He's sat on a cold metal examination table in Deaton's clinic, long legs hanging off the table, and a blanket wrapped around his still trembling body. Scott's sat next to him silently, quietly offering his presence with his arm pressed against his side.

He's still got an audience – Derek is facing him, leant against the counter at his back, arms crossed against his chest, eyes a confusing mixture of intense scrutiny and… something else, that Stiles can't quite decipher. Allison and Isaac are stood close, near the door to the waiting room and Stiles has only just now realised how close they're standing and wow, that's new. By their stance he figures that they both want to leave but something keeps them there.

He'd prefer that they had left.

Lydia, though, is stood between them and Derek. She looks like she has purpose, although her eyes are full of doubt, and they're being directed at him, concern and worry across her features. He licks his lip nervously and glances away, eyes falling on Cora who's completely on the other side of the room, as far away as possible, eyes wide. She looks terrified. Or fuming. Stiles can't quite figure it out.

"I don't get it," he says, averting his eyes into his lap and tugging the blanket closer. "Why me? I'm nothing special. Why not Lydia? She's a death omen. A banshee. A wailing woman. The dead literally talk to her all the time…" he rolls to a stop when he glances up and sees her hardening her eyes. "No offence Lyds…"

She shrugs after a few seconds and offers a wry smile.

"He's right," she directs at Deaton. "Why him?"

"You performed a ritualistic sacrifice on yourself," Isaac offers dryly. "How about that?"

"Can you be any less helpful?" Stiles snaps at him, tensing further, anger winding through his frame.

"Hey," Scott murmurs next to him, winding his hand around his wrist. "It's okay."

"No, it's not…" Stiles huffs out, feeling his eyes sting frustratingly. "I'm losing my shit here and Isaac thinks it's something to joke about?"

"No," Isaac immediately shakes his head. "That's not what I meant. I was just trying to…"

"Well don't," he snaps at him. He wipes at the increasing wetness building in his eyes. "It's stupid. You're fucking stupid…" he doesn't know why he's being so mean and crude to him, all he knows is, over the past few weeks that's all Stiles wants to do. It's that or beat the crap out of him, and Stiles knows that's not even an option.

"Isaac is right actually," Deaton tells him, cutting him off in his tirade. "You sacrificed yourself and were technically dead. You went to a place you shouldn't have gone and then you came back."

"So he brought something back with him?" Scott asks his boss from his side.

"It's more like the nemeton senses what you've done," Deaton explains. "It's connected to all three of you, but it's drawing something specifically out of Stiles, much like how the supernatural will be drawn to it, like a Beacon."

"I'm not supernatural," Stiles says, voice hardening. He draws back further on the table, pulling the blanket with him, knowing how timid it looks. "I'm nothing. Just human. All human."

"Yes you are," Deaton agrees but it does nothing to reassure him. "But the nemeton ignited something…"

"Ignited?" Stiles asks slowly. He thinks about the word, of the meaning, and remembers a time when Deaton had used something similar. "Like a spark?"

Deaton nods at him.

"You dick!" Stiles explodes. He's sure he would have launched himself off the table if Scott hadn't thrown a heavy arm across his shoulders, pushing him further against the unyielding and hard table. "You told me it was a metaphor. That it meant nothing."

"It was," Deaton says sincerely, not flinching at the sudden murderous glare. "At the time it was. But the words were intentional, Stiles. I had my suspicions but it wasn't until after that I realised how much potential you had."

"What's he talking about?" Derek asks. He sounds wound and tight.

"Mountain ash. The night of the rave," Scott offers and then squeezes Stiles shoulder. "Right?"

Stiles nods tiredly. He already felt wiped after coming to on loft floor but now he feels like he could just drift backwards and hope for a soft landing.

"I didn't have enough," Stiles reminds Deaton with an accusatory tone.

"I know."

"Wait? You knew Stiles didn't have enough," Derek's angered tone, gruff and tense hits him like a sucker punch to the chest because he doesn't know how to react to Derek Hale being angered on behalf of him.

"Only after," Deaton shakes his head. "After Stiles told me what had happened."

