Work Text:
There’s a priest.
A fucking fanatical.
Really it was only a matter of time.
For about a month now a seemingly random succession of murders has been sporadically making its way down the country. The legal system hasn’t picked up on the pattern yet but then again, how could they? Supernatural shenanigans are kept on the down low and the law hasn’t exactly been notified of their existence. But Stiles, well Stiles has been raised with a practiced awareness for patterns and has spent an extensive amount of time honing this skill until he knows he’s as good as any professional. Not admitting it to be big-headed, just realistic and proud. Besides, he’d been dumped into the middle of his very own supernatural drama almost three years ago so had that extra nugget of information that allowed him to connect the dots.
The worry is that the pattern seems to be leading the murderer right to the heart of Beacon Hills. And they should be arriving any day. And all the victims have been of a supernatural origin as far as Stiles can tell. And, well, most of Stiles’ friends suffer from such afflictions.
He tries to tell them. He’s been telling them for the past two weeks and three attacks. They say he should chill out; he’s being paranoid.
Luckily he makes them swear to be prepared just in case.
Hello there once again just in case.
It takes two days for the pack to sense malicious intent inside the town. Deaton has been helping them hone that particular sense and has taught the humans of the pack a little thing or two about reading his wards.
The murderer has hit home.
Isaac turns up at Scott’s fifty-seven hours later bloodied and beaten and bruised. The remaining non-believers join Stiles’ ranks and they begin to plan.
Easiest to make agree, make amiable, are Lydia and Peter. Perhaps the latter because he’s following the prior or perhaps because he’s following Stiles. It never is easy to tell who he’s trying to please between the two of them at any given minute. However that is usually his motivation: trying to win them over. Or perhaps he’s just trying to cause anarchy in the ranks and annoy Derek, another hobby of the older mans. But they’re the easiest. Scott tries to be earnest and supporting but remains too much of an optimist to start making a battle strategy and stage an attack before definitive proof is provided.
Allison’s the hardest, having not heard of any hunters entering town and her and her father finding no evidence of the supernatural.
What Stiles needs is Derek, but Derek never wants to seem paranoid and jumpy so always, like Scott, waits for proof to counterattack. Though they have differing reasons most of the time, in a lot of ways Scott and Derek are quite alike.
Still, only Lydia and Peter are pro making the first move, while the Beta’s are all waiting for a decision to be made for them.
Honestly Stiles wouldn’t want to see their attempts at a chess game because clearly they second-guess and play the defence too much, even though they’re a group of lacrosse players.
Queue first the wards then Isaac turning up attacked.
They follow like disciples.
And hit the books.
(Figuratively. Well, and in actuality, actually. The Books include books but also gossip and the internet and the news and contacts etc. Basically they get to researching and praise the lord Stiles started ahead of them or they’d have weeks of confusion ahead of them before they could even begin to figure out what is going on).
It’s a priest.
A fucking fanatical.
Really it was only a matter of time.
The priest – Father Jonathon he smiles with an extended hand – corners Stiles at the gas station. Says he’s a Baptist. Laughs: John the Baptist.
Father Jonathon the Baptist is on a purge.
Cleansing the world of evil. Of sin. Of demons. Of the devils advocates.
Father Jonathon, who laughs and says he’s just like John the Baptist from the bible, poses as a holy man but Stiles is pretty sure he’s going straight to hell. Because what he calls ‘monsters’ Stiles calls friends.
He wants to kill Derek.
Well, really he wants to kill all the werewolves in town but he’s here to kill Derek. He’s heard stories and has deemed Derek a dirty soul that he needs to rid the world of. Apparently only one other wolf on his latest journey has been planned, Father Jonathon the Baptist brags, the others have been pleasant surprises throughout his travels. Stiles doesn’t fail to pick up on the hint that this isn’t the priests first spree.
He promises he’ll just go after Derek, if only Stiles brings his head on a silver platter so that the priest can kill him. An Alpha’s too hard to get to without a little inside help, he winks.
Next there’s a tirade of reasons why Derek’s unworthy of this life, to be breathing Gods air and living on Gods good earth and Jesus didn’t sacrifice himself for those animal half-breeds and their sins, no sir-e.
Stiles hasn’t said a word. He wants to know how the priest knows that he’s an associate of wolves, but assumes he’s been scouting the town for a while and, well, Stiles has all the telltale signs of somebody that often has near death experiences. See: scars; bruises; bags under his eyes; a flinch that returns at loud noises; a gaze that searches out the corners of a room before stepping foot in it; a hand that constantly reaches into his pocket to caress Wolfsbane coated knuckledusters.
