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"Is this really necessary, guys?" Stiles calls out into the darkness.
He's been walking in this goddamn cold woods for two hours now, alone because Allison and Lydia had decided to move basecamp while he went off to empty his squirrel-sized bladder. Stupid full moons and stupid werewolves needing to let off their energy. Stiles doesn't understand why he needed to be out, walking in the cold, bitter weather, when he isn't even a werewolf. It isn't like this is pack bonding, or spending time together because they are all scattered across the entire of the preserve. He is tired and hungry, his dinner waiting for him at home, the thought makes his mouth water. He calls out again, the darkness offering no answer.
He is completely alone. Brilliant.
Stiles walks around, his almost numb feet barely lifting off the floor.
"Stilessssssss,"
The voice has Stiles stopping short. It was female, high and slow, almost seductive. He doesn't recognise it as it bounces off the trees through a echo.
"Who's there?" Stiles asks, but the question goes unanswered. "Guys, this isn't funny."
They must be pranking me, Stiles tells himself. It's a prank. A sick joke. Don't be scared.
"Sti-lesssssss,"
A shiver runs down Stiles' spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and as he looks around, but all he can see was darkness. Nothing can be picked out, nothing but trees and shadows. The moon casts a glow down, but he can't see anyone.
"Jackson, stop being a jackass," Stiles shouts, but even he can pick out the waver in his voice. His heart is hammering in his chest, hands clammy at his sides. Whatever Jackson is doing, this is far beyond the boundary line. This was—
He feels a breath on the back of his neck. Cold and sly. He spins around, eyes skittish amongst the darkness.
"Stilessssss," it says again. "Stiles. Stiles Stiles Stiles Stiles."
Stiles spins around, looking for the owner of the voice when his heal catches on a tree root. He gasps as he falls, catching a glimpse of a faceless figure stepping out of the shadows in the split second of falling. He hits the forest floor, pain flaring in the back of his head before all is black.
Crawling back to consciousness is a struggle. Moving through the foggy abyss before the pain throbbing in the back of his skull makes itself known. He groans, the sound sounding like a echo in a tunnel.
"Stiles?"
The voice is familiar. Gruff and male. Stiles uses it as a rope, a leaver to pull himself back to the surface of his mind.
"Come on, Stiles. Open your eyes,"
He lets out another groan, this time the sound is clear and sharp. He manages to get his eyes open, blinking away the dancing black spots. His vision is blurred, unfocused and the drumming behind his eyes escalates when he tries to focus on the face above him.
Derek is looking down in annoyance and . . . concern?
"Dr'ek?" Stiles mumbles, his tongue feels heavy. Stiles is suddenly aware of the biting cold around him, icing his fingers to the point of numbness.
"What happened?" Derek asks.
"I don't . . . " Stiles frowns, thinking hurt. "I don't know. I can't remember."
Panic grasps at his senses. Why can't he remember? He was walking, trying to find everyone and— he can't remember after that.
Stiles jerks into a sitting position, instantly regretting the action when a wave of crushing pain circulates around his skull. He clamps closed his eyes, waiting for the world to stop spinning and the nausea in his stomach to settle. He feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his head.
"Calm down, you're alright," Derek says. Stiles feels a warm, large hand find it's way to the back of his skull, resting gently over the tender spot. Stiles tenses for a moment, the pain intensifying from the contact, but then it eases, melting away like warm butter. He lets out a heavy sigh and opens his eyes.
"That hurt," he pouts. He can see a tremor in his limbs. He's so damn cold.
"Maybe if you were less clumsy, and could coordinate your own feet, you wouldn't have tripped over and banged your head," Derek says, though his voice holds no hostility it would have a month ago. Stiles likes that his and Derek's relationship has softened, there is less pushing and shoving. Derek has seemed to accept Stiles, allowing him to camp at his loft when his dad was doing long night shifts, or if he doesn't want to be alone, and vice-versa. The pair has spent most of the summer in each others company, whether it be in comfortable silence, or doing something productive with or without the pack.
"Shut up, sour wolf. I was only out here for you and your precious wolf-y needs!"
"You didn't have to come," Derek counters.
"Erica was fairly convincing," Stiles mumbles. "I wouldn't have heard the end of it if I didn't come on this god-forsaken mountain hike."
"Why did you walk around? You could have just sat with Allison and Lydia."
"They wondered off when I went for wazz. Lost them," Stiles says. "We should get back, everyones done now, right?"
"Yeah, everyone was heading back when I smelt your blood," Derek replies.
"Brilliant," Stiles sighs. His head isn't too bad now, just a light aching thanks to Derek's wolf-y-magic-mojo.
He climbs to his feet, and if anybody asks, he did not need Derek's assistance.
They walk through the woods, the only light source being the glowing moon in the sky. Stiles can't help but shake a feather feeling on his shoulders, as if someone is standing right behind him, breathing on his neck. The feeling is daunting, and he keeps having to look behind him to check that no one is there.
"You okay?" Derek asks, obviously noting Stiles discomfort.
"Yeah. I just— . . . it's nothing," Stiles shakes his head. He's just being paranoid. "Come on, everyones waiting."
They make it back to the Hale house in silence, the only sound being the noise coming in a ruckus from inside the wooden building that the pack had re-built during the summer. It looks better now, a fresh sight in the dull woods. Stiles has seen how having a pack home has comforted Derek, much better and nicer than the dingy loft he stayed in. Pack is also part of his inherited instincts, and also his alpha instincts. Having a pack house, a place for the dysfunctional family to gather is something Stiles knew Derek needed, what they all needed.
They hadn't built on top of the old Hale house. The ruins of Derek's childhood home had remained untouched, because they had all agreed that taking away the remains and building on top of it would be like dancing on the perished families graves. The whole idea had been discomforting, so it had been dropped and instead, they built the new pack house a few acres away. The Hale land was large enough to have both properties in it, but with a fair enough distance that the ruins weren't touched or disturbed and aren't the first thing you see when you walk out the front door.
The front of the house has a broad porch, with a white painted arch. They are planning on getting a swing chair to put outside, but haven't got around to it yet. So at the moment, it looks slightly bare, but it always seems to remind Stiles of a fairytale cottage, with it's wooden cabin look, yet so bright and sweet.
Inside, the first thing you walk into is a large foyer and hallway, to the right being a large arch way and the opening to the lounge. There is the stairs on the left, just after the door to the kitchen. The house has a lot of windows, but not so many that it interferes with privacy. Derek has agreed to the house needing to be bright, and windows are the best option for natural lighting. But they had also agreed that, trusting their luck, too big a window could lead to easy break-ins and attacks. Somehow, during the chaotic months of designing, they had all come to an agreement on windows, and now, the house was bright and open, but not too much.
"Where have you guys been?" Lydia appears in the doorway of the living room.
"Stiles got lost, hit his head," Derek says, moving into were the pack are lounging on the sofas and floor.
Stiles glares at the back of Derek's head as the alpha walked away.
"I'm fine," he reassures Lydia when the banshee looks at him worriedly.
"You sure?"
Stiles nods, stopping himself from wincing at the spinning sensation that erupts at the base of his head. God, he needs to sit down.
"Stiles, what do you want on your pizza?" Scott asks when Stiles flops down on the couch next to him.
Stiles groans. He closes his eyes. "I don't mind, buddy. Something with ham."
Scott nods and proceeds to gather everyones pizza preferences, which then leads to Stiles making a comment about Erica's option of anchovies on her pizza.
"This is coming from a person who puts ham on their pizza," Erica snarks.
