Stiles is a Winchester

Chapter XIX

AN: This story is officially on AO3, still transferring over some chapters but will be completely up by the time this is published.

Stiles woke up later in the afternoon. Every other time he had woken up he was still exhausted, never fully getting enough sleep, and the little he did get was plagued by nightmares. He blinked wearily, his eyes adjusting to the late afternoon light peeking through the blinds.

For once, his mind was empty, until his memories of the hours prior came back to him.

He sat up straight, feeling a slight rush to his head, and looked around. He was sitting on the couch—the man from earlier—staring at him, as if he was waiting for him to say something. But Stiles didn't know what to say, nor did he want to say anything. Despite knowing that this man cared about him somehow when he was alive—the first time—he just wanted him to stay right where he was, and to not come any closer.

The two stayed in silence for another minute. "Castiel told me you don't remember anything." His voice was low and quiet.

Stiles looked down at his hands where his fingers clenched the covers. "Where is Cas?" He asked instead of confirming.

"He's just outside speaking with your father, and the others are out there too."

"My father?" Dean?

"Noah."

Stiles cleared his throat, still looking down at his white knuckles. "Where's Dean? And Sam? Are they outside too?"

Even though Stiles wasn't looking, the older man shook his head. "No, they left a few hours ago." Stiles tried not to be disappointed or hurt by that; he's known this whole time that they wanted to leave. Dean would constantly be reminding him they wanted to leave him here—well, reminding Sam, but he could hear him nonetheless.

He stayed silent and nodded in lieu of a response.

"I'm Derek," he said finally.

"Derek," he repeated. Stiles looked up, making eye contact with him. "Were we friends?" he asked.

Derek hesitated. "We were close, our relationship was a bit complicated." Stiles nodded, looking down again. "Scott's outside too, he's your best friend. He really missed you. We all did."

Stiles didn't really know what to say then. For all his memorable life, he would dread seeing their faces. He would feel bad for whoever he was before, whoever knew them. He was being punished by them for what he couldn't even remember.

He remembers the demons, cutting into him, pulling out his organs, taunting him with them as he was turned inside out, just for his skin to close up so they had a fresh new canvas.

Every single time, asking him if he was ready for it to end, and to move to take their dirty work.

He didn't remember who he was, or what he did to deserve being sent to Hell, but he had the choice to not torture others, and he took it. Whatever he was being punished for didn't matter, but he knew that torturing others would be punishment still.

Now he's learned that he was being punished for bringing people back to life, or maybe he was punished for killing them in the first place.

"I want to talk to Cas, please."

As if listening to them, Cas appeared through the front door. "Hello, Stiles." His voice was deep, but gentle at the same time.

"What do I—" what do I want to ask? "I don't—Sam and Dean left."

Cas looked down, apologetic on their behalf. "Yes. You'll be staying with Noah, now. He's been telling me he's gotten things ready for you."

Relief flooded his chest as he remembered leaving Noah's, thinking that he just wasn't wanted there at all. He tried to take a deep breath, but it was slightly shaky.