19 June
Reblog
YOU WIN YOUNG DAVE
majyyks happen here
Taylor/17/Oregon
98.2% textpost
good luck with that
Homestuck, Community, Doctor Who, Sherlock, Adventure Time, GoT, AtLA, batfam, Teen Wolf, etc
98.2% textpost
good luck with that
Homestuck, Community, Doctor Who, Sherlock, Adventure Time, GoT, AtLA, batfam, Teen Wolf, etc
![PART1 FFN AO3
Stiles was supposed to be exorcising a demon, okay? He does not have time for being pinned to the wall by Laura freaking Hale. OR that fic where Stiles is sent back in time and decides to be a meddler.
Part 2
[[MORE]]
Stiles doesn’t get the couch. He doesn’t get that comfy looking arm chair, either, or even the option to just fall on that soft plush carpet and sleep for five years. Stiles hates the foreign feeling as he’s shuffled through the house, like he’s looking at a completely different model of the home he spends more time at than his own. He’s herded directly past the living room, the kitchen, and is pulled to a full stop in the dining room.
Which is where he promptly collapses into a pulled out chair and fights every urge in his body screaming to rest his head on the surface of the table and pass out. He has a few seconds to consider making a graph depicting the extreme differences between human healing and werewolf super healing powers, because really, does no one care for the helpless human bleeding all over himself, before a few older Hales are shuffling to sit in the chairs around him.
Laura and a few others decide to hold up the wall, and Stiles wonders if it’s a pack hierarchy thing.
“So, you’re either a human, or those are from your Alpha.”
Stiles can’t even tell which Hale felt like starting the interrogation, and sighs, too tired to even try to put in the effort of a lie or snark, “I’m a human.”
There’s a nod from Talia Hale and she points to a boy standing close to Laura, “Call Deaton,” she orders, and the boy nods briskly before disappearing into the kitchen.
Stiles feels like he might throw up, the nauseous feeling that had been swirling in his gut seems to have increased since stepping foot in the house. He doesn’t want to be here. Every time he even looks in Laura’s direction, his head starts pounding and he can’t stop seeing half of her body in a hole. Stiles just wants to lie down, to catalog his injuries and have Lydia or Allison patch him up, to have Isaac and Scott sit beside him and take his pain away, to have Erica bring him snacks and juice and for Boyd to scoff at him for playing up his pain.
What’s worse, Stiles decides, is that he even wishes Derek was here to chide him for being so idiotic and getting hurt. He just wants his pack back, he wants his family and his friends to crowd around him and make sure he’s safe. He wants the feeling that comes whenever they’re in the same room, the protection, the belonging.
He’s an outsider here, and it physically hurts.
Of course, the physical pain could be the cuts in his side and his thigh, which seem to have stopped bleeding, and the purple bruise blooming on his right side. He knows he got out of the battle relatively unscathed compared to the others, but the mental anguish of knowing he forcibly abandoned his pack in the midst of battle hurts way too deep.
Stiles groans, resting his head on his forearms and breathing on the surface. A hand drops lightly on his head, rubbing soothingly. Stiles has felt his pain being drawn before. It’s not a new thing to him, since when Deaton taught Scott he could do it Stiles spent the next day jabbing himself with thumbtacks and whining at Scott to practice.
Stiles peaks out from his cave and sees Talia with her mouth drawn in a tight line as she stares at him, her eyes flashing red as her nostrils flare. Stiles knows she’s smelling him, smelling the blood and sweat and pack that has probably permeated into his very being by now. He’s not afraid, though, not really. Stiles has heard far too many stories about Talia from Derek, Deaton, his own dad, and even Christ Argent.
Talia Hale is an amazing Alpha, and an even more amazing person. She wouldn’t hurt Stiles, especially not when he’s so obviously not prepared to defend himself, especially when he smells like her son.
The rest of the Hales don’t seem as forgiving as their Alpha, though, so Stiles tries to keep calm and smell of anything but prey.
“Where’s Derek?” Talia asks, finally taking her eyes away from Stiles’, and he follows the direction she’s staring at in hope of an answer. Her eyes aren’t red anymore, but back to that hazel color that Derek has. It’s so familiar, the flash of red to hazel, that Stiles feels the ache in his chest grow bigger.
“Swim practice,” A young girl pipes up from where Laura’s standing, and adds, “He said they have a meet this weekend and he can’t miss practice.” Her dark hair is up in curled pig tails and she’s missing a front tooth, and Stiles thinks she’s probably Cora. He doesn’t think Derek has any other sisters, but leaves a margin for error.
It’s not like Derek was the most talkative guy about his traumatic past.
Talia nods and Peter, Stiles represses the shudder that zings through him at the sight of the macabre villain, peaks his head out from the line of other adult Hales and stares at Stiles, “Do you think you could, perhaps, manage to tell us exactly why you’re shirtless,” not that Peter looks that concerned with Stiles’ lack of shirt, creep, “Covered in blood and practically dying on our dining table?”