"What's wrong with ham?" Stiles replies, not opening his eyes.
"It's boring! You might as well have margarita!"
Stiles scoffs. "There is nothing wrong with my pizza toppings. At least their not as bad as Boyd's. Seriously, dude, pineapple?"
Boyd responds with a quick snarl, but cuts it out when Erica practically climbs into his lap and trieds to eat his face like a starving animal.
They settle down for movie night, everyone gathering on the floor on top of the mass of blankets and pillows that Stiles and Allison had craftily put together before they had gone out earlier. It is almost like a tradition now, every Friday and Saturday, the whole pack will go to the pack house, movies and pizza and cuddling. There is always the debate about films, so Stiles, being the most organised and also sick of watching the Notebook every weekend, has put together a rota of who gets to pick the movies. No one is going to voice that they all dreaded Lydia's weekend, but thankfully, this time it was Isaacs. So they settled for The Breakfast Club.
Stiles finds himself loving pack nights. Being an only child, and having lost his mother so young, Stiles had lost the image of family nights. Sure, him and his dad spend time together, but never like he does with the pack. Just the idea of cuddling down, watching a movie and falling asleep surrounded by his family makes Stiles tingle with happiness. And Stiles isn't the only member of the pack who doesn't have a huge family. The only person who really ever had that was Derek, and the guy had it ripped away from him too soon. None of them have siblings, and most of them have one or no parents to share evenings with.
So pack nights are special, and also comforting. They bring them together in more ways than one.
Stiles is sandwiched between Lydia and Scott and a year ago, the thought of even being with Lydia on a Saturday night would have made Stiles a ball of flails and babbling. But now, Stiles has found himself seeing Lydia as more of a sister than a partner, and much to his delight, Lydia feels the same way. The old acquired awkwardness between the two isn't even there anymore, and instead replaced by a friendship like no other. There is also the fact that Lydia is dating Jackson the Jackass still, so even if Stiles wanted it, Lydia would never be his anyway.
The night rolls on, and Stiles feels himself become increasingly tired. The warmth surrounding him is like a drug, inducing him into dozing. He is only jerked back into consciousness when the TV screen goes black, and Scott, who is behind him, rolls over.
Stiles pokes his head up from beneath the blanket he's cacooned himself with.
Everyone is asleep. Lydia is cuddling into Jackson, and beyond them is Erica and Boyd. Behind him is Scott and Allison, the two disgustingly clinging onto each other like lifelines while Isaac, bless him, sleeps behind them like a lonely puppy.
And then there's Derek, who is shutting off the TV set.
The alpha, for some reason, hasn't been overly fond of the cuddling during pack nights. Stiles isn't sure if it is because of raw feelings regarding his family and the fire, or if it is because a 22 year old cuddling onto a bunch of 17 year olds freaks him out.
Either way, Stiles is not going to let Derek crawl upstairs, where he will sleep in his cold bed, alone, when he should be with his pack.
"Hey, sour wolf," Stiles whispers. He can see Derek look at him in the darkness. Stiles nods to the gap now between him and Scott. "Get in here."
He can see Derek hesitating, the silent decision being made. A grin grows on the teens face when Derek climbs over the limbs of their sleeping pack and lays down behind Stiles. Stiles readjusts his blanket so it covers both him and Derek, before he laus back down and relaxes into the pillows.
He can feel Derek loosing the tension against his back, slowly melting against him.
Stiles isn't sure what his relationship is with Derek, but it seems to have passed the line of alpha to beta. He can't tell if it is because he is human, because so is Allison and technically Lydia, but him and Derek seem to have grown a comfortable relationship that even Stiles didn't see coming.
Stiles' last coherent thought that night is how Derek's heat is melting into his back.
*
When Stiles wakes up the next morning, everyone else is still asleep. It isn't until Stiles goes to get up, as his bladder is weighing down painfully and he is sure if he waits any longer it will literally burst, that he notices there is an arm wrapped around his chest. He turns his head just enough to see, out of the corner of his eyes, the five o'clock shadow covering jaw of the owner of the toned arm.
"Derek," Stiles whispers after the futile attempts of getting Derek's arm to unwind unexpectedly fail. "C'mon, man, I need to get up."
Derek lets out a undignified growl into the back of his neck, the vibrations going straight to Stiles' morning wood.
"Derek," Stiles whines because he really needs to go to the bathroom now. Stiles huffs. "Wake up, you oaf, or I'll piss on you."
There is a moment of silence, before Derek mutters a quiet, "you're disgusting," and then his arm retracts from around Stiles' chest.
Stiles doesn't waste a moment, he leaps up, running to the bathroom and letting his load go.
When he gets out, he finds Derek in the kitchen, standing in only a pair of sweatpants that cling in all the right places. Stiles refrains himself from staring as he drops down on one of the barstools.
Not a minute later, a cup of coffee is slid under his nose.
"Thanks," he says, smiling at Derek before taking a sip. It's painfully hot, but he feels like he needs a wakeup call, so he guzzles the hot liquid down.
"Did you sleep last night?" Derek asks. He is leaning, palms down, on the kitchen island. The muscles in his arm are popping out, tense and defined so much that Stiles almost chokes on his coffee when his eyes catch them.
"Yeah," Stiles replies. "Why?"
"You look like you haven't slept," Derek says, he stares with narrow eyes.
"You slept behind me!" Stiles flails, taking another sip. He's finished over half his cup so he puts it down on the breakfast bar surface to restrain himself.
Derek is still staring at him.
"Dude, stop with the staring," Stiles says, squirming under the calculating gaze. "It's creeping me out!"
Derek replies with a quiet grunt, though his gaze didn't let up for a few more moments. When he breaks, he makes himself a coffee before he settling for leaning back against the cabinets.
Stiles begins to think then, realising that he does, in fact, feel tired. It is as if he hadn't slept at all. The feeling of doing an all-nighter isn't a foreign feeling to Stiles, but last night was probably one of the best sleeps he's ever had. He slept the whole way through, no nightmares, no active mind. He practically dropped straight off and didn't wake up until well into the morning.
Stiles shrugs it off as a one off. Everybody has bad nights. It must have been a restless sleep.
"Are you okay?"
Derek's voice snaps him out of his thoughts.
"Absolutely fine. Why?"
"You're not talking."
Stiles raises an eyebrow at him. "So?"
"So, the silence is unnerving," Derek says. "Especially from you."
Stiles grins. "Aw, d'you like hearing my voice Der Bear?" He teases, taking a sip of the coffee.
Derek glares. "No. I was just saying the silence is weird for you."
"No, you said the silence is unnerving," Stiles gives him a shit-eating grin. "Admit it, you like it when I talk."
"No," Derek replies shortly.
Stiles raises a eyebrow. He can't stop smirking.
"No, it's not true, or no, you're not going to admit you like my talking?"
Derek rolls his eyes so hard it looks painful
"Shut up, Stiles."
*
The weekend goes by without fault, though, by Monday, Stiles feels like he hasn't slept a wink during the entire two days. He's confused, but then thinks about how he's been running around with werewolves for weeks, fighting and researching to no ends. It's no wonder he's exhausted really.
He wakes up late, though, so he ends up being fifteen minutes late to math, were he fails to enter unnoticed, and has to ignore the confused and concerned glances of his pack mates. They're all looking at him as if being fifteen minutes late is an abomination.
The day only gets worse.
