Chapter Twenty-One: Armageddon

Stiles felt the speed of the bullet as it whizzed over his head and lodged into Pierce's brain. Outside the room, people started screaming. The vampire staggered back a step under the impact, but did not release his hold on Stiles. The wound was gaping and gory. Sheriff Stilinski paused only a fraction of a second, assessing the damage the bullet had caused, and then advanced, emptying his entire clip into the vampire's face. Around Stiles, the room exploded with thunder and the stench of gun powder. He tried to remain as still as possible, so he wouldn't accidentally be hit.

Stiles could feel bits of flesh splattering onto the back of his neck as Pierce's face was destroyed. He didn't dare look up. He stared at his father, his hard eyes and steady movements. Emerging from a cloud of smoke like an action hero. Man, his dad was a bad-ass.

Pierce's face was a mess of bloody, shapeless pulp. He stumbled backward, unable to hold himself upright under the steady stream of gunfire. The bullets wouldn't injure him, but the mutilation of his face was irritating and uncomfortable. He could feel bits of tissue rupturing and gushing. Felt his teeth and bone shatter. He temporarily lost his vision. He couldn't help but loosen his grip on Stiles.

Stiles teetered forward, falling face first toward the floor. Sheriff Stilinski's arm shot out and caught him. He unceremoniously dragged Stiles away from Pierce and shoved his son behind him. Stiles collapsed onto the floor, cowering behind his father's legs and the end of the bed. The sheriff tossed his gun aside, and extracted the bowie knife he had sheathed on his left side. In California, it was legal to carry an unconcealed knife, and the sheriff had capitalized on this law – carrying his old hunting knife at his side – since he learned a vampire was stalking around Beacon Hills. It wasn't a traditional wooden stake, but the blade felt heavy and familiar in his hand.

Pierce slowly raised his head. A strangled and gurgled sound emerged from this throat. He looked straight at the sheriff, and Stilinski watched as his flesh healed itself around the bullets, his eyes growing back into their sockets, teeth reappearing and straightening. It was a scene from his most horrific childhood nightmares, almost throwing him off his guard. But the murderous look in the vampire's eyes snapped him out of his repulsion.

Pierce was pissed.

Sheriff Stilinski gripped his knife in his right hand, raised it high, and lunged at Pierce. At the same time, the agent released a fearsome growl and pounced on the sheriff. Stilinski's blade missed its intended target – the heart – and scratched Pierce's upper arm. Pierce's shoulder drove into Sheriff Stilinski with all the force of a speeding train. He staggered back, breathless. He could tell his collarbone had fractured. He gritted his teeth and slashed the air with his knife. Pierce easily dodged and chopped down on the sheriff's arm. The blade dropped from his grasp and clattered to the floor.

Miraculously, Sheriff Stilinski was able to miss Pierce's next hit. An uppercut aimed at his jaw that would have given him brain damage. At his feet, Stiles was trying not to get trampled, curling into a ball to make himself as small as possible.

Sheriff Stilinski was unarmed. He had a stun gun, but considering the uselessness of his bullets, he doubted it would work. There was nothing within his reach. He knew he had to keep Stiles safe, no matter what it took. Pierce charged him. Sheriff Stilinski met the attack, desperately throwing himself at the agent. They grappled with each other, and in a fair fight they would have been equally matched. But Pierce had the supernatural advantage of inhuman strength, speed, and reflexes. He effortlessly flung the sheriff to the ground.

Then Pierce was on top of him. Sheriff Stilinski stared up at the familiar face, distorted in wrath and hunger, eyes as red and fiery as Satan himself, fangs sharp and loaded, and time seemed to stop. The world blurred and became irrelevant. In that split-second, the sheriff felt detached and indifferent. He couldn't believe this was real life, his life. He couldn't possibly have gone from defending his son from the make-believe monsters under his bed to fighting a vampire to the death. It was too absurd.

Something akin to reluctance and pity flashed briefly across Pierce's face, and Stilinski recognized the man who had existed before the monster.

Then Pierce sank his teeth into Sheriff Stilinski's shoulder. Pain he hadn't known was possible flooded his entire body. Simultaneously biting cold and burning hot. Fire incinerating his veins. Sheriff Stilinski had been shot before, had known the agony of metal ripping through his flesh – that was nothing compared to this. He could feel Pierce's teeth inside him, could feel his blood being sucked out and replaced with poison. He thought he must be in hell. Death couldn't be worse than this.

Screams filled the room, but he was too consumed in suffering to recognize the voice as his own.

"Dad!" Tears streamed down Stiles' cheeks. He used his arms to drag himself along the floor, inch by slow and painful inch, every fiber of his being protesting. He knew he'd never reach his father. His memory was transported back to over a year ago: the kanima's bite paralyzing him as he hauled his useless carcass along the station floor, Matt looming over his father. Stiles couldn't reach him. Matt delivered a swift punch, and knocked Sheriff Stilinski unconscious. Stiles broken by the sight of his father's unmoving form, his own powerlessness to protect him. How easily Matt could have killed his father. He could have become another of the kanima's victims, Stiles forced to watch. The mechanic's death as he waited for his Jeep, unable to move, fountains of blood, only a million times worse because the blood spilled would have belonged to someone he loved.

