Hey! Thank you for putting up with all the angst (since they seem to have Season 3B amnesia for the 1st3 episodes – WHY?).

I was asked if I'd consider doing a Prequel to this story – covering the five months that Stiles was gone and what happened at Haven. To be honest, I never even considered it until you mentioned it. If that's something you all would be interested in, I'm sure I could be persuaded… haha! I do have that other, completely Not-Canon idea of what I thought would be fun, taking a different turn about what happened with the Calaveras in Mexico, but I'm still debating that one.

Also – the reason this took so long is I just COULDN'T figure out how to connect these 2 parts and it just came to me! Yay!

Enough chatter, right? Let's carry on! This one has more explanation of foreshadowing from an earlier chapter!

Chapter 13

Deserving to Live

It took him three nights to finally fall asleep from exhaustion.

Stiles didn't take to having four roommates very well, learning that these people loathed werewolves, or that his pillow was far away in Beacon Hills. He didn't know how to be a human anymore – that was something that he was too afraid to say to anyone.

The fact is, he didn't feel human. He felt used and betrayed, guilty and depressed, angry and murderous. He doesn't know how one person can feel all those things and still be okay, so he concludes that he is not, in fact, okay. Maybe he's not a human anymore. Is that a thing? Would he be described as a 'Nogitsune Vessel?'

He taps against the metal bars of his bunk bed, the steady hum comforting in the strange place. He misses home. He misses home more than he should. But the sad thing is Stiles gets it – he gets why his father sent him away and why he's here, trying to learn from his attempted… whatever. But he misses his father and Scott and Lydia and hell, he even misses Isaac.

Those words he yelled at them…

Stiles blinks away a few tears, sniffing in some weird attempt to hide his crying from the darkness. "Hey!" Someone shouts from above him and reminds Stiles that, while he may be alone emotionally, he definitely isn't physically. "Some of us are trying to sleep here! We've got disembowelment techniques in the morning."

Stiles winces into his pillow, his long fingers curling around the cloth. Disembowelment training. He's certain that's just as nasty as it sounds.

He presses his face against the clinic's pillow and it smells nothing like the Stilinski household. He can't smell the crappy generic laundry detergent his father used to buy. He can't smell his dad at all.

All he can smell is disinfectant.

But, luckily, exhaustion comes to take him to the realm of sleep. He hopes his dreams will allow him pretend he is someone deserving of the family and friends he has.

His nightmares say otherwise.

XXX

It's weirdly quiet now that Kate's dead.

Logically, it shouldn't be. She was one person in a room of only ten. But the Sheriff leans over his dying son and suddenly everything seems to go mute. He wonders if he should feel bad for the woman, but he can't bring himself to do so. Maybe, in a perfect world, all death would be grieved.

But it is not a perfect world.

"Now, let's get started!" Frank claps his hands together and the noise seems to explode the area. The Sheriff winces, but he returns his attention back to Stiles, whose entire body has slackened. His chest is rising, but it's jerkier and slower than it has been.

He doesn't know what to do. He's the Sheriff and he should have a plan. It's practically in his job description. He's supposed to always have a plan. If he doesn't have a plan, people die. And right now? Right now his son is dying. And there's a massive possibility that everyone in the room will.

Frank takes a few steps over to the Sheriff and Stiles, the Sheriff not thinking for a moment and removing his hands from Stiles' bleeding arms and unholstering his weapon. "Stop right there," he warns. "I know that you may be some semi-immortal hunter or whatever, but I'm pretty sure that bullets will do the trick."

Frank merely smirks, nodding at the free-flowing blood at Stiles wrists and the Sheriff falters.

As if she reads his mind, Lydia rushes over to the table and grabs both sides of Stiles, blood peeking through her fingers. She screws her face into one of horror, but to her credit, she stays there, Stiles' blood under her palms. The Sheriff looks at his son one last time, wondering if he trusts this red head enough to keep his son alive, but there's no other option at this point.

The Sheriff hops down off of the stone table, never removing his eyesight from the man threatening everyone who was important to him. He backs up a bit, if only to keep both of the Lamonts in his sight. This needs to end tonight.

He should've listened to his instincts. Everything was saying that he shouldn't send Stiles to a clinic he knew nothing about. But he genuinely thought that Deaton would be a better person to ask. He barely knew anything about the supernatural. And just when he thought there couldn't be anything more to learn – then freaking werejaguars exist!

Pam Lamont chuckles. "Our plight is not with you, Sheriff. If you want to take yourself and the redhead out of the area and live, we'll be more than happy to allow you two to live."

"Actually, I'm a banshee." Lydia says, tightening her arms around Stiles.

"Lydia!" Scott hisses, his eyes widening.

She merely tilts her head in defiance, staring the two hunters down.

"Oh, well," Pam says, her eyebrows lifting. "In that case, please stay. I'd hate it if you missed all the fun."

