The people in this town were so willing to believe the sob story that we fed them…it was pathetic."

As he spoke David struck Stiles with the belt repeatedly in the back, sides and stomach, the pain lancing through Stiles' body as he tried to fight the tears that were rolling down his cheeks, not from the pain, but from David Whittemore's words.

For all of his life Stiles had wondered about the events that had lead to him being abandoned in the woods as a baby. When he'd been younger he'd tried to remember something…anything from before he was found, but he'd never gotten very far. The most he'd ever gotten was a woman's voice, gunshots, and being frightened. Stiles hadn't ever known if they were real, or if he'd just imagined the memories up after reading Harry Potter or something and putting his own twist on it, and as he'd gotten older the memories had faded even more. It sounded like; however, David Whittemore knew far more about Stiles' past than anyone else Stiles had met.

"I suppose I should be grateful I chose to keep your brother, and not you. I thought that the bigger, stronger one of the two of you would be a better prize, and when I started hearing about how intelligent you were, even in preschool, I began to think that it was a wise move on my behalf. It wouldn't have been right if you had figured everything out and raised the alarm before I was ready. As it was Jackson never had the intellect required for that kind of thinking, and he was far too busy focusing on how much he hated everyone," David Whittemore laughed, "The little idiot didn't even realize he was adopted until I left the paperwork out on the kitchen table, right where he usually sat. I mean, your grandfather was one of the most intelligent men I've ever known, despite his being a ruthless bastard who only ever cared for himself, I had thought that maybe his only grandchildren would inherit his intelligence. I was only half right, it seems."

Stiles had long ago stopped listening to David Whittemore's rambling. His brother…he and Jackson were brothers? What the hell? That didn't even make sense. They looked nothing alike; they had absolutely nothing in common except for having a thing for Lydia and the fact they'd both been adopted at a young age. Jackson was strong, muscular, popular, a jerk, blonde and blue eyed. Stiles, in contrast, was skinny, with little to no muscle, socially inept, hyperactive, brunette and amber eyed. Stiles knew that yes, he was quite often a jerk to those around him as well, he wasn't denying that fact, but he was nowhere as bad as Jackson was.

Jackson…the same kid who had made Scott and Stiles' lives hell since the first grade, relishing in making them feel bad. Jackson, who had stolen Scott's inhaler and dunked Stiles' head in the toilet on the very first day of junior high, who had pushed Stiles into more lockers than he could ever keep track off.

In fact, Stiles could only recall one time, ever, when Jackson had ever behaved towards him with any hint of genuine kindness or empathy, and that had been just after Stiles' mother had died. Jackson seemed to respect the fact that Stiles' mother was dead, and he'd never once taunted Stiles about it. He'd even gone so far as to have a go at some other kids who thought it would be funny to tease Stiles about how his mother had literally gone insane a few weeks after Stiles' mother had died, leaving the kids in question with black eyes and bleeding noses, threatening Stiles that if he ever told anyone about what happened he would get exactly the same treatment.

It was also true that Jackson had never teased Stiles about being adopted, even before he'd learned that he himself was adopted. Although none of Stiles' classmates were old enough to remember the news about the baby boy that had been found close to death in the woods and who had been later adopted by deputy Stilinski and his wife, their parents and older siblings remembered. It had been a big deal at the time, and Stiles had grown up with strangers coming up to him, cooing at how adorable he was, and telling his parents how good it was that they had taken him in, how good a job they were doing, and expressing their heartfelt hopes that the bastard responsible for hurting such a sweet boy would get caught. Co-incidentally, almost all of Stiles' classmates had known quite a bit about his past before they'd actually met him, thanks to the stories they were told by their parents and older siblings, and while some of his classmates had made snide comments about it over the years, Jackson hadn't been one of them.

Things between Stiles and Jackson hadn't improved much since Jackson had become a werewolf. Stiles knew full well the type of issues Scott had gone through in his first few weeks as a werewolf, and knew that Jackson would be having just as much trouble, if not more. Knowing Jackson's notorious anger issues, Stiles had tried to steer clear of Derek's pack as much as possible.

