"You killed her, and now you're killing me!"

Stiles knew it wasn't real. His dad wasn't actually at Lydia Martin's birthday party with a bottle of jack and spitting out comments about returning from his dead wife's funeral. Stiles knew it had to be something rational in a world where rational was lost in oblivion, somewhere between werewolves and Kanima's and popular beauty queens minds slowly derailing before his eyes. It had to be something obvious like that. The dream ended with a crash of glass against something hard, and it shook him, it shook Stiles so badly. He looked around, to see if anyone noticed, no one did. Everyone smiled, fear and confusion absent from their hearts, nothing out of the norm for them, drinks in hand, having fun. Something Stiles had forgotten all too quickly. This was supposed to be a party after all, and where was the birthday girl? Stiles looked around the well kept yard, massive amounts of bodies that he neither he nor Lydia even knew, and cups, empty cups everywhere, littering every free surface.

The cups. The punch. Damn.

Well joke was on her, if this was her idea, she would never have known that Stiles relives this every day, that he sees that look in his fathers eyes after a particularly long day at work, oh, excuse him, that was before he was let go because of something Stiles did, it was always something Stiles did. The sixteen year old rubbed a hand over his face, no need to get frantic, and rushed away from the place of his horrible and not to mention vivid illusion. Dodging dancing party goers and ignoring the loud buzz of music mixed with meaningless conversations Stiles made his way inside the house, to look for Lydia, to get some answers to the ironic situation he was placed it, that everyone here was placed in. But it was too much, the look was all too real, the memory of his mother, her death, the weight it placed on his broken family was making every muscle in his body tighten, made breathing become hard, if he didn't know any better, Stiles would have thought he was having a panic attack, but those stopped, he was better. It wasn't real. His father was not a drunken mess curing his existence, that was saved for his actual dreams as he tossed and turned a room over from his father, always worrying that something would happen to him, just like it did with her. He craved air, fresh air, he needed it, shaking and panting. Finding a deserted area near the pool he found himself slowly dragging his body, the weight of the world, the look in his father's eyes down with him, his strength giving out. Stiles' mouth was dry, his head was pounding and his eyes burned to shed the tears he always pushed off for another time. But what better time than now? Now when everything seemed to be falling apart, further from where it should be, everything was ruined and he was trying, frantically trying to slow it down, inside his head, inside his heart, Stiles was trying so desperately hard to fix everything, solve every problem so that things could just be normal. Why didn't he stab himself in the face when he had the chance? Now he just sat in a daze, a heap on the concrete stone floor, watching as everything was finally moving in slow motion. Time was finally impeding in this moment. Stiles' eyes closed, remembering her face, her hair, her fragile and frail body in that hospital room as the man he had respected and loved wasted away, slowly becoming more and more unrecognizable to him, his own son. He wanted to cover his face with his hands but they were dead with the unnerving weight of lead within him, like his bones doubled in pounds and the blood rushing through his veins crystallized. It made Stiles feel even weaker than usual.

He started to worry then, about Scott, about Allison, about Jackson being here alone, unattended, and about Lydia and what the hell she spiked his punch with. It had to be her, she was too off, to willing to shove the pink liquid down his throat. He should have known, but it was no use to scold himself now, now what good would it do? Was he really killing him? He tried so hard to make everything easier, always brought him healthy dinners, made him run that extra ten minutes when they'd go out for walks, pray every night to a god he wasn't even sure about to keep his dad safe, because Stiles Stilinski was nothing without his father, without everything they have done for each other, the good and the bad. He just wanted to go home, to sit down and talk with him, about everything they never did, everything Stiles had always pushed off, just like his tears, it could wait, but what if he couldn't anymore? What if it something happens, like he felt in his lead bones, something was going to happen. He needed his dad right now, needed to be reassured, needed to stop brushing off things that weren't of particular interest, because what if he didn't have much time left? What if it finally all caught up to him?

Scott was at his side now, waving a unappealing bottle of water in front of his face.

It took everything in Stiles not not just give up. That, and the chilled water that now consumed him.