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Summary
“Oh god, I'm dead, aren't I?” he said, eyes still closed.
“Well, yeah,” said a voice above him. The “duh!” while not said out loud, rang loud and clear in her tone."Stiles is dead, apparently.
That, he gets. He doesn't like it, but he gets it.
What he doesn't get is why others go to the bright fucking light while he's stuck with paperwork, watching people die, and telling them their time is up. Oh, and catching fire from time to time.God, being dead sucks.