Stiles spends the entire of gym warming the bench because he'd tripped himself up twice with the lacrosse stick before Finstock got frustrated and benched him. Stiles isn't overly bothered about that, but the embarrassment is humiliating enough. Then, Harris gives him a detention for day dreaming in class, but Stiles isn't sure what had happened. He hadn't even realised he'd zoned out until Harris was slamming a book down on his table, snapping him abruptly from the vessel of thoughts he'd fallen into.
By lunch, Stiles had had enough.
"Whats wrong with you, Batman?" Erica asks after Stiles slams his tray down on the table and dropped into the chair with a groan.
Stiles only replies with a pathetic whine as he drops his head in his hands. He is utterly exhausted and all he wants to do was go home and sleep.
"You alright, dude?" Scott asks when he joins them. By then, the entire pack has gathered around the table. They have a kind of set seating plan now, with Erica, Boyd, Isaac and Jackson sitting on one side, and then Stiles, Scott, Allison and Lydia on the other. But today, Isaac and Lydia have swopped and Lydia is currently half sitting in Jacksons lap, the pair barely stopping their lip-locking action to see Scott sit down.
"I'm fine," Stiles answers. He stabs at his food, not feeling hungry at all. His appetite is gone. "Just a little tired."
"You coming lacrosse practise after school?" Scott replies. He has one hand around Allison's waist as he eats.
"I don't know. Finstock will only bench me, so I might not bother," Stiles shrugs.
"Come on, Stiles," Scott says, smiling like a excited puppy. "You might get first line this year."
"Yeah, no," Stiles replies. He drops his fork, leaning back in his chair and slumping down into the hard plastic. "Thanks for the encouragement, Scotty boy, but I think I'll save myself the humiliation this year."
Scott sighs, though it isn't annoyed, more sad. But he drops the subject, which Stiles is grateful for.
The pack fall into a relaxed conversation for the rest of lunch while Stiles forces himself to eat his food. He only gets half way through before the bell for class goes.
The rest of the day passes quickly, but by the time Stiles gets home, having stayed at lacrosse practise to support Scott, he is utterly exhausted. His dad is home when he walks in, his cruiser parked out front and his greeting coming from the kitchen.
When Stiles enters, kicking off his shoes and dropping his bag at the bottom of the stairs, he wonders into the kitchen, following his dad's voice.
John, still dressed in work clothes, is sitting at the dining table, papers and open files spewed across the wooden surface. He looks up when Stiles walks in, face twisting into a frown.
"You okay, kid?" He asks.
Stiles nods. "Yeah," he lies. "Just had a bad night sleep."
"Anything I should be worried about?" The sheriff asks, flashing Stiles a concerned look. Ever since the supernatural reveal, his dad has subtly kept tabs of Stiles' sleeping habits, making sure his son is okay and getting good nights sleep that aren't riddled with nightmares and screaming like when his mother first died.
"No," Stiles says, stretching his face into a smile for reassurance. "Honestly, dad, I'm okay. Just tired. I'll have an early night tonight and be right as rain tomorrow."
His dad smiles. He stands up, clapping a hand on Stiles' shoulder and giving it a comforting squeeze. "Okay, kiddo. What'd you want for dinner? I'm cooking."
Stiles drops into one of the dining chairs as his dad began cooking. He closes his eyes, feeling the relief of the minuscule rest he is getting.
He's fine. He's just tired. The exhausting year has begun catching up with him. He'll be fine in a few days.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
Over the next week, Stiles sleeps more than he has in the past year, getting full nights of sleep, yet when he wakes up, he feels like he's pulled another all-nighter. He becomes snappish and short tempered, the constant ache of exhaustion in his bones making him frustrated and pissed off.
The pack notice it too. They notice the shifts in his moods, the sluggish, delayed movements that have grown worse and worse as the week goes on. Stiles ends up missing pack movie night two weeks after the night in the woods, sending a quick text to the group chat to inform them that he isn't feeling up to it and is just gonna go to bed.
Instantly, they know something serious is up. Stiles is one of the main supporters of pack movie night, and so for him to feel so shit he can't come, proved something is wrong. Stiles is one of those teenagers who can function on minimum hours sleep, and he has done more than once. On many occasions has Stiles stayed up for endless nights on end, not getting a wink of sleep so he can finish school work or find research for the pack. Stiles is one of those people who don't realise they're tired until they've sat down and don't stop until he's dropped.
So for him to admit it, he must be feeling really fucking bad. Which is why Derek finds himself excusing himself half way through the first film. He drives, slightly recklessly, to the Stilinski household that stands in the shadowed darkness of the dimly lit street. There are no lights on inside, every room bleeding with shadows and black of the night. Derek climbs the tree outside Stiles' window, jumping and landing soundlessly on the roof. He stalks closer to the window, leaning on the ledge and looking into the dark room.
Stiles lays on his bed, his back to the room and slightly curled in on himself. The comforter is pooled around his waist, his upper body covered in a baggy t-shirt. Derek can't see it, but he knows Stiles is sleeping by the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart and the soft, even breaths that quietly fill Derek's senses. There is no smell of sickness, or disease or death wafting from him. Only his usual scent of faint sweat, cinnamon and freshly cut grass. There is a thin veil of his coconut shampoo still lingering in the room when Derek opens the window a crack.
Stiles is fine, he realises. He isn't hurt, or kidnapped, or injured like Derek had worried. He is sleeping, resting and healing from whatever bug the stupid teenager has managed to pick up.
Derek leaves ten minutes later, returning to his car and driving back to the pack house. Stiles is safe, he repeats to himself, like a broken mantra.
*
The next week is spent with Stiles falling asleep in class and progressively becoming more and more exhausted. It is like the logic of sleep has spiralled backwards, all of his rest and sleep is coming back and biting him in the ass. The more he sleeps, the more tired he is. At first, Stiles had thought it was all the sleepless nights rushing back to him, but after three weeks of restless sleeping, and actually sleeping full nights and still being beyond exhausted, Stiles knows something is wrong.
Of course, he doesn't tell anyone specifically that he thought something was wrong because, well, Stiles is Stiles. His first instinct was to tell his dad, but after watching his dad stumble in the house at ass o'clock, day after day, after working ridiculous hours in the office, Stiles doesn't think he had any right to whine about being tired when he is sleeping more than normal. Scott is next on the list, but Stiles doesn't want to burden him with something that sounds so stupid and unimportant. The pack have more serious things to think about than Stiles' inability to catch some good rest.
Stiles is still proud at how he manages to drag himself out of bed every morning, go and survive the wonders of high school (only falling asleep a few times in class) and getting all his homework done before he passes out when he gets home. Sure, his social life has been flushed down the drain, he never sees the pack apart from in school and even then, all of Stiles' concentration is focused on staying awake.
By the following Friday, Stiles is ready to go home and sleep again when school ends, only he doesn't have the chance as as soon as he gets out the double doors and into the car park, an arm loops around his own and he is being pulled in the opposite direction to his Jeep.
"Lydia, what are you—"
"Hush, Stilinski," she scolds, not letting up her grip, dragging him along with her strong, straight strides towards her own car. "You look far too shit to be driving and you are coming to pack movie night tonight."
"But—"
"No exceptions!" Lydia interrupts. "Scott will drive your Jeep to Derek's, but you are coming in my car so I can be sure you aren't going to go home or fall asleep at the wheel and kill yourself."
Stiles snorts. "Thanks for sugar coating it, Lydia."
"My pleasure," she quips, only letting up on his arm when they're standing beside her sparking silver car. Jackson and Cora are leaning against the doors, looking grumpy but approachable at the same time. Stiles has been around them long enough to see past the glares and hard eyes, knowing both of them have squishy, soft centres.