Judging from what David Whittemore was saying, and his tone of voice when he was talking about Jackson, Stiles wasn't actually overly surprised that Jackson had issues. It was obvious to Stiles that David didn't give a damn about the kid he'd brought up, and Louise didn't seem to be any better. It was no wonder that Jackson didn't tell his parents that he loved them. There was absolutely no love in that whole household, except for between David and Louise.

It was enough to make Stiles feel a bit guilty for how he'd treated Jackson over the years, but he pushed those emotions aside as he refocused on the fact that, apparently he and Jackson were brothers.

Focusing on trying to process the news, however, was made much more difficult by the fact that David Whittemore hadn't stopped his attack on Stiles' back, chest, and arms. He'd switched from using the belt, to beating Stiles with the electrical cord, and then with the golf club. Blood was running freely down Stiles' back, and Stiles had both heard and felt the distinctive crack when the golf club had connected with his already bruised side, as his ribs, already cracked and bruised from his run in with Gerard Argent, broke completely. Stiles took shallow breaths, trying to avoid jostling his chest too much. He knew that if he got hit too many places in one of the spots where his ribs had already broken, then it was highly possibly one of the bone fragments might puncture his lung…and that would be the end of him.

Stiles wondered what David and his wife would do with his body once he was dead…leave him in the same woods he was left in all those years ago? Maybe they'd take him away from Beacon hills, throw his body into the ocean, leave it in a car and set the whole thing alight, or something like that, so it would be longer before his remains were found and identified, giving more time for any evidence to be compromised, and allowing them more time to run and get away.

In reality Stiles didn't really care what they did, as long as it wasn't his dad that found him. Stiles' dad had been through enough in the last few years because of Stiles without adding finding the beaten body of his adopted son to the list. A shudder ran down Stiles' back, making his ribs scream in pain, and the wounds on his back begin bleeding again as the movement jostles his injuries, as he thought about how his father would cope with his death. Stiles had seen first had the downward spiral his father had started on after Stiles mother died, but he'd managed to pull himself together, for the most part, for Stiles' sake, not that Stiles had really given him much choice in the matter.

Now though, there wouldn't be anyone to do the same. His dad would be alone in the world, and there wouldn't be anyone to hold him back and save him from his own demons not to mention all of the others that would be affected if he died. He thought of Scott, who would admittedly struggle at first without Stiles, but would probably be ok in the long run between Isaac, Allison, and Derek and his pack. Lydia had Jackson; Derek had his pack, and would probably be grateful that Stiles was dead, as would Isaac and Boyd. Erica, maybe, might be a little upset, but she'd get over it with Boyd and her own werewolf powers to distract her. Melissa McCall would probably be upset, but again, Stiles knew that he annoyed her quite a bit over the years, she'd probably be glad that Scott was now no longer being influenced by Stiles' infamous bad behavior.

Reflecting on his behavior in the past, and the damage it had inflicted on his relationship with his dad, who was probably the only one who would genuinely miss Stiles if Stiles didn't make it out of this, and even then Stiles wondered if his father would feel a sense of relief, knowing that Stiles couldn't do anything that would once again endanger his position of Sherriff…that he would have to live with 'a hyperactive little bastard that kept ruining his life'. At least if he was killed by the Whittemores Stiles couldn't hurt his father any more.

It was actually a very depressing thought, and Stiles' breathing hitched painfully as his eyes well with unshed tears as he realized how inconsequential his death would be. Not for the first time he wished his mother was still alive, there to smooth things out between Stiles and his dad with a smile, and a few softly spoken words of trust and love, just like how she used to before she got sick.

A particularly hard swing of the golf club to his shoulder made Stiles gasp, the blow a painful reminder of another time when that same shoulder had been left battered and bruised. Those bruises had been caused by Stiles falling onto the concrete rooftop of Beacon Hills memorial hospital the night his mother had attacked him, diving at him and shoving him to the ground, striking and scratching at his face and chest, clawing at him as Stiles' dad had tried to pull her away from him as she screamed that Stiles was killing her. Even though he'd been only eight at the time, Stiles had known logically, that she was only saying things like that because she was sick…that she didn't recognize him as her son anymore, but it had still hurt like hell.

