Stiles' POV

There really isn't a good way to ask for the bite, especially from Scott.

Hey Scott, could you by any chance bite me? Um weird.

Scott, I need you to bite me, like right now, or I could die. Probably a bit too forceful.

Hey old best friend, could you do me a favor and turn me into the werewolf I've never wanted to be? I would appreciate it. Yikes, That's playing with old wounds.

Uh Scott? I'm dying, and I kind of need the bite to change that. No, not with your human teeth; that's weird. What am I doing? I mean seriously Stiles, conversations with yourself? This is getting pathetic.

I need to calm down. Scott is my best friend. Or, at least, he was. I'm not really sure where we stand right now, and I'm not exactly in a rush to find out.

Everyone's been walking on eggshells around me, like I've never been almost dead before. Please, I have near-death experiences more often than I get drunk. You know, I should probably get my life together and my priorities straight. Like Come on Stiles, it's common sense that being drunk is way more fun than being close to death a few times a week! Seriously man, what's wrong with you?

Damn I'm so worn out. I shut my laptop and flip my pillows before settling in my place in the middle of the bed before dozing off.

---

My heart rate is beginning to slow to an extremely unhealthy rate, and I sigh. I know I need to ask Scott soon, but I don't know how. I mean, sure, I may have overheard him saying that he misses me, but he may have known that I've been listening.

I park my Jeep in front of Deaton's and flip the sign to closed. I feel like I'll be here a while. "Hey, Dr. D," I greet, sliding into the room and plopping on my usual chair.

The man looks up from his work with a small smile. "Hello, Stiles. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

So I explain it to him. All of it. From the weirdo man that I have locked up in a supernatural prison in Venezuela (that I may have drawn on his face with Sharpie last time we met) to the colorful liquid running through my bloodstream, and even my dreaded conclusion of the bite. "So," I begin to conclude, "I have a few concerns. I've been doing my research, and I think the two different forms of supernaturals will have a reaction inside my body."

Deaton pulls out a few books, muttering to himself. I impatiently tap my fingers on my leg, knowing he'll need a few minutes to look over things and process this information. Finally, after approximately seven years, Dr. D looks up and makes eyes contact with me. "Stiles, what color are your eyes?"

"Right now? Well they're brown, but they're a light brown. Kind of like soda in a glass and sun goes through it, you know?" Deaton gives me a look that clearly states you're dumb but most likely in smarter words, knowing him. Probably something like your ability to obtain that degree of ignorance amazes me to unexplainable depths. Damn, that sounded smart. My mouth forms an 'o' shape. "They change depending on white magic I'm using. Sometimes, they a light purple, other times orange, and other times black and white." I shrug, a little sheepish from my idiocy.

"Fascinating," he breathes, and I duck my head. "So with the amount of power coursing through your veins, one of three things could happen. One, you keep all of your powers and become by far the most powerful supernatural creature to ever be created."

"That doesn't sound too bad," I say, trying my best to be optimistic.

"But you'll constantly be in intense pain," he continues.

I squeak, "Oh." Well, there goes that optimism.

"Number two is the two divergent supernatural qualities will cancel each other out, which will in turn make you human once again."

"You know, I'm starting to think that might not be too bad," I mutter, and Deaton sighs before nodding slowly in understanding. "And the last?" I ask after a moment of silence.

"Option three: you die from the conversion."

Damn it.