A/N: Just an fyi: in this 'verse Sheriff Stilinski finds out about the supernatural world at the same time as Melissa, there may or may not be the alpha pack, and Jackson stuck around for all the fun.
Lydia keeps finding people, all with their wrists and throats slashed so they're slowly bleeding out, but she finds them all just in time.
Nobody knows why she's the one finding them, or how, and they don't really have much to go on besides her immunity to wolf bites and kanima venom and the little resurrection stunt Peter pulled using her. So they decide instead to focus their attention and resources on finding out what the hell's going on around Beacon Hills this time.
Well, Stiles and Lydia are working on it. Scott and Allison are both too busy moping after each other, and Derek's definitely got his hands full with four betas to train, not to mention Peter to deal with.
As if that weren't enough, Scott and Stiles have to field questions from their parents, which is not fun, no matter how relieved they are to finally be finished with all the lying and sneaking around.
So anyway, Lydia and Stiles, with the grudging help of the Sheriff and Ms. McCall – who figure they should just help because these two will find ways to get information whether they get help or not – look at the victims for some sort of pattern. The first to notice someone is attempting sacrifices is Stiles, but Lydia's the one who figures out who – or rather what – is behind it all: a darach.
Which explains the victims; they're all in groups of three and the groups go as follows: virgins, warriors, philosophers, healers, guardians.
But as soon as they figure that out they realize they have the perfect sacrifice right in their midst, someone who fits all the requirements: Stiles. And by that time he's already been captured by the darach.
The first thought in Stiles' head as he wakes up with a groan is "did I remember to save my last game of Pokémon?" which, all things considered, shouldn't be at the top of the list of his things to worry about, but seriously he had just captured one of the legendaries, he couldn't not save that.
His priorities are straightened out for him when Stiles receives a well-placed kick to the solar plexus, with a stiletto heel no less, making him gasp for air, which subsequently leads to him noticing the expertly knotted rope tying him to a support beam in some sort of root cellar with literal, ginormous roots right in his field of vision.
"Look alive, sunshine, it's your lucky day," a vaguely familiar voice says from the direction the kick came from.
Blinking rapidly to clear the stars from the kick and squinting in the near-darkness lit only by small shafts of moonlight by the roots, Stiles looks up to find his English teacher.
"Ms. Blake?" he coughs, still trying to catch his breath.
She smirks. "Hello, Stiles." Crouching in front of him, Jennifer reaches out a hand to stroke his cheek then grabs him roughly by the chin when he tries to turn his face away, making him look at her. "You just have to stick your nose in everybody's business, don't you?"
Glaring at her, he retorts, "Well, no offence, but I'm pretty sure it's my business when someone starts killing all the virgins in town; solidarity and all that."
"Sweet, adorable Stiles. I really don't understand why no one wants to fuck you with a mouth like that."
He spits in her face, earning him a harsh slap. Stiles just shakes his head as much as he can and tests his jaw. "You'll have to try harder than that," he snarks. "I hang out with werewolves, and I'm their favorite chew toy, so I'm used to a little pain."
Jennifer stands back up, brushing at her knees to rid them of imaginary dirt. "I know," she says, walking over to lean back against the tree roots in a flood of moonlight, "and that's what's so fascinating; a human running with a pack of werewolves, holding his own.
"I mean, Allison I get; she's a skilled hunter, one who fell in love with a wolf. Classic Romeo and Juliet-type story with a supernatural twist. And Lydia, she's Jackson's anchor, has a genius-level IQ, and she's something… more. Not sure what, exactly, quite yet, but I'll figure it out.
"But you. You, I don't get." She walks back over, saunters really; Stiles would swear she had gotten lessons from Derek it was so eerily familiar.
Crouching down again, Jennifer strokes a hand from his temple and down his neck, pausing to splay it over his heart. "Sure, your best friend's a werewolf, but what should that matter to you? You haven't really got anything going for you, there's no need for you to get involved in our affairs. But you do. More willingly than Scott. And that's interesting."
Seemingly finished with her little speech, Stiles decides it's his chance to ask something. "Why me?"
Head tilted to the side in askance, Jennifer clicks her tongue in disappointment. "Really Stiles, for being the brains of the whole operations, I'd have thought you would've had it all figured out by now."
"I know you're a darach, and I know you're making sacrifices. What I don't know is what you think you're going to accomplish by taking me."
"The thing is, your little crush Lydia? She keeps finding my sacrifices before they're completed. So I figured I could just take care of all five categories in one go.
"And that's where you come in."
Bewildered, Stiles actually laughs in her face. "Me? You've gotta be high or stupid, Ms. Blake, seriously. All you're gonna take care of using me is the virgin category."
