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It’s always the same: he’s standing in the ruins of his house, sky gunmetal gray above him, when his family blurs into view around him. They’re burned brittle and blackened, as they must have been in the end. As they always were, as far as he can remember: it's not like he has any pictures or mementos to tell him otherwise, these days.
They reach out to him, crying his name: first desperately, then angrily, their faces twisted with hatred. Sometimes they say more than just his name. Those are the worst nights—Derek wakes up with their voices echoing in his head: you’re a murderer, a traitor, you threw our lives away for nothing. She never loved you, and we didn’t either.
Derek doesn’t sleep much, these days. He thinks it must be obvious, but if it is, no one says anything—as far as he can tell, no one’s noticed anything out of the ordinary. He catches Stiles looking at him strangely a few times, eyes narrowed and speculative, but that’s as far as it goes.
So when he passes out from exhaustion one night and finds himself standing outside his house as it was, bright and warm and welcoming, it’s more than a little surreal. Especially after he sees Laura sitting on the steps in front of him.
He winces as he recognizes the song that’s playing in the background. “Really, Laura? Kind of obvious, don’t you think?”
Laura grins at him. “You always liked the Everly Brothers,” she says. “I remember Mom used to—”
Derek doesn’t let her finish the sentence. “Don’t,” he says. He ignores the pang he feels at the look on Laura’s face at that. It’s one he got way too familiar with after the fire—a mix of hurt and pity and love. But she isn’t really here; none of this is, and it doesn’t matter what Derek does anymore.
“You won’t last long like this, Derek,” Laura says gently, closer now. The house changes to what it’s become around them, the furniture flickering out against blackening walls. Only the photos stay the same.
“I don’t know what else to do.” Derek’s admitting it to himself as much as to her; he’s spent so much time faking certainty for everyone else that he can almost ignore the truth.
Except this isn’t Laura he’s admitting it to, because Laura’s dead, rotting in the ground, and he’ll never see her again.
“That’s not true,” Laura says. He isn’t sure what she’s responding to. “You’re afraid, baby. You think needing help is weakness. It isn’t.”
She’s fading out now, her face blurred and unrecognizable now. Derek wants to reach out, bring her back somehow, but he can’t. He’s rooted to the ground, surrounded by what’s left of his life.
Laura’s voice echoes around him. “This isn’t over, Derek.” He doesn’t get a chance to ask her what she means by that; the room’s already falling apart around him.
He doesn’t wake up screaming, at least.
He does wake up in Stiles’ bed, stretched out on top of the covers, the Everly Brothers still crooning in his ears about dreams, dreams, dreams. There’s a moment of blind panic before he scrambles to his feet, staring down at Stiles, who is (Derek knows from past experience) an impossibly deep sleeper. He shifts in his sleep, smiles and mumbles something about—pies, maybe? Derek carefully doesn’t think about how it’s maybe just a little cute.
Derek slips out the window before he does something regrettable and spends the walk back home cursing his subconscious and his brain and just. Everything. He locks himself in one of the basement cells before he goes to bed, this time.
It’s somehow not surprising when, the next night, Derek finds himself in his mother’s sewing room. It’s a tiny room, stacked high with fabric and quilting frames. Derek spent a lot of time here when he was younger; it calmed him down, somehow. It was always quiet, wrapped in a cocoon of cotton batting, the whir of the sewing machine drowning out the chaos of the rest of the house. His mother’s bent over at the old card table she used as a sewing table, her hands carefully guiding fabric through the machine.
“Just a minute, Derek,” she says absently. “I’m almost done.” She eases off the foot pedal, gently bringing the machine to a stop and spinning to face him.
Derek stares at her, his breath catching in his throat. “Mom,” he says roughly, blinking away tears. He hasn’t cried in a year; he thought he couldn’t, anymore, after Laura.
She smiles at him, looking him over. “You grew up so well, darling. I always knew you would. But you’re so thin.” The note of worry in her voice is unmistakable, painful.