None of the psychologists his dad had tried to get him to open up to had really been able to do anything to ease the way Stiles blamed himself for everything that had happened to his mother and the pain he felt at how the once close bond between them had been shattered apart.

There was a part of Stiles that had been grateful when Claudia had finally died. It meant that she wasn't suffering anymore, that she wouldn't be scared anymore. He remembered the night she had died, sneaking into her hospital room and sitting by her bed, holding her hand. She'd been awake, but her body was far too weak for her to do anything more than look wearily at him. Stiles had even been fairly sure that she hadn't been frightened of him that night, although he wouldn't go as far to say that his mother recognized him. The dementia had robbed her of all memories of the baby boy, abandoned in the woods, that she and her husband had taken into their home and promised to love and protect.

Stiles blinked, tears running down his cheeks freely, as he remembered how his mother had fallen asleep that night, a small smile on her face, as if shed known her suffering was over. Her breathing had become slower and slower, until eventually it stopped all together, and the monitors had all started screaming.

The rest of Stiles' memories from that night were hazy, but he did clearly remember how his father had cried, clinging to Melissa as he was told that Claudia was gone, how he'd wrapped his arms around Stiles tightly and held him, rocking gently as he whispered comforting words into Stiles' ear, how Stiles had gone into a panic attack when a doctor had tried to get his dad to leave Stiles' side in order to fill out some paperwork.

It was only when Stiles' legs collapsed beneath his weight and he hit the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him did Stiles realize that David Whittemore had stopped, and the rope that had been holding Stiles upright, the rope his arms had been tied to had been untied. David and Louise Whittemore were looking down at him scornfully, and Stiles realized that he must have passed out.

"There's no sense in beating you someone when they're not awake to be aware of it," David observed, a sadistic pout on his face, "although I do regret not filming out little session…no doubt your granddaddy would love to see his youngest grandchild beaten and tortured. I've heard that he likes that kind of thing…he tried to kill an entire neighborhood once after all. He tried to bring down their homes, their buildings, the places they worked, all of it, down on their heads. Do you know how many people he killed that day…how much blood is on his hands? 503 people, Mr Stilinski, including his own son? It was no surprise when Jackson became a bully at an early age…it's in his blood after all…yours as well, I'd wager. For the moment though we'll pause in proceedings, there are some things I need to attend to, you are not my only priority. "

Blearily, Stiles thought of Jackson, and of the message he'd received from Isaac as he was roughly grabbed, his already strained and sore shoulders protesting loudly as David dragged Stiles back into the chair he'd originally been tied to using Stiles' arms with a surprising amount of strength.

It didn't take long for David and Louise to tie Stiles up securely in the chair, his legs tied to the chair legs, and his arms secured tightly with both rope and tape around the back of the chair. Louise Whittemore ripped the electrical tape from Stiles' mouth, and Stiles' eye watered in pain at the burning the tape's removal caused.

"If you're looking for Jackson, you're never going to find him," Stiles gritted out, "He's in a place where he'll be safe from you and your psychopathic ranting. You're nuts, you know that, absolutely fu…"

Stiles' words were cut off by the hard punch to the face that snapped his head to the side, sending shooting pain along his jaw and down his neck as the chair rocked dangerously, threatening to tip over.

"Shut up," David Whittemore hissed, his face mere inches from Stiles' own, his eyes gleaming dangerously in a way that vividly reminded Stiles of Peter Hale the night of winter formal. For a moment Stiles briefly considered the possibility of David Whittemore being an Alpha werewolf, but he doubted it. Instead he spat out a mouthful of blood from his split lip, and the cut to his tongue caused by the punch. It joined the rest of the bloodstains on the carpet of the office floor, all of which had been created by Stiles and his injuries, many of which were still sluggishly bleeding. Stiles was no doctor, but he guessed that, although the injuries hurt a lot, and would probably get infected, he was in no real danger of bleeding out externally, as long as he got medical assistance fairly soon…which seemed unlikely.

