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"Stiles? Stiles! Come on, son. Stiles!"
Pain lances through his body as he feels it dragged up, his torso propped against someone's body, but he doesn't want to move, doesn't want to open his eyes, doesn't want. He can feel his body being shaken, gently but firmly, and the pain tingles at the edges where numbness had become so welcome. The movement slows, and Stiles thinks for a moment it's because he's fading again. But he hears the sound of crying all too soon and it tethers him.
"You can't leave me like this Stiles. Not like this, you hear me? Don't leave me here alone."
Something pulls at his consciousness and he tries, genuinely so. It's like he's floating, but on a bed of uneven nails. It's not the same as when he was possessed, nor is it akin to the rush of adrenaline the many times a gun has been pointed at his head. There is no internal voice, his own or otherwise, prodding him on, taunting his humanity. He swims in limbo, balancing between the edges of wakefulness and rest, until he wills his finger to move. It's just a twitch, subtle, but enough that his dad feels. He's holding Stiles' hands, the warmth of them flooding into Stiles' senses, and the scent of blood rushes in until he's gasping, eyes bolting open.
His body jerks awake alongside his mind, the pain from earlier utterly screaming at him now, and he wonders if this is what Lydia's mind feels like when she senses death. The shouts of all his nerves firing, telling him something is missing, that parts of him are dead now.
All he wants right now is his dad, and the rest can come later. He looks up into his father's face and sees the tears that cloud his eyes, the way he's barely holding himself together for his son's sake. He allows his eyes to close, praying for a reprieve from all of this.
"Stiles! No, no, Stiles, you gotta stay with me, please. Don't know if you'll wake back up."
What he thought was a shout coming from his dad was really just a whisper, his upper body cradled against the man's legs, holding him close. Stiles can't quite articulate himself, mouth feeling glued shut, when the shimmering beams of flashlights cuts into his vision when he opens his eyes again. He hasn't willed himself to look down yet, knowing no matter what he sees will be terrifying, and he isn't ready for the next part, for the ambulance ride and yet another hospital visit. He isn't ready to face Scott and the others, to see Melissa crumble at the sight of him; she's been more of a mom to him than he remembers of his own, and he dreads seeing her face when she remembers how frail he truly is.
"Dad?" Stiles manages, voice dry and cracking. "How did you- "
"Shh, Stiles, don't strain yourself. Your voice is going to be raw for a while, but you're okay now, I promise." Noah has a tight hold on Stiles' shoulder, grounding himself as much as his son.
"But how?" The logical side of Stiles' brain is finally catching up, and he remembers the events of the night, the onslaught of pain and the wash of horror at realizing there was nothing he could do. The last thing he remembered was Donovan pulling his belt free from Stiles' wrists and the gory kiss he left on his forehead.
"You don't need to know that, son, just focus on me, okay?"
"Dad." His forces his voice to raise another level, fighting through the sting in his throat. "How did you know?"
The Sheriff heaves a sigh, stuttering at the end as he chokes back a sob.
"Whoever it was had you on speakerphone, Stiles. They, uh, they called the station while- while you were attacked. All I could hear was your screaming." He can't bring himself to say the actual words, to name what exactly happened to his son. "They put a makeshift tourniquet on you so you wouldn't- so you would still be here when help arrived."
"You heard?" Stiles' face blanches further, paling until Noah swore he could see through the skin. He's surprised at the forethought Donovan showed in preventing further blood loss, but he knows it only helps to achieve what the goal was in the first place. The fact that he seems more upset about this than the situation as a whole worries the Sheriff but he can't focus on that now. Instead of answering, he asks another question, one he can't imagine the response to.
"Who did this to you, Stiles?"
Stiles doesn't respond, doesn't want to respond. He wants to be left here to sink into the pain and exhaustion, to not worry about waking up for his dad's sake. He's caused enough pain, he thinks, and he doesn't want to burden his father anymore. He's been dragged into the supernatural, when all he should've been doing is riding the desk as a small town sheriff. Stiles knows that there are two questions to the one he actually asked, the who and the what, wanting to know what the next supernatural threat was going to be.
Before he can come up with something to appease his dad, the EMTs arrive, kneeling down with the duo, and start asking their own questions. Noah thankfully answers them for the most part, knowing the basics of Stiles' blood type and medications, but then they ask what was used to cut into the flesh and bone, what tool could do this in such a short amount of time. Stiles knows he is the only one who can answer and he knows they won't believe him, despite it being the truth. They'll be able to see the marks, anyhow.
"It was Donovan. He used his teeth."
He doesn't specify that there was more than one set of them, nor that they were unlikely to still be human, but it was the truth.