"You didn't think it was important to tell me?"

"You weren't ready," Deaton tells him. His voice is smooth, calm and controlled. And so fucking annoying.

"And I am now?" Stiles asks, his voice breaking on the absurdity of it.

"No," Deaton continues, shaking his head. "But circumstances have forced my hand."

"Imagination is greater than knowledge," Stiles mumbles to himself, burying his face into his hands and tucking his knee's up against his chest.

He feels a warmth spread though him, tingling down his shoulder and expanding, the pressure on his chest easing. He knows it's Scott's doing and he shivers against the cold from the metal seeping through his pant legs. He sags against Scott's side, seeking the warmth being emitted there and sighs tiredly against it.

"Stiles? I want you tell me about the dreams," Deaton tells him.

Stiles lifts his head from his knees and sees that Deaton has grabbed a chair and is now sitting in front of the table looking up at him expectantly

"I can't," Stiles shakes his head warily, eyes drifting around the room, hesitating on Derek until they finally fall on Cora. "Not with…"

"Do you mind?" Deaton calls over his shoulder.

Derek nods at Isaac, Lydia and Allison and again they all leave, just like before.

"Go wait outside," Derek tells his sister.

"No!" Cora stands defiantly, rooted to the spot. "I get to hear this."

"Outside. Now," Derek growls at her and Stiles is a little bit surprised to see how she immediately concedes, glaring at Derek before stomping through the room and slamming the door shut. "Go on," Derek tells them.

"I've had two that I can remember," Stiles starts. He runs his tongue nervously over his lips. "The third one, the one before I went to Derek's, not so much. That's pretty cloudy…"

"Okay, start with the two that you remember."

Stiles nods and tells them about the first dream. How he had been a small boy, how it had been over quickly, one minute being in the hall and then being in the fire and waking up to find it covering his walls, burning his father.

"And the second time? Was it the same?"

"No," Stiles shakes his head and glances at Derek who's standing pale faced and unreadable. Stiles sucks down his own fear and trepidation because if Derek can wade through this shit Stiles can at least hold his own together. "This time my clothes were smoking. And I wasn't a boy this time. I was me. It was slower too. It progressed, like there was no jumping. There were letters too… on the door. I think it was a name but it didn't make sense."

"What was it?" Derek asked.

"C. O. J. A. B."

"Jacob," Derek answers, mouth tightening in a grimace. Stiles hears it hissed between his teeth. It's almost painful to hear. "My youngest brother."

Oh. Stiles should have figured those letters out. It wasn't too difficult. (Cojab) Jacob (Cojab) Jacob (Cojab) Jacob, Jacob, Jacob…

"Stiles?"

"I walked down the stairs. There were pictures everywhere," Stiles finds himself continuing. He feels distant. Lost. His voice sounds strange. Detached and flat. "There were noises. Laughing. Screaming. Crying. More laughter."

He feels Scott's arm tighten.

"Does he have to do this now?" Scott asks in concern. "He doesn't look good."

"Yes," both Deaton and Derek answer, although Derek sounds reluctant, as though if Stiles just decided to cut and run, he wouldn't stop him.

"The boy – Jacob, I guess – was there and was asking for his mom – your mom," he quickly corrects. "Kate Argent was there too…" he pauses when Derek flinches, unsure if he should carry on.

"Go on," Derek prompts.

"She was there… but it was like her then and later. Her throat was cut and she told some guy, another hunter, to put him with the others but I didn't see where… I saw your mom…" his voice pitches high as he directs the word to Derek, who's not moving, frozen and staring back. "The door was open and she was looking at me and I couldn't figure out why she just didn't leave and then I saw the mountain ash and I tried Derek… I swear to god I tried, but I couldn't break it," his voice rises, becoming more desperate, gulping. He feels his eyes spill over with tears.

Derek doesn't respond and simply takes a step back further. Stiles is sure the shelf digging into his back must start to hurt.

"Hey," Scott whispers into his ear, arm tightening around his increasingly trembling body. "It was just a dream. You have no control over what happened in the past."

