Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles was jogging. 

A generally unpleasant endeavor, full of sweat, throbbing muscles, and aching lungs. Why some people did this for fun was a question Stiles never could answer satisfactorily. Which, of course, begged the question of why Stiles was subjecting himself to such a miserable activity in the first place. 

Turns out that running for your life on a semi-regular basis, knowing that your speed and endurance was the only thing keeping your throat out of some very pointy teeth was a rather good motivator to get better at running. 

Hence, jogging.

And since usually, when he was running for his life, he was doing so in the preserve, Stiles was jogging in the preserve. Know the terrain, homefield advantage, practice like you mean to play, and all that rot. 

At least, that’s what Stiles told himself when he tripped over a tree root for the hundredth time and ate dirt. 

And yes, he was hyper-aware that running alone in the preserve was setting the stage for the sort of cheesy horror film scenarios that so often plagued Beacon Hills, but he was carrying werewolf-grade pepper spray, a silver knife, and wolfsbane-and-mistletoe-laced makeshift coltrops specifically designed for hampering pursuing foes. There were still plenty of nasties out in the world that would consider him a tasty snack, but at least he wouldn’t make it easy for them. 

Be prepared. And when the monsters coming after you have every physical advantage in the book, throw the Geneva convention right out the window. War crimes and the banning of chemical warfare did not take into account the fact that Stiles could be, and has previously been, attacked by literal monsters of legend. You did what you had to do in order to survive. 

So yes, Stiles was jogging, as he did three to four evenings a week as part of the ongoing effort to become slightly less of a pathetically weak human. Sure, he would never reach the levels of fitness achieved by even geriatric werewolves, —Did elderly werewolves get arthritis or was it fixed by wolfy healing? Stiles digressed— but he could be better. And at least the next time he was chased down by the big bad of the week, he wouldn’t be cursing himself out for not even trying. 

Still, whatever gods of fate that looked down upon this miserable world and cursed mortals for their hubris apparently decided that Stiles had officially pushed his luck too far. 

He heard a rustling in the bushes to his left, saw a flicker of movement, and turned his head just in time to be tackled by a large furry body with glowing red eyes. Tearing pain erupted in his left arm as Stiles’s back hit the dirt, knocking the breath out of him. Still, the whatever-it-was had his left arm and the pepper spray was at his right. Plus, adrenaline was kicking in, that wonderful drug that blunted the pain and let him react without just screaming and fainting. 

His hand snapped to the pepper spray, pulling it out, disabling the safety, and spraying the attacker —red eyes, excessive fur, most likely a werewolf— in the face in one swift series of moves. He has drilled this, okay? He knew how much every second counted in a fight and he practiced until he could complete that series of moves without hesitation or fumbling using either hand from any variety of implausible positions. 

Thankfully, his dad was entirely on board with helping him drilling self-defense moves after Stiles finally convinced Scott to read his dad in on the supernatural side of Beacon Hills. He had been grounded for a month, but his relationship with his dad was steadily improving. Better yet, his dad had the resources to be able to properly defend himself against a supernatural threat and Stiles had a sparring partner for drilling self-defense tactics. Not to mention someone that actually knew what they were doing when it came to hand-to-hand combat and thus was able to offer advice and critiques. Stiles was immeasurably grateful.

Even if his dad had said that his pepper spray drills looked like a combination of yoga and mixed martial arts 

Fortunately, and unsurprisingly, the faceful of extra-strength pepper spray laced with aerosolized wolfsbane and mucuna-based itching powder —because there was no such thing as overkill when dealing with the supernatural— caused the attacking wolf to immediately let go and retreat into the woods, howling in pain. 

Stiles slowly sat up, feeling rather dazed. The entire encounter had only taken a handful of seconds, and his heart was pounding in his chest, only just now reacting to the threat. He stared after the disappearing form of his attacker for several seconds, his mind curiously blank as the smell of pepper spray lingered in the air.

Then he suddenly realized his arm was screaming in pain and blood was pouring from the wound. Stiles swore and quickly wrapped his arm with his shirt to stop the bleeding. 

Which, for the record, ow. 

The brief moments he spent assessing the damage before his makeshift bandaging job were sufficient to confirm that it was, in fact, a bite wound. He had seen enough of them patching up the pack after various wolfy encounters to recognize them pretty easily. And considering the fact that the wolf that attacked him had red eyes? 

Shit. 

Still, one thing at a time. Stiles needed to get home and give his injury better medical care than his sweaty, dirty shirt could provide. Supernatural identity crises could wait. 

