“Where is he?” Stiles says levelly with intensified anger into his cell phone, hearing the cackling female alpha on the other side.
“Better get home before dinner. My dinner, I mean,” She laughs at that, as if she told an amazing joke and Stiles needs to be the one to appreciate it. But he can’t really process it when the threat of his dad is hanging in the air, his blood chilling with complete worry. Scott’s next to him, gives him another unsure look, another thing he can’t confirm for Stiles.
He loses it, throws himself in the Jeep and laughs while driving. He hates all of it, the alphas, werewolves, this mess that swallowed him whole.
Stiles rushes through the front door when he gets home, breath panting, lungs aching, heart churning. He can hardly move, can hardly breathe and he feels like he’s the one that needs saving, his worst panic attack yet. He moves through it anyways because it’s his dad and who cares if his eyes were blurring in sight.
It was happening again. His dad is getting caught in the crossfires, and it’s not one he can control.
He goes mad in his search, neck craning to look at every room for his dad, chest heaving and finally reaches his dad’s bedroom door and stops. Every part inside of him seems to halt, every single part, and even the beating of his heart stills. His mouth drops open by instinct, but it’s not awe he’s feeling, it’s not even shock. It’s not hypervigilance and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to describe it as anything except pure loss.
His first thought is that none of this is real. That the alphas captured him and have given hims some magic potion thing to make him hallucinate his worst nightmares.
He snaps into this headset for a while, heart seeming to calm down at the notion that it’s all mythical. Maybe it’s even further than that — maybe Stiles got bitten by a mountain lion, is lying in a coma somewhere and all of this isn’t real.
But if it’s not real, it still feels like it’s in his grasp. The crimson walls and the warm-toned lights and the lack of anybody insight except for the horror before him. There’s no one here.
No one but his dad, lying on the ground. It’s too vivid for his liking but the picture isn’t as bad as the smell. He can seem to taste the iron of blood in the back of his mouth by the sight. There’s so much blood. There’s claw marks draping across the stomach of the Sheriff and Stiles laughs outright at it for a moment, albeit insanely. He steps forward, his mind still playing to the trick that all of it’s just a game and maybe it’s time he played.
But he reaches his dad and his fingers hesitantly move forward. His dad’s eyes are closed but Stiles might think he’s still breathing. He brushes at his dad shoulder and he feels it so suddenly hit him, the warm red liquid on his fingers, the quite literal blood on his hands and he’s going to be sick, he’s going to lose this mind, because this honestly can’t be happening. He can’t lose another —
Stiles thinks he should do something, should move, should help but it’s all his fault and it feels like he’ll break anything he touches. Oh god he’s alone and the alphas got to his dad and he can’t protect anyone. And he could get over anything with time but not this, not the one person he would die for over and over again if that’s what it took. Not the one person he tried to keep in the dark to protect, no matter how much it hurt him.
That’s his fucking dad.
Scott is behind him suddenly, screaming at him suddenly but Stiles can’t really make out the words, only sees Scott putting pressure on his bleeding dad’s stomach.
And then, the room spins and there’s the sound of an ambulance arriving and he feels like that sound should fade too but instead it bursts in his ear, shakes him alive and it’s still moving so fast. And all that he can think is is that it’s all his fault.