Warning: This chapter deals with some very dark topics. If you're concerned about this check the note at the end. Please keep in mind that this story is a prequel, we know that things will be fine in the end.
John emptied the whole clip into the crowd. He kept pulling the trigger when he'd long run out of bullets. In the end, he threw the useless gun in Claudia's face. It flew right through her.
She wasn't real.
On some level, John had known that nothing of this was real but it felt real. The hateful words felt real. These people had every right to hate him. He'd hurt them, some had died because of him. That part was real.
But seeing the gun going through Claudia without any resistance set something straight. John closed his eyes and took a shaky breath.
"Not real, this is not real," he whispered to himself. His words were lost in the loud voices around him but after a moment they faded away. "Not real, not real."
John repeated the mantra for a long minute before he dared to open his eyes. Claudia was gone and so was everybody else.
"You fucker!" John hit the tree with his fist. "Why are you doing this to me?"
The hallucinations were gone but their voices still echoed in his mind.
"Great, more trauma to drown in alcohol," John muttered. He still had the bottle in hand. It seemed to be real. He shrugged and took a healthy gulp.
"It was a pleasure meeting you but I'll leave now." John scrambled to his feet but he needed the tree for support. "I'm taking this with me." He raised the bottle. "And for sure I'm never coming back."
He nodded to himself and turned his back to the tree. Whoever said that the tree was harmless was a fucking liar.
It was already getting dark, how long had he been out here?
John made a few steps in the direction he thought he'd come from earlier. It would be a long walk home but he was not going to stay the night out here.
He stumbled over something in the grass. His first thought was that the tree was trying to trip him with its roots but then he had a closer look.
"Stiles?" John dropped to his knees next to the person lying on the ground. The bottle slipped out of his hand but he barely noticed it. There was blood.
"Stiles!" John grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around.
Stiles stared at him with lifeless eyes. He had a hole in his cheekbone, right under the eye socket.
"No, no, no." Frantically John tried to shake him awake but Stiles' head just lolled from one side to the other. "Wake up, please wake up."
John clutched Stiles' body to his chest. He had to support his head with his hand.
"This is not real, it's not real," John repeated his mantra from earlier but Stiles felt very real in his arms. He was heavy and lifeless. John didn't feel his breath puffing on his skin and when he dared to press his fingertips to Stiles' throat in search for a pulse he didn't find one.
"You can't do this!" John yelled. At Stiles, at the tree, he didn't know. "He's not dead. He can't be dead. You hear me? You're not dead!"
Neither the tree nor Stiles answered.
John didn't know what he hoped to accomplish but he dragged Stiles over to the tree. The body still and lifeless in his arms John sat down like before with his back against the trunk.
"I'm here. You can take me." John looked up to the roof of leaves but nothing happened. John was alive, Stiles was dead, and the tree didn't give a shit.
"Give him back!"
The tree did not give him back.
Stiles was dead. John had shot him. He'd killed him.
"At least give me back the gun," John pleaded. "That's what you want from me anyway, right? That I shoot my brains out? You want me to kill myself? Just give me the gun and I'll do it."
John didn't know where the gun had ended up, most likely it was lying around somewhere, it had been real enough to go through Claudia and it had fired real rounds, he was holding the dead proof of that fact in his arms, but even if he found it, he'd emptied it already. Maybe the tree had a spare clip lying around, though.
John hugged Stiles closer and buried his face in the hollow of his neck. His skin was already cool to the touch.
This was not fair. In frustration, John hit the ground with his fist. Instead of soft grass, he hit something metal. Holding Stiles close with his left, John picked up the gun with his right. He didn't have to check to know that it was loaded.
For long seconds he stared at it, his mind blank. Then, ever so slowly, he put it under his chin. The muzzle felt cool on his skin. John let his head fall back and closed his eyes. He had his finger on the trigger. All he had to do was to add a little more pressure. Just a little more and it would be over.
John didn't know how long he sat there with his finger on the trigger. Stiles had slipped out of his hold and was now lying across his lap like a giant rag doll.
He couldn't do it.
John tried to will his finger into action but it didn't move.
With an anguished cry, he threw the gun away.
Pathetic, he heard Claudia's voice but this time it was just in his head.
John picked up Stiles again and cradled him in his arms. His mind was numb, he couldn't think. He didn't know what to do so he just sat there and held Stiles in his arms.
That's how Derek found him hours later.
"What happened?" Derek asked when he approached him.
"I shot him," John said, his voice hoarse from crying. "I shot him right in the head."
Derek was just a silhouette in the dark. Was he even real? Would he come for Stiles if he was dead?
"Why?" Derek asked. His voice stayed neutral but his eyes misted over, glowing pale in the darkness of the night.
"I didn't mean to," John tried to defend himself. "The tree … I saw … they said … I just wanted them to leave me alone." His voice broke and fresh tears welled up in his eyes. "I tried to shoot myself but I couldn't."