"Everything got choppy after that," Stiles manages to get out between heaving breaths. He's panicking now, because he wants Derek to know that he tried. That he didn't just stand there and watch his family burn. His head hurts from the pressure of it, replacing the bone wary exhaustion, and builds up behind his eyes. "One minute I'm outside the basement and then I'm in it and I watched them throw the lighter and everything went up so quickly," he watches Derek through watery eyes. How he clenches his hands into fists, how rigid his body has become, chest rising more sharply than before, eyes a shiny blue. "And then someone was outside trying to get in and they were screaming and crying and your mom was telling them to run and she…"

The door suddenly bangs open and Cora's suddenly in the room, her own eyes shining brightly, snarling. Stiles jumps at the ferociousness of it.

"No," she growls suddenly in his face. She grabs at his shirt through the blanket and shakes him, lifting him off the table. "My mother would not show you that. She wouldn't."

"Stop!" Scott bellows loudly near his ear. It's loud and deafening and one that he recognises as his alpha voice. "Cora!"

"Don't…" Stiles pleads quietly, voice giving out on him. He's not entirely sure who he's asking, but by the sound of Scott's distorted voice, the growls, and the extended claws reaching out to Cora, he knows it's not going to be pretty. He really doesn't want to be responsible for Derek's sister to end up bleeding out on the clinic floor.

Cora ignores both the order and his own plea and shakes him further and Stiles lets her, body listlessly being jerked about.

"Cora!" Derek barks at her and it must do something because she abruptly drops him like a ton of bricks and he stumbles before Scott helps steady him against the side of the table.

Derek has her wrist firmly in his hand and it's only now that he realises she was going to strike his unsuspecting face. Wow, he thinks, bitch slapped by a werewolf.

"Cool off," Derek barks at her, yanking her back.

"No!" she yells, trying to break free. She whirls on him but faces Deaton instead. "I don't know what you're trying to imply here, but my mother wouldn't drag Stiles into this. She wouldn't make a sixteen year old boy see that, she wouldn't…"

"It was you?" Stiles asks quietly, once he's righted himself up again. "Outside the door?" she doesn't answer straight away and heaves an audible and heavy breath out between the occupants of the room. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want your fucking sympathy, Stilinski," she snarls at him. "I want to know what she said."

"Don't talk to him like that," Scott snaps at her, his hand is wound around his arm now and Stiles realises that since he'd crawled over to him at the loft he's never once broken physical contact with him. "He hasn't done anything wrong."

"Please…" Cora begs, her voice catching. In the short time he's known her he's never seen her so raw. So bereft.

He steadies himself with a breath and nods at her.

"That you should run and never look back."

"What else?" she asks.

"Nothing," Stiles shakes his head. "I swear."

"Bullshit," Cora snaps, voice raising again. She tries to step forward, anger fuelling her movements, actually dragging Derek with her this time. Stiles takes an automatic step back, jarring his aching body against the metal frame of the examination table. Scott immediately steps forward between them, one hand swiftly placed against his wildly beating chest. "My mother wouldn't make you watch my family burn to death for no reason. What. Did. She. Say?"

"Nothing, I swear Cora," Stiles pleads, voice tightening in his throat. "Just to run and never look back and the signing…"

"Signing?" Scott asks abruptly and Stiles hadn't even realised he'd said that allowed or even remembered it. It surprised him as much as it did everyone. Scott turns to look at him, hand retracting slightly and Stiles feels lost at the sudden loss of contact, like his legs would buckle at any minute and he would fall back into the suffocating flames. He reaches out with twitchy fingers, snagging Scott's shirt and twisting it between his fingers.

"Stiles?" Deaton prompts him.

"She signed something to me," Stiles nods, ignoring the way Scott's staring at him with both an angered and concerned face. "I don't know what it means. I don't even know signing."

"Is this the first time this has happened?" Deaton asks.

Stiles shakes his head.

"Not with Talia Hale, no…" Stiles admits.

"Go on…"

"It was a couple of weeks ago," Scott's the one to answer. "He spaced out in class, wrote 'wake up' over and over. I just thought it was a PTSD thing," Scott looks so guilty and Stiles can't bring himself to look him in the eye because of it. "Dude, why didn't you tell me about the dreams?"

