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Stiles Stilinski.
He wasn't just useless; he was a liability. He was half-crazy, on medication for a whole list of mental illnesses, and physically crippled. He walked with a cane carved from old wood and sources referred to his left eye as "unreliable." Poor, fragile little human.
They left a rabbit on his doorstep, just to make sure he got the message; he wasn't necessary in this game. He was boring. Oh he sounded interesting at first: humans who ran with wolves always did. But he was just another stubborn fool, and a broken one at that. It wasn't like he had any other options, any choice but to run with the wolves. After all, he could barely survive without the pack supporting him and his weakness.
Really, why did they even bother?
Apparently he was an old friend, old, old, old. Friend to little Alpha McCall, who's bleeding heart was more famous than the Little Red stories about his hunter mate. Or maybe they were about the banshee? The stories always said human, but one girl suited it as well as the other. They were interesting, beyond the usual human-with-wolves. They certainly weren't broken, although careful observation revealed the little hunter favored her right hip overly, and the banshee couldn't quite hide how much the darkness frightened her. But they were vicious women, more merciless than their men. Bloodthirsty, almost. The hunter hid it well, kind enough to suit her mate in the eyes of those who didn't know better, but the banshee walked around with claws bared. It was charming.
The whole pack was charming. Or, rather, intriguing. And wasn't that the same thing? They were a group that held the public and private eye alike, a pack that needed watching. An excellent plaything, in other words. Almost a challenge, even. Enough of one to stave off boredom, for a little while at least. A few weeks, maybe even a month or two, spent catching them, drawing them in singularly and in pairs, watching their every move. And then, if they dragged it out, if they were careful(they were always careful, always patient; they had learned from past mistakes) they could be entertaining for years.
Maybe they would pick up the useless one, in the end, once they had everyone else(once he'd been left to his fear for a while). A pack shouldn't be split up, after all.
***
They were having a pack meeting, although the phrase was used loosely at that point. After seven years of being a pack(if you counted the year or so it took them to actually settle down and be a pack), their meetings had become less "meeting" and more "gathering in which Important Things are occasionally discussed but mostly it's just used as an excuse to get together and cuddle by which I mean hang out of course because none of us cuddle no, no, no dog piles here." The old Hale house had been demolished three years back, but they'd been having their meetings for five years at a randomly-selected pack member's residence, ever since Stiles managed to follow through a wall. Derek's original three betas, who Stiles still secretly referred to as the Leather Trio even though everyone but Derek had largely abandoned leather after high school, rented a little apartment between Beacon Hills and their college; it had a big living room and college-student-appropriate amounts of gaming equipment so they usually had their meetings there, what with the added benefit of sparing the tired college kids the hassle of the drive, never mind that Stiles was a college student too even if his classes were all online. Scott and Allison had their own apartment too; Stiles spent the night there often, now that Stiles and Scott were once again StilesandScott, bromance extraordinaire. They didn't have meetings there very often, even if it was the alpha's home, technically. It was tiny and Allison managed their finances so there wasn't much in the way of gaming(Allison was technically even more of a gamer than Scott, rivaling even Stiles, she just happened to have more self-control sometimes. It helped that she and Scott both had keys to Stiles' house). Plus, it apparently smelled like sex everywhere and Erica in particular took great pleasure in telling Stiles whenever he sat somewhere that smelled especially of sex.
So no, they didn't meet at Scott's apartment, although they sometimes met at the McCall house. Derek still had his flat--or rather, had re-obtained it after he and Cora had their little soul-searching journey(shut up, Stiles). They met there only once every blue moon(Stiles) because, shocker, it was still dark and creepy.
Everyone's favorite meeting place, though, was Casa de Stilinski. Derek claimed it was because Cora lived there now, having claimed the guest room on account of the loft's general creepiness. Stiles suspected Cora had also been tired of Derek's company after months of being about five feet, tops, from each other, and then had fallen in love with his house. Everyone else admitted they came for the food. Stiles was officially(okay no not officially but anyone who wants to eat will never argue with him about it) a five star chef and even when he didn't make something specifically for the meeting, there was always plenty of leftovers in the fridge. Which certain college kids frequently absconded with. Lydia and Jackson, of course, had no preference for the meeting location; they were always there via Skype anyway, since they had both decided to go to a college halfway across the country. Jackson hated it, according to Lydia, and Lydia hated it, according to Jackson, but both claimed to be happy there for the moment. Stiles sent them "care packages" of home-cooking because Jackson could burn water and Lydia had declared cooking beneath her(she blackened toast and spread butter wrong; Stiles was concerned about their future together).
