Author's Notes: I wanted to get some things out before the new season starts, so these are just some unrelated, stand alone drabbles I've accumulated. Some humor, some angst, lots of hurt/comfort. Most will contain Pack-ness, Sterek, Pre-Sterek, and Bromance of Scott and Stiles.

Summary: Stiles always puts everything into protecting the pack. They know it, they don't have to like it. Especially his father.

Or

The Nemeton and Void left Stiles with a way to help them all. But everything has a price. The Sheriff watches Stiles willingly pay that price again and again.

10 (Carry)

The Sheriff curses in his head, tongue stilled by the disorientation of waking to the feeling of wrong. Something in his head spins with 'wrong', 'hurry', as he rushes into his son's room. He still manages to make a sound like he's been punched in the gut when he sees Stiles, pale and bleeding on the floor, leaning back against his bed.

A vicious flash of anger strikes through the man that the pack isn't somehow magically here when Stiles is hurt. It disappears quickly though. They're not here because Stiles made sure they wouldn't be. They would have stopped the teen from doing this. They always try to.

Stiles weaves around them, slips between their grasping fingers and constant, truthful words; they don't blame him, it wasn't his fault, he doesn't have to help like this, it's killing him, Stiles, stop, they can't lose him too. Please, Stopstopstop.

He doesn't believe them. He tears himself apart trying to atone. They run themselves to the ground trying to save him.

"It's okay. It's okay." The Sheriff kneels, collapses, next to his son, hands hovering for too long, not knowing how to help, how not to hurt.

"'s not..." Stiles slurs a bit breathlessly. He struggles to tilt his head forward from where it's resting against his bed, but thunks back solidly, too heavy for him to hold up right now. "Not...what you think-"

But the Sheriff is already shushing him, mindless noises from a time when words were all it took to soothe his kid.

"I know. I know." He tells Stiles hurriedly, concentrating on keeping his voice calm. With too little effort, John pulls his son's lax fingers free of the towel he's pressing to his forearm. The man lifts the edge of it and curses when red wells immediately, spills over. He grabs one of Stiles' shirts from the floor nearby and presses that on top of the sodden towel, pushing down hard and wincing when Stiles doesn't. "That damn tree and that demon. I talked to Deaton and Scott. Found something in you and twisted it."

Deaton's grim face and Scott's wide, shiny eyes, like he couldn't take one more blow. One more loss. 'Everything has a price'. The pack watched Stiles and John didn't tell his son he knew. He was their inside man, another line of defense that Stiles would, hopefully, be less able to avoid. Less able to get around without suspicion when they were trying to protect him from himself.

The Sheriff stuck close to Stiles when the pack couldn't. Closer when they were worried. Yet he'd still managed to pivot and sprint around them. Too damn smart. Too desperate.

"I know, Stiles. Don't move."

"Have to. Only way." The Sheriff shivers, not able to tell if Stiles has heard him at all. "If...if I see it, they don't get hurt."

He grabs Stiles' face, his son's own blood smearing his cheeks as John wipes his thumb under Stiles' bruised-black eyes.

"I know. It's okay. They're safe. I know about the visions, the warnings. Just-" he licks his lips, disguises the crack in his voice. "Stay awake for me, kid, okay? Stay with me."

"Sorry..." Stiles whispers tiredly. "Be okay. Sorry."

Stiles manages to focus his eyes on his father and it's the most awful, gut wrenching, pride-educing thing John has ever seen. Suffering this to protect his friends, family, pack. Feeling his mind give and break and keeping on anyway; slicing himself open to help them, to further the visions that were already taking every bit of strength Stiles had.

Stiles is so strong and it makes John feel so weak.

"Gonna get you patched up. I need you to talk to me, okay?" He using leading words, prompting answers purposefully. If Stiles thinks his father needs information from him, he's more likely to hold onto consciousness. "I'm gonna fix this, Stiles."

And he is. He's going to pull Stiles up, carry the teenager just as he had when Stiles had been a child; clean him up, maybe take a trip to Deaton's if the damage is too bad. He's going to fix it, every little bit that he still has the power to. Because he can heal Stiles' wounds, soothe the pain with pills and praise, but he knows there are other things, worse things he can't reach. He can't fix Stiles' mind, undo the damage that's been wrought, is continuing to accumulate.

The Sheriff puts his hand around the back of Stiles' neck, feeling the vertebrae far too clearly. He tilts the teen's face forward, making sure Stiles' eyes are focused on his father, that Stiles is there with him and not drifting off wherever these episodes tend to take him.

"I've got you. I'm going to fix this, son."

Sometimes he will. Sometimes it'll be Scott. Or Derek. Attempting to pull Stiles back together, to protect him while he protects them, falls apart piece by piece to try and stop them from having to.

Sometimes, they all might be too late.

It's a thought the Sheriff can't bear to dwell on.

For now, he can fix this.