Humming, Jennifer's eyes shoot rapidly over his face, searching for something. "You really think that, don't you? You far underestimate yourself, Stiles.
"Yes, it's true, you will fill my need for a virgin, but you fill the others just as perfectly." Moving around behind him, she starts to untie the ropes, continuing to talk. "You filled the role of warrior when you threw that Molotov at Peter Hale last year; philosopher you fill every day with your curiosity of the supernatural world, leading to you having all the answers when the others don't; healer by helping Lydia after Peter's attack; and guardian by keeping the kanima away from Derek while he was paralyzed in the school pool, by shielding Lydia from all those crows in my classroom."
Stiles can't help but be more than slightly creeped out at the fact she knows all that; seems Ms. Blake is even more of a Stalker McStalkerson than Derek.
"You, Stiles," she crawls back around as she finishes untying him from the beam, though his arms and legs are still bound, "are the perfect sacrifice, made all the better by the fact that your death will hurt not just Scott but the entire pack, leaving them open and vulnerable."
He seriously doubts anyone besides his dad and Scott, maybe Allison and Ms. McCall, will miss him when he's gone. They'll all probably celebrate once they're rid of the annoying chatterbox who never shuts up and is constantly yapping about being right all along. Derek, he's even surer, will miss him least of all and will be anything but vulnerable.
He lets her think she's right though because, hey that way she'll let her guard down so that his dad or the pack can take care of her, avenge his death or something. That would be cool, someone avenging his death.
Taking hold of the rope binding his arms, Jennifer drags Stiles over to the tree and ties his upper body to the largest root, slices the rope holding his arms and ties them stretched out from his sides, wrists facing up, before pulling out a wicked-looking knife.
"Anything you'd like to say before I slit your wrists and throat and leave you here for your pack to find, cold and dead?"
He shrugs as best he can. "Eh, not really. Kinda wish I could set you on fire, or watch Scott rip out your throat though."
That sadly only makes her laugh. "Oh Stiles, I am truly going to miss having you in class." And with that she makes smooth cuts on both his wrists, slicing clean though the tendons so he can't even clench his fists though the sharp pain, then pulls his head back roughly with a tight grip on his newly grown out hair and slashes across his throat, making sure to avoid the jugular so he bleeds out slowly and painfully.
Stiles gasps through the pain, recoiling when she leans forward to place a chaste kiss on his forehead, then watches her leave by the stairs across the cellar.
He lies there for what feels like forever and only a few minutes at the same time, vision whiting out, hearing becoming muffled and static-y, and limbs tingling painfully.
Just when he's about to pass out Stiles swears he sees a pair of familiar red eyes fading into even more familiar hazel, worried and panicked, distant voice growling and begging for Stiles to stay with him as hands untie him and attempt to staunch the blood flow.
When Lydia figures out who the perfect sacrifice is the Sheriff rushes around town in search of Stiles and comes up empty handed and shaking, so she calls Scott and Derek, demanding they all meet up immediately.
The entire pack plus Chris Argent, surprisingly – probably forced Allison to bring him – gather at the burnt out shell of the Hale house. Everyone scrambles to ask Lydia what's going on, where's Stiles, all of them talking over each other until Derek growls for them to shut the fuck up and let Lydia talk.
"While you were all busy being obnoxious children that don't know how to listen to daddy," that earns her a few angry rumbles but Lydia ignores them and continues, "Stiles and I have been investigating all the attempted sacrifices around town."
Chris nods. "I have as well." He turns to the pack. "We have a darach on our hands, making sacrifices to gain more power – no doubt to take you out."
Scowl deepening, Derek asks, "And what sort of sacrifices are being made, or attempted?"
"Virgins, warriors, philosophers, healers, and guardians; that's what she needs, three of each."
"But I've been finding all of them before the sacrifices could be completed," Lydia adds, "so the darach has decided to make the ultimate sacrifice."
"Who?" Scott demands, voice turning into a growl as he struggles against the shift, knowing the answer.
Lydia's voice wavers as she answers. "Stiles."
The pack stares, eyes widening in horror, Scott being the only one that utters a sound, making a strangled whine that sounds like Stiles' name. Allison takes ahold of his face in both hands, forcing him to hold her gaze as he shakes with anger and the shift.
The shocked silence is broken by a distressed, furious growl, drawing everyone's eyes to Derek, also wolfed out. "Where is he," he grits through his fangs, glaring at Chris and Lydia, "where have they taken him."
