As far as head starts went, five minutes was more than enough.

In five minutes, Stiles had crossed town, passed Scott's old house where a light burned in Melissa's bedroom window and disappeared deep into the preserve.

He debated slowing down once he was into the thick of the trees, his eyes searching in the dark as he listened for the tell-tale signs of a wolf crashing along behind him, but he was as fast on his feet as a wolf himself - light, nimble, strong…

Let's see Finstock try to bench him now.

Grinning at the thought of the fun a lacrosse match might be since he'd come into his own, Stiles began to crisscross back and forth through the brush, laying his scent over and over and over in a tangled, snarled mess before sprinting away again, pushing himself faster and faster still. He knew the moment Phee entered the wood, felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up with the intuition of his nature, the instinct of prey. With a leap and a vault he grabbed on to a low hanging branch and hauled himself up into a tree, carefully wending his way out onto a limb and swinging like an acrobat to the next one. He couldn't go far; the trees in the Preserve were too old, grew too high and too far apart, but it let him go a short ways without leaving his scent on the earth below, another break in his trail that would take a minute or two to unravel.

Dropping back to the ground, he landed in a tight crouch, cocking his head to listen for his pursuer. His heart pounded strongly in his chest, the only sound in the silence until he was suddenly startled by the low, long call of a wolf perhaps a half-mile away.

A wolf he recognized.

A wolf that wasn't Pheelan.

Apparently they weren't the only ones out for a run.

A short, sharp snarl bubbled up out of Stiles chest, his fingers curling into the loam like claws as he crouched, ready to break away and run. His mind flew, mapping out the whole of the wood in seconds, every path and landmark, every way in and out. Laughter fought with the more feral sounds desperately trying to work their way from his throat, a giddiness lighting a fire in the pit of his belly that sent tendrils of heat licking down his muscles, hot, crackling, aching for the chase. His feet moved before he'd made up his mind, pushing him forward into another sprint, his only objective now to evade the blonde wolf that was quickly closing in on him. The others were pushed to the side, separate, inconsequential.

They weren't a part of the game.

The creek that ran along the ridge continued on all through the back of the Preserve, looping up and around, and he knew it like he knew the rest of this place, perfectly even after all these years. He knew the place where it ran slow and shallow, splashed lazily over the rocks, and it was that place that he headed for. For only a moment the shadows whispered, the fox, flashing behind his eyes, promising him a good trick. Water was the key, water was what would drown him, drown his scent, and so it was water that made his way to.

He could feel Pheelan pounding along behind him, rushing, running, hunting him, but he was almost there and he wasn't worried. Sprinting up a steep ridge, he threw himself over the crest of the incline with abandon, leaping down into the shallow brook to land with a loud splash, the cold water immediately flooding his sneakers and creeping up the hem of his jeans, but it was the glowing blue and gold eyes along the opposite bank that made him freeze in his tracks.

Isaac, Peter, the little twins, Erica and Boyd. Scott too, all the wolves but the alpha staring at him in shock and surprise from the shore.

He hadn't been paying enough attention then, that he'd come on them so unexpectedly. All of them, crouched there in their beta forms, some of them dripping from the river, others panting and loose from the run, the easy, comfortable looks on their faces slipping away as he stared them down with a heated gaze. His eyes darted between them, landed on Scott who had taken two steps forward into the water and was making a keening, high-pitched whine as he strained to hold himself back. Stiles had to bite back a reciprocating whine, his muscles urging him forward, telling him to surge into the heat of the pack, the center of what he could so easily pull into a tangled knot of bodies all rubbing and pressing together. His nature though, that part of him that knew a pack, knew wolves, knew these wolves, wanted something different.

Something more.

Bearing his teeth in a wicked grin, he laughed playfully, an invitation, a dare, and then he was howling, loud and long and rising, the call of a wolf summoning his pack to his side. A short distance behind he heard Pheelan respond, answer back with a hunting call that tickled at the hair on his neck, his glow burgeoning up in his chest like champagne bubbles. Casting a devil's smile in the direction of the pack, he turned on his heel and ran, busting tail up the creek bed as the water splashed messily beneath his feet. Behind him was all silence and stillness and he felt something cold try to creep into his blood, but then he heard Erica yip happily and then they were pounding after him, all frantically beating hearts and joyous howls.

As he ran he could feel his own heart racing, swelling as he let himself accept some small part of the happiness that was growing in him, warming him, without all the guilt and anger that so often accompanied it, left those darker desires behind him.

As far behind as he could anyway.

Stiles could feel the wolf pack running through the dark on either side of him, chasing him, flanking him, and it made his pounding heart sing in his chest, but for now it was only play. Leaping, lunging, singing to the fattening crescent moon, yelping as they collided and challenged each other for position, dashing in and out through the trees - it was the sweetest of games to them.

Only Pheelan was hunting.

And he was closing in.

