Blinking hastily, Stiles squinted his eyes, his eyes adjusting to the bright light. He was surrounded by white walls that pressed in on him. He soon realized that he was in a sterile hallway, smelling strongly of disinfectant and starched linens.

He blinked again, and doors appeared on either side of him, numbered with cheap brass labels. 301, 303, 305…

He was at the hospital. Stiles suddenly looked down, finding himself dressed in dull grey scrubs. He was barefoot, which explained why his feet felt so damn cold. He looked around, hoping to find someone else in her with him. The silence was dominating, and an involuntary shiver raced down his spine.

Something warm and thick splattered down onto his head, making him flinch. Another drop hit his cheek this time, and Stiles warily touched his face before pulling back his hand. It was blood.

Of course it was, he thought as he rolled his eyes. He was in a deserted hospital, and—here he looked up to confirm his suspicions—there was blood dripping from the ceilings, staining it crimson. As Stiles stared at it, the patch of blood expanded, slowly making its way down from the ceiling to the wall. It left a streaking, bloodied mess as it maneuvered its way down onto the floor, just barely missing his foot.

"What the hell?" Stiles shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls as the blood made a tacky, messy trail down the hallway. It continued to grow, and instead of receding, it gushed up, pooling on the bright white floor as it bubbled over in a sickly spray. It obviously had a destination, and Stiles was suddenly burdened with a burning curiosity.

It couldn't hurt to see where it leads to, right?

This was all a hallucination anyway.

That's what you thought about the last one, Stiles reminded himself. Remember, this freaky-ass day dreams are deadly. If you see anything bearing claws and a sassy attitude, run.

Stiles swallowed, closed his eyes, and breathed out slowly. When he reopened his eyes, the blood had already reached the end of the hall. His legs felt like lead as he trudged forward. Blood squelched uncomfortably underneath his bare feet, bubbling up in between his toes. His nostrils breathed in the heavily metallic scent as he walked further down the hallway.

The blood had seeped underneath a doorway, the last one on the left.

Room 315.

Christ, no.

Stiles' heart sank as he walked up to the door, his hand hovering over the knob. He inhaled quickly before his stuttering breath escaped him.

Fuck you Peter, or whoever was tormenting him with this.

Finally, he turned the knob, and the door creaked open, fanning the blood out in a wide arc as Stiles pushed it farther in.

The room held the same machines: the heart monitor, the IV drip. It was the exact same set-up just before the doctors announced the time of death and had wheeled her away to the morgue.

But now it was a fucking massacre.

Bile rose up in the back of his throat as his eyes registered the splashes of blood across the walls. It reminded him of that one scene in Scream 4 when they'd found that dead girl after Ghostface had jumped out of her closet and slaughtered her.

The blood had forming a smearing circle around the bed, where there was a body lying limply on top. The exposed arms, legs and face were drenched in red, as was the white bed sheets. Stiles gagged, and pressed his hands against his mouth, trying not to vomit.

Please, not her, Stiles pleaded, shaking as he stepped forward. Not Mom, please…

When he was at the bed's side he suddenly recognized the wilted, strawberry blonde curls that framed the corpse's face.

Lydia's still torso had been cracked open, her ribs erect and popping out of her chest with massive amounts of gore. Her big intestine had dribbled out, snaking its way to the floor. In her outstretched hand was her heart, still connected to her insides by congealing lines of blood and tendons. It was like someone was playing Operation in reverse.

Stiles practically collapsed to his knees, retching uncontrollably. Vomit splattered onto the floor, mingling with Lydia's blood. After several minutes, he found himself dry heaving, his limbs shaking like mad. It felt like an eternity before he reclaimed enough strength to stand up, his scrubs and hands sopping with the dark substance.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Stiles whipped around. Peter was leaning against the blood-soaked doorframe, his arms lazily folded across his chest. He smiled at Stiles, which unnerved him.

"So sorry I desecrated your art project with my stomach's excretion."

"So have such a lovely way with words."