Sheriff Stilinski heard Stiles yelling. One clear thought dislodged from his brain and broke through the pain: Stiles experienced this same agony when Marshall bit him; this same suffering on top of his already long list of injuries. How could he have allowed anyone to do this to his baby boy?

The noises Pierce made as he drank disgusted Stiles. He could smell his father's blood, see it pooling through his shirt and dripping down his shoulder. He had to do something. He couldn't sit by and let this happen. He couldn't watch his father die. The television remote was under the bed, thrown there when Pierce wrenched him from the sheets and into the bathroom. Stiles seized it and hurled it at Pierce. The gadget bounced off the vampire's back. He didn't even pause or slow his slurping.

Stiles searched frantically around him for something – anything – he could throw at Pierce; something he could use to draw his attention away from the sheriff. He saw his father's bowie knife. He stretched his arm, his fingers brushing against the blade. He ran his index and middle finger over the blade, a miniature man running the race of his life, and inched the knife closer towards himself. Finally it was close enough. His hand closed around the handle.

Only what could he do with it?

There was no way he could lift himself up, let alone make his way over to Pierce and summon the strength required to plunge the knife through his heart. He could already see the life draining from his father's eyes. If the lids closed over those beloved green irises, Stiles knew he would never see them again. He couldn't let his father die. This was all his fault. If anyone deserved to die, it was him.

Stiles knew what he had to do. He set the blade against his wrist and cut a zigzag down his arm. He hoped whatever was in his blood that Marshall had found so alluring and delicious would be just as appetizing and irresistible to other vampires. Marshall had praised him for being special; hopefully that same specialness would tempt Pierce.

The warm ruby liquid trickled down Stiles' arm and rained onto the clean white tile. The slurping noises stopped. Pierce lifted his head and sniffed the air. Curious. He whipped around so quickly he was just a blur in Stiles' vision. The sheriff's blood was smeared over his mouth and chin; his face deformed. A primeval evil of pure base instincts. Pierce caught Stiles' wrist and brought it up to his face. He sniffed it and licked the blood, smacking his lips to better appreciate the taste. A connoisseur of hemoglobin. Stiles saw carnal desire flash in Pierce's eyes. A shiver ran down his spine in trepidation of what he knew was coming next, his body already receding from the imminent pain.

Stiles only hoped his father would be able to rouse himself enough, while Pierce was killing him, to be able to stake the vampire and save himself.

Pierce bit into Stiles' arm. He couldn't stop the scream that escaped.

Sheriff Stilinski was floating at the edge of unconsciousness. The agony had subsided for the moment, and his body felt strangely weightless. Above him was nothing but a pale, blurry light. He wondered if this was it: he was dead and awakening in limbo. How many trials of purgatory would he need to endure before he could be reunited with Claudia? God, how he missed her. He hadn't gotten the chance to say goodbye. He had held another woman's hand as she descended into oblivion, but he hadn't been there to hold his own wife's hand. He knew Claudia didn't hold that against him. She had always been understanding when it came to his job. When the nights were rough and full of terror, when frustrating and gruesome and hopeless cases crossed his desk, and he wanted to quit then and there, hand in his resignation notice, she was the one who encouraged him, who built him up. She believed he could do anything. She trusted him to protect the people of Beacon Hills, to look after their family, their son.

When times were tough, sometimes John would swear he could hear Claudia's voice calling to him, leading him down the right path. Keeping him from going under, from drowning. Helping him raise their son. He could see so much of her in Stiles.

Stiles!

Sheriff Stilinski pulled himself away from the brink, snapping back into reality. His ears were filled with the sound of his son's screams. His eyes struggled to focus on the fuzzy shapes in front of him. Pierce was holding Stiles in his arms. He curved the boy into his body, but Stiles kicked and bucked with his unbroken leg; his torso writhed in pain. Pierce clutched him close, nestling Stiles' head into his chest. His lips were sealed around Stiles' wrist. Sheriff Stilinski watched as Pierce lifted his head, breathed in satisfaction, and moved his mouth to Stiles' neck. His dexterous fingers traced Stiles' face, as the boy's screams subsided into whimpers. His spasms quieted. Pierce swallowed with relish.

Sheriff Stilinski was consumed with hatred. He tried to stand up, but his vision swam, and he tipped drunkenly. He caught himself on the side of the hospital bed and grabbed his head. The room spun around him in dizzying circles. Pull yourself together, John! he berated himself. If you don't suck it up and get through this, that lying bastard will kill your son.