"How do you justify it?" The Sheriff shouts, his hands as steady as ever. "You're surrounded by teenagers and you're planning on killing them. Teenagers. And that means nothing to you?"

"You want to talk about murder?" Frank says with a slow grin. His gaze flits over to where Stiles is stilling, his eyes growing glazed and distant. "Has Stiles ever talked about the night before we let him go?"

"No."

The word is so quick and harsh, the Sheriff isn't even sure he heard it. Lydia – who's taken his spot bending over his son – glared at the Lamonts. When everyone turns toward her, her stare is unrelenting. "No."

Frank lifts an eyebrow. "I'm surprised. With how much he cried, I figured he'd take that story to his grave. Which, incidentally, looks like that's today." Frank moves around, twirling a nasty-looking contraption in his hands. "Do you know what's interesting about werewolf physiology? If you know enough about it, you can manipulate it. Similar to the pull of a full moon – except worse."

He lifts the device in the air and presses a button, a high-pitched wailing noise coming from it. It rings throughout the room, echoing from every corner. The Sheriff can't help but crouch down and cover his ears. When he returns to a standing position, nothing's different.

Except…

All the wolves are growling. The Sheriff takes a step closer to Stiles and Lydia, the gun in his hand finally shaking. Allison runs over, drawing an arrow in her bow as the wolves writhe on the ground. Their eyes are changing color and the Sheriff can see their teeth peeking from their lips. "What did you do?" Allison cries, her eyes wide.

"I'm disappointed in you, Allison. As a hunter, you should know there's a special kind of wolfsbane that can simulate the full moon." Frank clicks his tongue. "It's the exact same kind of wolfsbane that we used to make Stiles kill his first wolf."

The Sheriff flinches as that, casting a glance over at Lydia. Her eyes are fierce. The story is probably as horrific as he's playing in his head.

"You see, we won't even have to lift a finger," Pam says with a smirk. "You're going to do the killing for us. And when the wolves inevitably rip you limb from limb, we'll have no other choice than to step in and kill them. We'll be just doing our civic duty."

The Sheriff pales, watching as the wolves stand, their fangs and claws all visible. They turn toward where he, Stiles, Lydia, and Allison are, their eyes hungry and wild. "Scott," he says, pleading, the gun in his hand now feeling foreign and heavy. "Scott, listen to me. I know you're in there. I know you are."

Scott merely growls in return.

Then he breaks in a sprint toward the Sheriff, his claws poised for attack. But when he's about to tackle the Sheriff, a flash of metal swipes across his view. Kira jumps in front of the two, the base of her katana smacking Scott in the face. Scott howls and stumbles back, his nose bleeding down his chin.

"W-What?" The Sheriff stammers as the teen marches over to them.

"I'm not a wolf," Kira says with a smirk. "The moon has no pull on me."

She then brings the katana over her head, her gaze fierce.

Frank claps his hands together. "This is so much more fun than I thought! Supernatural against supernatural!" He turns to his sister. "It almost makes making a deal with a werejaguar worth it." He nudges Kate's dead body as he says so.

"Scott," The Sheriff pleads again once the True Alpha gets back to his feet. Derek, Isaac, and Malia all flank his side, their eyes terrifying. "Please, snap out of it. Come on, this isn't you."

He receives a howl as an answer.

"It's no use!" Allison cries, her bow shaking as she takes her aim. "They can't hear you over that stupid machine!"

"Kill or be killed!" Pam Lamont laughs wildly. "Stiles should know all about this!"

The Sheriff couldn't believe this. His gun is pointed at a bunch of teenagers. One of which he's been through everything with. Lacrosse, his father leaving, bullies, supernatural – more than most family, let alone fathers of best friends. He stares at Scott's blood-red eyes and his veins chill.

He can't do it. He can't kill this boy.

The wolves crouch down in a defensive position, the growls growing louder. Then in a swift movement, they leap in the air toward them, sprinting toward the humans. Before Scott can reach toward Kira's throat, an arrow pierces his leg. He lets out a howl as Allison lets out a whimper. She stares at the bow in her hand.

"Oh my God," she whispers, her gaze falling on Stiles. "I didn't think that would actually work! Lydia! Make Stiles talk! Keep him awake – I'm becoming too real!"

Lydia stares at her best friend, tears clouding her vision. She sees the arrow imbedded in Scott's shin, the blood and wood all too real. Without thinking about the implications, Lydia squeezes Stiles' forearms. "Stiles! Stiles, listen to me! Look at me, look at me you stupid idiot!"

Stiles' head lolls from side to side, but he manages to straighten it and barely open his eye lids. "Yes, yes good! Good Stiles! Keep looking at me, okay? Keep looking at me!"

"I 'lways wan' to…" he slurs out and his eyelids flutter shut once more. "'ow do I kn'w this 's r-real?"

"Stiles, stop it! Look at me!" Lydia shouts.