In any case, this was a Casa de Stilinski meeting. Stiles made lasagna and six different types of dessert. None of them had been able to contact either Lydia or Jackson for days and Stiles was a stress cooker. It was a thing. Don't question it, just eat the delicious food and don't say a word.
Stiles hadn't seen Cora without a cookie in her mouth all day. It was fascinating and impressive, since he also hadn't yet seen her filch one, but they were all definitely of his making. He put it down to yet another creepy werewolf superpower of uselessness and moved on with his life, as per usual.
He finally left the kitchen when Derek showed up, leaving him to deal with the mess in the kitchen and promptly collapsing on the couch. He listened to Derek wash dishes and Cora "help"(Cora hated doing dishes, but she did most other chores without complaint so Stiles didn't mind. He didn't have some weird hate-on for dishes duty and Cora did the laundry, which was great because he had no idea how to handle her clothes and really did not want to touch her underwear.) while waiting for the rest of the pack to arrive. As usual, no one knocked, just used their personal house keys and strolled on in.
Allison rubbed his head, a habit she had started on shortly after he grew his hair out. Apparently she liked petting short hair. She would probably have pet Derek and Boyd's heads but, well, Derek and Boyd. Significantly more approachable than seven years ago, sure, but still dark, looming, and sort of dickish. She did pet Jackson's hair, whenever he and Lydia came to town, which was particularly hilarious because unlike Stiles he had never gotten the "I like to pet short hair" talk.
Circling around the couch, Allison settled in next to him, tucking herself snuggly against his side in a way that would have been uncomfortably intimate if they weren't pack. Stiles didn't hesitate to wrap an arm around her shoulders, leaning in to drop his head against her. Scott plopped down on her other side, giving Stiles' upper arm a squeeze before wrapping an arm about Allison's waist and grabbing the remote. He switched away from the news without comment; Stiles was also a stress-news-watcher. It didn't flow as well as stress cooker(stress chef, thank you very much) but was nonetheless a thing.
The Leather Trio arrived shortly and everybody got up to raid the kitchen, save Stiles who remained nestled in the sofa, watching the Nanny because that was what Scott had decided they should watch and no one protested except Derek who it was universally agreed was not allowed an opinion when it came to games or television or really anything Derek just wasn't permitted an opinion but on entertainment in particular. When the pack returned, burdened with plates practically sagging under the weight of cookies, pastries, lasagna, asparagus, and mashed potatoes(stress chef), Stiles was casually moved to the center of the couch and the three betas managed to pile in around him. He pulled free of the snugglefest to adjust the laptop's webcam; Skype was already open, had been for days, but he was signed in to his pack-only account so no one was online. The list of tiny "offline" icons depressed him, so Erica casually hauled him back into the couch and preceded to force him to share her food while they all watched the Nanny. It was a rule that important business never be discussed with full mouths; besides, Melissa and John were still at work.
Melissa showed up halfway through the third consecutive episode, and John--didn't. Five sitcom episodes, three phone calls, and a broken vase later, Stiles let Erica hug him close and tight while Derek, Isaac and Boyd went to look for him.
Isaac returned three hours later.
Derek and Boyd didn't answer their cells.
This time Stiles hugged Erica.
***
They leave Stiles at home in the morning. They usually do nowadays; Stiles let's them because he still can't predict when his leg will buckle and it still scares them all. The first time it happened Derek actually cried, although only Stiles was there to see. He was still sort of traumatized by that sight, so it was probably a good thing no one else was there, although if there had been anyone else around Derek probably wouldn't have cried in the first place.
More importantly, Derek was missing and Stiles was stuck at home while everyone else went off to go rescue him.
He called at the end of the first hour, and when they didn't pick up he made himself put down the phone and go do busywork. There were papers to write and chores to do. At the five hour mark, he called five times in fewer minutes, and then he got his bag and his cane and he climbed into the jeep.