Peter pushed himself off of the doorframe, his eyes watching Stiles hungrily. Stiles stepped back, nearly smacking his head into the bedframe as his bloodied feet slid on the floor. His fingers automatically grasped Lydia's limp wrist, and Stiles shuddered at how icy cold her skin felt. He forced himself to stare into her wide, lifeless eyes, now glassy from death.

This is a dream. She's not dead. I'm just going insane again. I just lost a shit ton of blood, and now Scott's—

"It could've ended up like this," Peter said, his voice suddenly close. Stiles barely had enough room to twist his body around to face the werewolf, who was leaning into his breathing space.

"Ya wanna back off for a moment?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Stop being so defensive, sweetheart."

"I was wondering when the pet names would kick in," Stiles said back, forcing himself not to flinch. "Though you might want to work on your delivery."

"Really, Stiles?" said Peter as he roughly pushed Stiles onto the bed. Stiles felt the back of the scrubs drench in blood, and he soon became uncomfortably aware that he was lying across Lydia's—this isn't her, she's not dead—stomach. The rancid smell of her innards threatened to make him vomit again.

Peter was leering over him, his hands on either side of Stiles' head. Stiles was suddenly aware of Peter's legs pressing in on his hips from either side.

"Is this gonna be a thing?" Stiles babbled, licking his lips. "You know, with these trippy illusions you're putting me in? Do you get off on invading my personal bubble and giving Lydia fatal, bodily harm?" Stiles tried to move, but Peter's face was just mere inches from him, giving him little space to wriggle out of this… compromising position.

Peter flashed his fangs at him, grinning maliciously. "I'll be more creative next time."

"Uh, yeah, no thanks," Stiles spat out, "I think we're through after this little session. Do you actually have a reason for invading my mind and causing me real-time harm? It'd be nice to see some decent motivation behind all this. Besides you having some weird fetish."

"What did I tell you before?"

"Excuse me?"

Peter's eyes flashed red—he's not the Alpha anymore, this is your brain screwing with you—as he repeated, "What did I tell you before, Stiles?"

Stiles swallowed, replaying back their previous encounter. "You need Lydia and me for something," he muttered. Fuck, he hated this. He hated this sense of powerlessness he felt whenever Peter was around. The scene on the lacrosse field always haunted him.

Peter smiled, and Stiles shuddered at the satisfied look of it. "Very good," he replied. "I knew I could count on you to pay attention to detail. And do you remember what else I said? What I would do if you refuse to cooperate?"

Stiles glared at him, but Peter must've seen the panic in his eyes. The former Alpha chuckled darkly, trailing a clawed finger over Stiles' wrist, directly above the pulse. "Beacon Hills doesn't need another family tragedy to add to their records, do they? Especially if it involved one of their leading authorities—"

"Go fuck yourself."

Peter gripped Stiles' wrist, adding pressure to it. "Don't press your luck," he growled. "You may be a valuable piece, but everyone else around you is expendable."

…iles.

Stiles blinked. "What the hell?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Already?" he scoffed. He turned his attention back to the boy just beneath him. "When the time comes, you will obey me. Don't get any ideas of trying to outsmart me. If you play your part, you and your loved ones will remain unharmed."

The hospital room was shimmering away in dark, thick tendrils. Stiles closed his eyes, and when he reopened them, Peter was gone. He suddenly found it easier to breathe.

STILES!

"Stiles, wake up!"

Scott was looming over him when Stiles blinked. He looked like he'd just witnessed someone punching a puppy or something. My brain was oddly specific about that, Stiles thought as he groggily propped himself on his elbows. Scott—now miraculously clad in a new shirt—breathed a huge sigh of relief, and sank back down into his chair.

It was then that Stiles recognized his surroundings. They were in the examination room at the animal clinic, with Stiles himself lying on the operating table. He winced as a stabbing pain resounded from his neck and side. Scott jumped up from his seat, gripping Stiles arm as he tried to sit up.