There's a sickening crunch and Lydia's attention is torn away from the dying teenager. She cries out when she sees Kira thrown across the room by Isaac, her head smacking against the concrete wall. The katana makes a sound as it clatters far away, Kira in a crumpled, unconscious heap on the floor. "Oh my God," she breathes.

The Sheriff raises his gun once more, but it quivers in his hands as the wolves descend on him. Scott brings back his claws, his eyes blank toward any emotion for this man. Raising his hand high in the air, he swings down, swiping across the man's chest.

"NO!" Lydia shrieks as the Sheriff crumples onto the ground, his arm wrapped around his abdomen. Blood seeps from his uniform.

The wolves turn their attention to her.

"Scott! Derek! Stop, please!" Lydia cries, unmoving from her spot. She knows if she lets go of Stiles wrists, he dies. If she doesn't, she dies.

A horrible choice was never so simple.

"Scott, please," she sobs, bringing her head down to Stiles' chest, burying in it. She can't help the weeps coming from her, shaking as she keeps her fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Please don't do this. W-We're your friends. W-We're your pack."

A shot rings out.

Scott stops his approach.

His eyes are wide, his hands frozen in their attack position. Blood seeps from his front, seeping through his t-shirt. Lydia's eyes widen as he falters, falling to his knees.

From his seated, injured state, the Sheriff has his gun pointed at where Scott is falling, tears filling his eyes. The gun falls from his grip, the Sheriff's eyes growing distant as his head falls to the ground.

Scott's eyes flicker.

Derek, Isaac, and Malia take one look at their fallen Alpha, and then back at Lydia and Stiles. Their growling becomes more feral, their eyes sharper. They crouch down, ready to pounce.

Twang.

Allison's bow makes its familiar and painful sound, Lydia squeezing her eyes shut, not wanting to know which wolf has fallen next.

Twang.

"Allison, please!" Lydia cries out, but she doesn't know what she's pleading.

It's just too much. Too much pain and suffering. Too much death.

Too much.

"L-Lydia?"

That's not Allison's voice.

It's Isaac's.

Whipping her head up, she sees all the wolves staring at their claws, their eyes flickering back to normal color. She searches the room for the casualties, but everyone's standing. Except…

The Lamonts.

The two people are on the ground, arrows buried in their chests. The contraption is on the ground a few feet away.

"W-What happened?" Isaac asks, shaking his head.

"S-Scott?" Malia manages, grabbing her head as she falls to her knees.

"Sheriff?"

"Kira!"

Lydia feels it.

The room smells like death.

She feels a scream bubbling in her throat. Except there's something different about this one. It's stronger, more powerful.

It's for more than one person.

She looks at the Lamonts lying on the ground, the cement floor stained with their blood. Kira lying in a crumpled heap in the corner. Scott collapsed at the foot of the table. The Sheriff still on the floor. Stiles…

"Stiles!" She cries.

The teen is still on the table, his face pale. His chest unmoving. "Stiles!" Lydia cries, the last syllable catching. The scent of death is too strong, too forceful.

"How do I know this is real?"

His words echo in her head and she grips his arms even tighter, sobs curling up her chest like a snake. "S-Stiles, please! Please don't do this! Don't leave me too!"

"I read something somewhere that demons aren't musically inclined."

Lydia lifts her head up to peers at the still boy. "I-I'll prove to you that this is real." She chokes out, praying that he could hear her. That he has to be able to hear her. She swallows, trying to tuck the scream further down her throat.

Except no profound, moving song came to her. Nothing that would shift worlds and bring back the dead. Just a simple, stupid song that her mother used to sing to her when she was afraid of the dark. A simple, stupid lullaby.

"Y-You are my sunshine," Lydia chokes out, wincing at the ridiculousness of the entire situation, but she's past the point of caring anymore. "M-My only s-sunshine. You m-make me happy, w-when skies are g-grey."

Lydia can't help as a few sobs escape her throat. People are screaming. Derek's saying something about the Sheriff and Isaac's screaming about Scott. Allison's over where Kira is, shaking her gently, but as far as Lydia can tell through her tear-filled eyes, she's unmoving.

"Y-You'll never know d-dear, how much I—" Lydia stumbles, her sobs louder. "—h-how much I… h-how much I l-love you."

Lydia brings her head down to his chest, no sound to be heard. She buries her face in the folds of her shirt, tighter and stronger than the day she saw Aiden pass. Than when she clutched him after Allison's death.

"S-So please don't t-take… m-my sunshine…"

She can't hold it in anymore. The smell of death is too powerful and the call to scream is too strong. She opens her mouth and shrieks, the sound ringing louder than the Lamont contraption, louder than the weight of the silence from the unconscious members of pack.

Louder because it was meant for more than one person.

"…a-away."

A/N: …so, yeah. I tried foreshadowing a bunch of this (the crazy wolf that Stiles killed and the music thing), but I will admit, this chapter kinda got away from me. It was a little more intense/violent than I originally planned.

If you have a moment, I'd love a note or review. Much love!