When Stiles got back home, the house was empty. His dad was at work and wouldn’t be back for another couple hours. At this point, the adrenaline had faded away and Stiles was feeling slightly shaky. Not too bad at least. It was hardly the first time he had come home bleeding, even if this was a more consequential wound than normal. Still, Stiles was more than familiar with post-fight jitters and crashes. 

Moving mechanically, he cleaned the bite, and splashed some disinfectant on it because who knew when the last time that guy brushed his teeth was, and just ew . Then he wrapped it in gauze to keep blood from getting everywhere. Because while Stiles was getting far more practice getting bloodstains out of every fabric imaginable than he ever expected or imagined, that didn’t mean it was an easy task. Besides, an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure. Far easier to just bandage a wound to keep things neater even if it wasn’t entirely necessary from a healing point of view. 

See Derek! It was totally possible to be injured in the house without getting blood everywhere! So there! 

Anyways, Stiles really couldn’t be bothered with anything more in depth. By morning the bite mark would either be gone and he would be a werewolf with all the healing and perks therein…

Or he would have larger problems to deal with. 

Stiles sighed. He was too tired to deal with questions of imminent mortality. He collapsed face-first into bed. He should probably let his dad know that he had been bit, but he was exhausted and frankly, he didn’t want his dad around him for the first couple hours after he turned. He wanted to be alone so that he could confirm that he was going to go crazy and hurt him. Call him paranoid, but Stiles wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he hurt his dad. Sure, all of his research suggested that that wouldn’t happen, that his new instincts would recognize his dad as pack, but he didn’t feel like taking any chances with his dad’s life. 

So he would take a little time and tell his dad after he had a chance to integrate his new wild side a bit. Stiles would call him if he started puking up black goo, but everything else could wait until morning. Thank goodness tomorrow was Saturday. He had the weekend to figure this out. 

Fiddly details resolved, Stiles let himself relax completely, and promptly fell dead asleep.

When Stiles awoke, the first thing he noticed was how much he could hear. Before he even opened his eyes, he could hear the appliances running downstairs, the neighbors moving around their house next door, and his dad’s heart beating steadily. Stiles took a deep breath —ew, he needed to do his laundry. Two weeks of sweaty jogging clothes in his hamper did not smell nice to a supernatural nose— and allowed himself approximately thirty seconds to mourn his lost humanity. 

Alas, no more blissful ignorance of where people had been or what they had done. His nose would sniff it all out. No more option of escaping the supernatural world by moving to a different state and practicing willful ignorance. No more wolf/dog jokes from a position of species superiority. He was supernatural now. No turning back. 

Well. That was that. Goodbye human weakness, hello supernatural strength and power! 

Stiles grinned. While it wasn’t exactly how he expected to get the bite, —he wasn’t an idiot, he always knew it was an option— Stiles wasn’t about to ignore all the numerous benefits of werewolf-dom (Looking at you here, Scott the ever-bitter despite your asthma-free, front-liner existence). Still, the supernatural equivalent of a hit-and-run was a far less glamorous turning than a turning to save him from a mortal wound or a turning because he dramatically threw himself between someone (Usually Lydia because despite giving up on his crush due to Kanima-turning power of love for Jackson, she made a far more satisfying damsel in distress than, say, Boyd) and a rogue alpha in an act of heroic self-sacrifice like in his idle daydreams. 

Oh well, nothing to do about it now except be the best werewolf he could be. And that started with impeccable control. Stiles would not hurt his dad. 

So Stiles stood slowly and stretched from head to toe. He could feel the new strength of his body, feel the coiled power and restless energy. He knew, instinctively, that he could pick up his bed and throw it entirely through a wall should he try. 

Looky there! A whole new category of intrusive thoughts! Won’t that be fun!

Stiles flexed his hands absently, refocusing. He could feel the wired potential there too, that new something else that could become claws if his temper rose. A very similar potential rested in his jaws and eyes. Stiles closed his eyes and breathed through it, systematically finding and acknowledging each new sensation, each heightened sense, each way in which his body felt different, changed, more powerful. 

It felt right. 

Stiles walked to the bathroom, discovering that his stride had adopted the measured grace of a wild creature. Seemed like turning cured his innate clumsiness. Stiles certainly wouldn’t miss it. 

Stiles stopped in front of the mirror and stared into it for a moment before deliberately closing his eyes. He found the core of himself, that carefully hidden center that was Stiles boiled down to the absolute essentials. It was slightly different now, sharp-fanged and wild in a way it hadn’t quite been before, but it was still him. Who he was hadn’t changed, just gotten stronger and more honest about his intentions. He was still the person who would fight and die for those people he considered his. Now he simply had the strength and power to actually be able to stand against the world for his loved ones. 