His bag is being opened, the zip loud and quick before it's left alone. He spins around in time to see Lydia handing Scott his car keys before she grabs Stiles by the wrist and proceeds to guide him to the back seat of her car. She pushes him in, like a troubled child, and shuts the door behind him.
Cora climbs in the back seat next to him, flashing him an apologetic smile that proves she has no part in Lydia's minor kidnapping.
Stiles is too exhausted to protest, and instead slumped back into the plush cushioning of Lydia's car seats, resting his head against the cool glass of the window and watches as Lydia peelsout of the car park.
The sidewalks and scenery flash past as Lydia drives, the entire view blurring as Stiles' tired eyes fail to focus on the fast moving trees and houses.
Before he knows it, the car has stopped and the car door is opening. Stiles jerks into complete awareness as he heads to the floor, weak arms barely reaching out to catch himself when a pair of strong hands grab him by shoulders, saving him from kissing the forest floor.
"Woah," someone says, and then Stiles is being pushed up so he's vertical. Jackson is suddenly there, eyes unnaturally concerned as he practically holds Stiles up.
"I'm fine," Stiles rushes out automaticallly. He blinks rapidly, trying to wake himself up. "I'm okay, I just. . ."
"Jesus, Stilinski," Jackson mutters, adjusting his grip on Stiles' arms, pulling him out of the car and to his feet. Stiles sways and wobbles, head spinning. He blinks back the black spots and steps out of Jacksons grip.
The pack house is already full when they get in, everyone gathered on the couches and chairs. Derek, as per usual, is standing by the front room windows, back to the room like a melodramatic villain, looking over the front drive way.
"We're here!" Lydia announces, as if the opening door and enhanced hearing hadn't been enough to give it away.
Stiles stumbles in, feet uncoordinated underneath him as he makes a beeline for the couch. He drops down in the spot between Scott and the arm of the sofa. He slumps down, half bent over the cushioned arm with his knees drawn up and curled in on himself. He shivers, cold tremors suddenly racing up his spine despite the three sweatshirts he's got on.
The voices around him fade in and out of focus, occasionally becoming more and more distant as his eyes droop closed against his will. He tries to concentrate, he really does, but as soon as Erica puts the film in and everyone settles on the couches, Stiles is just too comfy and too damn tired to cling onto consciousness any longer.
*
Derek is worried, to put it simply. The film plays in the background of his focus as his eyes never leave the sleeping teen at the end of the sofa. The exhaustion rolls off the teen in thick, suffocating waves, so heavy it's like a physical weight on Derek's shoulders.
The movie had barely started before Derek sees Stiles' eyes droop closed from where he is draped and curled up in the corner of the couch, looking small and fragile in his oversized clothes and pale skin. He looks like he's lost weight, Derek realises. Skinny, emaciated and thin.
The heartbeat in the corner begins to slow, and Derek can't help but smile when he sees the supernatural members of the pack turn and see their sleeping back mate, and Erica even turns down the volume of the TV.
It's a few minutes later when someone speaks.
"I don't get it," Erica begins, eyes trained to the side and zeroed in on Stiles. "He looks ill, but he doesn't smell it."
"He's just tired," Scott says. "His insomnia might be back."
Lydia raises a thinly shaped and stares at the True Alpha blankly. "Scott, are you serious?"
Scott looks away from the TV that his eyes had been glued to. He meets Lydia's eyes, and a moment he tears them away to look at the boney ball next to him.
Derek see's Scott's shoulders slouch. "He won't tell me what's wrong. He says he's just tired."
"He's more than tired," Allison says, worrying her lower lip from where she's curled into Scott's side. "Do you think it could be something serious?"
"Stop worrying about it," Jackson cuts in. "He probably just hasn't been sleeping properly. He'll be back to his annoying, spastic self in a few days."
Derek wants to growl at the comment, but he deep down, he has a frail hope that Jackson is right.
Pack sleepovers are a tradition Derek doesn't mind. He knows he moans about them, broods when his pack is there and rarely actually sleeps down stairs with them, but he is incredibly grateful for his pack and their dynamics. Despite them not all being wolves, every single member has grown accustom to the way a wolf pack would work.
They all fell asleep in the living room, just as they had done all the nights before. Derek wakes up with a crick in his neck and a knee digging into his back. He turns enough to look over his shoulder and finds Isaac curled into a ball.
Sitting up, Derek looks over the still sleeping members of his pack. Lydia and Jackson are curled in the cuddle chair. Erica and Boyd are together on the floor, and Allison, Scott and Stiles have taken the other sofa.
When he stands up, Isaac shifts on the sofa, slapping his lips together before settling.
Derek goes into the kitchen, turning on the coffee machine and getting out enough mugs for everyone when they wake up. Derek has learnt that as soon as the smell of coffee lingers into the living room, the pack will wake up and demand the beverage like their lives depended on it. Lydia and Stiles are the worst, which is why they always get the big mugs.
The sound of a speeding heartbeat distracts Derek from pouring the coffee. He stills, and moments later there's footsteps in the kitchen.
"Morning," he says.
There's a grunt, and Derek instantly recognises it as Erica. He turns, finding her sitting at the dining table with Boyd at her side.
Within half an hour, the kitchen table is filled with pack members and the smell of cooking food drifts through the house. The only person missing, is Stiles.
"I'm surprised he's slept this long," Scott says. "Usually just a wift of coffee has him up and running."
"Stop worrying, McCall," Jackson replies.
"It's not unusual for teenagers to sleep in," Lydia adds. "He looks like he could use the sleep anyways."
"Well, sleep times over," Derek says, dishing up the food he'd been cooking. "Breakfast is done. Someone wake him."
"I will," Erica says, and the sound of retreating footsteps reach Derek's ears. He doesn't listen in on next door, but it takes longer than he expects for Stiles to come shuffling into the kitchen.
Derek watches Stiles intently, watching how the teen doesn't touch his food, but instead rests his cheek on his folded arms on the table.
"Stiles, buddy, you're bacon is going cold," Scott says around mouthful of food.
Stiles groans, the sound faint. "'m too tired."
"Dude, you slept all night," Scott replies, shaking his fork. Stiles doesn't look up, and Derek frowns intently.
"You should get some more sleep," Derek says. "You can sleep upstairs. It'll be more quiet."
Derek ignores the looks thrown this way by the pack and instead looks down at his empty plate. He gets up, putting his plate in the sink and finishing the last of his coffee.
"Mmm," Stiles hums. "That sound's like a nice idea."
Derek turns around from the sink to see Stiles lift his head, and if it were possible, Derek's sure his face has lost even more colour. He looks almost translucent, the only colour being his large eyes and purple, vibrant, sunken moons beneath them.
Jesus, the kid really does look like shit, he thinks. He looks so frail it makes Derek feel physically sick.
"Come on," he says, stepping away from the sink. Stiles nods faintly, clambering to his feet with wobbly legs. His movements are slow, eyes blinking rapidly as if overcome with a dizzy spell and shadowed vision. Derek watches him intently, taking in every lethargic jerk and tremor.
Stiles barely takes a step before his legs give out, knees buckling and dropping to the kitchen floor. Derek lurches forward before he can truly think about it, catching Stiles' head before it has a chance to hit the hard tiled floor.
There are screams and shouts around them, sharp squeaks of the chair legs scrapping against the wooden floor as the pack shot out of their seats, but Derek blocks them out. His every fragment of focus is on the unconscious teen on the ground.
