Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/458813.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, Gen, M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Allison_Argent/Scott_McCall, Scott_McCall/
      Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Scott_McCall, Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Allison_Argent, Erica_Reyes,
      Sheriff_Stilinski, Isaac_Lahey, Boyd_(Teen_Wolf), Jackson_Whittemore,
      Melissa_McCall, Chris_Argent
  Additional Tags:
      Surrealism, Dream_Logic, Scott's_more_observant_than_he_seems, Derek_and
      Stiles_are_inevitable, Scott_is_a_confused_puppy, Stiles_is_a_good_friend
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-07-13 Words: 3030
****** Outer Dark: A Pornographic Fever Dream ******
by ahab2692
Summary
     It’s inevitable, Scott knows that now. Stiles and Derek will happen
     one way or the other. The only question left is how much blood will
     be spilled between now and then.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
I.
It rides in fast - can’t come any quicker it seems - and it’s all too much at
once: white flashes of pain, fazing out into the rapid spread of ethereal
warmth from the back of his nasal cavity down through his throat and into his
stomach, blossoming into the tingling sensation that generally accompanies the
ingestion of drugs. 
It’s the flower, Scott knows, lying crushed beneath the sole of his shoe,
viridian stem leaking droplets of moisture into the powered soil still damp
from the morning dew. He remembers the smell, the burst of blue dust shooting
up to elicit a sneeze. Remembers the taste of cherries and the way his mouth
watered at the flavor and the tide of memories brought back from days of
childhood play, and he remembers the sound of his wolf’s purr; contented for
the first time in what feels like aeons.
He’s in the passenger’s seat now, head lolling back and to the left, drool
coming out the side of his mouth in a steady drip. He feels Stiles’ hand on his
neck, lifting his head, wiping away the spittle. The Jeep kicks to life, and he
feels the thrum of the engine starting like a jolt to the very essence of his
being.
A soft whimper slides out of him, entirely unintentional, and he hears the
frantic pitter-patter of Stiles’ heartbeat as they pull into reverse, leave
this place behind as they skitter out onto the road.
“....sick,” Scott hears, and that’s Stiles talking now; on the phone with
Derek, no doubt. “I don’t know what it was, some plant. Blue petals, really
bright color. It shot some shit out at him, and he’s seriously tweaking out on
me...”
Scott feels a wave of nausea, and he must have started heaving at some point
because Stiles’ hand is cupped under his jaw, fingers curled up against his
cheek, firm but shaking.
“I don’t know what it was! That’s why I’m calling you!...Come on, please. You
have to at least-”
The Jeep goes over a bump in the road, and Scott’s vision whites out. He swims
for a moment to the surface of consciousness - his friend’s voice echoing
loudly and rolling around in the back of his head - and then he’s falling into
shadow, slipping away into deep sleep.
And he dreams.
 
II.
He’s come unstuck from the real, and he’s somewhere above the earth, just
looking down from the California sky at the park below. There’s gravel in the
sandbox, and 10-year-old Stiles is shoveling dirt and grass into his bucket
with a plastic scoop, yelling across the way to tell him how big his castle is
going to be.
Scott’s on the ground now, and he can see himself, too; his 10-year-old
doppelgänger sitting wide-eyed and shaggy-haired in the midst of the dandelions
and fresh cut grass beside the square red planks of the sandbox. The boys are
chattering away, high voices and grubby hands, and they’ve got the look that’s
long since disappeared: the excitement for things to come, a sense of wonder in
regards to the world.
That’s rare to come by in these strange times.
Looking at his and Stiles’ younger selves, he’s struck by the naivety of it
all: the way they’d play, imagine themselves to be anything and everything. The
way those summer days were spent tripping through the brambles of the forest
and getting sunburned in the field behind the high school, talking about how
they’d be interesting and popular and cool when they grew older, and returning
back to Scott’s house to build forts out of couch cushions and steal chocolate
chip cookies from the painted jar on the counter by the phone. 
And some years later, the way they’d wistfully fantasize about finding a way to
hook their parents up. So they could be brothers for real.
The vision fades and gives way to something new: enter Allison, raven-haired
and tall and beautiful, the splitting image of everything he could ever ask for
and everything he knew he could never have.
Except he could, and he does, and he sees himself now, tremor running up his
spine as the wolf takes hold and they fall back together on the endless sea of
cotton sheets.
