Sometimes, in situations just like this, Stiles likes to wonder how the hell his life turned into a regular season of Supernatural. Only, that would probably make him Dean and then the wondering turns to cursing his luck at not looking like a regular Disney princess-hunter, and that'd make Scott into Sam which does fit 'cause all the two ever bitch and moan about is having a normal life.
Maybe Erika would be Ruby, in that they're both BAMFs. Everything else is ignored. Would that make Peter into Crowley?
Oh! Oh my Chuck that would mean that Derek would be Castiel.
It would be important, at this point of Stiles' self-narrative and musings, to point out that this would most likely be a bloody-Dean episode, hence why the teen himself is sitting against a dumpster in the alley beside a diner. The damn demon-vampire thing that had assailed him was probably long gone after realizing that Stiles was more fight than he was worth.
After, of course, breaking Stiles' phone under it's pretty little heels. The bastard.
Anyway, Stiles is pretty broken at the moment, sitting against the slick-brick wall, head throbbing, legs numb and left arm still with crippling agony.
He always knew he would die this way. He just mourns the fallen pie three feet away.
Stiles isn't morose or pragmatic. He has half the pack filling out that role and Derek Hale personifying it, a-thank-you; Stiles is the realistic guy. While Scott and Isaac can chirp about the cup being half full and the rest of the pack will say it's half empty, Stiles will smack them all in the back of the head and tell them not to leave the dishes out.
See? He's a realist. He's… he's, er—
He's probably dying, isn't he?
They, the pack, the Wolf-Hunters-Human-Witch combo (Stiles told them to work on a team name and he sure as hell isn't calling them the Jacksons, that's just a new level of douche-nozzle right there) had taken down a nest of vampires barely three weeks earlier. A month before that, they had taken down a skin-walker and performed a few exorcisms.
Stiles still likes to entertain the idea that he's living in a really clichéd TV show for teenagers. He likes to call this new chapter in his life Supernatural-lite. You know, hunting monsters, passing tests. The Teen Wolf business. It'd be so much smoother if all of the creatures that pass by through their little dinky California town weren't always trying to rattle Stiles' brain and looking for a nice slice of Stilinski.
Nurse McCall told Stiles that he'd probably sustained enough concussions to take down Cthulhu. Stiles likes to think that he's had enough brain damage to require wearing a helmet 24/7 but, apparently, that's suspicious and stupid.
Say that to the brains trying to ooze out of his temples.
He'd like to think he's above passing out and dying in an alleyway but there's no room for a luxury hotel when he can't stand and half his blood is staining his shirt already. He'd cry out for help but all of his energy is seeping out of his body in a crimson sludge.
He'd dying and all Stiles can think about is how his last thoughts are of Derek in a nice, tight fitting suit, a trench-coat, a backwards blue tie and a tilted head, asking Stiles if he's okay; Derek shaking him while telling him to stay awake, don't close your eyes, Stiles! Dammit, Scott! Scott!
"—hurts." Stiles grounds out. "Fucking… ass-butt…"
And then the daydream fades into darkness, the residual red glow of Derek's alpha eyes the final color to be swallowed by the pitch obscurity of unconsciousness.
The thing about going unconscious is that it is nothing like sleep. This is restless darkness, and your eyes flitter beneath closed lids, and your mouth wants to open and let out a mutter while your body is numb and heavy and there's no one that can wake you, not here, because you're so far under and the lake has frozen over and there's nothing heavy enough to pull you through the ice to the world of the living so you stay there, suspended.
You stay here, waiting.
Stiles has had a few run-ins with the mistress known as Unconsciousness, or as the French call this unholy, wretched mademoiselle, "évanouissement". If he was Lydia he'd name her in French but seeing as he is sadly lacking in flawless strawberry-blonde locks, he can only name the Bitch in French. (Besides, if he was Lydia he would probably never be in such close terms with Unconsciousness, seeing as he could set the damn vampires on fire or hex them into thinking they were unicorns or something.)
His body aches. Stiles can hear voices through the thick, cotton-in-his-ears haze, someone familiar and angry and another voice, optimistic and stupid. Stiles wants to respond, wants to soothe the worry he can feel in the air because it's damn near suffocating, it's so potent and pungent in the air he's drowning in it.
And that's around the time Stiles gasps into lucidness, shooting up in bed with harsh gasps of air.