Eventually the priest says he has to go and hands Stiles a business card. Like this murdering shit he does is some kind of business, reputable - Stiles doesn’t even know but it’s sure as hell a fucking joke. Derek walks out of the bathroom at this point – when Father Jonathon the Baptist has just left and driven off – and sighs dramatically, though Stiles isn’t sure if it’s put on or if Derek really is just a natural drama queen. He’s been in the bathroom because, well, because he needed a piss. But he’s with Stiles because they had been researching at the library until it closed and were just headed back to Stiles’ to go over their notes, on the priest that just cornered him. Stiles is slightly confused as to how the priest didn’t know Derek was there, but perhaps it really was just a coincidental meeting as the creep had said (‘Oh, what a pleasant surprise. It’s the boy that runs with wolves, haha, my name is Father Jonathon and I’m a Baptist, like John the Baptist, washing away Sins. I hear this town has a few Sins’).
‘Chill, dude, I’m not selling you out.’ Stiles mutters as Derek walks over looking dejected and hiding claws in the pads of his palms.
‘Are you sure about that? He was pretty convincing.’
‘Please, Peter is far more so and I resist his charms at every turn.’ Stiles attempts at a joke, though the effort is futile.
‘You didn’t say anything to contradict him.’
Stiles pauses for a moment, brow dropping at the connotations of Derek’s words – that he actually believes Stiles would give him up – and briefly considers getting angry, an option he overrides once he comes to the conclusion that it will only fuel Derek’s conviction. Instead he calmly explains what is likely to have been his reasoning, though he just acted on instinct. Still, his instincts have been getting better so he wouldn’t put it past them. ‘And I got to remain unscratched,’ he says with a confused shake of his head, ‘and we didn’t start a fight before we were prepared to.’
‘He probably isn’t prepared.’ Derek snaps and Stiles lets some of his anger bubble up to bite back: ‘We definitely aren’t prepared.’
‘I wouldn’t blame you for being convinced, a lot of what he said was true.’
‘That he’s like John the Baptist? Well then it’s only a matter of time until he dies.’
Once again the joke falls flat to silence and the thickening fog of guilt building itself a nest around them. ‘No…about…the other stuff.’
‘What other stuff?’ And he’s playing the fool. Being obtuse. He knows what Derek means. Can see it in the older mans eyes. Taste it in the air between them. Feel it in the ever increasing drop in the brow of the wolf.
‘The sins stuff…that we’re monsters. I’m a monster.’
‘You don’t deserve this.’
‘What if I do?’
Suddenly there’s a finger pointing at Derek’s face in some cartoonish setup and Stiles’ voice is gaining volume with each syllable. ‘Fuck what if’s: you don’t. He’s just another enemy. Just another Gerard. Just another person hell-bent that they’re on some kind of mission to save the earth from all that goes bump in the night. Fuck them. Fuck their ideology. Sometimes the things that go bump are the sheep and the kids grow up to be wolves.’ His voice cracks from the anger and the hurt but he figures that it’s ok because he’s not angry at Derek and he’s only hurt for him.
‘That analogy isn’t exactly helping your case. It depicts evil as a wolf. I’m a wolf Stiles and he’s right, I hurt people. All the time. I’ve killed. I got my family killed I…’
‘Derek I don’t know what happened with your family and you’ll tell me when you’re ready, I know you will. What Kate did wasn’t your fault. I don’t know the details but none of this shit has ever been your fault. It’s been Kate’s and Peter’s and Gerard’s and Matt’s and Jennifer’s and Deucalion’s. Sometimes it’s been Scott’s fault and sometimes mine and sometimes Allison’s and never Lydia’s because she’d flay us, but that’s only minor stuff. That’s for the better. For reasons. All that’s gone wrong at your hand has been minor and no one blames you but yourself.’
‘And the priest.’
‘Well, when we’re done with him it’s likely to be back to just one.’
‘I don’t want to hurt anyone else.’
‘And I don’t want you to die at his hand. We can’t both get what we want here.’
‘I’ll impale him before he hurts any of you, but if you’re going to betray me I’d rather you ripped that bandage off.’
‘Hand you over to be treated like an animal? Have him scream every insecurity in your face until he ends your life? Have you die believing every word he utters? You’re more than he see’s and more than he knows and more than he understands and you’re just a good man with a bad life and I would never give you up.’