Allison smiles, radiant and gorgeous, and she reaches up to run her hands
through his dark hair, looks at him like he’s the only other person in the
world. “I’m ready,” she whispers, eyelids fluttering.
Scott swallows, hands coming down on either side of her head, framing her in
place. “This is a dream,” he says slowly, uneasily. 
“I’m still ready,” she replies, and her legs splay open for him, wide and pale
and slicked down with a thin sheen of sweat. And she’s not quite Allison
anymore: still beautiful and still smiling, but somehow terrifying and not
really herself. 
And as Scott’s hands move to run down the sides of her neck - to peel open the
folds of her shirt and leave her naked and willing and his - her smile becomes
sharklike, teeth turning into razors. And he jolts back, heart hammering, and
the figure that is not quite Allison crumbles into dust, blowing away with the
wind and scattering amongst the leaves.
The leaves are brown and gold, and they stick to his jeans like scattershot
gnats in the summer. And he’s in the forest now, and Stiles is at his side.
“He’s killing people, Scott,” Stiles says, and he’s pleading, begging to be
understood, eyes open and earnest and dark in color. “He’s killing them. It’s
an easy decision.”
Scott rises to his feet, brushing away the leaves from his pants. He shakes his
head, feels a lump rising in his throat. “Do you hate him that much?” he asks,
pained. “Do you hate him so much that you don’t think he’s worth saving? You
don’t even want to try?”
There’s a rushing noise, like the air being sucked out of a vacuum, and then
the light of the sun is obliterated into crushing darkness. The woods are
illuminated by millions of tiny fireflies, all buzzing about soundlessly and
drifting through the empty space. A cloud of the glittering bugs swarms around
Stiles’ chest, and their light glows in soft patterns across his face. “If he
was going to change, he’d have done it by now.”
A nearby tree dissolves: bark splitting into twisted pieces. And the pieces
sprout legs, become grasshoppers, all piled together and digging in the soil.
One lands on Scott’s shoulder, cleans its legs and chirps noisily in his ear.
Scott flicks it away. “You don’t know that,” he says. “We can still save him.”
The swarming cloud grows thicker, rises to block Stiles from Scott’s line of
sight entirely. “We can’t,” the voice echoes. “He’s lost to us.”
And then they’re at school, standing in the classroom in a congregation of
desks. Stiles is circling Erica, and she’s stripped down to nothing, standing
still in the center of the room in a frozen pose, smirking at Scott like she’s
won the lottery.
“We could work with this, right?” Stiles asks absently, taking his hand and
running it through Erica’s hair. The strands shudder, twitch in an arrhythmic
seizure, and the color darkens: turns strawberry blonde. Stiles hums in
approval, looks at Scott and raises an eyebrow. “Close enough, don’t you
think?”
Scott bites his lip. “Accepting what you can get because you can’t get what you
want?”
Stiles lifts his other eyebrow, makes a puzzled noise. “What makes you think
you know what I want?”
He returns to his task, raises a hand and touches it to Erica’s breast, runs it
down her chest to her stomach, and further down still. She stands quietly
throughout, still and lifeless as a mannequin.
The floor wobbles, tilts. And Scott finds himself sliding down into the opening
of a velvet-floored tunnel at the end of the hall. And he’s encased in gelatin,
looking out at his bedroom from his closet, hidden behind a thick layer of
sickly yellow glue. He sees the shadows of people moving around, can hear
muffled voices.
He sticks his hand straight through the gunk, peels it away and steps inside
with a sharp breath. His mother is there, sitting on the edge of his bed,
staring at the floor. Stiles’ father is by the window, looking out, expression
pensive.
“He won’t stop lying,” the sheriff murmurs. “He won’t tell me the truth.”
Melissa looks up at Scott, mouth turning upwards at the corners; a sad smile.
“Neither will he.”
Scott feels the prickling of tears stinging at his eyes. “I want to, Mom,” he
croaks. “I want to, but I have to keep you safe.” He looks at Stiles’ father,
shivers in the breeze from the window. “So does he.”
The adults look at each other knowingly. “Oh, to be young,” Melissa sing-songs.
“To know it all, to be so sure.”
“To carry the weight of the world and make like it’s naught but a feather,” the
sheriff agrees. “The sins of youth.”