Technically, doing a locator spell on a person was difficult, not to mention frowned upon amongst most users of magic(the proper terminology; apparently calling them all "witches" or similar was like calling all Americans New Yorkers). Stiles had dozed off during Deaton's long-winded explanation as to exactly why it was frowned upon, and when he compared it to teenagers getting pissed because their parents tracked them by the GPS in their phones, Deaton made his "I am very disapproving" face and started lecturing again. Stiles had figured he was right anyway but that it was best not to put it in those terms because magic users were touchy. Anyway, technically locator spells were hard, hardest on living things and still pretty hard for inanimate objects. Usually they required sweat and blood and a lot of magic and a serious level of concentration, as well as some sort of personal connection to whatever or whoever the magic user was trying to locate.
But technically, Stiles was part of the pack and the only connection closer was blood, which he also had because they took the sheriff too. He jammed a hand in his magic bag(he loved calling it that, made him laugh every time, except when someone he liked was dying, of course) and cast a broad locator spell for the whole pack, opening the channel and letting it access as much magic as it wanted. It didn't need much; they were close, for one thing, and, well, pack bonds. Stiles could probably have found them without the magic, but it would have taken a few days and a lot of "embrace your inner pack" mojo from Deaton. As it was, Stiles barely even swerved. Didn't even ding a mirror. He would have to brag about that later. And by brag about that he meant never ever mention it to anyone ever. Stiles rarely fought the bubble wrap his friends(pack) tried to keep him in; he just cut himself loose whenever necessary and let them think he was all safe and bundled up if they wanted to. It made them feel better, and Stiles really did try to keep them happy.
Although the next time someone effortlessly kidnapped several of their pack members, Stiles was definitely not getting left behind. Why had he even allowed that the happen?
Wait. Scratch that; there was not going to be a next time. Stiles was officially done with supernatural drama. It was time for a vacation. A vacation full of school, but a vacation nonetheless.
Fuck, if everybody he loved could just go a month without any sort of mortal danger he would feel like a whole new man. Or at least, he assumed he would; he couldn't remember life pre-supernatural well enough to be sure, but he was fairly confident in the assumption. Although he would probably actually wind up getting all worked up that things were "too calm" and get even less sleep than usual.
There was probably some sort of psychology term for that. Was it just paranoia? Stiles made a mental note to look it up. Later.
***
The jeep had undergone a lot of transformations over the years. She hadn't really looked much like herself for a while there, mostly because most of her was...missing. And then Stiles had met a fucking amazing wizard mechanic(literally) who just so happened to be in need of some spells Stiles specialized in. His baby went from looking like a scrapheap to not only looking like his baby again, but actually being secretly badass as fuck. Which meant that, unlike pre-wizard-mechanic hijinks, when Stiles pointed her at a wall and stepped on it, he wasn't silently apologizing. Instead he was grinning in anticipation, because his baby? Oh, his baby was a bamf.
Yeah, that wall never stood a chance.
Stiles was disappointed to realize that wasn't actually anyone on the other side of that wall though. It completely ruined his dramatic entrance, frankly, if there was no one around to witness it. Sure Stiles was a mature adult and totally grew out of his flare for the dramatics but that was a lie and he embraced it heartily. Grumbling, Stiles picked up his magic bag and started to climb out of the jeep. One foot on solid ground, Stiles paused to spare a thought towards the hope that this really was the right building and he hadn't just crashed into a random house. In the middle of town. He also spared a thought for the whole oops got the cops involved thing.
Since there was really nothing to be done about the impending cops and probably civilians, he shouldered his bag and strode into the building, waving a cheerful goodbye to subtlety. His cane thunked placidly along, keeping time with his gait. The physical therapists said it would become background noise, promised him in fact, just as he would eventually get used to using the damned thing. Three months since he was finally released from the damn hospital, three weeks since his regular visits with the physical therapists had stopped, and he still messed up with the cane at least a third of the time. Hell, he didn't even use the damn thing when he was home alone. On the off chance his knee buckled, he figured he could just drag himself wherever to the couch or bed and deal with it.
He wasn't messing up with the cane now though.
Stiles and his cane and his magic bag thunked steadily on into the house, resisting the urge to hum into the silence. Fortunately, his boredom was quickly alleviated by stepping into the basement(why was it always the fucking basement?) and seeing his dad, bloody and bruised and tied to a chair. Stiles didn't hesitate, despite possibilities of traps and whatnot, just flung himself forward with a cry of, "Dad!"