"Stiles?" He says, patting the teens cheeks. "Wake up, Stiles. Come on, open your eyes."
His heartbeat is weak but steady, regular and beating. His body is limp, head rolling like a ball in the cup of Derek's palms.
"Stiles!" Scott shouts, coming to crouch beside Derek. "Stiles, wake up! Please."
Stiles doesn't respond, completely out of it on the floor.
"Derek, what's wrong with him?" Scott asks, frantic and loud in Derek's ear. "Derek! Answer me. What's—"
"I don't know!" Derek snarls. He sighs, eyes on the skinny kid beneath him. "I don't know." He whispers in defeat.
He shifts, taking one hand away from Stiles' head and moving around him so he could slip a arm under Stiles' knees. The hand cupping his head slid so it was supporting Stiles' neck before he lifted the teen off the ground completely, cradling him against his chest. He carries Stiles into the living room, placing him gently on the corner couch.
He runs a hand through Stiles hair, feeling the too-hot forehead and frowns.
"Lydia," Derek calls. "Come here."
The sound of padded feet against the floor sounds and the red head is at his side.
"Feel his forehead,"
Lydia does, and her eyebrows pinch inwards. "He has a fever," she says, and Derek nods - just what he thought.
"So he is sick?" Erica asks from behind them. Derek looks over his shoulder to see the entire pack gathered in the arch walkway into the living room, as if they're too wary to enter completely.
"A fever can be cause by a number of things," Lydia explains. "But infection is the most common. I thought you said he didn't smell sick?"
Derek shakes his head. "He doesn't. He just smells tired. . . anxious almost," Derek pauses, and then he looks around so fast half of the pack flinch. "Scott, call Deaton. Ask him if any of this looks familiar."
Scott nods and disappears into the kitchen, phone already going to his ear.
Derek turns back to Stiles, putting his hand on the hot, sweaty forehead again. A deep, rumbling fear of twisted anxiety blooms in the bottom of Derek's stomach. He doesn't like this, not one bit.
Scott comes back in a few minutes later. "Deaton won't be able to tell us anything unless he see's Stiles in person. He says to bring him to the office as soon as possible, and to wake Stiles up."
"Wake him up?" Isaac asks. "Surely that's the last thing we should do."
"Deaton said—"
"We'll take him to Deaton," Derek interrupts. "Anybody who wants to come, get dressed and be ready in five."
*
Stiles is sitting on the metal table, leaning heavily into Derek's side, head on his shoulder. They're so close Derek can feel the tremors that faintly run through Stiles like mini shocks.
Stiles had woken up on the way to Deaton's. He had been groggy and barely lucid, but at least he was conscious. Isaac had managed to keep him awake as Derek drove hazardously towards the Vet office on the other side of town. When they got there, Derek had dragged Stiles out of the car and carried him inside, Stiles too confused and out of it to complain about being carried like a bride.
Deaton is staring at Stiles as Lydia goes over his symptoms. There isn't much, but it sure as hell isnt normal. Derek knows little to nothing about human illness, but he knows this definitely isn't an ordinary sickness bug.
"Anything else?" Deaton asks.
"No," Lydia replies with a shake of her head. "His fever started this morning, and Scott phoned you as soon as we noticed."
"Okay," Deaton replies. "I can't be certain, and I will have to look more closely into it, but it seems that Mr Stilinski is being drained. Something is using his energy source for their own use, and from what I can assume, it only works when Stiles is asleep."
There's a beat of silence.
"Fan-fucking-tastic," Stiles mumbles.
Scott snorts, Isaac chuckles and the rest of the pack sigh. There's amusement, and also a tang of relief being shared. Stiles' humour is a good sign, not a cure, but something positive. A shot in the silver lining.
Derek shakes his head, a shy of a smile on his lips as he ducks his face from the rest of the pack.
"What are we meant to do?" Scott asks, getting back onto topic.
Deaton thins his lips. "The only way to catch something like this is for someone to kill the creature while Stiles is sleeping."
"How the hell do we do that?"
"That is something I will need to look into, but until then, Stiles needs to stay awake until we figure out how to kill it."
"I can barely hold myself upright now," Stiles mumbles. "How the hell am I meant to stay awake for days on end?"
"I can have answers by the end of the week," Deaton offers, voice seeping with seriousness. "But, Stiles, you cannot go to sleep because if the creature drains too much, you could fall into a coma. It could kill you."
"Oh god," Lydia gasps under her breath. Derek closes his eyes and runs a hand down his face.
Stiles could die.
Something is killing him, sucking the fucking life out of him.
The very thought makes Derek want to scream, punch a wall and cry all at once. But most of all, he wants to wake up and find this is all a screwed up nightmare. He wants to open his eyes to the sun shining through the living room windows, to have his cheek pressed into the couch cushion and the slow hearts of his sleeping pack members around him.
But he can't, because this is real.
Stiles is dying.
"Looks like a trip to the store is in order," Stiles says, breaking Derek would of his spiralling thoughts. "I'm gonna need a shit ton of energy drinks."
*
Over the next few days, Stiles becomes increasingly tired. Exhaustion grips him in all of it's grasps, and Derek can see him slipping.
They spend the days on the sofa, Stiles stretched out or sitting up. Blankets cover him, engulfing him in a thick cocoon that makes him look like a burrito. Derek thinks he's adorable. Empty energy drink cans cover the floor along with packets of sugary sweets and snacks. Anything that could possibly give someone a wake-up-buzz, they got.
Stiles, as far as Derek is concerned, is doing well at staying awake. He can barely move, too tired to even make his own coffee, but he stays awake. His eyes droop against his will, but as soon as Derek jars him, his head will snap up and his eyes will open wide.
There was a single incident on the second night when Stiles accidentally dozed off when Derek was making food, and a few minutes later to hear Stiles snoring gently. Derek has never sprinted across the house so fast, screaming like someone had shot him in the foot.
They had managed to get through the entire box set of Lord Of The Rings and two seasons into Criminal Minds. Stiles was on the brink of a break down over the lack of Morgan and Reid love at the beginning of season 3 when Deaton phones, saying he has a solution and to get the Vet office as soon as possible.
The lull of the car is obviously more soothing for Stiles than Derek's couch as he continuously dozes off on the journey across town.
"Come on," Derek nudges him, turning off the car and climbing out. He rounds the car, opening the door and catching Stiles before his limp body drops out. "Stay awake, Stiles."
"Mmph," Stiles groans, hot puffs of air ghosting over Derek's neck. "This sucks."
"I know, but Deaton's gonna get it sorted," Derek replies. "Just stay awake a little bit longer."
Inside, the whole pack has gathered, coming straight from school. Derek gently sits Stiles down on the metal table, wrapping the blanket Isaac supplies around his shoulders to ease the exhausted shivering.
"How are you feeling, Stiles?" Deaton asks.
Stiles looks up through thick eyelashes and glares at the man. "Like I've been drained and forced to stay awake for ninety-six freaking hours!"
Deaton nods, as if in understanding. "Well, then you'll be pleased to hear I have a solution to this problem."
Stiles snorts. "Pleased is an understatement."
"Stiles," Scott sighs in warning, and the human's mouth clamps shut.
"The only way to cure Stiles, is for him to sleep on the Nemeton and psychologically sight off the hag draining him," Deaton explains.
Derek crosses his arms over his chest. "You said to stop it it would involve someone else fighting it off while Stiles slept."