Sprinting into a clearing where the trees thinned, Stiles skidded to an abrupt halt, his sneakers digging furrows in the earth as he turned, felt the pack quickly circle round him as the huge blonde wolf came crashing into the clearing after him. Stamping his paws, Phee's chest heaved, his body shaking with the effort of holding himself back. Stiles grinned, ran his tongue over his teeth as he squared his shoulders and rocked onto the balls of his feet, growled playfully. Phee slunk forward a few paces, chuffed and snapped his jaws as trickery glinted in his eyes, and then he began to circle, a slow, deadly ring.

Stiles gaze flicked to the trees as the other wolves whimpered in the dark, shifted at the edges of his vision, suddenly unsure as a playful chase became prey run to ground, a fox brought to bay. Stiles shook his head from side to side, an attempt to rid the haunting image from his mind, and Phee used the distraction to his advantage. Lunging hard and fast he came straight at him, but instead of running Stiles met him head on, leaping into the air at the last moment to turn a crooked somersault over the wolf's back. Landing on his feet, he turned just in time to see Phee spin on him, snort and shake his massive head as he showed long, sharp canines.

Stiles laughed.

"That the best you got Butterwolf?" he taunted cheekily, and all around him he felt the betas ease.

Phee growled and began to circle him again at a quick lope, forcing Stiles to turn tightly on his heels to keep him in view. Coming closer and closer, he began to duck and feint, herding him the way he wanted him to go. He was only just hit with a wave of dizziness when Phee came in for the kill.

Crashing into Stiles' midsection with his shoulders the wolf sent them both tumbling over and over through the bracken and the leaves, Stiles clouting and buffeting him with knees and elbows, Phee using his size and weight to toss and buck the man off when he tried to straddle him like a horse. They'd gone careening down an incline in a tumbling, barking ball of limbs and they could hear the other werewolves yelping and baying out happy hunting calls as they hurried to follow after. Toppled from Phee's back with an easy roll of the great wolf's powerful shoulders, Stiles found himself suddenly overwhelmed with an intense happiness so deep it sapped his strength. Spun onto his back in the soft earth, a grin split his face and he laughed, full and bright and happy, reaching up to grip Phee's thick ruff in his hands as the wolf pounced on top of him and looked down with gleaming golden eyes.

Still caught in the game, delighted with the sugary scent of joy coming from Stiles' skin, Phee yipped once before grabbing on to Stiles' forearm with powerful jaws that closed down delicately over the thick red sleeve of his hoodie. Squirming against the sharp edges of his pack beneath him, Stiles tossed the wolf back and forth, snarling playfully as Phee continued to mouth at his arm, gnawing gently with a happy, puppy rumble. Letting go, the wolf dove in to press a cold, damp nose to the ticklish place behind Stiles' ear, snuffling and panting hotly.

"No!" Stiles yelped, trying desperately not to giggle. "No, no, no!"

This was the part where he usually lost the game.

He was just about to cry uncle when a dark-haired, red-eyed blur came barreling up the ridge, colliding with Phee like a freight train and sending them both crashing away. Leaping to his feet, Stiles automatically went for his Ruger and cursed when his fingers couldn't find it. Hauling ass towards the thrashing and snarling in the brush, he came on Derek and Phee, now shifted back, locked together in what looked like a battle to the death.

"Hey!" he screamed, and power thundered in his tone. "Get the hell off him! Derek!"

But the alpha couldn't, or wouldn't, hear him.

The betas had slunk after them, heads low, ringed up around them in a wide, loose circle, eyes bright in the dark as they looked for a way into the fight; Isaac, Peter, and Erica darting in and out, teeth gleaming, but they were either too scared or too uncertain to break the two apart.

Stiles had no such qualms.

Crashing down from his euphoria like a comet to the earth, his whole body flushed hot as his vision went perfectly, horribly red. His hands found purchase on the friction-taped handle of his baseball bat with the barest thought, slid it smoothly out of the loops over his shoulder and choked up. Striding strongly into the fray, he locked eyes on his target and swung.

The wood connected with Derek's head with an immense crack that echoed off the trees and reverberated along the ridge, sending him tumbling away in a graceful arc of ruby blood. Somehow he managed to roll to his feet again, tripping, stumbling to a crouch as he clutched at his head and cursed a blue streak. Stiles started forward, ready to deliver another wallop but Phee's fingers gripped his bicep hard and pulled him back. He could feel the dark pressing in around him, shadows filling up his chest like smoke and whispering words in his ears that he couldn't understand, crackling in his fingertips as the betas circled in close, wolves drawn by blood and ready to tear their prey apart. Isaac and Boyd came forward to haul Derek carefully to his feet but he shook them off angrily, flinching when Boyd tugged off his shirt and pressed it to the large gash over the alpha's ear. There was blood streaking down the side of his face and neck and they were all eyeing Stiles warily, whining when he lifted his lip to show his teeth.

"Stiles what the hell?" Derek barked, and Stiles sneered.

"Rowan wood bitch!" he growled. "You wanna fight so bad, let's you and me have a go then! It's been years coming!"