"How long was I out?" he asked, tendering touching his neck. Clean white gauze had been taped there, and Stiles was surprised when his fingers came back unsullied by blood. He stared at them, unable to believe it.

Scott shrugged, watching his friend attentively. "It's seven now," he replied slowly.

"So I've been out of it for almost seven hours now?" Stiles said. He groaned with a sudden realization. "Has my Dad called?"

Scott held up Stiles' phone. "I picked up on his tenth try," he admitted. "I told him that you were at my house. Then he asked why you didn't have your phone on you." He gave Stiles a long look. "I don't think he's buying it anymore."

"He's the sheriff, what did you expect?" said Stiles. He winced as a sharp pain shot through his head. "He's been paranoid ever since our winning game, y'know? He's been trying to hide it, but he's not very subtle when he asks me the exact times I'm coming home or if I'm going to be alone after practice."

"He's just worried."

"I know," Stiles muttered sadly. I hate making him worry like this. What kind of shitty son does this to their father?

"The school called my mom when we missed our afternoon classes," Scott added. "When I told her it was werewolf business, she backed off."

"For now," Stiles grinned weakly, "She's gonna yell your ass off when you get home."

Pain shot up in Stiles' side, making him hiss. He clutched at the bandages, which were now dotted with red. "We got any idea how this happened?" he asked, looking at Scott.

"Deaton has a theory."

"I'd love to hear it right about now, buddy," said Stiles. He rotated his body carefully, swinging his legs over the edge of the operating table. He lowered himself down as stinging pain flared up in his body. "And it'd be great to know how he stopped the bleeding."

"It was simply a matter of removing these from your Jeep."

Scott and Stiles' heads turned in unison as Deaton entered the room. In his gloved hand was what looked like a tiny burlap pouch. He calmly approached the two boys, eyes unblinking as he held up the pouch for them to inspect.

Scott breathed in the faint scent. "I don't recognize any of it," he admitted.

"That wouldn't surprise me," Deaton replied as he untied the pouch's strings. He reached in with his thumb and forefinger, and withdrew it. What looked like ground up herbs was pinched between his fingertips. "These are very rare, and unnatural. These herbs are the results of generations' worth of splicing and recreating hybrid plants."

"So what was someone's little garden project doing in my Jeep?" Stiles asked.

Deaton looked at him intensely. "This concoction is specifically used in causing hallucinations within its intended victims."

"Hallucinations?" Scott repeated, worry creasing his brow. Stiles, meanwhile, was suddenly conscious of the way that Deaton was staring at him, like he already knew the answer.

"But there's more to the equation," Deaton continued as he dropped the herbs back into the pouch. He placed it on the side of the operating table. "It needs a spell, to make a connection between the caster and their victim. A personal connection helps influence the strength of the spell, therefore making it effective."

"Personal connection?" Scott said, looking confused now. "What are you talking about?"

Sometimes Stiles wanted to roll his eyes at how slow his buddy took on the update. "It means that someone wants to drive me out of my fucking mind, dumbass!"

Scott stared at Stiles, the gears finally clicking into place. "So at school today, with the injuries coming out of nowhere…?"

Stiles nodded. "Yeah. That magic bag right there is the cause of it." He looked at Deaton for confirmation, who nodded curtly.

So he wasn't going insane. Some whack job was just trying to rip him to shreds with terrifying visions. Fantastic.

"So you were seeing things too?" Scott asked. Stiles noticed how his friend's eyes glowed temporarily, flaring with anger and justice.

Stiles nodded. "Pretty much," he replied, tenderly touching his throat. "I got the exact same injuries in my hallucinations too." He frowned. "But wait," he added, looking at Deaton. "Does this 'strength of the spell' also include transferring the injuries back to real-time?"

"You're the proof of that theory, Stilinski," Deaton nodded.

It was at that moment that Stiles' phone rang. He snatched it up, answering it on the second. "Lydia?" he said, sounding surprised as Lydia's voice spilled out a "Hello?" from the other end.