"I did, because I didn't realise we were dealing with a hag. I was lead to believe we were dealing with a type of dark magic, but I was mistaken," Deaton replies. "We'll have to wait until tomorrow night before we can pursue the exorcism, because such a spiritual act has to happen on a full moon."
"Talk about timing," Stiles quips tiredly
Derek sighs, both at Stiles' comment and at the situation itself. He's tired, and rightfully so, as the past few days he has been staying up with Stiles as well. He can't even imagine how heavy and bone-deep tired Stiles must feel.
"So the Nemeton, on a full moon, is when Stiles can expel this thing?" Scott clarifies.
Deaton nods. "That is correct. Stiles, you need to understand this is going to be battle inside your mind. You're going to need to mentally exclude the hag while she is draining you. This is going to be more of a psychological fight than a physical fight."
"Alright," Stiles replies, and Derek doesn't know if it's only him who can hear the waving in his tone, the uncertainty.
He doesn't mention it, knowing Stiles is going through enough than to have Derek bring up his lack of confidence in Deaton's plans.
They head back to Derek's house soon after, and Stiles phones his dad to convince him to let him 'stay at Scott's' a little bit longer. They're lucky, in a grim way, that Stiles' dad works so much and the scenario of him being home often is a little to none.
*
"Did you know, that the weight of all ants on Earth is the equivalent to all the humans on Earth?"
Derek looks up from where he is washing the dishes, glancing over his shoulder at the teen sitting at the breakfast bar. "Why do you know that?"
"Because I'm a genius," Stiles replies instantly. "Did you know a pineapple is actually a bunch of berries fused together into a single mass?"
"I don't believe that," Derek says, turning off the tap and drying his hands on a towel. He turns around completely, standing on the other side of the breakfast bar as he leans on his palms. "Why are you saying all of this?"
"Because I looked up random, useless facts on Google," Stiles admits, scrolling through his phone. "Hey, did you know that if you cut off the head of a pineapple and plant it, you can grow a pineapple!"
"Why are you Googling useless facts?"
"Because I need to stay awake for another three hours and I've drank a lot of energy drinks in the last 20 minutes," Stiles says, finally looking up.
Derek swallows thickly, falling into the cinnamon pools of Stiles' large, bambi eyes.
"It's only a few more hours," Derek replies. "Then all of this will be over."
Stiles nods, pressing his lips together and looking back down at his phone. "I know. Still sucks."
Derek huffs a laugh. "Yeah, it does."
The kitchen falls into silence, the rest of the house completely empty apart from Stiles and Derek, who haven't actually left the house since Deaton's the day before. The pack were at school, covering for Stiles and picking up his catch-up work.
"Did you know that mageriocophia is the fear of cooking?" Stiles says, breaking the silence.
Derek smiles slightly, shaking his head. "Is that your way of saying you don't want to cook tonight?"
"Please, Derek. I haven't cooked any nights," Stiles snorts. "More coffee would be nice though."
Derek nods. "One more cup, and you're going to combust."
Stiles snorts again. "So dramatic."
Derek, reluctantly, makes Stiles another mug of steaming, black coffee to keep him awake. He's done well so far, staying awake for a total of five days since they first saw Deaton. Derek's shocked he's managed this far.
Stiles looks like shit, none the less, but that only makes Derek more soft towards him, more attracted and gentle. He places the mug in front of the teen, who puts down his phone and picks up the steaming cup, drinking it immediately. Derek winces.
"It's fresh, dumb ass," he scolds, rolling his eyes. "Stop or you'll burn yourself."
Stiles rips the rim of the mug away from his lips long enough to mutter, "lay off, I'm desperate!" before he drinks more.
The mug is empty in minutes.
"Can you help me to the couch, please?" Stiles asks.
Derek nods, but Stiles is already standing up. He's upright for a moment before his wobbly legs are giving out and Derek is diving across the room, catching him by the hips.
Stiles lets out a small gasp, eyes wide as if he wasn't expecting to collapse so quickly. His bow-lips are shaped into a small 'o' as he blinks rapidly, eyes eventually snapping up towards Derek's.
There was a split second of silence, their eyes staring into each other's with such intensity it was almost blinding. The world stops spinning, freezing on it's axis. The spotlight shines down on them, bright and illuminating and hypnotising.
Derek is moving forward before he could stop himself. His lips meet Stiles' like a burst of sound, abrupt and shaking. He hears Stiles hum as his lips move back, returning the kiss. Hands grab Derek's cheeks, pinkies hooking under his jaw to pull him closer. He complies, lost in the passionate moment.
Stiles tastes of coffee and sugar, bitter and sweet, hot and cold. The contrast is torture, sending waves of need and arousal down Derek's spine, pooling in his stomach. He pulls Stiles up, eventually lifting him completely and seating him on the breakfast bar. He slots between the teens legs, never once letting go of his hips or disconnecting their lips.
Stiles opens his mouth with his tongue and Derek doesn't wait to deepen the kiss. Stiles moans into his mouth, and the sound goes straight to Derek's cock. He tightens his grip on Stiles' waist, the bones beneath his fingers pronounced and sharp but none the less beautiful.
Stiles is breathless when he pulls away, eyes shut. He doesn't open them, or move away as he rests his forehead against Derek's clammy skin against his own and he pants.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that," Stiles breaths, his voice cracks when he speaks.
Derek can't stop the smile growing on his face, relief flooding his system. "I'm glad you feel the same way."
Stiles laughs, soft and gentle, like a bubble before he's connecting their lips again. It's like their first kiss again, over flowing with need and ecstasy. Derek's cock aches in his pants that suddenly feel far too tight.
He grabs Stiles by his ass, his legs hooking around his waist as Derek lifts him. Their crotches are pressed together and Stiles gasps into his mouth.
Derek carries them to the couch on autopilot, his lips locked with Stiles', moving in sync like they'd done this hundreds of times before.
Stiles lays on his back, pulling Derek down with him. Stiles' hips roll up, grinding against Derek's erection, punching the breath out of his throat. His lungs constrict and he pulls back, taking a quick breath before he kisses Stiles' jawline, pressing light and peppery kisses down his throat. He stops at his collar bone, sucking a spot onto the high bone there. Stiles breaths heavily beneath him, chest rising and falling quickly.
"D-Derek," he pants. "I. . . uh— Derek, st. . .st-stop—"
As soon as Stiles says the last word, Derek reacts. He rips away from the teen below him as if he's been burned.
"Stiles, I'm—"
"No!" Stiles yelps, sitting up with Derek as he climbs off. "I didn't mean it like that. I just. . . we can't go any further."
"We. . . what?" Derek stammers. He raises an eyebrow, heart hammering with fear inside his chest.
He thought. . .
"I'm too tired right now," Stiles says. "I didn't mean stop because I wanted you to stop, or because I was scared or regretted it or any of the ridiculous scenarios you're coming up with in your head," Stiles lists as he shuffles closer on the couch, meeting Derek at the end he'd retreated to. "I'm just too tired to go any further right now. I'm falling asleep as it is, and if you even touch my dick, I'm going to be far too exhausted to stay awake."
"So you don't. . . you didn't. . ." Derek sighs deeply, closing his eyes. Shit. He really thought the worst. He thought Stiles hated him, regretted his decision. He thought he was going to be left again, abandoned and feared—
A gentle kiss on his cheek snaps him out of his thoughts. He doesn't open his eyes as the ghosting of a hot breath flutters over his skin. Another kiss to his cheek, to his eyebrows, his nose, his jaw.