Striding forward, he was jerked back hard by the straps of his backpack when Phee stepped up behind him and grabbed hold. He could feel the Omega rumbling with annoyance as he jerked the bag open, zippers squealing as he pulled out his shorts and his shoes. The wolf feigned no modesty as he stood before the pack, naked as hell after his shift, so Stiles was sure it was more his intention to keep a controlling hand on his shoulder than to slip into something less revealing. Rolling his shoulders he took a step away, scowling at Phee with irritation, but the blonde only glared back, snapping the elastic at his waist with his thumbs.

"Stiles, what…"

Stiles turned his eyes back to the alpha who was staring at him with hurt and confusion, felt the crushing grip of shadows on his heart return.

"I don't… I don't want to fight you. I didn't…"

"Didn't what?" he bit out angrily. "Didn't just jump my wolf? Didn't try to kill him? Sure seem to be in a big yank to get your teeth into someone Alpha, why don't you try kissing my…"

"Stiles."

"Don't!" he snarled viciously spinning on Phee, whose eyes flared as he showed his teeth in response and snarled right back, not cowed in the least by the darkness swirling in Stiles' eyes, his fingers shifting on the grip of his ball bat. "This is the second time he's come after you and I swear to God…"

"I can take care of myself," Phee grit out, and Stiles suddenly realized how close they were, the wolf looming above him as the muscles in his shoulders and upper arms bunched and shifted with the effort of holding back his shift.

"So can I!" Stiles hissed. "You think that's what this is about?!"

"I think you need to let it go. Now," Phee warned, and some small part of him knew that the wolf was right, knew that the anger and the power was starting to swallow him, starting to take control, but he didn't want to hold back, didn't want to hang on. He could feel it ripping through him like blue electricity, all of him ready to implode if he were only jarred just sharply enough…

"He didn't know," Phee continued, and Stiles tried to grab on to his voice, the low, even rumble edged with fanged anger. "He was just trying to protect you."

And that was all it took.

"Protect?" Stiles whispered. "I'm not his to protect!"

The declaration came like the roar of a storm, echoing, powerful, violent, and it drove every wolf in the clearing to their knees in submission but for the one who stood over the boy, showing his teeth and fisting his hands at his sides. Even the alpha was shoved to a crouch, his hands over his ears in pain as he tried valiantly to stay on his feet.

"He made that pretty fucking clear!" Stiles continued, and his voice went cold and flat and dead. "I wasn't pack, wasn't worth protecting. So I take care of myself, and I take care of what's mine!"

"Calm. Down!" Pheelan snarled, and the tiny part of him that still held on recognized how hard it was for the wolf to growl and snap his teeth when he was being claimed, recognized the clenching of his fingers as the desperate desire to reach out and pull Stiles into his chest, to bite and mark and make those words real. The darkness saw it too, and drove in hard at the perceived weakness.

"Don't take his side," Stiles hissed, his voice dripping with venom.

"I'm not," the wolf countered slowly, his voice jumping as he tried to control his tone.

"He fucking jumped you Phee!" Stiles shouted, the anger popping hotly in his chest. "Tried to kill you! Again! I should burn him where he fucking stands…"

"Stiles!"

Whipping around, he fixed the horrified alpha with a glare that should've immolated him on the spot, ignored the shocked gasping of his name that came from half of the pack that circled them.

"Come on then Derek," he purred, coldly and disgustingly sweet as his mind flashed back to a darkened pool, the sting and burn of chlorine in his eyes and his mouth and his nose as he struggled desperately to keep afloat. "Pretend you're about to die. That you're about to drown. You can't breathe, and you try to keep your mouth closed until that very last moment as you sink, deeper, deeper... Agony. And then hell. So what do you say? What last words will you leave this world with? Leave for the one trying to save you."

Derek had gone pale as the blood dried dark and sticky down the side of his throat and he was staring at Stiles like he didn't know him at all anymore, and perhaps that was best because it was as near to truth now as either of them could be. He swallowed, opened and closed his mouth, and the darkness in Stiles saw the exact moment when the anger flared in the wolf's eyes, red with his heritage and with the pride and indignation he felt was his right.

"Stiles, he had your arm in his mouth," Derek snarled, and around him his pack shifted nervously. "He had his teeth at your throat and all you could do was scream!"

The world stopped turning for Stiles then.

Beneath his feet the earth began to buckle and shake, carved with the anger that consumed him, and there was nothing left as his pupils dilated, swallowing the honeyed-whiskey tones of his eyes. Overhead thunder cracked as heavy clouds coalesced above the tree tops, wind whistling between the branches, and he missed the confused, frightened whimpers of the wolves as his world went silent and still, pressing in close on every side. All the rage and pain he'd buried came sweeping down on him like a flood and then he was the one who was drowning, his head splitting as his lungs refused to take a breath. His hands fisted at his temples and he began to shake, every instinct he had demanding that he run as he clamped his eyes shut against the invasive eyes of the pack. Strong fingers closed around his wrists, the pain biting through the haze but it wasn't enough, doing no more than locking him inside his skin, the vicelike jaws of a fox trap.

There was only one thing he could do to save himself.

Ripping away from the heated stares pushing needles beneath his skin, he threw up his hands and disappeared in an explosive, concussive blast of white light.