Sweet Dreams

Onesmartcookie78

Summary: Samantha Sanchez is just trying to make it through her sophomore year as class president while remaining top of her class. Unfortunately, Scott McCall is acting weird, and it's her presidential duty to figure out why...that, and Stiles Stilinski suddenly thinks she has some sort of super powers. Stiles/OC

Disclaimer: I only own any characters that you don't recognize.

A/N: I'm not sure when this fic will be updated, but in the mean time, please follow, favorite and-most importantly-review! The response a fic receives makes me more inclined to update it ahead of other fics.

wake up.

Wake UP.

wAkE uP.

WAKE UP.

I sit up in bed, practically gasping for breath, unable to remember what I had dreamt. The more I try to press my memory, the further from my grasp it slips.

I scrub a hand over my eyes in tired frustration and chance a glance at my phone. The harsh glow has me squinting before the screen automatically adjusts to the darkness. It's only 5:30. I groan as I flop back down. Christ. It's the first day of school and I'm not going to have slept well. I roll over and take a cursory look over my socials, doubting I've missed anything important in the five hours since I last looked, but doing so anyway out of habit.

Yep. Nothing.

I throw myself out of bed and into some workout clothes—at least I'll be able to get in a run this morning.

Once I've reached a mile, I turn around and head back to my house. I take a shower, eat some toast, and have a cup of coffee before my parents even wake up.

"Good morning, sweetheart, you're up early," my mom says through a yawn as she goes for the pot of coffee. "Didn't sleep well?"

I glance up from my phone. "Huh? Oh, yeah, no."

She nods, adjusting her doctor's coat. It's freshly bleached and starched, and based on the crispness of the sleeves, ironed as well. She's dressed to impress, that's for sure. "You should drink more water, limit your screen time," she recommends, peering at me from over her glasses, "it'll help you sleep better."

Somehow I doubt dehydration is to blame for whatever dream woke me up, but I don't say anything. "Where's dad?"

Her expression falls. "He's not feeling well today, Sam. You should go see him before you leave, I'm sure he'd love to wish you a good first day."

I nod and rise to go do so. He's recovering from a recent round chemo, and I know that some days are rougher than others, so I'm used to taking him food in bed, hoping that he'll be able to keep it down. He's spending more and more time cooped up there, but my parents refuse to tell me about his health status, so I have no idea how he's really doing. I think they don't tell me because they don't want me to worry, but all it ends up doing is making me even more worried; fear of the unknown, and all that.

As I'm opening the door, I receive an email from the vice principal—there's a new student and, as class president, he's hoping that I'll keep an eye on her today.

"Samantha, is that you lurking outside?" my dad calls just as I'm about to reply to the email. I hastily shove my phone back into my pocket and open the door.

"Yeah, sorry," I reply, making my way over to the bed and sitting down on my mom's side. "Just got distracted for a second."

He nods to himself from his propped-up position. "You look nice, kid," he finally says. "Get your mom to take some pictures for me. It's hard to see in this light." He gestures to the drawn curtains.

"You need your sleep," I say, dismissing him with a wave of my hand. "I don't mind."

"Still," he says through a sigh, "it's not every day that my little girl has her first day as a sophomore in high school. I wish I felt well enough, Sam, I'm sorry."

I have to force myself not to cry. "I know, dad," I say, and it comes out more choked than I'd like it to be.

One hug from my dad, a dozen photos, and a kiss on the cheek from my mom later, I was finally free to drive to school. I back into my assigned spot and go directly to the main office to meet with the Vice Principal, who chastises me for never having replied to his email. I apologize profusely, unwilling to get into the reasons why I hadn't done so. It isn't like the man cares anyway. He gives me a copy of the new girl's schedule. Allison Argent. That's a pretty name, almost like a superhero.

"She's already been on a tour," the vice principal informs me, then gestures to the paper once more. "You two should have very similar schedules, so just make sure she gets to her classes, okay, Samantha?"

I nod. Mission: Make the New Girl Feel Accepted er, well, accepted. Such is the responsibility of the power vested in me as Sophomore Student Council President. And, I guess, my desire to be a decent person, or whatever.

I wait in the front on one of the benches until after the first bell rings. I can't help but tap my foot a bit impatiently. My bag and books are waiting for me in English, so there's not much else that I can do other than wait. I'm still waiting there when a girl walks right past me and claims the bench closest to the school.

She's frantically rifling through her bag for something while on the phone with what seems like her mother, sounding increasingly distressed.

Must be her.

My first thought about Allison Argent is that she's pretty, with long brown hair and arched brows. Her pale skin glows in the sunlight. Very pretty, I mentally amend, and stylish too, with that jacket.