Sure enough, a magic circle(yeah, those were a real thing; his Supernatural fan soul was infinitely amused) activated the moment he entered it. Unfortunately for whoever had placed it, Stiles was neither a werewolf nor a human. He jabbed his cane against one of the thick red lines, visible upon activation. The entire circle crumpled, the designs simply dissolving to dust that blew harmlessly away in a mysterious wind.
As Stiles worked on the ties, his dad stirred. "The pack," he mumbled, and Stiles cursed. He smacked his cane against one of the chains and sneered as it rusted away. "What about--"
"Shh, Dad. It's okay," Stiles breathed, rusting more segments of chain until his dad was free.
"I got it," the sheriff immediately interrupted, coincidentally backed by the sound of police sirens arriving on the scene. "Go, get the pack." Stiles kissed his dad's cheek, dropped a gun loaded with what he called "everybody-dies-bullets" in his lap, then hurried on in what was less basement and more underground labyrinth. Or more like, dungeon. Who the fuck had a dungeon in the 21st century? These fuckers, apparently.
He found Lydia and Jackson first. He freed them with a snarl, although he took his time at Lydia's soft urgings, lest he use up his magic too soon. They were bloody too, broken almost, but they would survive. He pointed the way towards his dad and, leaning against each other, they limped off with words of encouragement to kill those bastards.
Next was Scott, Erica and Isaac. He didn't even need to rust anything for them, just kicked the ring of mountain-ash-on-steroids away and, as their healing kicked in, told them how to find Lydia, Jackson and his dad. He ruffled Scott's hair, giving him a one-armed hug despite all the blood. Erica kissed his cheek, and Isaac thanked him oh-so-softly, and then he was off with more well-wishes of violent intent.
Boyd was by himself, trussed up in wolfsbane-laced ropes but otherwise unharmed. With a knife and a flourish he just couldn't resist, Stiles cut him free and sent him on his way. There were no well-wishes or threats this time; just a look that conveyed all the violence Boyd wanted to inflict himself and was intrusting to Stiles in his stead. Stiles nodded in understanding, and Boyd strode off to find his packmates, wiping off the few remaining wolfsbane pedals on his way.
Grim-faced, Stiles strode off to find Derek, Melissa and Allison.
Melissa had a gash down one side of her face, and Allison had a nail embedded in her hip, on the side where a frost giant had given her femur and pelvic bones a few hairline fractures the year before. Stiles had enough medical knowledge after all his and others' hospital stays, not to mention all the things he'd patched up in the field or otherwise outside of the hospital, to know the nail was going through a bone. He could only hope it wasn't long enough to hit anything important.
Derek--Stiles didn't want to look at Derek. Derek was always the worst in these sorts of situations, Stiles had found through much unpleasant experience. He was just...blood. So much blood. So Stiles looked elsewhere. Conveniently, there was a lot to look at. Considering how much of it was at least half as blood-coated as Derek though, there wasn't much he actually wanted to look at, other than the women, and he didn't really want to look at them either. Not until he could set them free.
Which he couldn't because of two spindly old women with chilling smiles and bloody hands and frilly aprons(also bloody).
"Look who came to join us, dear sister," one crone crooned.
"Ah yes," the other responded. "The cripple." He mentally declared her Psycho, as the first had claimed the name Crone already.
"You came faster than we expected, cripple," Crone told him, voice breathy and raspy and pleasant and just horrible.
"And," Psycho began, nondescript(other than "old" and "female" and "thin") face creasing in a frown. She and her sister looked like skinny old women who baked cookies and never remembered your name. They looked fragile and old, brittle, like a strong wind could blow them away. As Stiles could attest though, looks were often deceiving. How ironic that they had not learned this lesson themselves. "He let the others out already."
"How bothersome," Crone sighed, far less displeased than her sister. "We shall have to gather them again. Pish-posh."
"What are you then? If the circle did not hold you." Psycho looked down her beak nose at him, haughty and confident. Falsely. Stiles had a secret love of taking down overconfident villains. These two would be particularly satisfying to crush. It was almost a pity he couldn't draw it out, couldn't play like a cat--after all, he had an audience.