As such, it was easy to pull that feeling forward, that sharpness inside himself that had always been there, but had now gained definition. And when Stiles opened his eyes again, they glowed a bright, burning gold. Gold like the sun, gold like the heart of cleansing flame, gold like the scales of justice. (Stiles had killed before in defense of the pack, but never an innocent, never someone who wasn’t already threatening them.) He smiled a fanged grin at the mirror and settled in to practice until he could let it out or pull it back at will. 

Sloppiness was deadly in a world where feigning humanity was often a matter of life or death. 

Besides, Stiles never did anything by halves and he certainly wasn’t going to now. 

By the time he heard his dad get up and start moving around, Stiles had the hang of flashing eyes, showing fangs, and popping claws. He wasn’t perfect, and was definitely planning to practice it pretty much nonstop all day, but he was confident he wasn’t going to suddenly go feral. 

Time to face the music. 

Stiles went downstairs and stopped at the edge of the kitchen. The Sheriff had his back to him, messing with the coffee machine. 

“Dad,” Stiles said simply. 

His dad’s shoulders stiffened and he turned immediately, scanning Stiles head to toe. “What’s wrong?” He knew from Stiles’s tone alone that something had happened. 

“I… Well, I mean… Last night…” Stiles huffed in frustration and gave up on trying to find the words to explain. Instead, he met his dad’s eyes steadily and deliberately flashed his eyes. 

The Sheriff’s eyes widened. “How? When?” 

“Last night while I was out jogging. Hit and run, werewolf style. The pepper spray worked marvelously though, and I will hear no more snide comments about it.” 

His dad ignored the last bit. “And why didn't you call me?! Stiles, I thought we agreed that you weren’t going to hide these things from me!” He looked genuinely hurt and slightly angry. 

Stiles’s eyes flashed again, accidentally. Damn, he was going to have to work on that. “Because there was nothing you could do and I wanted to be sure that I wasn’t going to snap and go crazy before I let myself be around you!” He snapped angrily before his voice trailed off and became nearly inaudible as his sudden fury drained away as quickly as it had risen. “I couldn’t let myself hurt you,” he all but whispered.

“Oh, Stiles.” The sheriff stepped up and opened his arms for a hug. Stiles hesitated for a second before his resolve crumpled like a wet tissue and he dove in for a hug. He practically basked in the feeling, carefully controlling his new strength so he didn’t accidentally crush his dad but letting himself relax into it otherwise. His cheek automatically rubbed against his dad’s shoulder, scenting him. 

Hello wolf instincts! Aren’t you going to show up in all sorts of interesting places. 

His dad rubbed his back gently. “I understand, I do. But Stiles?” Here he pulled back just enough to make eye contact without releasing him. “I know you, Stiles. From what you’ve told me, becoming a werewolf doesn’t change the heart of a person, and Stiles? You would never hurt me. Ever.” 

Stiles buried his head back in his dad’s shoulder and breathed in his scent. It was calming like nothing else ever could be. “I just had to be sure,” he muttered to his shirt. 

His dad hummed but otherwise didn’t respond. 

Several moments later, they released each other and Stiles started making omelets. They were one of the most surefire ways to get his dad to eat vegetables in a way he actually enjoyed, or at least didn’t complain too much about. 

The two didn’t speak while they moved around each other with easy familiarity to make breakfast and eat. The easy camaraderie lasted all the way through the meal until his dad set his fork down and gave Stiles a piercing look. 

“So what does this mean for you? You’ve had a lot of complaints about how Scott has been running the pack, and I can’t say they’re unjustified. Are you going to be able to let him be your Alpha?” 

Stiles made a face and took the excuse of finishing the bite in his mouth to think about it a second. He could feel the place where the pack bonds rested. His bond to his dad was reassuringly bright and strong. But that was pretty much it. He could only feel the barest wisps of bonds to the other resident supernaturals in Scott’s ramshackle pack of misfits. In his heart of hearts, bolstered by new wolfy instincts, he knew they weren’t his pack, not really. 

“I’m not sure.” Stiles looked down at his plate, fidgeting slightly with his fork. “I love Scott, but we both know I’ve always been the ringleader of our little duo. I’m honestly not sure I could bring myself to submit to him. Especially when I know that I disagree with his methods.” 

“Do you need to have a pack or can you go without?” his dad asked. 

Stiles sighed. “That’s a tough one. I have to have a pack or I risk becoming an omega and going feral, but my wolf recognizes you as pack. I honestly don’t know if that will be enough or if I have to have other wolves in my pack and/or an alpha. Generally alphas are necessary to stabilize a pack and we don’t have one.” He grimaced slightly. “I guess we’ll see. I don’t want to join Scott’s pack right now, but if I start to slip, then I suppose I'll do what I need to do.” 