"I don't regret a thing, Derek," Stiles whispers, voice as light and delicate as a floating feather. Another kiss presses into his jaw, sucking for a second. "And as soon as this cluster-fuck of a situation is over, I am going to go down on you so hard."
Derek doesn't even realise what is happening until the zip to his trousers is being undone and a hand is wrapping around his cock.
He gasps, breath hitching as Stiles begins to pump, thin fingers like silk. Stiles keeps whispering in his ear, breath hot and occasionally biting at the lobe.
"S-Stiles," Derek gasps. He throws his head back, eyes rolling as Stiles jacks up and down his length rhythmically. "Stiles, I. . ."
"Do it," he whispers into his ear, moments before he runs the stretch of his tongue along Derek's jaw. His lips hover over Derek's as he murmurs, "Come for me, Der."
It's the push over the edge, the final tip of the iceberg. He comes with a shout, spurting strips of white onto his and Stiles' stomachs. He's panting, coming down from his high when Stiles kisses the corner of his mouth teasingly. He connects their lips again, the kiss soft and tender.
"That was so hot," Stiles whispers, stomping down on Derek's selfconscious thoughts about him acting like a teenager again.
"I wish I could make you feel that good," Derek replies. "I wish I could take care of you like that."
"You can. When this is all over," Stiles replies, pulling back and smiling. Derek's heart swoons. "I don't think I have the energy to get off right now."
Derek smiles, blissfully relaxed and content with Stiles sitting in his lap, smiling with swollen lips. Despite his pale complexion, there's a glowing cherry red in his cheeks now and a glint to his eye that hasn't been there in weeks. He looks alive, happy and beautiful.
*
The night they went to the Nemeton will stay with Stiles forever.
He sags boneless in Derek's arms as he's carried through the Preserve, too tired and weak to hold shape. The gentle swaying of Derek's walking is soothing and nice, almost making Stiles fall asleep in his arms.
"Stiles?"
He hums in reply, too dozy to speak. He doesn't realise he's closed his eyes until Derek tells him to open them. It takes him a long moment to muster the strength to crack them open, feel as though they're glued shut with super glue.
"You need to stay awake," he says, and Stiles wants to groan because it feels like that's all he's said for the past week! "We're almost there now. I promise."
Stiles hums again, eyes slipping shut. He can't keep them open, despite how much he wants to look at Derek's face, to see the sharp curve of his jawline, stubbled with a five o'clock shadow that suits him more then freshly shaven. He wants to look up at the dark eyelashes that shape his emerald eyes, so captivating and pretty. But he can't. He's so tired.
"Stiles, we're here," Derek says above him, and a moment later, he's being laid down on something hard and rough, a completely negative contrast from Derek's arms. He feels his head roll as Derek's arm slips out from under his neck, leaving him cold and lonely.
He opens his eyes, almost relived to find that Derek is kneeling beside whatever he's laying on, and moments later Stiles recognises it as the tree trunk of the Nemeton.
"You can sleep now, Stiles," Derek murmurs, running a hand through his sweaty locks, the action making Stiles' eyes flutter shut. "But you need to fight. You need to come back to me, Stiles. Please, come back to me."
Stiles clings on to the last five words before everything fades out, swallowed up by a darkness he can't escape. For a long moment, Stiles is alone. It's silent. Derek, Scott, the pack, they're all gone.
And then he finds the strength to open his eyes.
He's in his childhood home. The room is glowing softly from the lightbulbs in the lamps. It's just as it was when he was a child: the yellow couch sits in the centre of the room, the same one they'd thrown away a year before his mother died, and her old reading chair sits in the corner, whereas now, it's upstairs on the landing. Stiles frowns, sounds and smells finally coming back to him.
He smells his mother fresh cookies, and the sound of a piano playing. He spins around, standing in the centre of the room, to see his mother sitting at the piano in the corner. The grand, large musical instrument was his mother pride and joy before she got ill and sold it out of spite. She's playing a soft song, humming as she goes, completely oblivious to Stiles standing there.
It's not another minute before she trails off and turns to him.
She looks just like she did years before she got ill. Her skin is the glossy natural pale, like a fresh pearl. Her brown eyes are big and wide, her smile wide and splitting on her face. Her moles, just like Stiles', stand out against the ivory of her skin.
"Come here," she says, waving him over. Her voice is the same too, gentle and kind and warm.
He complies, his legs moving on their own accord so that he's sitting on the stool next to her.
"I'm sure you remember this one," she smiles, before she's looking down at the piano and beginning to play.
Stiles does remember it. It's a melody they made up together, soft and smooth and sweet. His mother plays the song just as she did before, her nimble, thin fingers caressing the keys gently as she edges them down for a delicate sound.
Stiles lifts his hand up about half way through, pressing his fingers to the keys. He doesn't know how he remembers this, but his fingers move without thought, playing the song they'd written all those years ago.
Stiles finds himself smiling, laughing softly with the tune.
His mother looks at him when they finish, eyes so big and round with love, warm and home.
She cups Stiles cheek, stroking the skin beneath her warm fingers.
"My little boy," she says.
Something cracks in the settling. For a moment, Stiles doesn't notice it. But then, the lamps are dimming, the soft glow beginning to flicker. Light bulbs explode, fusing out with small pops and cracks. The room turns cold, the wallpaper peals and the windows frost over.
His mother changes. Her skin wrinkles and pales, becoming ashes and white. Her eyes darken, losing their light and their warmth. Her smile drops to a snarling frown. The hand on his cheek turns cold.
"You killed me, Stiles," she snarls.
Stiles feels tears well in his eyes. "No," he whispers.
His mothers hand is gone for a second before its coming back, slapping him across the cheek with a horrific 'whack!'
The blow knocks him and he tumbles off the stool to the floor. His mother rises to her feet as he scurries back on his hands and feet, cheek burning and breaths quickening.
Just as his mother is standing over him, the room dark and dim and haunting, the world folds like an envelope and he finds himself standing in a graveyard, looking over a casket half-buried in the ground.
He looks around, out of breath. His father stands on the other side of the open grave, in a black suit and a half-drunk bottle of Jack in his hand. When he looks up, Stiles' heart stops.
His blood-shot eyes glare so harshly at Stiles it's like he can feel it.
"You killed your mother," he growls.
Stiles shakes his head. No, not again. He wraps his arms around his torso, shaking.
"It's all your fault!" His father roars. "You killed your mother! And now, you're killing ME!"
He's throwing the bottle, launching it towards his head. Stiles ducks, dropping to the floor in a ball, curling in on himself and shielding his head with his hands. The bottle shatters right above him, as if hitting a wall that isn't there. Glass rains down on him in sharp, small shards.
He shakes and whimpers, but nothing else happens. He opens his eyes, and he's no longer in the graveyard, he's somewhere new.
He rises, looking around at the thick forest surrounding him. It's dark, the full moon hanging over his head like a large lightbulb. There's a crack of a stick behind him and he turns around.
Scott steps out from behind a tree, and Stiles almost sags in relief.
"Scott—" he says, but he's cut off abruptly.
"Shut up," Scott snaps.
Stiles frowns. "Scott? What—"
"I said shut up. God, do you ever stop being annoying?"
"I—"
"Ignore him, Scott," Lydia steps out. "He's like a rodent. If you ignore him for long enough, he'll go away on his own."
"L-Lydia—"
The girl rolls her eyes aggressively. "Jesus, Stiles. No wonder Derek doesn't love you back. You really need to get over your hopeless crush, it's pathetic."
Stiles shakes his head. No. Derek loves him. They've kissed, they've—
"N-no," he stammers.
