Four hours later and his Dad still had not shown up.

Not that he was surprised – he was more so annoyed. He wanted to get the hell out of this place that held so many bad memories.

"You're still awake?" Scott's mom peeked into his room, a warm smile on her face. She reminded him so much of his own mother that it hurt sometimes.

Stiles shrugged, "Waiting on Dad to come sign me out."

Melissa walked into the room, "Your Dad called me a couple of hours ago – said he wouldn't be able to get here tonight."

Oh.

"But you can sign yourself out." She continued, waving several stapled papers together.

Stiles frowned, "I thought you had to be eighteen to sign yourself out without a guardian present?"

Melissa's face dropped a bit before pulling her smile back on, "Today's your birthday, Stiles." She pointed to the clock on the wall, "It's officially forty five minutes into your eighteenth birthday. Congratulations, here are some papers to sign." She laughed.

He'd been so caught up in the supernatural, he hadn't even given thought to the time.

As Stiles took his paperwork, he resisted the urge to glance at his phone for the umpteenth time that night, knowing no one had tried to contact him. It seemed he wasn't the only one to forget about his birthday…

Not that he was bitter about it. He never really liked his birthday anyway. Morbid as it was, he just thought of it as another year passed closer to his death, and the deaths of everyone he loved… Regardless of how he felt, he always put on a smile when his friends insisted on celebrating. He wondered if he'd have to bother with it this year.

Stiles took the offered paperwork and quickly filled it out, in a hurry to escape the suffocating room.

Melissa tried to say something to him, but he couldn't make out the words. He was breaking down too fast and if he didn't get out of there, there would be too many witnesses to his oncoming panic attack.

He'd barely crossed the threshold of the hospital when he collapsed sideways into the shrubbery beds lining the front of the building. Stiles barely registered the sharp twigs nip at his skin as he curled onto his side and grit his teeth, hoping to come down from the attack quickly.

A rustle of leaves alerted him to another presence, but he couldn't find the strength to unclench his eyelids.

"J-just get it o-over with." He panted out loud to whoever – or whatever – was looming over him.

He heard a quiet whine and then a large, warm mass slumped down beside him. A wet nose prodded at his arm and he finally pried opened his eyes. In the dark, he couldn't quite see much besides an outline of what looked to be a very large dog. The animal nudged at him again, huffing at him. Stiles cautiously unclenched one hand and rested it on the dark fur of the now content dog.

Stiles struggled against the dryness of his throat, "H-hey, buddy. You lost?" The dog ignored him, lying quietly by his side, "Where's your owner?" He got a growl for that question – as if the dog understood what he said. Stiles rolled his eyes and flopped onto his back to stare up at the building, "This is just ridiculous. I'm lying in the dirt in the middle of the night, having a conversation with a dog." He sat up, wiping the earth from his back, "Rock bottom, here I come." He muttered, glancing over at the dog. Blue eyes, bright from the light coming from the hospital stared into his own, "You coming with?" He asked as he stood. The dog huffed indignantly – if that's even possible for a dog to do, "I mean home with me, not to rock – What am I even doing?" Stiles shook his head and stepped out of the bushes, gaining a few concerned looks from a couple walking inside. He turned to see if the dog was following him, but there was nothing there. Had he just imagined it?

Ignoring the strange pit in his stomach, he began the long trek home.

Once he stepped into the warmth of his house, he realized how cold he actually was. He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and fell into it, wrapping his arms around his torso to hold back the shivers. Stiles worried at his bottom lip as he eyed the half full bottle of whisky sitting on the counter.

It was his birthday, why not take a couple shots to drown his sorrows? His Dad had done it when his mom died…

But he also remembered how hard it was for his dad to stop. Stiles was already a mess, he didn't need to add alcohol dependency to his list. He had a tendency to become attached to things, and if taking a few shots of liquor numbed his whirring mind, he knew that he'd continue to go to it.

Instead of giving in, he pushed away from the table and climbed the stairs two at a time, shutting his door behind him. He collapsed heavily on his bed – body tired but mind sharp. Stiles knew he wouldn't be able to get any sleep.

He stared up at his ceiling and imagined an airplane engine falling through and crushing him like in Donnie Darko.

Stiles jerked himself into a sitting position, running his hands through his hair, "Fuck."

He had always had a reckless demeanor, very careless when it came to himself… but he hadn't had any thoughts like that since his mom died and his dad was hidden somewhere in the bottom of a bottle.

There wasn't any intent behind it, but he didn't like the thought popping up regardless.

Tired, weary tears strolled lazily down his cheeks as he stared at the wall across from him unseeingly. Scott is his best friend; he surely hadn't actually kicked him out of the pack. He needed them, probably more than they needed him. It kept him moving, kept the darkness that he felt festering at the base of his skull from reaching out and consuming him.

His phone dinged beside him and he jumped slightly at the unexpected sound. He quickly unlocked his phone to read the message:

Scottie Boy – sent 1:52am – happy birthday dude.. hey so i'm gonna be busy 2nite w/ a thing so maybe we can celebrate ur birthday nxt weeknd?

Fuck. He knew. He knew what Scott was going to be busy with. Every other Friday night the pack had a meeting, which usually turned into a social hang out session unless something was actually threatening Beacon Hills… And Scott had basically just made it clear that Stiles wasn't going to be accepted.

He started to send a reply, but Scott sent another message after seeing Stiles' reply bubble pop up.

Scottie Boy – sent 1:55am – pls dont make this any harder than it has to be

No, no no no no – Come on. Stiles called Scott, holding the phone to his ear with shaking hands only for his call to be sent straight to voice mail. He tried two more times before chucking his phone at the wall with a guttural yell, falling back onto his bed and trying in vain to ignore the stinging of his eyes.

He coughed out a strangled sob, trying to control himself. This was ridiculous. Just because he wasn't welcome at pack meetings didn't mean he was banished from being friends with everyone. Scott had said that they'd celebrate his birthday later and he'd see everyone at school still… so why were a couple of texts making him fall apart like this?

The dark side of his mind reminded him that he'd never had it together in the first place.

He barely heard a shuffling before a weight fell onto his bed. Stiles rolled over quickly to see the same dog from before curled up beside him, making soft, distressed whines. He looked over to see his door was still shut and his window was open a crack, but that wasn't unusual. This dog must be some sort of hallucination… so he decided to just let it be and he curled his fingers into the black dogs long fur and hid his face in it's neck, letting out all the tears he had until he finally passed out.

When he woke up, his dad was knocking on the door and the dog was gone without a trace.

"Hey kid." His dad opened up his door, a shy smile on his face, "Sorry I couldn't come get you last night. Mel assured me you were, and I quote, 'Totally and completely fine, calm down Stilinski.'" He held up a jug of maple syrup, "I made mom's special birthday pancakes as apology. Happy Birthday, kid."

Stiles forced a smile, he knew his dad was trying, "Thanks, dad. I'll be down in a minute."

His dad closed his door and headed downstairs. Stiles let out a breath and got out of bed, swaying a bit on his feet. He decided that he was going to the pack meeting that night regardless. With the intention settled, he followed the scent of pancakes downstairs.