Derek’s knees give out, and he sinks down to the hooked rug. “I’m sorry,” he says, staring down at its garish floral pattern, heartrendingly familiar. The words are sharp in his mouth, and he swallows down the rest of what he wants to say: I killed you, all of you. It was my fault.
His mother rises to her feet and crosses the few feet that separate them, crouching in front of him. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, baby,” she says, voice gentle. “You know that, don’t you?”
Derek looks away, unable to meet her eyes. “You wouldn't say that if you knew the truth," he says quietly.
He flinches when she reaches out to him, tilting his face up firmly. "You mean Kate Argent," she says. "Oh, Derek, that wasn't your fault."
"I told her about us," Derek says, softly, his voice sharp with self-loathing. "I let her watch me change, I took her here and showed her the house, I wrote her an engraved fucking invitation."
"And again," his mother says. "Not your fault. I told your father about myself, too, when I was that age. I got lucky, and he understood. It could have gone wrong easily. It's hard to know who to trust, at first. You have to take some hard chances when you're just starting out."
Derek shakes his head, wordless.
His mother pushes to her feet and walks across the bright room. Derek watches her move surely to a chest of drawers that he recognizes dimly as one she used to keep family mementos in: Derek's first lacrosse trophy, Laura's fencing awards, Charlie's spelling bee certificates. When she crosses back over, she presses something into his hand, closing his fingers over it.
"When I was in Guatemala," she says softly, "I bought a set of these in a local market. They called them 'muñecas quitapenas'. Worry dolls. You put them under your pillow and they take away your fears, supposedly. Remember that, Derek. You don't have to carry this alone."
Derek jerks awake, covered in cold sweat, and crushes down the faint disappointment that rises up in him when he opens his eyes and finds himself alone in the cell. He sits up and pauses; he’s clutching something tightly in his hand. He stares, his breath stolen for a moment, when he opens his hand and uncovers a tiny cloth doll.
He’s in the garden by his father’s beehives, sun streaming down brightly on the two of them.
“You know what I always loved about bees?” his father asks. He continues without waiting for an answer from Derek. “They never give up. If you kill their queen, they make another. If you take their home, they build a new one.”
Derek closes his eyes. “Instinct,” he says, remembering. “You always said they were smarter than anyone gave them credit for.”
“That’s right,” his father says. He sounds pleased. “Do you remember that week we spent at the beach? You must have been—oh, ten or so? Laura was fourteen. Charlotte was just a baby, I think. And you and Laura built a sandcastle. Some jerk kid knocked it down, and Laura was furious. She wanted to beat him up, but you wouldn’t let her.”
“He didn’t know what he was doing,” Derek says softly. “He wasn’t old enough.”
His father nods. “And you and he and Laura rebuilt the sandcastle.” He gives Derek a significant look.
Derek huffs out a quiet laugh. “You and your bees,” he says. “I’d forgotten.”
“They’re useful and instructive,” his father says defensively. “You liked them, anyway. I couldn’t ever get your sisters to sit still for them.”
“I did,” Derek says. “But I'm not that kid anymore, Dad."
His father looks back at him steadily. "You are, Derek," he says kindly. "You sell yourself short, kiddo. Always have."
Derek wakes up in the (by now) familiar dark of Stiles’ bedroom, bare-chested against soft flannel sheets. Stiles is curled against him, snuffling into Derek’s bare back, a warm hand resting on Derek’s waist. It’s—nice. More than nice, if Derek’s going to be honest with himself. He disentangles himself enough to sit up, and allows himself one look before he gets up: takes in the dark curve of Stiles’ eyelashes, the sweet tilt of his mouth.
The window opens soundlessly under his hands when he leaves. He’s getting way too good at this.
Kate meets him outside, in autumn. Derek breathes in smoke and spice, his breath shuddering out white in the crisp northern California air, and breathes out dread. She’s sitting on the steps of the house shredding a leaf thoughtfully between her fingers, a half-smile on her face.
She’s dressed just like she was when they met, all sharp elegance and dark colors, her hair swept off her face in a careless knot. The ruin of her throat stands out starkly against her pale skin. Derek clenches his hands at his sides and stands, rooted to the ground, until she looks up.