His dad grimaced too. “Well, I’m with you for what it’s worth. We’ll make a go of it as the Stilinski pack of two and if it doesn’t work out, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” 

Stiles smiled, feeling the pack bond pulse with his dad’s honest determination and support. “Thanks dad. For now though, I’m going to drill the heck out of this! The better I can get my control right now, the easier it will be to tell if I’m struggling later and if we need to figure something else out. Werewolf bootcamp has officially begun!” 

His dad chuckled. 

His dad had laughed, but Stiles wasn’t kidding. Turning into a werewolf seemed to have removed his need for Adderall, settling him in his skin like never before, but Stiles still approached training his new strength and control with all the focused dedication of an ADHD hyper-fixation. He and his dad’s lives could very well depend on him being the best werewolf he possibly could be, and he refused to slack off. 

Fortunately, the Sheriff had the weekend off and was perfectly happy to spend it drilling his son on anything Stiles could think of. They practiced control while his dad tried to distract or startle him. They drilled his control of his new senses until he could take out the trash without grimacing while also being able to tell which tupperware his dad opened from the other side of the house, until he could track a sparrow by its heartbeat without jumping and shifting when his dad clapped in his ear. They even trained basic combat maneuvers to help Stiles feel settled in the beta shift and how it felt in a mimicry of combat. 

They used everything Stiles could think of to help train his control: jumpscare videos, loud noises, high-emotion memories, and flung lacrosse balls, as well as his new abilities through yoga stretches, deadlifting the couch —plus or minus his dad, even scent tracking through the neighborhood. 

The two of them trained from sun up to sun down and Stiles even stayed up late, spending hours of the night staring into the mirror, flashing eyes or fangs or popping a singular claw precisely when he meant to and never elsewise.  

By the time Monday morning came around, they were both exhausted, but Stiles was tentatively confident that he would be able to control himself throughout a school day. It would be great practice certainly, and Stiles could leave if he felt like he couldn’t handle it. As it was a matter of safety, he had his dad’s permission and instruction to feign illness and come home if he felt like he was at risk. 

He was as ready as he could be. 

It would be easier if he could rely on the pack to help ground himself and cover for any slips, but the two of them had decided that it would be best to hide Stiles’s werewolf status for now. Scott certainly wouldn’t understand why Stiles was refusing to join his pack, so best to just avoid the conflict. But it did mean that Stiles had to hide effectively enough to prevent a subpopulation of individuals with super senses from noticing his new status. Not that Stiles would say that any of them were particularly observant, but still. 

To Stiles’s complete and utter lack of surprise, school was hell. 

It was loud, bright, flashy, and smelled absolutely disgusting. Teenage lack of hygiene, underpaid janitors, and cheap cafeteria food made for a nasal bouquet of staggeringly foul proportions. And it was loud too. Slamming locker doors, chairs screeching as they were dragged across the floor, constant yelling, talking and laughing, and don’t even get him started on the bells. Those had been obnoxiously loud even before he gained supernatural senses. Now they made him want to claw his ears off and were responsible for most of his close calls with shifting. 

The pack didn’t notice anything at least. They normally didn’t pay Stiles much attention and today was no exception. Scott was too busy mooning after Allison —clearly they were in an off-phase of their on-again off-again relationship— to exchange more than a few words with Stiles. Lydia gave him a sniff and a head toss, Jackson gave him a slight sneer, and Erica and Boyd gave him distracted head nods. Isaac gave him a small smile and a tiny wave —he was his new favorite— but then everyone ignored him, too cool now to be seen interacting with the resident spaz. So that was business as usual. Sometimes Stiles tried harder to spend time with them, but he had larger priorities. Namely, making it through the day without exposing the supernatural. 

Somehow Stiles made it through the day without shifting at all, but he had a few more close calls than he was truly comfortable with. He would definitely be drilling control more that evening. 

Still, Stiles was calling the day a win and headed home feeling buoyantly triumphant. At least, he was until he felt something tug insistently against his wolf. Stiles eyes widened and he pulled over with an almost reckless alacrity. Throwing the jeep into park, he closed his eyes and tried to figure out what was going on. As he touched his pack bonds, however, he immediately recognized the problem. His dad’s bond was still solid and strong, but near it sat a coiling thread that felt like festering breath and red eyes. It was winding around his psyche like the roots of an invasive plant, insidious and malicious. 

Stiles eyes shot back open and he stared out the windshield, unseeing. 

The alpha who bit him was trying to claim him as a beta. 

Which, not just no, but hell no.