"I believe I can help you with that," Peter says from within the shadows, stepping out to join them, smirk firmly in place. "It's somewhere we've both been before, Derek; I'm sure you'll recall."
The smirk widens. "Our little root cellar."
The Camaro skids to a halt front of the emergency room entrance, Derek not even bothering with the keys or ignition as he pulls Stiles out of the backseat and rushes through the doors yelling for help, the pack immediately behind. Melissa runs up with a gurney, shouting orders as they wheel him away, holding up an arm as the pack tries to follow, Derek just barely holding back a snarl.
"You need to stay out here and wait for the Sheriff," she says in a strict tone before going in the doorway they took Stiles through.
Derek paces the waiting room floor, forcing himself to breathe and not shift, as the rest of the pack sit close together in the chairs, watching him and fidgeting as they wait for news. The Sheriff comes barreling in a couple minutes later, heading straight for Derek and grabbing him by the lapels of his leather jacket, slamming him into the nearest wall.
"This is your fault," he rumbles, slamming him back again for good measure, Derek letting him.
Scott scrambles up and out of his seat, followed closely by Lydia and Isaac. "No, Mr. Stilinski, it wasn't Derek!"
"It's true," Lydia rushes out. "If it's anyone's fault it's Peter's; he's the one that bit Scott. You know that."
Breathing out slowly as Scott grabs him by the shoulders and Isaac unlatches the Sheriff's hands from his alpha, John backs up, shaking. "I'm sorry, son, I -"
"It's okay, sir," Derek interrupts, "I understand." He runs his hands back through his hair, clutching at the strands. "I wish I had – I should have known sooner, the darach was in my territory, and the pack is my responsibility, which includes the humans."
John shakes him head. "You know Stiles; he would've gotten in trouble somehow even if you had known." That earns weak, shaky laughter from the pack as they all settle back down to continue waiting for news from Melissa.
They get Stiles bandaged, stop the bleeding, and get him hooked up to blood bags, but it's all pretty touch and go; he lost liters of blood and he has yet to wake up, the heart monitor showing a weak, unsteady pulse.
Chris Argent comes in early the next morning to let them know he found the darach and took care of her. The news doesn't really cheer any of them up.
After the first day the pack starts taking turns going home to shower, eat, and get rest, but someone always stays with him, visiting-hour rules be damned. Scott and Derek are the hardest ones to convince to go home and rest.
When a week goes by, and a blood transfusion has been done, and various tests performed, Stiles' condition does not improve, nor does he wake up. The doctors declare he's in a coma but they're not quite sure why. Derek drags in Deaton on the chance that something magical may be preventing Stiles from recovering but he says he'll have to do more research to know for sure and leaves with that.
Two weeks in John starts getting desperate.
"Please," he begs Derek outside Stiles' room, "just give him the bite."
Running a hand through his hair and down his face – he's been doing that a lot lately – Derek takes a deep breath. "I've considered it," he admits, meeting the Sheriff's eyes, "but I don't know if it'll help."
John squeezes his eyes shut, his shoulders drooping. "Could you still try?"
Gritting his teeth, Derek starts to shake his head. "He doesn't want it." That gets John to open his eyes. "He never told anyone, but I know Peter had to have offered after he attacked Lydia."
Nodding as he processes, John curls in his lips and pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes once again closed. He blows out a breath and asks quietly, "Would you please just – consider it."
A month in Stiles' condition slowly starts to worsen and Deaton still has no explanation. The pack begs Derek to give him the bite, insist that he can't get any worse for it. When Deaton says nothing against it Derek gives in, despite the fact that he knows Stiles doesn't want it because somewhere along the road they stopped hating each other, because Derek is selfish and he doesn't want to lose any of the few people he has in his life who care even a little bit.
When Stiles finally wakes up everything is sharper; he can hears everyone in the hospital, can smell everyone, and he knows, he just knows.
He sits up quickly, not getting even a little bit dizzy from the sudden movements after a month of none, tears out the IV and oxygen tube, grabs the clean set of clothes sitting conveniently in the chair next to his bed, and changes into them before rushing – at human speed. He's pissed off, not stupid – down to the cafeteria where he knows Scott and Derek are getting him food. As soon as he sees them both, sees Scott's face light up and Derek's turn impossibly grimmer, he walks up and clocks them both to the shock of the whole room before storming outside to his father's cruiser just as he's getting out.
"Stiles," his dad says with a mixture of relief, hope, and trepidation.
"Not one word, dad," he growls then continues out of the parking lot, having made sure his dad was okay. Once he reaches relative cover he shifts and starts running as fast and hard as he can, not paying particular attention to where he's going, and not stopping until he runs out of breath.