She hangs up and nervously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as I approach her.

"Hey, I'm Sam," I say, holding out a hand which she gives a rather limp shake. Still nervous. "I'm the sophomore class president. I love your jacket!"

She blinks at me. Ah shit, too enthusiastic, I've scared her. But then a slow grin creeps over her lips. "Oh, thanks!"

I beam at her. "Here, let's get to English together, and then, uh, I couldn't help but hear that you needed a pen?" She nods, blushing. "Yeah, you can borrow one from me, though I warn you that most teachers only want you to use pencil for classwork."

We walk together, chatting about her family, what it's like to move, and where she moved from, until we finally arrive at English, where the teacher is talking about the assigned summer reading, Kafka's Metamorphosis. I think it's supposed to be topical, but the only connection I can see lies in the title; somehow, I'm not convinced that going to high school is metaphorically similar to transforming into an insect that becomes more beast than man and eventually is so burdensome to his family that he commits suicide.

Then again, what do I know? I went through puberty when I was twelve, and I've never been a teenage boy. Maybe it's more similar for them.

I introduce Allison to the class and the take my seat, going for a pen, only to see Scott McCall already poised with one. Almost like he was waiting for her. Did they know each other somehow? As far as I'm aware, that's not possible, considering Allison's story about constantly moving around, and yet there he is, pen at the ready.

Almost like he heard her.

…but we were outside.

If she finds it weird, she barely lets on, instead accepting the pen with a smile. I smell the beginnings of romance: maybe this is just McCall's supremely awkward way of hitting on her; it wouldn't be far off for him.

Awkward adolescent mating rituals aside, I focus in on what's sure to be a boring lesson.

It was a boring lesson, as I was sure it would be.

And so was the rest of the day, for that matter.

"Ready to go to our lockers?" I ask Allison as she approaches me. "I'll show you where they are, we're neighbors!" God, I sound way too peppy. Why am I acting so peppy? Is it because she's cute? She is cute.

"Sounds great!" Allison says, not at all put off by the weird attitude I've affected for her.

I'm still sorting through my textbooks when the resident mean girl Lydia Martin saunters over. Well, maybe that's a little too harsh. She's the Resident Mean Girl, but she's not just a pretty face who spends half her time in a cute cheerleading skirt and the other half in Louboutin's—she's also second in the class. She doesn't give me the time of day, but she does Allison. She, too, notices how trendy Allison's jacket is, and is sure to compliment her on it. Lydia's boyfriend, Resident Asshole and Lacrosse Captain (though sometimes I question whether those are two separate titles, or one in the same), comes over next and invites Allison to one of his parties, wow.

First day here and she's already way cooler than I'll ever be.

Sigh. It was a pipe dream to think she'd want to be friends with me anyway.

Since they're ignoring me, I settle for ignoring them right back, while I wait for Allison to finish up, which means that I end up locking eyes with McCall from all the way across the hallway. He's staring at Allison with furrowed brows, like he can hear what she's saying—no that can't be right, he's just giving her the longing-puppy-dog-eyes of someone thoroughly enamored.

When will someone look at me like that?

Heh. Never.

"Lacrosse practice, Sam?" Allison asks.

Oh, she's inviting me! Quick, say something cool. "Uh, yeah?"

…nailed it.

I toss on my nowhere-near-as-cool jacket and trail the trio to the field, feeling somehow more interesting than I've ever been in my high school career, yet even lonelier than I normally would be. And that's saying something, since I practice this thing called solidarity (mostly willingly; my schedule just tended to be super hectic between all my classes, cross-country, and taking care of dad).

"Who is that?" Allison is asking Lydia when I finally return from my thoughts and back to reality.

"Scott McCall," I answer for the other girl. I know for a fact that she isn't even aware of the poor boy's existence. He's not "cool" enough for her to. "He's the one who gave you the pen in English, yeah?"

She nods, and I turn my gaze to where McCall stands at the goal, staring at Allison once more.

"Why do you ask?" Lydia wonders, as though being interested in someone who isn't on the totem pole is a cardinal sin or, at the very least, tantamount to social suicide.

"Well," Allison starts, and I notice McCall's head tilting to the side as though he's straining to hear something, "I just think he's—"

The whistle blows and McCall completely spazzes out, like it had been blown directly next to his ear and not half-a-field away from him.

Something is definitely up.

And didn't he need an inhaler to do any sort of physical activity since, well, forever? And yet, I haven't seen him go for one yet.

This is getting weird.