Scott feels a cold hand on the back of his neck, turns to see Jackson standing
behind him, frozen midway through his transformation process.
They’re underground. In a cave, it seems. And long arms of alabaster are
stretching up from the emptiness below, gripping hold of Jackson’s legs and
dragging him down into the dark.
“Let me help you,” Scott whispers. 
Jackson’s mouth contorts into a grotesque grin: a hideous fusion of his typical
smug look of entitlement and the sinister glee of a reptilian predator. He
rasps wordlessly, and his elbows scrape up blood and skin on the rocks as the
disembodied arms pull him further, deeper.
Scott reaches out, grabs his hand. “Please...”
There’s a momentary pause - all of the sound in the world drowned out by the
deadening silence - and then Jackson’s hand jerks away. He slips off into
shadow, and then he’s gone.
There’s a rumbling beneath Scott’s feet, and the floor opens up in spiderweb
cracks, crumbling away to reveal the foyer of the burned down hovel Derek calls
a house. And his heart lurches as he sees the two of them sprawled out on the
ground: Stiles and Derek, naked and writhing on the floorboards, gasping and
panting and sweating.
Stiles looks up at Scott over Derek’s shoulder, mouth dropped open in an O-
shape, eyes sparkling with mischief. “He really fucking hates me,” he laughs,
and his eyes roll back in his head as Derek thrusts forward in vicious rhythm,
lets out a throaty groan, obscene.
Derek’s tattoo is practically alive, and it seems to move with the muscles of
his back, turns wet with sweat as he pounds deeper and harder, hands gripping
hard at Stiles shoulders, fingernails digging into the tender skin.
Scott closes his eyes, shudders, and when he opens them again, he finds that he
is Derek. Or that he’s seeing through Derek’s eyes, unable to control himself
as his cock drives in deeper, as he feels Stiles clench around him, hears the
frantic scrabbling of desperation and lust growing into a meaningless cacophony
of white noise.
“Mine,” he growls out, and it’s Derek’s voice coming out of his mouth. “Mine.
Say it.”
“Yours,” Stiles agrees, whimpers. 
They’re on the bed now, and Derek’s fingers are sliding away from Stiles’
shoulders, running over his chest and down his stomach, back up his sides, up
to his neck and his cheeks. Memorizing everything. He leans in, nose pressing
up into Stiles’ armpit, craning his neck higher to lick at his ear. 
Stiles twists his neck to the side, and now they’re kissing. And his lips taste
like cherries and Coca-Cola and peppermint gum. 
Derek growls, low and deep and resonant, and his eyes blaze red and hot, and
his cock spasms inside Stiles’ body, pumping furiously, emptying until
everything is spent. Stiles’ eyelashes flutter, drop closed. They’re both
breathing hard, erratic and hitching. Lying there intertwined in the sheets,
flesh clinging together, practically melding.
The stars come out, and Scott finds that he’s now standing in an empty field in
the bright of day. The world is alive with color, flowers blooming up golden
and soft all around his feet. Except when he looks to the sky, he sees that the
moon has taken place of the sun, even in the fullness of daylight. And the
yellow flowers are splattered red with the blood, with the remains of massacre.
He sees Allison first, torn to shreds, pieces of her body scattered all about.
Her intestines are hanging out of her torso in tatters, and Scott feels his
chest heave, wants to retch in the bushes but can’t bring anything up. He sees
Chris Argent, slowly bleeding out with his back pressed up against the trunk of
a tree, jaw set, expression grim. He sees Isaac and Boyd, stiff with rigor
mortis, bullet holes peppering the expanses of their bare chests.
And at the center of it all, he sees Stiles and Derek, drenched in red, staring
into each others eyes, hands locked together. They look to the sky, and Scott
looks with them. The moon evaporates, shatters like glass and reduces to
particles of sand. The world grows dark and cold and the light gives way to
utter blackness.
And then there is nothing left at all.
 
III.
 
Scott jolts awake, gasps for breath, eyes wide and panicked.
“Woah! Holy shit...” Stiles scrambles over, grips him by the shoulders. “Dude,
it’s okay. You’re fine. You’re okay. You’re safe now.”
