Devil of Wolves (Sterek)

Chapter Three (Taste the Devil's Tears)

The first part if this story is hard to read no doubt with how bad it's written but it gets better. Kinda.

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It was cold out one lonely California night in the midst of November. The birds sing no songs, the streets are empty in the small town riddled with fear.

It's quiet, save for Stiles wandering down the sidewalks, shivering as he traveled.

It's the type of coldness that reaches into his bones, as if his heart were a door left wide open to the icy wind, slamming closed then open again. The only thing to do is keep moving, keep heading toward home, somewhere familiar.

The sky is a rolling blanket of clouds the color of wet ash, and the ground is its dank reflection. Each step becomes a prayer for home as he walks, seeing the light from the doorway in his flickering daydreams, letting it become more real than the stormy night.

"Stiles!"

He slowly turns on his heel, feeling the concrete sidewalk rub away at the sole. Standing across the street was his father, his face sunken and solemn. His fist clenched tightly as if he were preparing for battle. Stiles stared in a sort of odd satisfaction at the state of his father. Out of breath, clearly having chased Stiles all the way back to their home.

"Son, please," Noah pleads as he steps closer to Stiles. His shaking hands raised in a warning. "This isn't you."

Stiles tilted his head in question. What wasn't him? He followed his father's gaze and saw the blood dripping from a hunter's knife held between his own palm and fingers. Oozing with blood. Even in the twilight, the gushing liquid glinted red under the street lamps. Oh. What has he done?

He turns his wide eyes back up to his father, pleading and desperate for an answer. Next thing he knows the knife held in his hand is being thrown at speed towards his father's head and embeds itself in the man's skull with a sickening noise. Blood drips from his forehead like a rushing river and his body falls back against the pavement. More blood soaks the surrounding area.

Stiles tries to scream but there's no sound, no movement, like a fragment frozen in time.

He had just killed his father.

And he felt nothing.

Suddenly, there was a hand wrapping around his shoulder forcing his body to face the other figure—his own self stared back at him with a sick, merciless grin.

Void smiled at him, teeth and all, and embraced him with open arms.

"Welcome home."

^

Stiles hated falling asleep. It was like an unavoidable hell his own body decided to put him through, all while his mind came up with new concoctions to plague him each and every time he closed his eyes.

Like right now. He was having the same reoccurring nightmare where he killed his father and half the town and didn't even blink twice. A void. Except now his nightmare was becoming fuzzy before it got to the part where he grabbed the knife out of his father's skull and started parading through town like a madman.

In fact, the whole right side of his face stung a little and then everything went black. The nightmare was over.

He wakes up suddenly, not because of any noise or interruption, but because his dream has come to its conclusion. The night movie had ended, and the credits had rolled. Now it was time to engage in the real world once more.

Oh. This was not his bed.

"Stiles?"

His eyes blinked in a sluggish haze as Cora's face came into view above his own. What was she doing here? Was he still at work? If so, then he was definitely fired now.