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Time seemed to slow as the flare fell from Scott's grasp. Stiles' hands grasping his friend's shoulder and left hand. He had tried to pry the road flare form Scott's hand, but the combination of hopelessness and werewolf strength did not allow Stiles this one victory.
Both Scott and Stiles watched the flare hit the concrete and bounce once, then twice. The fire at the tip of the stick met the gasoline on the first bounce, igniting the drenched ground. Fire traveled along the stagnant stream of fuel and seemed to explode upon reaching Scott's soaked body.
Scott screamed in pain, claws extending, fangs growing, and eyes glowing. Tears escaped his feral eyes, and his nails sunk into Stiles's chest. He tried to push Stiles out of the fire, away from his redemption for all his failures. “No!” Scott roared, hands slipping on his best friend's now gasoline soaked shirt.
Stiles was having none of it. He embraced Scott, tears coming from his own eyes as well. The fire was burning him, and the pain from Scott's claws weren't helping. Stiles could feel his skin singe with the addition of the gasoline that covered Scott and now him. If Scott was going to go through with this, so would he. Scott was the only one he had left, he was his brother in arms and spirit. The only family he had left that would trust him at least some of the time now a days. He just hoped his dad would be able to recover from the blow.
A scream resonated in Stiles' head, the sound of both friends howling in pain as the fire began to consume their persons in a matter of minutes. It took a while to realise that they were both vocalizing their pain, and it was that, that seemed to snap the two girls watching out of it. Allison ran into the fire, pulling Scott while Lydia pushed them out.
The two boys hit the concrete hard, and were quickly hit with a barrage of painful hitting. Allison and Lydia were trying to pat out the fire, since Stiles was not letting go of Scott any time soon. The four hands trying to kill the fire on their bodies seemed to increase as time went on. More hands joined Allison and Lydia, since the screams of pain had woken up most of the motel.
“God dammit McCall! Stilinski!” Coach Finstock shouted over the panicking voices of the other students and tenants. His jacket beating Stiles' back since Scott was mostly covered with Stiles' body. “Somebody call 911!” He shouted, startling a number of onlookers to call for an ambulance.
About forty-five minutes later, sirens could be heard, and the fire had been put out. However, no one dared to moved Scott or Stiles, both of them charred black. Scott let out a whimper as his senses flooded back into him. The pain was unbearable, and the weight of his best friend on top of that was not helping. He cursed himself. In his moments of weakness, Stiles had suffered. His brother was hurt. Badly.
The paramedics took their time carefully prying the two away from each other. Scott felt their fused flesh rip apart, and released another whine as Stiles was carried away to the closest ambulance. He watched Lydia jump in and glare at anyone who told her to move. He looked to his side, and saw Allison crying at his side. “I-i-I'm sorry,” he whispered, trying to reach out to her. The paramedics placed him on a gurney before he could reach her. And then darkness.