"I can taste it." Stiles says and, hey, the room shouldn't be spinning like that, right? Derek's startled expression whirls in his vision, followed by the sound Stiles has called a whimper and visualizes with Scott's puppy-eyes. "I can taste it in the air, in the-the-" Shit, those black spots are getting a little bothersome. Maybe he should, Stiles should probably lie back down.
Maybe things will make more sense then.
"Stiles, sweetie, you need to breathe," coos a voice from somewhere in the near vicinity because Stiles knows now that he's in his room. It's familiar and he can almost taste the intelligence on his palate, like rich dark chocolate and warm coffee; it reminds him of the rich, earthy smell of old books, the tomes so archaic and beautiful to behold tangled with something sweet at the back of his tongue.
"Right." Stiles mutters because it's about damn time he responds and fills the silence. "Yeah, lying down. Reclining. I am no longer in a non-horizontal position."
"Now, Stiles, sweetums, darling, I need you to tell me what happened," the choco-book-girl soothes and Stiles takes a deep breath, almost chokes on the way it tangles in his throat; so damn delicious, what is that smell, that taste in the air.
It smells like pine and dirt right after a storm, like cherries and strawberries and leather and pancakes and mornings and evenings and—
"Stiles!" Someone shouts and he hadn't known, had no idea that he had started to surge forward to find this scent, this taste that was dancing on his tongue, an olfactory illusion. They're pressing him onto the mattress and he feels the residual pain of claws digging into his shoulders.
"Shit, his eyes—" Scott squawks from beside Stiles' thrashing form.
"Stiles, stop fighting us!" Derek growls, right in Stiles' face, in his space, and the smell is so much more potent now, it's surrounding him in its lustful grasp and, god, Stiles wants, he wants so badly it physically hurts.
That's when Choco-Book Girl throws something in both their faces, like gold-glitter-dust and nothing smells anymore, everything is fading away, the tastes and the smells until he is simply Stiles, laying in his bed with an Alpha-Sourwolf straddling his hips (and if Stiles wasn't seriously on the precipice of pissing himself this situation would be completely different but, alas, Unconsciousness was in cahoots with Fate and they were both on the "screw Stiles Stilinski" ship which was like the pre-iceberg Titanic: unsinkable).
Of course, non-cracked-out Stiles only means that regular old Stiles is back.
"What the hell just happened and why has Lydia just confetti'd us with the herpes of the craft world?" Stiles bites out in one breath, startling Derek if the owlish expression on the Alpha's face is anything to go by.
"Stiles!" Scott gasps and then there's a mound of sniveling, snot-and-tears smeared Scott rubbing his face against Stiles like a kitten and when the hell did werewolves downgrade?
Still, the look on Derek's face when Scott all but shoved him out of the way was priceless. A mixture of annoyed and something akin to "oh shi—". It was beautiful. If Stiles could move his arms he'd raise a paper marked "9.5".
"I threw a combination of vinegar, nutmeg, powdered bulrush, a few other spices and a nullifying charm." Lydia pipes up from the foot of the bed, making room for Derek as the grumpy werewolf rises from Stiles' bed. "It's more or less a 'keep it in your pants' and smell annul-er in one." The witch picks at her nail bed. "But enough about my glitter herpes," Lydia looks straight at Stiles, sardonically amused. "Let's talk about you."
Stiles gulps.
"What were you doing out?" Lydia asks and Stiles sighs.
"I was going to get some groceries-"
"Next," Lydia interrupts with a beautiful, terrifying shark-like smile. "What attacked you?"
"Vampire," Stiles sighs as his head slumps back onto his pillow, "from the last nest."
The silence that ensues is equally awkward and frightening. And, see, the problem here is that they know something is up; Stiles can't simmer in silence and then memories from the attack, straight from the slamming of his head into the wall to the breaking of his arm and then the stabbing of his leg with pretty vampire-manicured claws. With it comes the extra startling revelation that he isn't injured anymore.
"Guys," Stiles starts, swallows, takes a deep breath and waits. Scott stiffens and Stiles feels the muscle twitch where his childhood friend is pressed tightly against his side. Derek lets out a low growl from beside the bed and Lydia remains resolutely silent. "Guys, what," a pause; swallow. Stiles licks his lips, incredibly parched and so very hungry, "what the hell happened to me?"