Stiles shrugs and rubs his face tiredly. "It's not your fault," he says instead. "Besides, I was advocating the 'ignoring the problem until it goes away' approach. It's a method I've been perfecting."

"Dude," Scott snorts at him. "You've never run away from anything in your life."

Stiles grins, despite the circumstances they're in, hoping to diffuse the situation.

"Can you remember what they signed," Deaton asks, bringing both their attention back.

Stiles nods immediately. It had been ingrained in his retinas since that day in Coach's class.

He brings his shaky hands up between them, bringing his fingers around in a loop, touching his chin. It's not perfect, but by the look on Deaton's face, it's good enough.

"When is a door not a door," Deaton says out loud.

"When it's ajar," Scott answers and Deaton nods.

"A riddle?" Stiles asks incredulous, forehead screwing up in a frown. "The answer to the freakin' party in my head is a riddle?"

His head feels like cotton candy, buzzing, and he barely hears Deaton talk. He makes out 'opened' 'door' and 'mind'.

"… and you each need to close it."

"A door into our minds," Stiles murmurs.

"Why sign it though," Scott asks. "Why not write it or say it."

"I can't always read in dreams," Stiles points out and it's only now that he's realising he's not always dreaming when it happens. "Sometimes I'm even awake."

Scott looks stricken again and Stiles immediately pulls him closer, an apology already on his lips.

"The dead can't always communicate in the way they want," Deaton says before Stiles can open his mouth. "So they have to find other ways."

"But signing?"

"Laura," Derek speaks up and Stiles jumps a little. Both Hales have been so quiet he'd almost forgotten they were still there.

"She had a boyfriend who was deaf," Cora continues when she sees that Derek can't. "They were seeing each other when she died. Mom learnt to sign for whenever he came over."

"I'm sorry," Stiles says again and flinches when Derek throws an angry look at him.

"Stop apologising," Scott huffs at him and then turns back to look at Deaton. "Is this normal? For the dead to speak to a spark?"

"It's not uncommon," Deaton nods. "Especially for Emissaries."

"I'm going to an emissary?" Stiles asks. His voice sounds so small right now that he can't ever imagining being one. "Scott's emissary?"

He hears someone snort but by the look on both Cora's and Derek's face it could be either.

"Probably," Deaton says.

"Absolutely," Scott nods enthusiastically and a little warmth flutters in his stomach.

"My concern is that it was Derek's pack that reached out to you though," Deaton says, a pinch of worry on his normally calm face.

Stiles swallows nervously.

"What do you mean?" Scott asks.

Stiles glances at Derek and Cora again. They're wearing matching looks of agitated concern.

That can't be good.

In fact, it's damn well worrisome.

"An emissary – a trained one – I might add will reach out to the pack's ancestors to find guidance and answers," Deaton explains. "It normally takes a lot of meditation and a completely different plane of existence."

"Sounds like an episode of Buffy," Stiles mutters.

"Stiles…" Derek warns, voice tightening.

"You know the episode I'm talking about, Scotty?" Stiles continues, not really liking where any of this is heading.

"Stiles," Scott says, shaking his head at him and furrowing his brows the way he usually does when he was both worried and annoyed at him.

"Fine," Stiles sighs loudly and waves a hand towards Deaton. "Go ahead and tell us of the impending doom."

"Stop it," Scott admonishes him before nodding at Deaton to continue.

"It's normally very difficult to get to get to that level. You shouldn't even be this receptive."

"The nemeton?" Derek asks.

"It's probably amplified it," Deaton nods. "But in all my years of being one myself, and the training before that, I've never seen a pack's ancestor reaching out like this."

Stiles feels the air shift around him. It's charged and light and he suddenly feels like he's lost he's grounding again

Scott's hand finds his arm and he's grateful because it's like he's being tugged back into place.

"It's a warning, isn't it?" Scott asks. Stiles doesn't have to look at Deaton to know he's nodding. "They're warning us."

It goes quiet for a few days.

