Chapter Text
Stiles’ mind came back to him before his body did. He felt himself drift back into consciousness, but he could not open his eyes. He felt trapped, but there was no pain when there was no body, so he allowed himself to settle into it, relaxing his mind in his prison of a body. It took him some time - or no time at all; it was difficult to discern - to realize he could still hear. He listened with half a mind, still drifting inside his own head tiredly as he did so.
“What the hell’s happened to him?” he could hear his father ask. Stiles wanted to turn his head, to open his eyes, to reach out and tell his father that everything would be okay. He found that the prison that his body had become was beginning to weigh on him like steel. He struggled, even as he listened.
“We’re not completely sure,” Peter answered hesitantly. There was a shuffling, then an intake of breath.
“It’s not bad enough you brought me here and showed me this,” and here the Sheriff paused, and Stiles wondered vaguely what he was talking about, “but you have no idea what’s wrong with my son? Cut the shit.”
“Sheriff-” Derek’s voice began, but the Sheriff’s cut it off again.
“No, Hale, I said cut the shit. You know what’s going on. Tell me.” The Sheriff sounded angry. Stiles fought harder. “I can see it in your face.”
“Stiles is a werewolf now, too,” Scott finally answered. There was a strong exhale, then someone sat down heavily on the bed Stiles was laying in. Stiles thought it safe to assume this person was his father. “But... Derek said this isn’t what it would be like if he had rejected it.”
“So what is this like?” the Sheriff asked. Stiles recognized his tone of voice; he was losing his patience. Stiles could empathize.
“This is like his body is trying to handle a lot at once,” Peter spoke up again.
“You remember, in Star Trek, Vulcans go into a healing trance kind of thing?” Scott offered. The Sheriff shifted.
“Where’d you pull that out of?” the Sheriff asked gruffly. Scott almost laughed.
“Stiles used it to explain what Derek was doing once,” Scott explained. The Sheriff did laugh, once; it was dry and unfortunate. Stiles pushed.
“So, you’ve done this before?” the Sheriff asked someone else. Stiles wanted to open his eyes and see how his father looked.
“Not like this,” Derek answered softly. Stiles could almost feel the eyes on him, burning his skin. My skin is burning. Derek-
“What’s he doing?” Lydia’s voice now, high and panicked. The weight shifted off the bed; Stiles struggled to figure out exactly what it was he was doing - or, rather, his body was doing while he had to take a backseat. He burned in silence in his own mind.
“Hold his head, Scott- right, there, and Derek, his arms- there.” Peter gave sharp instructions, Stiles noted absently. Maybe he’s not so bad.
“What is going on?” Now Deaton’s voice was added to the mix, deep and calming, and Stiles settled in his own mind immediately, even as he felt the lick of flames against skin stretched too tightly over a body he had no control over.
“Stiles got the bite,” Peter informed him steadily. Stiles struggled inside his own mind, but he felt shackled. He attacked.
“You’ve got to hold him down better than that, boys,” Deaton instructed. Stiles felt a touch that was almost cool, and it was like a key in his ignition; his mind jumped and fought against it immediately.
“Why the hell did you bring me here?” And there was Chris Argent, his voice angry. Stiles felt the strongest urge to kill, and either Chris Argent was going to take it or Stiles was. “What is he doing?”
“Scott, hold him,” Deaton said. Stiles felt a forced calm sweep through his mind, but the fake feeling it left behind was full of rage. Stiles’ eyes snapped open, and all the feeling came rushing back into his body, flooding from his mind, into his chest, out into his extremities. He inhaled sharply; his back arched off the bed, and Stiles heard himself snarl. His skin was still on fire.
Stiles recognized the instinct at once, and he released his body, letting it go limp against the bed. He stared up into Deaton’s face.
“Kill me,” Stiles whispered. Deaton’s forehead creased.
“I’m not going to kill you, Stiles. I’m here to help you.” Stiles was shaking his head against the mattress before Deaton had even finished speaking.
“You have to kill me before I kill someone,” Stiles told him, searching Deaton’s face for any sign that he understood. His eyes were the only part of him that he felt safe moving, so, when he found no give in Deaton’s expression, he let his eyes drift until they found Peter’s face. Peter. Yes. “Peter.”
“Stiles.” Peter regarded him coolly. Stiles itched.
“Kill me, Peter.” Stiles let his head drop back, groaning through his own clenched teeth. Scott’s grip tightened. “Peter.”
“He may have a point,” Peter offered. Stiles wanted to laugh.
“You’re not killing him,” the Sheriff ground out. Stiles turned his head to the side, seeking out his father. When he found him, he wanted nothing more than to go back and save his father from all of this.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, his voice breaking. He could feel his eyes grow wet, but he could not cry; his eyes lit on fire, and he forced them shut. “Dad, I’m sorry, I have to-”
“Not you, too,” the Sheriff interrupted. “I won’t let them. I promise.”
