Stiles is a Winchester

Chapter X

It was now early in the morning; the sun was just starting to come up. Stiles was on the couch, his nightmares making him restless, but Sam and Dean were still asleep.

Without the hair product that he used to put in his hair, it was now flat and would be fluffy (AN his hair looks like it did in maze runner basically) if not for the thin sheet of sweat matting it down. Stiles dreamed of Hell; it was the only reality he knew.

The demons surrounded him, with their black eyes and their disguises of the people he must've known. As the demons stood all around him, torturing him, laughing, just pain. He was screaming, begging and praying for them to stop. The demons mocked his screams. Now it was not only people who were familiar, it was his father. He stood to the side, never touching or hurting him, just watching him get beaten over and over again. The demons would heal him just to tear him to shreds again. Even though it wasn't real, it was so painful, and during the torture, the demons would taunt him.

"You're a monster."

"You ruin everything you touch."

"You were never wanted in the first place."

Stiles woke up screaming. He could still feel the pain and hear the demons' taunts, and his brain hadn't yet figured out that it wasn't real.

The room was dark, and as he thrust himself up from the uncomfortable couch, the blanket that was wrapped around him tangled with his limbs.

The screaming woke Sam and Dean. They leaped from there beds, Dean pulling the gun from under his pillow, to attack the perpetrator, but there was no one there. Instead, Stiles was on the floor, thrashing the release himself from the blanket which feigned invisible hands.

Realization dawned on the two men and they lowered their guard. Trying to act fast, Dean—definitely not because he cared for the boy, he just happened to be closest, it's just practicality—rushed to the boy and grabbed his arms that were flailing around in defense.

"Stiles! Stiles you're okay!" Dean shouted. It was useless, and Stiles had yet to figure out his surroundings. When he concluded that just holding his arms wouldn't help—the kid was shaking out of his grip—he pressed his arms around Stiles to contain him.

While Dean was trying to calm Stiles, Sam rushed and turned on the lamp. The bright light seemed to attract Stiles's attention. Eventually, Stiles stopped screaming and slowly focused on his breathing.

For a while, he just stared the lamp with tears running down his cheeks. Dean was still behind him, loosening his hold slightly, and the blanket was kicked off a few feet away.

He sniffled and looked at the two older men in the room before crawling up back onto the couch. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to wake you." He started to wipe the tear tracks off his face, any means to avoid the eyes of pity that were on him.

Dean got up from the floor. He looked to Stiles, seeing how he compressed his already small figure to take up less space, and a pang of guilt stuck him momentarily before he chose to ignore it. "It's okay."

There was silence for a moment more, then, as Dean went to sit on his bed, Sam said, "It was Hell, wasn't it?"

Stiles continued to avert his eyes, his lips and chin wavering as he worked to prevent himself from crying again. Nevertheless he nodded, swallowing and counting his breaths.

Dean watched him, and as he watched the young boy he remembered when he died; when he was slaughtered by Hell hounds and was sent to Hell; when he was tortured for years; when he tortured countless souls for the rest. He knew he was going to regret asking, but when has he ever been the best at choosing the right decisions?