This last thought opened a reservoir of strength in Sheriff Stilinski. He felt adrenalin pumping through his arteries, numbing his pain into nonexistence, aided by fear and love for his son. He and Stiles had come too far just to be killed by some Secret Service wannabe in dime store sunglasses and a polyester suit.

His bowie knife lay discarded beside the trash can, covered in Stiles' blood. He must have accidentally kicked it over there while Pierce was feasting. Sheriff Stilinski dove for it. Pierce was occupied enough not to notice or care about the sheriff's movements. John stood wobbily, stumbled the few steps separating him and Pierce, and raised the knife above his head. Pierce had just looked back at the sheriff, Stiles' blood coated his chin and jaw, a piece of the boy's clothing stuck at the edge of his mouth, when Sheriff Stilinski struck. He poured all his might into that downward stroke. The knife stabbed through Pierce's ribcage and pierced his blackened heart.

The agent shrieked and clutched at his chest. He exploded in a deluge of blood, tissue, and ash, showering down on Stiles and the sheriff. The knife clattered to the floor. Sheriff Stilinski panted from the exertion, and collapsed next to his son.

Stiles' eyes were closed. Sheriff Stilinski reached out and gathered his son into his arms. He wiped his hand over Stiles' face, clearing away the gore. "Stiles. Oh God, please. Stiles, please. Wake up. Open your eyes. Speak to me. C'mon Stiles." Sheriff Stilinski grabbed his handkerchief from his back pocket. He pressed the thick cotton to Stiles' wrist. He reached over Stiles, tore the top sheet off the bed, and held it to Stiles' neck. Stiles was frightfully pale. No, pale didn't adequately describe it. Stiles was without color, ashen and empty. Sheriff Stilinski wondered fearfully how much blood he had lost.

"Melissa! Melissa, help!" He shouted. "I need help!" He was crying, crying in a way he hadn't in a long time: hard and panicked, great silent heaves that shook his frame. "Please, God. Stiles, speak to me!" he pleaded brokenly. He hugged Stiles close to him, holding his boy to his chest tightly. Willing Stiles' with his heart-beat to keep breathing. Replacing the way Pierce and Marshall had held him; perverted and violent embraces forgotten in a loving one. Anchoring Stiles to the world of the living, absorbing particles of Stiles into himself and replacing them with his own soul. He could feel Stiles' faint heart-beat and it gave him hope.

Melissa appeared in the doorway. "John, what- Oh my God." Her hand flew to her mouth.

"Get a doctor! Hurry!"

Melissa hardened into a calm, levelheaded composure, pushing aside her personal feelings and shifting into emergency mode. They needed a doctor, and they needed blood – at least 75 pints, judging from the pallor of their skin. Maybe more if Stiles had lost as much as a victim of a car accident. Sheriff Stilinski's blood-type was O+, she recalled. Stiles was O-, just like Claudia - an unfortunately uncommon blood type, a universal donor but a singular receptor; even John couldn't give his son blood. The hospital never seemed to have enough O- on-hand. Stiles' surgery and encounter with Marshall had almost decimated their supply. She prayed there was something they could do.

Melissa disappeared at a run, yelling commands at orderlies and other personnel.

Sheriff Stilinski was unaware of the world. He rocked Stiles back and forth, begging him to wake up. Within seconds, they were surrounded by medical staff. A nurse reached out to take Stiles from him, and the sheriff gnashed his teeth at her. "Don't touch him!" he growled, his voice low and threatening. He was a wild, cornered animal protecting his young. No one was touching his son but him. "You can damn well do whatever it is you need to while I hold him."

The nurse protested, but Melissa cut her off. "Don't move, Stiles." He was safest, she knew, in his father's arms. As they worked, bandaging and reinserting tubes in his skin, Stiles began to stir. Sheriff Stilinski saw the faint flutter of his eyelids. He rubbed his thumb along Stiles' cheekbone. "Come on, Sty."

Stiles opened his eyes slowly. His father's face looked ghastly – but very much alive. "Dad?"

Sheriff Stilinski had to resist the urge to crush Stiles against him. Stiles' eyes, he suddenly decided, were the single most beautiful sight in the world. "Hey there, Buddy."

"Marshall...Pierce?"

"He's dead. They're both dead. It's over. It's all over." Hearing these words from his father, Stiles abruptly started to cry, though he wasn't sure why. Relief maybe, or an outpouring of pent-up emotion, a reaction to almost being killed – again – and how close he had come to losing his father.

About this time, the Pack burst through the door, Scott leading and Lydia at his heels. He could smell blood from the corridor. The Stilinski's were on the floor – both alive – the sheriff cradling Stiles in his arms. They were covered in blood, but Scott was relieved to smell that most of it didn't belong to them. Their cheeks were dirty and wet with tears. Even Sheriff Stilinski couldn't keep back the salty proof of his sorrow and relief. In low whispers, John murmured reassurances into his son's ear. "It's over, Stiles. It's all over. You're safe. I love you. You're safe."