It starts with the BAND-AID.
Stiles goes stumbling and tumbling through the woods of the Beacon Hills Preserve on a Thursday night and gets caught in some thorns of the underbrush. He escapes mostly unscathed save for the long, ugly-looking cut he gets around his ankle. But that’s simple enough. Clean it, Neosporin it, slap a BAND-AID on it, and he’s done. All better.
So, he starts carrying around a box of BAND-AIDs in the Jeep; keeps two in his wallet just in case. They’re Spiderman-patterned, and he offers one to Lydia once when she breaks a nail, and she actually accepts. Turns out, they’re practical and good luck for his love life.
So, it’s just the BAND-AID first.
It’s not just the BAND-AID for long.
The reality of the situation is this: he’s a human trying to keep up with the life and times of a bunch of teenage werewolves. He’s had some solid, admirable beginner’s luck on his side so far—has shed little to no blood in the past year since shit started going down. There was Gerard (the bastard) and then there was Cora. Neither had any qualms about beating the shit out of him when the time came.
It’s unlikely that he’ll survive anything a werewolf dishes out. If a werewolf wants to kill him, Stiles has basically his wits and some luck to try and make that not happen. There’s no changing that.
But he has plenty of human enemies, too—people who will give him cuts and scratches and broken bones and shit.
And that he can work with.
BAND-AIDs for the cuts, some in all sizes. Peroxide and rubbing alcohol. Neosporin. Aspirin. Tylenol. Popsicle sticks and gauze for splints. Hand towels and Dasani water bottles in case there’s a lot of blood he needs to clear away or stop from flowing.
He throws them in a heavy duty Ziploc bag. He throws the Ziploc bag in his glove compartment. He doesn’t forget about it.