"Still whining about being a pathetic human, Stilinski?" Jackson and Isaac come into view from behind him, he spins, feeling dizzy and light-headed.
"You're so useless," Isaac adds. "I don't know why you even hang around with us. You're not even pack."
Stiles feels a bolt of pain shoot through his chest and he stumbles backwards. He hits something and he spins around.
Derek growls at him and Stiles takes a step back.
"Derek—"
"For the last time, you're not pack," Derek snarls. "Stay away from us. You're not welcome."
Derek walks past him, and Stiles turns, watching him go.
"No," he whispers. "Please—"
"Pestering everyone again, Stiles?" His fathers voice rings in his ears and he turns in time to see his father walking out from the shadows. "When are you going to grow up?"
Stiles can't get a word out before his father is going on.
"You've always been such a disappointment, Stiles. Always getting in the way. Always getting into trouble. When are you going to learn to just shut the hell up?"
"I—"
The voices get louder. There's more. He hears his teachers, his mother, his father. They're all screaming and shouting in every direction. He's spinning, they're all coming closer, crowding him, breathing down his neck from every angle as they shout and snarl at him, chipping at him bit by bit. He turns again when he feels a clawed hand grab him by the shoulder, claws digging into his flesh. He opens his mouth to yelp, and suddenly his mouth is full of water.
He opens his eyes, feeling weightless. He chokes on the water he's submerged in. He flails, the water heavy around him. He closes his mouth, lungs burning from the water he just swallowed. His eyes burn but he refuses to close them as he looks up. The water around him is dark, and he doesn't realise how deep he is until he see's the light glistening on the moving waters surface far above his head.
He kicks his legs as he starts to swim up, clawing at the water in desperation to reach the top. His lungs burn, his throat closes up. His head feels huge, his eyes stinging and everything spins.
It takes him a moment to realise he's not moving. The top of the water stays as far away as before. He kicks harder, desperate now. He becomes sluggish, vision dotting black.
He feels weak and chained down. He begins to sink, limbs refusing to work.
So, if you're drowning and you're trying to keep your mouth closed until that very last moment. But if you choose to not open your mouth, to not let the water in.
You do it anyway. It's a reflex.
He keeps his mouth closed.
But if you hold off until that reflex kicks in. You have more time, right?
Not much time.
But more time to fight your way to the surface.
He can't. He's too tired.
More time to be rescued.
No ones coming.
More time to be in agonising pain. Did you forget about the part where you feel like your head's exploding?
Just when he's about to open his mouth to breath, to swallow the water, he hears something else.
"Fight it,"
His head hurts. The two words bounce around in it harder, faster, louder.
It's Derek, he recognises.
"Keep fighting, Stiles,"
He can't. He wants to scream that he can't!
If it's about survival, isn't a little agony worth it?
"Come on, Stiles. Fight it! Fight for me!"
Stiles opens his eyes, looking up and willing his limbs to start moving again. He kicks and jabs and claws, swimming and swimming and swimming. He closes his eyes, doesn't want to see if the surface isn't getting closer.
He breaks through, gasping for breath and choking. He coughs up water, chest burning.
Suddenly, the water is gone. He's standing in a corridor, except his legs are weak underneath him and he crumples, still hacking and coughing, gasping for breath. His vision blurs with tears and the world spins as he forces himself to stand up on shaky legs. He blinks rapidly, a rhythmic throbbing making itself known behind his eyes.
When the world stops spinning and the dancing black spots leave his eyesight, Stiles finds himself standing in a long, narrow corridor. There are no doors on either side of the white walls, only one at the end, bright blue and small in the distance.
He's still out of breath when he starts walking, but Stiles doesn't have time to rest now. He's tired and cold, he wants to go home.
He stumbles down the corridor, hands on the walls to keep him up right. His head rings and the world spins, but he doesn't break his pace.
His mother appears at the end.
"Stiles," she says, but Stiles can see the cracks. He closes his eyes, clenches them shut and opens them again.
His mother flickers, like a static hologram. Stuttering into a short, haggard form, before returning to his mother.
"You're not real," he mumbles.
"Stiles, don't be like that, love," his mother - no, the hag - goes on to say.
Stiles shakes his head, walking steadier. "You're not my mother! You're not real!" He shouts.
His mothers smile drops to a frown, baring her sharp teeth, razor sharp and thin.
The hallway shakes, throwing Stiles off balance as he stumbles to his knees. It darkens, the white walls cracking and the ceiling above him beginning to split, small crumbs and flakes of plaster raining down on him. When Stiles looks back at the door as the world stops shaking, his father is standing there instead.
"You're going to be the death of me, son," he says as Stiles climbs to his feet.
"No," Stiles snaps, continuing to walk on. He's over half way there. The floor, previously clean, flat wooden planks, are now dirty, covered in leaves and sticks, the wood curled up or broken.
"You're a disappointment, an embarrassment. I wish you were never born,"
"You're not real," Stiles says. "You're not REAL!"
His father snarls at him with sharp teeth, eyes bleeding black as it flickers to the haggard, hunched form again. The corridor jerks and shakes throwing Stiles to the floor as it darkens even more, the walls crumbling.
He stumbles to his feet again, legs trembling and knees weak. He's shaking, hands trembling as they cling to the walls for balance.
Derek stands at the door, straight and arms crossed over his chest. He's looking at Stiles like he used to, dull and aggressively.
It's not Derek, Stiles reminds himself. None of this is real.
He walks on.
Derek throws verbal abuse like the others. Calling him a coward, a rodent, a worthless piece of shit. As Stiles gets closer, the words hit him like sharp rocks, causing physical pain, but he doesn't stop. He can't. He has to fight this, he has to push the hag out, for Derek.
"Stop it!" Stiles shouts as he gets closer. "You're not Derek!"
Derek meets him the last few steps, but before Stiles can react, he's plunging his claws deep into Stiles' chest.
The teen gasps as pain explodes in his chest like a firework. His breath comes out in a strained wheeze as he looks up from his already blood-soaked shirt to Derek, who's looking down at him with black eyes.
"Y-you're not r-r-real," Stiles croaks.
Derek rips his claws from Stiles' chest and he cries out.
Derek's appearance flickers, glitching like a loose cable. The hag's appearance sticks longer and suddenly it lets out a piercing shriek, loud and long and high.
Stiles grimaces, but he's too weak to his hands from where they're pressed against his bleeding chest, drenched in warm blood.
The floor suddenly gives out from underneath him and he doesn't even have the energy to gasp as he falls, and falls, and falls.
It's never ending, until suddenly he's jerking upright, his body seizing. His eyes snap open and the first thing he see's is a black cloud above his face. He gasps, breath caught in his throat. He grabs at his chest, seeking the blood and wounds there, but there's nothing. His shirt isn't torn, his skin is clear. There's no pain, just a throbbing dizziness behind his eyes.
The darkness above him fades away, and suddenly, Derek's face is there, looking down on him with concern and worry.
"Stiles?" He asks, cupping both his cheeks. His hands are warm, gentle against his cold, chilled skin.
"Is it over?" Stiles replies, voice cracking.
Derek smiles, and oh god, that is such a beautiful smile. Stiles feel his heart race just from the sight of it.
"It's over, Stiles," Derek says. "You did it."
Stiles soars up, connecting his lips to Derek in a desperate, deprived kiss. He feels the love of it roll down his spine, tingling and dizzying.
"Take me home," Stiles whispers against his lips.
And Derek does.
— the end.