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It took Stiles a long time to realize what he was, to the Pack.
For a while, he tried to force his way in as a beta- tried to be there for the pack members, to follow Derek's command. And although the puppy piles were nice, and Stiles definitely liked being reliable, having his friends come to and confide in him, there was something wrong with the arrangement. His blood skittered under his skin whenever Derek gave an order that seemed wrong to Stiles, he refused to bare his neck when pack members growled at him. He was a puzzle piece being crammed in the wrong spot, and for a long while he lamented the fact, as if Stiles were the one at fault.
He pulled away from the pack for a while, after he realized he could never be a beta, even if he received the bite. He went to every other pack meeting, stopped flinging himself languidly into the middle of the puppy piles. His friends were confused and concerned, of course- Erica, Isaac and Scott all furrowing their brows and sending him texts along the lines of "u okay? :(" and "dude where r u theres a meeting 2nite". After a while, they retreated- knowing he was okay but not understanding the reasons for his withdrawal. Derek never officially asked him about it, but he glared at Stiles when he showed up for the meetings, his face a painful mixture of hurt and confused, as if Derek had been the cause of Stile's departure.
Afterwards, Stiles tried to make good on the jibes of "Little Red Riding Hoodie" that Jackson liked to taunt him with. Stiles tried to become a separate entity, an ally, something like Deaton. Sure, he was still friends with the pack, they were still acquaintances, but Isaac stopped coming to him for help with his Chem homework. Erica stopped texting him every day. Scott started giving him concerned, slightly wary looks, like Stiles might snap at any given second and lunge for his throat.
And yeah, admittedly, Stiles hadn't been giving himself too good a rep. He started showing up to fights early, (because of-fucking-course Beacon Hills would become the next generation of Sunnydale) splattering his hoodie and the forest with red, and then, once he'd helped burn out any wolfsbane or slap semi-ironic bandaids on any injured wolves, he'd disappear off into the night, driving away away away in his Baby and to the bitter "safety" of his room, where he'd peel off the blood-soaked hoodie and collapse, his jeans muddy and flecked with blood, underneath the comforter of his bed. And there, in a too-hot blanket cavern with his breaths echoing in his ears, he'd suffer through his inevitable panic attacks in relative peace. It never really became easier: watching the wolfsbane-inforced baseball bat that Deaton had helped him make, crack open skulls. Watching blood fly through the air and screams echo in his ears while his eyes stared blankly ahead.
Stiles knew it was for a reason; for the safety of his town and his dad and his friends. But that didn't make the guilt any easier. I mean, yeah those people had tried to kill everyone Stiles cared for. But that doesn't mean the anonymous villains didn't have evil-ish lovers too. It doesn't mean the pretty brunette vampire who wore a butterfly-knife necklace (courtesy of Stiles) didn't have a brother who lived in Florida or something. Just because they'd tried to hurt people he cared about didn't mean they weren't cared about in return. They probably had inside jokes or family memories, or favorite coffee shops or that one radio station they hated.
For a while, Stiles tries to remember the face of every supernaural-baddie he's killed and imagine their lives, hidden beneath his blanket and feeling his too-fast breath huff against his bare chest, which is still plastered with their blood. He tries to put his "overactive imagination" (or so his 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Bealls had said, in a voice that was more suited to saying "rectal infection") to good use; fleshes out their dirty secrets (the warlock he'd burned alive had had a secret addiction to shitty 80's movies, fostered by his old Great-Aunt, who'd been his only friend before she'd died of cancer), or their favorite childhood memories (the shapeshifter never forgot their first bike ride without the training wheels- they'd almost toppled over, but their big sister had been there with a smile and a steadying hand) or their lovers and spouses (the mechanic who turned out to be a centuries-old Djinn had once loved a fisherman. He would sing her old sea-shanties in his soft, Irish brogue, that would make for more effective lullabies than the most potent of sleeping potions).
But Stiles would start to feel vaguely jealous as he conjured up fictional lovers in his head, people who knew and accepted their supernatural-spouses for everything they were. And besides, his head would start to pulse as he spiraled into a never-ending cycle of guilt. He'd tried to pay homage to their memory by not forgetting them, but the ghosts of the people he'd killed, of the lives he'd never know, started to haunt him.
So Stiles stopped imagining the owners of the blood on his hands.
It took a few more miserable, blanket-covered months before Stiles resurfaced after a panic attack and decided screw this. He might've been able to deny it before, but this was not working and he needed to change that. He began going to the pack meetings again, tried to ignore the concerned looks they gave him as they stared at his purple-bagged eyes and the rolling, sickly-scent of his exhaustion. He started texting jokes to Erica again, asked Scott to help Stiles practice lacrosse, took Lydia out on a (completely platonic) coffee run and caught up on her life. They all treated him the same: wariness, combined with mild concern and poorly-guarded relief that Stiles seemed to be coming back, as opposed to the murderer in the red hoodie.
And then, a few weeks after he'd begun to slink back into the pack, Stiles found a random article during one of his sessions of mindless Googling. Blinking, he leaned forward in his chair as he clinked the link and scrolled down, down, down, eyes flickering over the words lightning fast.
Once he reached the end, he stared at the article, almost uncomprehending.
Then, for the first time in a long time, Stiles Stilinski smiled.
It's been a long, long time since one fateful night in the woods. Since baseball bats and dead bodies, since lost inhalers and "mountain lion" attacks. It's been years since Stiles was flung headfirst into all of this supernatural insanity, constantly wavering between the urges to run away screaming or paint the town red with the blood of these stupid invaders, intruders.
It's been a while since Stiles has felt like piece being jammed into the wrong part of a puzzle.
Now, he knows full well what he is.
He is not a beta, nor a vigilante, nor even a regular human.
He is the raven of Beacon Hills.
He is the first to a fight, and his heartbeat is the call for his wolves to come play alongside him. He is the bell-ringer, the first to smoke out a threat and the first to warn his pack. He is both pack and not: a wolf, and a separate entity of his own. They play together, the wolves and the raven, as a red hoodie flashes in the midst of a blood bath and sets aside the time to pull someone's ears, or playfully nudge the snarling alpha. Whatever enemy they face usually finds themselves distracted, enchanted by the prey who acts like a predator, who so carelessly skips between bloodied monsters and blows (ironic) kisses at snarling fangs.
Usually, it is their awe that leads to their death, unprepared for the swing of a baseball bat.
Stiles knows who he is, what he is- and when he relaxes into the post-battle puppy pile, his alpha's arms around his waist and Isaac's hair threaded between his fingers, Stiles melts into the bliss, so unlike his months of claustrophobic panic attacks.
It took a long time for Stiles to realize what he was, to the Pack.
But now, years later?
He couldn't be happier.