Scott blinks hard, panting hard and trying to steady his heartbeat. He looks
around and sees that they’re at Stiles’ house. He’s lying in Stiles bed,
stripped down to his boxer shorts. His clothes are folded in a neat pile on the
surface of the desk, and there’s a plastic wastebasket sitting at the side of
the bed. Scott breathes in deep, picks up the scent of his own vomit rising
from the bin. He swallows thickly, grimaces at the taste of iron and bile.
“What happened?” he says after a minute. “What...I mean-”
“You were poisoned,” Stiles says, and he’s scooting away now, relieved that
Scott is lucid and awake. “Like, not poisoned poisoned. Nobody tried to do you
in, or whatever. But you, well, you know. Uh, do you remember the woods? The
plant?” He pauses. “We were trying to find Jackson, and you stepped on this
freaky flower. Ringing any bells here?”
Scott frowns, eyebrows knitting together in the middle. He rubs his forehead,
sits up slowly. “Yeah, I think so...”
Stiles breathes out a quiet sigh, slinks his arm over Scott’s shoulders, rubs
his back. “Good. That’s good.” He pulls away, steps off the bed. He lets out a
nervous little chuckle. “You had me really worried, buddy. Derek said the best
thing to do was keep your body temperature down and let the effects wear off,
but I-”
“Derek was here?” Scott interrupts. He studies Stiles carefully, expression
unreadable.
“Umm, no. I called his cell and explained what was going on.” Stiles gives him
a weird look, questioning. “I figured if anyone would know what to do, it would
be him.”
Scott looks away, nods.
 
IV.
 
One hour later and they’re back in the Jeep, going on their way to meet
Allison. Ready for another go at tracking Jackson down.
Stiles keeps looking over at him, quick glances, concerned. Scott just stares
at the radio, exhausted.
“You know, if there’s anything you want to talk about...” Stiles starts slowly.
He chews on his lower lip, scratches his neck uncomfortably. “I mean, I’m here
for you. Obviously. Just tell me what I can do.”
A car comes by on the left, brights blaring the windshield as they pass around
the bend. Scott closes his eyes, looks out the passenger’s window, blankly
examines his expression in the side mirror. “You already do enough,” he
murmurs.
He feels more than sees Stiles frown, his confusion. “What’s that supposed to
mean?”
Scott shrugs. “Just what it sounds like, man. You already do enough. More than
you should, honestly.” He glances over, takes in Stiles’ bafflement. “It isn’t
fair to you.”
Stiles’ eyebrows nearly disappear, skyrocketing upwards. “Dude...what the hell
happened while you were out of it?” He laughs nervously. “You’re acting like
you just had a near death experience and had some sort of ‘profound
revelation,’ or something.”
Scott smiles, in spite of everything, feels his mouth slanting at the side in
wordless appreciation. “Nah. Just...yeah, I dunno. I’m just saying. You do
plenty.”
The sky is cloudless tonight, open and dark and peppered with stars. Beautiful.
 
V.
They stop at the meeting place, and Stiles grabs hold of Scott’s arm as he
starts to step out of the side door. “Look, not to be a pest, but...are you
sure we don’t need to talk about anything?”
Scott looks at him, thinks for a moment.
Of course there are things that could be said. Namely, You don’t belong to him.
You don’t belong to anyone. You’re not a thing.
Or maybe, He’ll ruin you. You’re already prepared to kill someone, and Derek
will just make that side of you stronger, darker.
And even the sicker part of him wants to say, You belong to me. 
But instead he just forces a smile and tosses a playful punch to Stiles’
shoulder. “Definitely sure. There’s nothing to say.”
They climb out and shut the doors, and Allison comes up the dirt path to greet
them at the head of the trail leading into the forest. Scott allows her to pull
him into a bone-crushing hug, does his best not to let his emptiness show. And
even after she steps up on her toes to give him a kiss, he can still taste the
lingering flavor of cherry on his lips.
All together, they start down the path, Stiles at the head of the group.
It’s inevitable, Scott knows that now. Stiles and Derek will happen one way or
the other. The only question left is how much blood will be spilled between now
and then.
End Notes
     Basically, I just wanted to write a story from Scott's perspective
     detailing his fears and anxieties surrounding everything that's
     happening in Season 2 (with a little Sterek twist, of course). Of
     course, since I'm a weirdo, I decided to tackle that idea using dream
     logic instead of looking at it straightforward. Hope it was somewhat
     enjoyable.
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