Stiles, blessedly, doesn't have any weird dreams or visions or whatever the fuck he's been having.

Lydia goes into research mode and gives him strict orders not to lift a finger, other than whatever was required for school and eating and drinking and breathing. She gets it into her head that any heightened emotion or stress would make the situation worse. And Deaton has to agree with her. Of course he would.

Scott goes predatory and super protective on all their asses and Isaac obliges.

Derek does routine visits to the nemeton, always finding nothing (in a discreet way of avoiding him he presumes).

Cora just plainly avoids him until she doesn't and it kind of takes him being a complete dick to Isaac to bring it to a head.

It hasn't happened yet but he can feel it building.

Like a pressure behind the eyes.

A buzzing in his head.

He wants to put a stop to it before it gets out of hand so he ditches class and finds himself in front of the wall memorial for all the students and teachers who have died over the past year.

He glances at Heather's photo and pauses at Erica's with hesitation but doesn't stop until he reaches Boyd. They were never that close but there was always something zen about him that Stiles liked. No matter what the situation, Boyd always had a calming effect that left him feeling a little bit better about the said situation.

He doesn't know what's going to happen but he's reaching out to Boyd's picture before he's even thought of the consequences, fingertips lightly grazing it.

He tries opening his mind. Imagining little Boyd receptors but all he feels is the smoothness of the photo, the curled edges of the paper. He closes his eyes and thinks of himself being drawn into the photo, towards a smiling Boyd, eyes full of warmth.

A hand comes down hard on his shoulder and Stiles spins, shoving whoever it was away.

"Whoa," Isaac says, hands up defensively. "I was just checking to see if you were okay."

"Fuck off," Stiles snaps at him.

Okay, yeah. A little bit on the rude side.

"Am I interrupting something," Isaac grins at him, ignoring the sentiment. He glances at where Stiles hand had previously been resting. "Oh shit. You weren't having an episode were you?"

"I said fuck off!" Stiles spits out. He tries to push past Isaac but the werewolf refuses to move.

"I just wanted to see if you were okay," Isaac says again, seemingly unfazed at Stiles words.

"Well, you're not being helpful," Stiles fumes at him. "In Fact you're the furthest thing from being helpful. You're pretty useless…" Stiles anger gets the better of him and he shoves at Isaac's chest – hard and with malice, "You're pathetic."

Isaac's eyes flash a gold-ish yellow, hand clamping around Stiles own flailing arm. Stiles barely gets a protest out through his lips when he's suddenly blinded by a white hot pain.

He gasps out, coughing at the acuteness of it, eyes blinking the whiteness away only to find himself at a dining table he didn't remember sitting at.

"Isaac?" he calls out, uncertain.

"What?" the man at the far end of the table laughs.

Stiles side eyes the photos on the cabinet to his left. He recognises a younger Isaac with an older boy. Camden Lahey.

His attention is drawn back to the man talking in front of him.

Isaac's father.

He's talking but Stiles can't hear everything. He's not sure if it's because he's having an 'episode' as Isaac had put it or the hammering of his own heart, so loud and panicked in his ears.

Something about grades

About being disappointed.

Stiles manages to scramble away from the table when the glass tumbler is launched at his head.

He hears Isaac's voice loud in his head.

"You could have blinded me."

A memory – he knows this because Scott's told him about the last time Isaac had seen his father alive – but it's not because at this point he should be running away and out of the house. Lahey shouldn't be grabbing him by the back of his shirt and dragging him across the kitchen floor.

The basement door shouldn't be kicked open. The flickering light shouldn't be flooding the room with a foreboding warning. He most definitely shouldn't be the one to be dragged down the stairs.

Stiles catches sight of the freezer out of his peripheral vision.

"Wait!" Stiles protests in the grip. He twists ferociously. "I'm not Isaac. I'm not Isaac!"

Lahey doesn't say anything, twisting both their bodies and shoving Stiles so that he hits the side of the freezer hard. As soon as he straightens he tries to spin and run. He's backhanded for his troubles and practically falls backwards into the now open freezer. The older man uses the momentum to shove Stiles completely over and into it, until there's the feel of cold, raw meat pressing painfully into exposed skin.

