Stiles roared, thrashing in the bed, and Peter started panting, holding him down
‘Stiles! Stiles wake up! It’s just a bad dream!’
Stiles continued thrashing, screaming and crying until the Sheriff ran into the room, flicking on the lights, and meeting Peter’s worried eyes.
Stiles had woken up like this every day for the past five days, and wept into his pillow for hours afterwards, complaining of nightmares and unimaginable pain that he just couldn’t remember.
Peter did as much research as he could but he knew it was all futile.
Stiles was the researcher, he was the one who knew everything and so if he couldn’t find out what it was, chances were no one could. That didn’t stop them from trying though.
‘He’s sixteen,’ Derek would say softly, as the pack gathered in the front room ‘that rules out a lot. There aren’t many spirits or demons or witches that choose to curse someone so young.’
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