He's still hunched over in agony when a player kills the ball. McCall looks up just in time for the ball to smash into his face guard. He goes down, much to the delight of his teammates, who jeer at him for having "nice hands" and catching it with his face. When he finally rises to his feet, he rolls his shoulders a few times and shakes out his arms. It looks like he's physically willing himself to do better.

When the next player takes aim, McCall's ready. This time, he tracks the ball all the way into his own lacrosse stick. His lackey (or, I guess, best friend) Stiles Stilinski, starts cheering for him, but Coach Finstock just looks shocked.

As he should, because McCall has never been great at lacrosse. That's why he sat the bench all last year. Even I know that, and I seldom attend games.

As the players take turns shooting, McCall seems to grow more and more confident.

"He's pretty good," Allison says happily, cheering for her new gentleman caller.

Lydia struggles not to look impressed. "Yeah," she agrees.

"Yeah," I echo, frowning.

"Sam, is something—" Allison starts, but Lydia shushes her as Jackson shoves his way to the front of the line.

He charges forward, leaping in the air and going for a more difficult angle, but McCall still ends up catching the ball anyway.

For some reason, Lydia cheers the loudest, leaping to her feet and clapping. Allison is more subdued, but no less excited.

As far as I'm aware, he's never played goalie before and yet he's playing almost perfect. Maybe he practiced a lot over the summer?

No. I need to trust my instincts on this. Something weird is going on. And I'm going to get to the bottom of it.

I stay after school late. Late enough that I can use my access card to get into the student files without being questioned by any nosy teachers. I leave the lights out in the room to avoid attracting any unneeded attention and shuffle through the M section first, muttering to myself the whole while.

It's not really breaking the rules if McCall broke them first. Because that's the only explanation. He must be taking some sort of performance enhancing drug or something. So what if this qualifies as fruit from the poisoned tree, no one needs to know that I was confirming my theory by going through the records. Ah—McCall!

A doctor's note on record:

To whom it may concern—blah blah blah. Please be advised that Scott McCall suffers from exercise induced asthma and should be allowed to use his inhaler accordingly.

But there had been no inhaler in sight today, and he'd been fine. Had he grown out of it or something?

I chance a glance to his address so that I can confront him before school tomorrow. Damn, that's a car ride away from me. I need to get home to dad. Maybe—

I return McCall's file to its rightful place and go for the S section next.

Stilinski…Mieczysław? I thought his name was Stiles? I shake my head and do a quick peek through his file next. Huh. He takes Adderall for ADHD. Somehow this doesn't even remotely surprise me. No, that's not the point, Sam. Address.

He—he actually lives in my development? Huh. Maybe I could accost him in the morning before school.

I quickly take a picture of his address (and his name, his real name, so that I could learn how to pronounce it) and put his file back. I triple check that I've locked the door on my way out of the room, but it's farther down the hallway that I encounter an issue.

An issue in the form of Jackson Whittemore.

What I should have done is kept my head down and hurried down the hallway like I didn't want to be seen.

But when the sophomore class president sees an upperclassman breaking into another student's locker, what's she supposed to do?

Shout: "Whittemore, what the fuck are you doing?!" really loudly, apparently.

Ah, fuck.

He turns to me with fire in his eyes and defiantly tosses another one of McCall's textbooks on the ground. Even from where I stand half a hallway away from him, I can tell that his nostrils are flaring.

He's pissed.

"What?" he drawls casually, throwing down a notebook this time.

I huff. "Going through McCall's things? Really? Are you that mad that he did better than you today?"

He regards me with no small amount of irritation. I try not to hesitate as I draw closer. "You were there today, weren't you?" he asks caustically. There's another loud slam as McCall's history textbook hits the linoleum. "You look smart enough, Sanchez. We both know he's never been that good at anything in his life. He played unbelievably today. That doesn't just happen." A spare sweatshirt is the final item McCall's locker has left to offer. It lands like a white flag between us, because I know he's not wrong. Hadn't I just been following the same intuition?

I can fault his methodology, but I can't deny his motivation.

"He must be doping," Jackson finishes, looking at me from under furrowed brows. "Has to be."

I make a decision right then and there, one that will forever alter the course of my life. "Something's fishy," I agree, "but you're not going to get any results by crashing around. We don't want McCall to know that we're onto him. This requires a more…delicate touch."

His blue eyes narrow at my words, and then I'm being shoved into the locker. "I swear to God, if you say you're going to tell the administration, Little Miss Brownnoser—"

I scoff. Internally, however, I'm practically peeing myself in fear. "What I'm saying is that McCall's in my year, and he's not terrified of me. You and I should work together."

His grip on my jacket slowly relents and then he's backing away, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair. He considers me after a long moment. "You know what, Sanchez, that's actually not a bad idea."

And that's how I got involved in this mess.