Rather than stand about letting the ridiculous exchange(if it could even be called that) continue, Stiles took two rolling steps forward and raised his cane. As he swung, Psycho smirked arrogantly, and Stiles grinned wickedly back. She screamed when the cane's weighted base met her skull. The sigils blazed, and he felt the iron core begin to heat. Bracing the cane against the floor again, he leaned his weight against it easily and grinned at the sisters. Psycho looked shocked and outraged, covering the smoking side of her face with both hands so Stiles couldn't quite see the damage he'd done. Crone's expression was a quiet simmer of rage, no Granny Smith smile in sight. Good. She could die angry. That seemed fitting, since Stiles was going to kill her in a murderous fury. Under other circumstances he might have been concerned that he had let his temper get so entirely out of hand, but under these circumstances, well, it seemed appropriate. Although his judgment was probably not the most sound just then.
"I am Death, become ye," Stiles answered with a feral grin that showed far too many teeth. "I am your ticking clock, and the bell tolls for you." And then Crone lunged and he plunged a railroad spike through her heart. Why carry a railroad spike in his magic bag? Because the crone screamed and screamed, fingers burning when she tried to pull the spike free, and it was just a very satisfying weapon overall. "And that," he pointed casually to the still screaming Crone, "makes you two fae. Color me not surprised. Although really, you could have been less cliche."
He swatted Psycho, who looked a lot less nice-old-lady and a lot more creepy-ass-troll-thing now, away with another swing of his cane; a third swing took Crone's head clean off. Iron core. Very important feature. He bent to drag the bloody rail-spike from the green-skinned beast on the concrete floor, observing momentarily the oil-slick-black ichor substance that was apparently the fae's blood. He turned to fend off Psycho, and got a faceful of claws for his trouble. In his moment of shock and pain, she buried another handful of claws in his chest. Instead of pulling away, Stiles clamped a hand on her wrist, bared his teeth in one last off-kilter grin, then drove the bloody spike straight through her eye. He didn't scream until her claws were yanked free; the fuckers were barbed.
"What the fuck kind of sick ass motherfucker has barbed claws?" he spat out in a verbally violent fashion, fingers trembling with the need to clutch at his clawmarks and scream some more. But that wouldn't help much, so instead he made himself finish the job. Digging in his magic bag, he withdrew a plain black dagger; a mix of metal perfectly crafted so no metal would cancel out the effects of any other, engraved with endless sigils under layers of poisonous paint, as effective on werewolves as humans, vampires, and most fae. Yeah, it was sort of his baby, second only to the cane. He knelt down and cleaved the still-writhing Psycho's head off, then neatly("neatly") cut the heart from her wrinkly gray chest. Her blood was the red, but her heart's anatomy was different. He stuck it in a plastic baggy and put it in his magic bag(which was much less exciting when pulling zip-lock bags instead of knives or rail-spikes out of it), for later examination. Hopefully he would be able to keep both bodies; "organ harvesting" was very useful magically, although it was usually actually the claws and horns he worked with rather than actual organs. He thought these two might have at least a few useable parts.
"Stiles?" Melissa whimpered, reminding him suddenly that she hadn't seen him in action in years. Oops. No wonder she had been treating him so gently the past few months. He looked up and smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion. From the look on her face, it was not particularly. But then, he probably had blood on his face. She tried to return the smile though, so that was something.
He wiped off his special knife and put it away carefully, then pulled out a regular switchblade. Shouldering his magic bag, having long ago learned better than to go so much as three feet without it, he abandoned the bodies in favor of his packmates who were much more interesting in any case. Stiles cut Melissa free first, then handed her the knife and the first aid kit from his magic bag and sent her to see to Allison. He didn't--couldn't hold back when setting Derek free. He laid his hands on the manacles and watched Derek's face as they melted, dripping to the floor. The ropes shriveled under his fingers, the wolfsbane dried and fell away, the chains went the way of the manacles. When his hands found only flesh and clothing that had seen better days, they brought with them the healing that came from heart-magic. His leg burned--in fact, every injury he had ever sustained and still bore mark of burned, including his tattoos. The sigils on his cane lit again, although he had dropped it in his haste to attack Derek's bindings.
"Stiles," Derek breathed, voice hoarse. From screaming, Stiles thought, and smiled up at Derek who wouldn't mind if he had someone else's blood on him.
"Put salt in their mouths," he whispered; Derek knew where he kept it in his magic bag. "I need to nap now. You are a very difficult damsel, Derek. I expect breakfast in bed at the very least for this." And then he crumpled to the ground for his "nap," leaving the tidying up to Derek and the pack. They could handle it. He had faith in them.