"You better put some thought into what the last thing to come out of your little smart mouth is going to be, brat," David continued, "because when we get back it's going to be in order to kill you, and make sure the jobs done properly this time. I wonder what daddy dearest the Sherriff is going to say when he sees your body. We'll even be nice and leave you exactly where we found you, I promise, right next to that shit box you call a car. If it was me, I'd be grateful that the little hyperactive bastard was dead, but your daddy's always been a weak kind of man…no wonder he and your mother got on so well.

Stiles lurched forward, his eyes blazing with anger.

"Don't you dare mention my mom, you asshole. She's twice the person you'll ever be."

"Be sure to pass that thought on to her when you see her next…which I imagine will be soon. Don't you go anywhere," David Whittemore laughed, stepping back from the chair where Stiles had been restrained, and turning his back on the captive teenager as Louse applied a fresh piece of tape over Stiles' mouth, preventing him from making any noise in their absence. Stiles watched as they gathered their things and started to leave, when he caught sight of flashing blue and red lights in the distance, approaching the office quickly.

Stiles couldn't help but smirk beneath the tape as David and Louise ducked out of sight, although Stiles guessed that, unless Jackson had talked to the police, or Scott had noticed that Stiles had failed to arrive at Derek's house and raised the alarm, no-one would have realized that anything was wrong. His father wasn't due to come off his shift for at least another three hours, and the fact that one of the cars was using their lights and travelling at speed, indicated it would be even later.

The car passed the office without even slowing down, and David and Louise visibly relaxed, shooting nervous looks at one another, before they both glared at Stiles, whose amusement was obviously showing, even with the tape covering his mouth. Angrily David seized a bottle of port from a shelf beside the door and threw it at Stiles, who ducked and flinched away as the bottle went high and broke on the paneled wall behind him, the alcohol remaining in the bottle, as well as the broken remains of the bottle falling on him, and on the carpet around him. One of the pieces of glass left a shallow cut on Stiles' shoulder but otherwise he wasn't injured.

Which was lucky, because only scant seconds later the office door slammed and Stiles was alone in the room. He waited a couple of seconds before he heard the Whittemores exit out the main door and leave the building. He let out a hitched sob as he let the implications of David Whittemore's words sink in.

He couldn't put his father through that. His dad didn't have anyone else. He needed Stiles to take care of him. Stiles had to be there to make sure his dad wasn't drinking too much, and that he wasn't cheating on his diet, and he went to his regularly check up to make sure his cholesterol level wasn't getting too high. If Stiles was killed and left for dead at the front of his home he wouldn't be able to make sure his father looked after himself, and, in fact, Stiles was pretty sure that his father wouldn't take good care of himself.

It was enough encouragement that Stiles began looking around the room for a way to escape. The weapons were gone, taken by the Whittemores, although Stiles was still tied to the chair, so he doubted they would have done him much good anyway.

He tried struggling out of his bonds, hoping that he could work a knot loose, or something like that, but all he did was make his arms sore, and irritate the rope burns around his wrists. Stiles huffed and tilted his head backwards, resting it against the back of the chair, wishing that his body would stop hurting and allow him to focus on escaping…on getting back to his dad.

Out of the corner of his eyes Stiles saw something glint, reflecting the moonlight that was shining through a crack in the curtain, and he turned his head towards it curiously, eyes narrowing as he realized it was a piece of broken glass, the edge sharp and jagged, lying on the carpet, one of the many pieces of glass that littered the floor after David Whittemore had thrown the bottle. Stiles felt a smirk cross his face as he remembered all of the times he and his dad had watched Air Force One together, as it was one of his dad's favorite movies.

It would hurt, and Stiles was bound to end up more severely injured, but anything would be better than staying here and doing nothing, and waiting for David and Louise to come back and kill him, before they left his body on his front lawn for his father to find.