It’s Derek’s turn to shout now, though it is unclear who or what his anger is aimed at. ‘How many layers do I have to shed before you realise that that fucking priest is right and I am a fucking monster, Stiles?’
‘Always a few more.’
It doesn’t help when three days later the priest attacks. In broad daylight. Finds Derek at the supermarket and takes him to an abandoned lot in what is clearly a trap, not like Derek would care.
It really says something about their lives that they’re not even safe in the breakfast isle.
Luckily Isaac is there helping to buy food so he realises when Derek runs off. The boy’s learning because before he even moves he calls the cavalry.
When they do finally get there Stiles comes to the conclusion that things really are going downhill. That Derek really will buy all this sin crap. Because the priest has a bottle and he’s calling in holy water and he’s chanting and Derek’s skin is smoking upon contact. His teeth are gritted in pain and all the wolves are covering their ears.
They get him out, but only just. Knowing the priest will be back.
Twenty-eight hours is pretty good going in reality. For them. Twenty eight hours they go before Father Jonathon the Baptist is back.
He finds the loft this time.
Stiles is showering and Isaac gets knocked out in seconds. The others are all elsewhere. When Stiles does emerge he freezes when he sees Derek caged in a devils trap of Mountain Ash. Blessed whip; blessed dagger; blessed vial of water. Blessed and crossed and graced. On and on the priest goes, glee lighting up his eyes and mirth behind every word as he chips away at Derek’s life and his already crumbling walls. Self hatred comes from within the trap and maniacal joy from outside of it.
Stiles doesn’t even feel sick.
The implements burn and smoke and hiss as they touch Derek. The unholy man. And it’s a lie. A trick. A falsity. Stiles knows it must be. Has to be. Is. But he doesn’t have time to convince Derek and he doesn’t think he could even if he did.
The priest is shouting demon too loudly.
Later he brings the substances to Deaton. Who in turn runs some tests and a few days later when Stiles comes back again, he finds Derek already there. Deaton explains that most of it was all just different variations of Mountain Ash, Wolfsbane and Mistletoe. That the ‘holy water’ hadn’t burnt because it was holy but because it had first been boiled with Wolfsbane. That the whip didn’t sting for its blessing but because it was silver coated Mountain Ash. That their ears didn’t bleed from the word of God but from the frequency transmitted from a portable radio. That really the priest was nothing more than a glorified hunter using religion as a means to an end.
Stiles walks up to Derek, whose back is stiff as he looks out of the window and away from the office, until he’s close enough that the words are uttered into the older mans hairline. He whispers: ‘You’re not an abomination.’ And as quickly as the words are spoken he’s left the premises again.
See it isn’t his first. Or even his second, in many a retrospect. There’s been a few from one to here but still here takes the prize of second best. Second to hit home.
Second death to way on his mind.
Sometimes it seems excusable and sometimes there’s a reason and sometimes there’s justification and sometimes it doesn’t come back in the dead of the night to haunt you. Sometimes it can have all the prerequisites and still plague your mind. Sometimes it’s the only thing to do and you believe it’s the right thing to do and still the darkness scares you for the memories it paints itself in.
Sometimes you kill a girl that looks just like you.
Sometimes the blood of a priest kisses your wrist.
And he’s gone too far. Sinned too hard. Put too much disgrace upon his name.
Oh god he’s done it now.
He carries darkness wrapped tight in his chest.
The priest is standing over Derek. Laughter in his eyes and voice and mouth like a disease. Bible lying open in one palm, flicking between folded corners to out of context quotes. An array of torture devices spread out to his side.
Derek is bleeding and blistering and broken.
Stiles is going commando in a pair of sweatpants. No t-shirt and water droplets running down his chest still. Even his hair remains damp.
Derek is bleeding and blistering and broken.
The priest is breaking him with a religion Derek doesn’t even conform to, not any more; perhaps not ever. He’s physically and emotionally hurting Derek. He knocked Isaac out.
No one is here but Stiles.
Stiles and his knife.
Derek is bleeding and blistering and broken.
The priest is shouting abuse.
‘You’re a monster, a demon, a disgrace and you’re going straight to hell.’
‘Not if I can help it. In fact I fear it is you who is closest to the inferno.’ Stiles snarls as he appears behind the priest, knife in hand. Knife raised. Knife coated in the old mans blood.