Shame burned hot in his cheeks. He wasn't even sure what he was ashamed of. Trying to commit suicide or failing in doing so? Did Derek even care about things like that?
"Are you going to kill me now?" John asked with something like hope in his voice. He hated himself for that. Too much of a coward to do it himself so he asked Derek to do it for him.
"I'm going to take Stiles now," Derek informed him.
"I shot Stiles. He's dead," John repeated because Derek seemed to be missing the point. "You wanted to come after Mark for less."
"Mark is a werewolf and a Hale," Derek reminded him. "Stiles doesn't like him."
"Doubt Stiles likes me much now either." John looked down at him. In the dark, he couldn't see the unnatural color of his skin or his dead eyes. He could almost pretend that he was breathing.
"I don't know," Derek admitted. "But he didn't want me to drown Mark, I'm sure he doesn't want me to drown you."
John didn't want to let go but in the end, he let Derek pick up Stiles. John watched him walking away until his form got swallowed by the darkness of the night.
John stayed by the tree until morning. He didn't even notice the hours going by but at the first hint of light, he started walking. He wasn't sure which way to go, not that he cared, so he just walked in a random direction and hoped for the best.
Somehow he made it back to his car.
It was Monday, he should be at work by now but he called in sick.
Back home he mechanically stripped out of his clothes. They were rank, soiled with sweat, snot, and tears. And blood. John had Stiles' blood on his clothes and his hands. Literally.
John stayed in the shower for over an hour and didn't feel cleaner after that. He only got out when he started to feel dizzy, he couldn't even remember when he'd last eaten. Water had been the more pressuring problem, he'd stuck his head under the faucet in the bathroom before he'd started the shower but he hadn't even thought about food.
He still didn't feel hungry but his body was telling him in clear terms that he either got something into his stomach fast or he would just faint. Breaking his neck in the shower that way did sound tempting but in the end, he made it to the kitchen safely where he downed two big glasses of apple juice. Then he just sat there and waited for his head to clear up.
Stiles was dead. He'd shot him right in the face.
"Why were you even there?" John asked into the emptiness of the house. He had no answer to that and it didn't matter. Stiles was dead.
John wanted to blame the tree. It had given him the bottle. It had given him the gun. It had summoned all those people. He could still hear Claudia's voice. And all the others.
John covered his ears with his hands but the voices were in his head. They had been in the back of his mind long before he'd gone out to the tree. He knew what they whispered. He'd tried to silence them with alcohol but they never really shut up.
After the funeral, he'd gone to the lake. Nobody just went out there. It was not a place to have a nice afternoon with the family. The people in Beacon Hills knew that if one went into the water there, they most likely didn't come back.
The gun in the safe. How often had he been sitting in the dark, Claudia's cardigan on his knee, thinking about the gun?
The tree amplified what was already there, Stiles had said that. John could almost hear his voice. He would never hear it again. Because Stiles was dead.
John wanted to blame the tree but deep down he knew that it was on him.
He had fired the gun.
He had fired into the crowd.
He hadn't cared if he hit somebody. At that moment, he'd wanted to shoot somebody. Most shots had just gone wild but he had aimed at Claudia, he remembered that.
Had he aimed at Stiles as well? John didn't remember. He was pretty sure that the Stiles in front of him, the one who'd yelled at him for not listening to him, hadn't been real.
Caught in the hallucination he hadn't seen what had been going on around him.
Had Stiles tried to get through to him? Had he told him to snap out of it? He would never know.
"I need a drink." John violently pushed the chair back and got up. He got a fresh glass and reached for the bottle on the counter. He was at a point where he didn't even bother with putting it away any longer. When had that happened?
John unscrewed the bottle but then he just stood there and stared at it. There wasn't much left. He couldn't tell when he'd drank all that or when he'd opened this bottle for the first time. The bottles just blurred together. He was drinking less with Stiles around, that much he knew, but on bad days …
With Stiles gone he was looking at a lot of bad days.
John had to brace himself on the counter with his free hand. With the other one, he bumped the bottle against his forehead. Once, twice, and a third time. Each time with more force until it hurt.
It was the easy way. Drink himself into oblivion until he could forget. Until he'd drowned the pain and the guilt. But he deserved the pain, he'd earned the guilt.
He couldn't do that to Stiles. John was one of the very few people who even knew that Stiles had ever existed. He didn't want to drown the memory of him in alcohol.
"I shot you." John took a shaky breath. "I'm not going to run away from that."
John emptied the bottle in the sink.
This chapter deals with death and attempted suicide. Here is a brief summary if you rather want to skip this chapter:
John shoots Stiles by accident. When he realizes what he's done, John tries to shoot himself but can't. He holds Stiles' body for hours until Derek comes to get him. He then asks Derek to kill him but Derek refuses. Back home John wants to drown himself in alcohol but instead, he empties the bottle in the sink.