“And why you smell like Derek!” Laura adds, eyes flashing at Stiles.
Stiles just rolls his eyes at her, not at all threatened by the display. At least Laura’s a born werewolf and fully submitted to an Alpha. Isaac and Erica were way more terrifying before Derek got them under control. Stiles is careful not to blurt out that information, though. Supernatural creatures have fragile egos and he feels like he’s already half dead, so. Don’t wanna make it an easy kill for her.
Stiles opens his mouth to answer Peter, not that he really knows what would have stumbled out, when the front door opens and he hears the sound of Deaton talking to the boy who left the room earlier. He turns around the corner, not looking any different from when Stiles saw him last week, and pauses as he takes him in.
He’s sure he’s quite the sight, what with werewolf and human blood over him, the aforementioned bruise and cuts, and his scars that Deaton himself put on him, so he doesn’t mind that the vet needs a few seconds to collect himself. Stiles is sure he’d need the same if he was in his predicament.
“’Sup?” Stiles waves with a smack of his lips.
That seems to shock Deaton out of his reverie and he’s instantly hustling his way around the werewolves to kneel in front of Stiles. He scoots his chair out to give the good doctor some room to work, because there was no way the family of freakishly healing werewolves were going to know that he needed space to work his doctor magic, and hisses as it pulls at the cut on his side.
Now that he gets a better look at it, though, Stiles is upgrading that particular cut to a gash and that’s that.
“That’s not going to interfere with my tats, right?” Stiles asks, looking worriedly at the way it slices between the rune, he promises himself later he’ll laugh at the fact that it’s his only protection ward, on his ribs. If it does, Stiles is going to be pissed because that one hurt like a bitch to get and he manfully cried the entire two hours it took to carve it in.
Deaton looks at him in a cross between awe and worry, his fingers gently poking at the raised skin, “I’m afraid it cut it off completely,” Deaton says, gesturing to the spot where the gash cut into the rune, “It’s too precise to be on accident. It’s the only weak point in that particular ward and it’s almost impossible to hit. Whomever did this definitely knew what they were doing.”
Stiles nods, accepting that easily and is decidedly too tired to make a fuss about it. He knows all about his wards and runes and patterns. He had poured himself over books, ordered from some pretty shady websites, for three months before finally going to Deaton with his designs.
“Which,” Peter catches Stiles’ attention again, “Calls the question again: What were you doing?”
Stiles sighs, because honestly? What is he supposed to say? He’s in a room full of lie detectors just waiting for a reason to tear him apart and he’s in no condition to attempt to talk his way out of this. To be honest, he’s still freaking out about the whole 6 years in the past thing and is probably just a tad bit woozy from blood loss and, oh yeah, did he mention the time travel?
The time travel thing is pretty important on his list of major concerns, he decides.
A man sitting directly next to Talia, who has Derek’s perfect jaw, Stiles notes, recalls, “You mentioned something about “fucking up” and your pack dying?”
Stiles chuckles a bit before immediately cutting himself off when, ow, ribs, “Uh, yeah, not really my best opening line?”
Someone snorts. Stiles thinks it’s nice that at least someone appreciates him.
He awkwardly scratches at the back of his neck, “Look, I’m, um, I’m-”
Stiles sighs. If it sounds stupid to him, when the fucking evidence is right in front of his face, then there’s no way anyone is going to believe him. He should just leave. He should just get up and hobble to some ditch and just lay down and die because nothing makes sense anymore.
Of course, that’s what Stiles would do if he was smart and not on the verge of keeling over and vomiting over Deaton’s nice looking shoes. In reality, or whatever fever dream he’s in, Stiles reaches up and grabs the wrist of Talia. There’s a snarl somewhere behind him, but Stiles pays it on mind as he promptly brings her hand to his jugular to feel his pulse. She can rip his throat out right now, if she really wanted to. Stiles knows this. He looks directly into her eyes, and Stiles knows that Talia knows that he knows this.
He knows what position he’s putting himself in right now, willingly, and Talia nods, prepared to accept what he’s about to say.
“I’m from the future.”
Silence.
Complete. And total. Silence.
The hand stays firmly on his throat, but there’s no sudden claw growth and he’s not dead so Stiles thinks this is a good sign. Everyone is frozen and staring at him like he might be the next messiah or something, though, so he’s not too sure if his opinion on the matter is valid.
“Well,” Laura pipes up after an entire two minutes passed, “He’s not lying.”
Talia keeps her palm on his throat but it’s more relaxed, and her veins are still black from stealing his pain and Stiles almost sags in relief. It’s like a weight has been lifted off of him because they believe him and he’s not going to die yet. She moves her hand in a gesture for Stiles to continue with his story and so he does.
