What Fathers Do For Their Sons

PenPatronus

Part 2 of 2

Sacrifice

Deaton opened up the book and started to speak in a language that none of them, not even Lydia, recognized.

"Dad, what are you doing?" Stiles demanded. He pulled and pushed on his chains, desperate to escape. He pulled and pushed so much that he knocked the chair, including himself, over onto its side. Lying there helpless, his right cheek mushed against the floor, Stiles could only watch. A half-dozen phrases later, Deaton's words started to draw something intangible right out of Stiles' lungs.

Something in Stiles convulsed. Inhaling air suddenly felt more like swallowing lava. He cried out in pain. Deaton spoke louder.

The light in the loft was dim but it still cast shadows. Everyone watched, shocked, as Stiles' shadow started to ripple like a mirage.

The wrinkled edges of his jeans and plaid button-down made up that shadow. The wrinkles started to take a different shape: ovals and wings. Dozens at first. Hundreds. Thousands. A whole swarm. A whole swarm of buzzing fly-shaped shadows slinked out of Stiles' body. The flies spread out slowly like a lazy wave of oil. They bounced off of the line of mountain ash and, contained, slithered forward through the throat of the oval towards Deaton.

Deaton stepped aside when the shadows reached his toes. With a final shriek of agony, Stiles went still – his head slamming into the floor as the last of the Nogitsune was exorcised from his body. Dizzy, nauseated, Stiles watched helplessly as the demon approached his father. Lydia and Allison threw down more mountain ash to complete the line bisecting the oval. The shadow and the Sheriff were trapped in the same cage.

Melissa broke the ash line behind Stiles and Scott raced to his friend. Hands on his shoulders, fingers trying to comfort him with a massage, the trembling Scott blocked Stiles' view.

"No," Stiles whispered. He stretched his neck left and right, desperate to see around Scott. "God, no – no! Dad, don't do this! Dad!"

"Don't watch, Stiles," Scott begged. He wrapped his body over Stiles' head. "Don't look, don't look."

"Somebody – anybody – Derek, Isaac, help him!" Stiles' body buckled with hysteria. "Kira please don't kill him – listen to me – please! Please!"

The shadow was six inches from Stilinski's feet. The sheriff closed his eyes.

A sudden flurry of footsteps. Melissa gasped so loud that Scott couldn't help but look up. And when he did he saw his own father leap over the line of mountain ash and land between Stiles' father and the Nogitsune. "Dad? Dad!" Scott stumbled forward only to be stopped by the ash line. He banged his fists against the barrier. "Dad!"

McCall looked back over his shoulder at the sheriff with tears in his eyes. "Take care of my son," he said. "He needs you more than he needs me."

Shocked, Stilinski said nothing. He only watched, wide-eyed as the buzzing shadow bugs crawled up his old friend's legs and entered his heart one by one. "Wait for it," Deaton said to Kira and Peter. He put his book down and folded his arms against his chest but that didn't stop his voice from trembling.

Scott slammed his fists again. "Dad!"

When the last flutter of shadow entered his body, McCall's head snapped towards the ceiling and a scream of madness erupted from his throat.

"Now!" Deaton shouted.

Lydia and Allison kicked the mountain ash, opening up that half of the oval.

Peter and Kira did what they were supposed to.

Like Kira's mother and the old she-wolf did half a century ago, Kira and Peter attacked Scott's dad on two fronts: the sword through the chest and the claws through the spine. McCall folded to the floor slowly. Blood left his body as lazily but dramatically as the demon entered it. With a last gasp he crumpled, twitching and then still and quiet.

A lone buzzing fly flew out of McCall's mouth. Kira's mom caught it in the jar.

Scott dropped to his knees. His body was so numb that he didn't feel the impact. He stared, unblinking, at his father's sightless eyes. The scratch-squeak–scratch of iron against wood was the only sound in the entire loft.

The scratch-squeak-scratch turned out to be Stiles struggling forward to take his friend's hand.

Three Days Later

Scott McCall stood at his father's grave with his fists shoved into the deep pockets of his suit. The funeral ended an hour before. Everyone left the cemetery, or so Scott thought until he heard the three hearts beating behind him. He sniffed the wind to identify them.

His mother. There was a salty scent to her skin.

Stiles' dad. He sounded like he was struggling to control how loud his breaths were.

And Stiles. Stiles, who he hadn't said a word to in three days.

When the sun started to set, Scott looked up from the tombstone and said, "Stiles?"

His best friend was at his side instantly. He wasn't sure what to do with his hands. They went from Scott's shoulder to his own stomach and back again. Stiles was a bit weak but alive. He was himself. He was whole.

"I don't," Stiles choked, "I don't know what to say. Scott, I'm so sorry."

"I know what to say." Scott adjusted his posture. He lifted his chin. Although he didn't say it out loud the "thank you" was in the air. Scott pivoted and wrapped his arms around Stiles. "So glad," he whispered, "I'm so glad you're ok."

"Your dad," Stiles gasped.

"Knew that you're worth it." Scott squeezed him even harder. "So glad," he whispered.

The End