“Dad-”
“Stiles.” Stiles let his dad’s voice, sure and strong, wash over him. He swallowed, focused on the ceiling, and forced his body into a calm state, even if he only had to hold it for a moment.
“I’ve read,” Stiles began, still staring straight up, “that some people who get the bite can’t handle it, that they go insane-”
“Stiles-”
“No, Derek, let me finish,” Stiles insisted, his eyes locked on a crack in the ceiling. “They go insane, you see. I read about them. They’re too... Something about them is too much.”
“Hey,” Lydia’s voice was soft, gentle, everything that Stiles was feeling the opposite of at the moment. He allowed his head to fall to the side, and he met Lydia’s eyes. “Hey, Stiles.”
“Hey,” Stiles forced out. Lydia reached out and ran a hand through his hair. Everyone in the room stilled, but Stiles just kept staring at her. Lydia continued running her fingers through his hair.
“Hey,” Lydia repeated, her voice level. Stiles allowed it to center him. “You’re too much in general, did you know that?”
“Kind of,” Stiles answered, and Lydia snorted, her eyes drifting up to watch her hand slide through his hair, over and over again, never missing a beat. His heartbeat seemed to fall into sync with it.
“'Kind of'. You know you are.” Lydia made a soft humming noise. “You remember what Jackson was?”
“Jackson was d-”
“He was not a very nice guy, so he became a not-very-nice thing,” Lydia continued, as though Stiles had not even spoken. “You’re a very nice guy. Probably the nicest guy I know.”
“But I-”
“And I know that you can do this.” Lydia’s hand stilled, gripping the hair at the back of his neck very lightly. His eyes skimmed across her face before coming up to her eyes just as she looked down into his. He felt trapped again, but this was an anchor, not a shackle. “And do you know how I know this?”
“How?” Stiles asked. Lydia smiled at him.
“Because, Przemysław, you’re you,” Lydia said softly. Stiles blinked once, then twice.
“How did you-” Stiles began, but, this time, his father cut him off.
“How’d you know his name?” the Sheriff demanded. Lydia waved him off, never taking her eyes off of Stiles.
“I know a lot more than people think I do,” Lydia stage-whispered. Stiles blinked again. “Well, people except for you. You always kind of knew, didn’t you? You know what I’m really like.”
“Yeah,” Stiles agreed breathlessly. Lydia nodded and leaned forward, her lips right next to his ear.
“You’re going to be the greatest,” Lydia whispered, her voice so soft that Stiles could barely pick it up, never mind there being a chance in hell that anyone else heard her. She kissed Stiles’ cheek, then pulled away, releasing his head as she stood. She waved Scott and Deaton away, then motioned Derek forward. “He’s going to take care of you.”
“Thank you,” Stiles murmured, his voice low. Lydia’s hand ghosted across his forehead for the briefest of moments; his eyes fluttered shut, then reopened when the phantom touch was gone. She smiled again.
“Thank you,” Lydia replied. The Lydia Stiles knew snapped back into action in a second, waving a hand in front of Isaac’s face. “Stop staring, Lahey. You look like a drooling dog.”
Stiles ignored Isaac’s protests and Scott’s strained laughter as Derek crouched beside him. Stiles bit his lip, more out of giving himself a method of stalling than anything else.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles offered eventually. Derek shook his head.
“Guess where Erica is.” Derek was about as subtle as a brick in the face, but Stiles appreciated that. He played along.
“Where’s Erica?” Stiles asked tiredly. Derek very nearly smiled.
“With my sister,” Derek informed him. Stiles felt much more awake.
“With... your sister,” Stiles repeated slowly. Derek nodded once. Stiles shut his eyes and reached up to rub at his temples. “Laura?”
“No,” Derek said softly. “No, not Laura. Cora.”
“Laura, Cora, and Derek?” Stiles asked, and Derek almost laughed that time.
“Yeah, Laura, Cora, and Derek.” Derek paused for a moment. “There were a bunch of us. My mom, her name was Talia, and my dad, George. Then there was Peter, he lived with us. And me, Laura, and Cora, but I had other siblings, too.” Derek paused here again, taking a deep breath through his nose, then out his mouth. Stiles opened his eyes to watch him. “Besides the three of us, there was Sam, Lee, Aidan, Henry, Jenna, Natalie, and Marion.”
“Shit, man.” Stiles rubbed at one of his eyes. “Your parents weren’t fucking around. Ten kids, Jesus.”
“At least none of them were named Przemysław,” Derek snorted. Stiles frowned at him.
“You are never to speak that name again,” Stiles growled. Derek’s lips twitched.
