Drag Me Down Quick (So they don't notice)

Homecoming (Not Quite)

     Stiles realized quickly that he didn't have anything to pack and he wasn't quite ready to try his hand at sleeping again. He ended up sitting on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the wall and trying to make sense of the two hundred-year-old mess that was his memories. Some things were clear. He knew Scott was his childhood best friend and his alpha. He knew Scott was a werewolf and he knew that he was part of the pack. He knew who Lydia was (flashes of strawberry blonde, you look really beautiful when you cry) and Derek (chest to chest in the pool, in the police station, that weird feeling he got in his chest whenever Derek looked at him), but the only thing he remembered when he thought of Malia was a glimpse of a coyote running though the woods which couldn't be quite right. 

     He remembered the Argents though. He remembered Allison. He felt his throat begin to close up and he clenched his fists. She's alive. He repeated it like a mantra. She's alive. They're all alive. It's fine. It worked. It was worth it. 

       It was worth it. 

      A haze of remembered pain clouded Stiles' mind. Invisible hands grasped at him, scalpels so fine and cutting. Words, words hurt the worst but after awhile with his memories gone nothing they said got to him anymore. He didn't have that advantage anymore. The first fifty years came back in all their gruesome glory and he found himself reliving every word, every dart, every slice and rip and tear. 

     Stiles came out of it to a knock on the door. His skin was crawling but he shook it off. He was fine. The knock came again. Stiles looked at the table next to his bed. The clock said eight AM. He hadn't even registered the passage of time before now and suddenly he wondered how long he had been out, what time he had woken before, what time he had stormed off to make a statement. Time used to be so relative. He wondered now if he would grow old and die, if his soul would go back to hell after his death. 

      Another knock and this time, a hesitant, "Stiles?" 

      Stiles felt glued to the bed. He ripped himself upright anyways. "What?"

      "Can I come in?" It was Sam. 

      "Yeah sure." Surely there was no harm in it. (Just a kiss, Stiles, and okay, Sam had nothing to do with the crossroads demon, what the hell, internal Stiles.) 

     The door opened slowly and Sam's head appeared around the corner. "Hey." Sam smiled. "Can I come in?"

      Stiles shrugged and turned towards the sink under the pretense of looking busy. 

      Sam entered quietly and shut the door. In the mirror Stiles could see him twisting his hands together anxiously. 

       "Okay look, Stiles, I know you want to just go home and be as far away from us as possible and that's fine, we'll leave you alone but look, Dean and Cas and I all agree that it is way too dangerous for you to just travel by yourself. There could be rogue demons after you and we want to make sure you're safe, okay? So is it fine that we take you home? And then we'll drop you off with our phone number and you never have to see us again."

      Stiles braced himself up on the sink. "Why can't your angel just zap me home like he zapped me out of hell?" 

     Sam smiled slightly. "I guess he could but we would feel a lot safer if we could take you home ourselves and map the place out. Also before we take you anywhere you need to get a tattoo."

     "I don't care if you feel safe. I thought this was supposed to be about me." Stiles spun to face Sam (and damn, he was tall, like a moose). "And I'm afraid of needles."