"No!" Stiles protests. "Wait!"

The lights still flickering, just enough to illuminate a few scratched words into the underside of the freezer door. For once, Stiles isn't happy that he can read them.

DON'T LET THEM IN

Stiles is screaming before Lahey has even closed the door.

Stiles comes back to himself in the middle of the school hallway, mouth open in mid-scream, Isaac's claws still wrapped around his arm.

He can hear the sound of distant doors opening. People emerging.

"Let go," Stiles says calmly, when he can breathe again. Isaac is staring at him wide-eyed. "People are watching," Stiles points out and then lowering his voice he all but hisses. "Put your fucking claws away and let go."

Isaac retracts quickly, looking equally shame faced, concerned and angered.

Stiles starts walking away as soon as he knows Isaac isn't going to stop or follow him.

He's still walking nearly twenty minutes later. He's made it to the town centre.

Scott caught up with him almost immediately. Cora appears five minutes later.

He refuses to answer any of their questions and tries to tune out the bickering going on between the pair. Something about tactics and what to do next and Stiles hasn't got any energy left to try and dispel the obvious hostility between the two.

"He's not fine," Cora is protesting and Stiles rounds on both of them in a sudden flair of anger.

"Will you two just not," he snaps at them before addressing Cora. "Why are you hear anyway? You don't even go to school."

"I was in the vicinity," Cora shrugs dismissively. "I heard you scream."

"Vicinity?" Stiles asks suspiciously, "Like stalking?"

"I wasn't stalking."

"Don't worry," Stiles tells her, voiced laced with sarcasm. "It's a Hale thing."

"I wasn't stalking," Cora repeats.

"Making up for the whole avoiding thing?"

"I'm not avoiding anything."

"You kind of were," Scott offers with a shrug.

"A Hale thing," Stiles nods at her.

"I'm not…" Cora starts to growl at him. He feels himself grin at her. It feels nice. A little bit of the old him.

"Denial," he says over his shoulder as he turns to walk away. "Also a Hale thing."

"None of those are Hale things," Cora protests after him.

"Yeah they are…" he starts to say, only his words drift away.

The air suddenly feels charged again. The buzzing is back.

Oh god. Not again. Not so soon.

Everything slows. Sound and movement, like he's moving through molasses.

There's a woman, middle aged and blonde, heading towards him. He vaguely recognises her.

"Stiles?" he hears Scott's distorted words sluggishly reach his ears.

"What's wrong?" Cora asks.

The woman moves closer. She's distracted, hand rummaging through her bag for something. She looks up just as she's about to pass, her eyes flashing in recognition. It's Mrs Reyes, Erica's mom. The last time he'd seen her was at the memorial service the school had held.

Their arms brush as they pass each other and Stiles stares at it in fascination until the buzzing becomes too loud and he's suddenly being wrenched away. The sound increases until everything else fades.

He's in gym class on an artificial wall.

Erica? he asks.

Can you just tell me what the fuck is going on without being dick?

It's probably not a good idea to cuss the dead because in the next second his whole body is seizing on the wall and he's falling, only Scott isn't there to break his fall like he was with Erica, and he hits the floor with a sickening thud. He feels bones break and legs twist at unnatural angles.

Blood bubbles up from his lips.

Erica's voice bubbles up with it.

"Don't let them in."

When he opens his eyes Erica's mother is looming over him. The strap of her bag is pushed between his teeth. Scott and Cora are flanked at his side. There's a growing crowd of people around him.

"I'm okay," he says after spitting out the strap, voice slurring a bit. He tries to push himself up only to be pushed back down by Mrs Reyes.

"No, don't get up," she says and attempts to smile reassuringly at him. "I know what I'm doing. My daughter had epilepsy."

Stiles squawks at that and pushes himself further away.

"I'm okay," he says again and staggers up. Thankfully he stays up right. "See, good as new."

"You should probably go the hospital," Mrs Reyes suggests, gathering her bag and mangled strap up.

"No, seriously, I'm fine…" Stiles says and then because he realises he never had the chance to stay it at the memorial he adds - "I'm sorry about Erica."