“Understood,” Derek agreed, shifting until he was sitting on the floor beside Stiles’ bed. “Well, you see, werewolf families - I mean, they’re pretty big. Laura and I weren’t the oldest. Sam was the oldest, he was twenty-five. Then Jenna, she was twenty-three, then Lee was twenty. Laura was eighteen. I was fifteen. Aidan was twelve, and he was home sick that day. Cora was nine, and she whined until Dad let her stay home, too. Henry... was seven, and he never went anywhere Aidan didn’t go. Natalie was three, and Marion was four months old.” Derek scratched at his hairline to give his hands something to do. “Families stay together until they make their own families. Sam wasn’t even dating anyone yet. We were all still at home.” Derek looked down at his hands in his lap. “It was my fault. My family- I was fifteen, and I’m the reason nine of my family members are dead. Well, ten, now, since Laura died. And- eleven. Peter’s not who he was. He was dead for a while, anyways.”
“Derek,” Stiles sighed. “I just- Why? Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re my mate now,” Derek said quietly. “Because you’re going to help me build my new pack. Because I can trust you.”
“My mom died,” Stiles began softly. Derek lifted his head and tipped it to the side, very slightly. “When I was little, she got sick. And my dad would go there every day, and he’d usually take me, too, but when it was really bad, he left me at the station.” Stiles looked down at a loose thread in the bed sheet underneath him; he could not bring himself to meet Derek’s eyes. “And I knew, on those days-” and here, Stiles’ voice cracked- “that she wasn’t going to get better. One of the station days, my dad came back early, and he took me to the hospital. You should’ve seen my mom, she was always... She was the prettiest person I knew, Derek, you would’ve loved her.” Stiles paused to shut his eyes and take a deep, wavering breath. “She was so white, though. She had had skin like mine, she always had, so it looked wrong. And I knew.” Stiles paused to make sure his voice wouldn’t give out. He sat up against the headboard to center himself, and to give himself a moment. “I knew, that was it. She looked at me, and she smiled, and we both knew. My dad knew, too. It was- I don’t know. Thick. The air was thick. And my dad shut the door behind us, and he sat me up on the bed next to her. And she hugged me, and told me to sleep, so I told her I loved her and I shut my eyes, but I didn’t sleep. I didn’t sleep for a week after she died.” Stiles shook his head and looked down at his lap. “After that, my dad- I knew it was different. She was his everything. I thought it was my fault.” Stiles drew his knees up, pressed his hands to his face. “He had to raise me alone, and I was such a piece of shit. I wasn’t worth her. It was my fault- I killed my mother. I almost killed my father. He’s still stuck with me, this hyperactive little bastard who ruined his life, who’s the reason his wife is dead, my mom-”
“Stiles,” Derek interrupted, standing up only to sit down on the edge of the bed and tug Stiles closer. Stiles went, his body limp as he did, and allowed Derek to hold him up.
“I’m so sorry,” Stiles whispered against Derek’s shoulder. Derek shook his head and looked up at the Sheriff, who had one hand pressed against his eyes and Allison’s hand on his shoulder.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Derek assured him, keeping his voice low. Stiles took a shuddering breath and tried to ignore how Derek’s shirt was growing damp under his face.
“It’s not your fault,” Stiles mumbled. Derek’s hand came up to press against the back of Stiles’ head, offering a vague sense of security.
“It’s not yours, either,” Derek promised. Stiles hiccupped, and the Sheriff shifted over, laying a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles lifted his head and turned to see who it was, even though he knew - he could recognize his father’s touch anywhere.
“I never blamed you,” his father said softly. Stiles shook his head and looked down; the Sheriff grabbed Stiles’ chin and forced him to make eye contact. “I love you. You’re my son.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Stiles choked out, switching abruptly from Derek’s hold to his father’s. Derek chose not to move, Stiles’ legs still twisted up in his lap even as his upper body was pressed against his father’s. The Sheriff allowed Stiles to bury his face in his father’s neck; he kissed his son’s temple.
“Derek was telling me,” the Sheriff began, his voice shaky but loud, and Stiles used it to ground him, keeping his mind there and then, caught in the present and the present only, “that you’re a... werewolf, now.”
“Yeah,” Stiles confirmed, keeping his eyes down as he drew back.
“Your mom would’ve laughed and said something like, ‘You know, it figures he’d have to be so different,’” the Sheriff offered. Stiles lifted his head. “Something like that.”
“Yeah?” Stiles almost smiled. The Sheriff pat the side of his head and smiled for him.
“Yeah,” he agreed. Stiles let out a long, shaky breath of air, then ran his hand through his hair.
“Think it’ll be alright?” Stiles asked, twisting around to look at Derek. Derek nodded, and Deaton came over then, sensing that he was allowed closer now. Scott shifted and laid a hand on Stiles’ shoulder.
“It’ll be alright,” Derek promised. He gripped Stiles’ hand tightly in his own for a moment before releasing him and standing. The Sheriff followed suit, and Scott bent down to whisper “We can talk later, if you want,” in Stiles’ ear before he, too, let him go. Deaton maneuvered him until he was laying down, then dragged up his terrifying medical bag.
“Let’s make sure you’re fit for duty,” Deaton suggested as he opened his bag and began rummaging around inside of it. Stiles scrubbed the heels of his hands across his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Alright,” Stiles agreed, his hands falling to his sides. “Let’s do that.”