He tells them almost everything while Deaton works on fixing him; the Hale fire, but not how because he’s sure that if he rats out Derek’s crush Laura will fly at him for besmirching his name, looking for the dead body (he omits that it’s Laura’s), Scott getting bit, meeting Derek in the woods, looking for the Alpha, finding the Alpha (omitting that it’s Peter), Derek becoming the Alpha, Talia’s grip tightens at that, but Stiles thinks it’s more out of concern than anger so he barrels on, the Kanima, the beta’s, Gerard, the alliance with the hunters, the Alpha pack, the rebuild, the Succubus, the elves, the goblins, the giant spiders, the vampires, the omega’s, the mountain troll, the magic, and it went on and on until Stiles’ throat went dry and Cora brought him a glass of water.
“-and then I yelled at Isaac to watch out and the demon decided I’d be much more fun to toy with and he grabbed me and lifted me away from Scott and touched me here,” he touches his shoulder and drags it over to his hip, “and he said something but there was too much noise going on and I’m not even sure if it was English and then Laura had me against the lockers and now I’m here.”
There’s a small murmur throughout the crowd and the older wolves turn to Deaton who finished fixing Stiles up around his Succubus adventures and had backed himself up against a free wall. Deaton clears his throat and places a hand on his chin contemplatively, “Theoretically, it’s possible. I’ve never heard of someone doing it, but you do have an excessive amount of runes on you,” That is definitely a judging look, “I would have to study them further to see if that is what caused you to end up here.”
Stiles simply nods because it’s what he would have suggested anyway. When they went about putting the runes on Deaton never mentioned any adverse effects like magical demons deciding to send him six years in the past but he can’t really hold the grudge, since his Deaton isn’t even here to hold a grudge to and he already knows that the vet liked to stay out of Supernatural stuff as much as he could despite being the go to guy for a pack of werewolves.
Stiles jumps as Deaton rest a hand on his shoulder and traces a spiral and zig zag that runs down his left shoulder and around his bicep, whispering “inlusio” with a look. Stiles feels… nothing.
He glares at his arm because that’s definitely not what’s supposed to happen. His deception rune is supposed to make him slightly blurry, just enough for eyes to pass over him and let him sneak around without being detected. It also makes him feel like he’s covered in a layer lukewarm water, which he knows for sure because he just used it the other day to break into his dad’s filing cabinet.
Deaton sighs and it sounds far too tired for a goddamn vet to use, “I think this demon used up whatever magic had been stored in the runes.”
And that’s definitely enough to piss him off because Stiles spent a year getting these done. He quit lacrosse so people wouldn’t see the scarification process and think he was mutilating himself. He spent countless of dollars that could have been used to fix up his piece of crap Jeep on buying those moldy old books and paying Deaton. He even had to change his entire sleeping position because sleeping on his back was not good for the healing process.
Stiles can feel it coming on and he quickly pushes it down. No. He is not having a panic attack in a house full of werewolves. He refuses to, but his throat is already tightening and his breathes are shuttering and he thinks his hands are shaking.
“But, if using the runes got me here, then does that mean…” Stiles trails off, too afraid to consider the possibility.
Because if the demon sapped all of the magic using the runes to send him here, then that meant there wasn’t any left to go back.
And Stiles needs to believe he can go back.
Deaton nods though, and that’s all Stiles needs to know before his chest tights and and his eyes sting and his throat closes up and fuck fuck fuck he can’t breathe and his eyes clench tight and his hands are balled into fist and someone’s forcing his head down and he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t-
Deaton’s in front of him, hands on his shoulders and he’s holding Stiles, “We’ll figure this out, Stiles. I promise you, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Stiles doesn’t believe him in the slightest, because he’s Deaton and after a few years it’s really hard to trust Deaton without a grain of salt, but it calms him down for the most part. His hands are still shaking but he can breathe again and that’s always a step in the right direction.
“Stiles is going to stay with me until we figure a few things out,” Deaton says, not taking his eyes off of Stiles
Talia nods, eying Stiles like he might keel over and die at any second, which is a real possibility right now, “Yes, I think that would be best.”
“And your pack isn’t going to harass him about what happened here tonight.” Deaton orders.
Laura bristles out of the corner of Stiles’ eye but she really isn’t his highest concern right now. He’s too busy watching Deaton, who has a hand wrapped protectively around Stiles’ wrist, stare at Talia like a cobra waiting to strike until she gives in and relents, “Just until he’s healthy again. The things he told us were… troubling, you have to admit, Deaton.”
Stiles really doesn’t like the sound of being bombarded by Hales, healthy or not, but he’ll take whatever reprieve he can get and Deaton seems to feel the same way. He pulls Stiles up and guides him past the werewolves who look… nervous? Stiles can’t name the expression on their face, but doesn’t concern himself with it. Talia is right, Stiles did drop quite a few knowledge bombs on them in the span of two hours. If someone randomly appeared from the future and told him he was going to die in a blaze of notglory he’d probably be biting his nails off and torturing them for information.
Okay, not torture, but he has a special brand of annoyance if his dad is any source to go by.
Deaton helps Stiles into his car, where he promptly rest his head against the window and closes his eyes feeling way too emotionally and physically exhausted to even consider being alive.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/ed26ff1db9fc211d9410c5488b65c5d4/tumblr_mon1vqONW01qh5dfho1_500.png)