He drags Scott away before she can respond, Cora trailing behind.

"Maybe you should go to the hospital," Scott says, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"No," Stiles says quietly.

"You just had a seizure," Scott points out like he might have already forgotten.

"Just take me to Deaton's."

Deaton isn't much help.

All he could suggest was that the spark thing was making Stiles more receptive to past and present pack members, especially when he was feeling overly emotional.

Lydia just looks at him pointedly, like it was science, and not a supernatural mine-field.

It's two days later when his dad asks him about it.

"Did something happen?"

Stiles stops mid-chew of his dinner and puts his fork down, swallowing painfully. It's a rare night that they get to eat together. His dad has the night off. Stiles has convinced Scott to leave his side long enough to actually do some of his own studies, although, secretly, he's convinced that he might be having a tentative first date with the new girl, Kira, despite Stiles misgivings.

"Happen?" he asks, feigning ignorance. "No?"

"Care to explain why my deputies got several calls about someone matching your description having a seizure in the middle of town," his dad says it nonchalantly, but his eyes are full of worry. "Erica Reyes mother was adamant it was you."

"Would you believe me if I said it was supernaturally induced," Stiles asks with a shrug.

"Unfortunately yes," his dad declares with a sigh and nods at his son to continue. "Out with it, kid."

Stiles tells his dad the events of the last few weeks. The dreams that he doesn't know about, the waking dreams, the events from Derek's loft, his heightened emotions, and finally, his newly developing spark.

His dad stays silent through it all.

"So you have this spark thing?" his dad asks. "You're going to be an emissary."

"Looks like it," Stiles says, stabbing at his salad leaves through a lump of chicken. "Just not yet."

"Stiles?"

He drops his fork and buries his face in his hands, feeling a familiar tremor course through his frame.

"It's okay," his hears his dad say. "I'll talk to Deaton. You don't have to worry about anything."

"Of course I do," Stiles argues, dropping his hands away. "They're warning us. They're warning me. Something bad is going to happen."

"Then we'll stop it," his dad tells him firmly.

"What if it's already happened," Stiles shakes his head. "Deaton said we'd have a darkness around our hearts."

"That doesn't mean anything," his dad shakes his head.

"I'm scared, dad…" Stiles admits, finally pushing his food away. "I've changed. I don't think I like me anymore."

"What do you mean?" his dad asks, frowning. He looks so concerned it only causes him to feel guiltier. "I keep lying to you…"

"- well that's not new," his dad interjects with a scoff.

"- when there's no need to," he continues. "I'm irritable and angry. And selfish. I hardly ever ask about how the others are coping and I couldn't even tell you how things are between Scott and his dad. I haven't even asked him."

"That's understandable. You've had a lot to deal with."

"I've been really mean to Isaac," Stiles admits. "I mean, more than usual. I said some horrible things. Sometimes I feel like there's something wrong with me in here," he says, hitting his palm against the side of his head. He feels his eyes sting with tears. "Like maybe I'm not the nice guy anymore."

"Hey. No," he dad says, reaching across and grabbing at his hand. He tugs it down and lays their hands on the table in front of them, squeezing it tightly. "You're a wonderful human being."

Stiles smiles slowly at his dad, sad at the edges, and wiped at his watery eyes with his free hand. "That's a really over the top thing to say."

"No, it's not," his dad says, squeezing his hand again. "Don't be ridiculous. You're one of the most…"

"… nicest people I know," Scott is telling him.

His head lurches up from the table that it's resting on and he blinks in surprise. Disorientated and acutely freaking out at the same time.

He's not at dinner with his dad anymore.

It's lunch and he's sat in the school cafeteria. There's an uneaten lump of mac and cheese in front of him.

"Are you going to eat that?" Scott asks.

He feels his heart rate rocket and sees the immediate quirk of Scott's head as it does.

"Stiles?" Lydia asks.

"Yeah?" he croaks

"Are you okay?" Scott asks for the entire set of eyes staring at him. Even Kira's there, which sets him on edge even more, considering the last time she'd sat with them she'd given a very un-lifting talk, in the brightest of ways, about bardo and death. "Your heart rate just shot up."

Stiles finds himself nodding and abruptly stands up.

"I need to call my dad," he says. "I forgot about this thing that I need to talk to him about."

"Okay?" Scott says, unsure. "You want me to come?"

"I don't need you to hold my hand to make a call," Stiles rolls his eyes at his friend.

"Okay, if you're sure."

Stiles nods again.

"Are you going to eat that?" Scott asks again, eyeing the un-touched food.

"Knock yourself out," Stiles pushes the plate across the table.

He uses the distraction of food to make his escape and it's not until he's out of the building completely and leaning against the furthest tree he could find before the panic attack fully hits.

He doesn't know what happened.

How it happened.

He can't remember anything.

Just his dad holding his hand. Reassuring him.

And then now.

His hands are trembling by the time he's managed to dig his phone out.

"Dad?" he croaks, voice unwilling to settle into calm and non-plussed.

"What's wrong?" his dad asks, voice on full alert. "Are you having a panic attack?"

"Tell me we had dinner last night?" Stiles asks instead. "We talked, right?"

"Stiles? What's going on?"

"Just tell me," Stiles pleads again. "I need to hear you say it."

"Of course we did," his dad says. "We had dinner and you talked. A lot. And then you practically fell asleep over your food," his dad snorts loudly in his ear. "You're a heavy ass kid to be hauling to bed."

He doesn't remember.

"I did?" Stiles says and then more firmly. "I did. I know I did."

"Stiles? What's going on? Are you having a panic attack?"

"Not anymore," Stiles says, feeling his heart rate slow.

"Do you want me to come and get you?" his dad asks.

"No. I'm okay now." He knows he isn't. Not really. Not with this new development. "I'm not feeling too well though. I was going to go home. I can take the bus."

"Okay," he's surprised when his dad agrees. "Sign yourself out and take yourself home. I have a problem here that's brewing so I won't be home until late."

"Thanks dad," Stiles sighs loudly into the phone.

"Just stay home tonight, kid…" his dad instructs him, worry in his tone. "Don't go looking for anything new."

Ha, Stiles thought in ironic humour, he doesn't need to look for it anymore.

"I was just going to sleep," Stiles reassures him. "I think I could sleep for ever."

"Good," his dad says. "You need it. You haven't been sleeping right for ages now."

"I know," Stiles says. "I'm trying."

"I know you are," his dad tells him, strong and encouraging. "Look… I have to go, something just came up."

"Nothing serious I hope?"

"Nothing for you to worry about. Go home and sleep."

Stiles has to trudge back to the school to officially sign out and then waits another twenty minutes for a bus to come. He'd be home by now if he had the jeep.

When he gets home he makes a sandwich, which tastes like cardboard, and heads up stairs to his room. He sacks out on the bed, crawling under the covers, and falls into a heavy sleep. For once it's real and genuine and lacks any dreams, more a sign of how unhealthily sleep deprived he's been, than anything else.

He rouses in the early hours when the bed dips and a hand rests against his forehead.

"Hey, kid…" his dad's rough voice, exhausted, washes over him. "You feeling better?"

Stiles rolls over and smiles sleepily at him. His dad is still in his uniform. His face drawn with both tiredness and worry.

"Hmm," Stiles mumbles. "A little."

"Have you eaten?"

"Made a sandwich," Stiles shrugs, struggling to sit up. "I didn't make you anything. Sorry."

"You getting some healthy sleep is better," his dad argues, pushing him back under the covers. "Besides, I ate at the station."

"It better have not have had any grease on it," Stiles grumbles, tuttering at his dad. He sinks back under the covers and doesn't want to protest when he feels his dad straightening the covers against him. "Stop it, dad…" Stiles says half-heartedly. His hand sneaks out from under the cover and snags his dad's hand. "I'm a little too old for that."

"G'night kiddo," his dad says instead, pressing a kiss to his hair. "Get some sleep."

He doesn't remember dreaming, but he still awakes the next morning signing the same words over and over, a silent scream on his lips.

'When is a door not a door?'

tbc