“What’s the matter, puppy?” She laughs a little at Derek’s wince. “Oh, you don’t like that anymore? But you thought it was so sweet when we—”
“Don’t you dare,” Derek snarls.
“Oh, Derek, we had fun. You know we did.” Kate shakes her head, mock-sad. “You can’t deny that, at least.”
“Fun,” Derek says, incredulous, hands clenching into fists at his sides.
“Well,” Kate says. “I had fun, anyway. I did like you, Derek. You were sweet. But there was no other way.” She opens her palms wide, shrugs: I couldn't help it, the gesture says. What else could I have done?
“Bullshit,” Derek says. “You could have left us alone.”
“But I couldn’t,” Kate says. “You know that. Can’t help what you are, can you? Look at you, now. All blood and bones and anger, just like your uncle.” Derek wants desperately to dismiss her, but he can't. There's a horrible truth to her words, grinning starkly out at Derek like a death's-head.
He doesn’t breathe for a second. He closes his eyes, desperately willing himself away, awake, anything.
When he opens his eyes again, he’s sixteen, standing in his bedroom, leaning against the dresser like the second-rate James Dean he thought he was back then.
Kate’s standing in the center of the room, smiling slightly. “Didn’t you have another question for me, Derek?” she asks, mocking.
“Why Stiles?” Derek asks, walking towards her almost against his will, his old-new limbs clumsy and unfamiliar. He regrets the question as soon as it’s asked; Kate’s answer isn’t one he wants to hear, whatever it’s going to be.
“Oh, I think you know why,” Kate says, almost compassionate. “Even you’re not that dim, Derek.”
“No,” Derek says, hating himself both for the lie and for the truth hidden behind it. “I’m not like you. I wouldn’t do that to him.”
“Because you think he isn't ready,” Kate says. “You worry you'll rip him apart, leave him broken and bloody and cursing your name. Maybe you're right, puppy."
“Fuck you,” Derek says. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Kate looks at him steadily. “Don’t I?” she asks, a piece of blood-stained fabric appearing like an offering across her outstretched arms. “Take it, Derek,” she says, stepping forward when he hesitates.
Derek reaches out reluctantly, taking it. He drops it, hands gone numb, when he recognizes it: it’s Stiles’ shirt, the one Derek borrowed months ago and never gave back.
He wakes up alone again, breathing heavily. His hands are clenched tightly in his sheets, and it’s five minutes before he can bring himself to let them go. The key to the cell got knocked off the bed and lost sometime during the night, and he has to kick the cell open—which is painful even with werewolf strength. He trips three times on his way up the stairs. It’s not a great start to the day.
He goes upstairs to his bedroom, roots out the real unbloodied shirt from its hiding place in his closet, and burns it. It’s a little melodramatic, sure, but putting it in the trash isn’t really an option at this point; he hasn’t seen a garbage truck at the house since he came back.
And then things really go to hell. Isaac and Erica show up an hour late for a meeting, giggling and furtive, and Derek’s just—done. With all of it.
“Fucking useless,” Derek says. He keeps his voice measured and calm, knows it’ll hurt more that way. “All of you. I don’t know why I ever thought you weren’t. You’re not worth this.” He turns away from them and walks away, ignoring them when they call after him.
Stiles shows up at the house later, knocking hesitantly at the door. Derek stalks over and flings it open, leveling his best contemptuous stare at Stiles; he’s been expecting this.
“What do you want?” he asks coldly.
Stiles balks at that, biting his lip while he works up the nerve to say something. He’s so fucking young, all big eyes and shaking hands; he can’t hide anything yet. Derek’s doing him a favor in the long run, really. “I wanted to check on you,” he says hesitantly. “Isaac said you looked kind of—upset when you left, and—”
“Oh, Isaac, that’s nice,” Derek snarls. “And you just thought, what, you’d just stop by for a chat? It’s none of your fucking business, Stiles. You should know that by now.” He injects the last sentence with as much contempt as he can, and watches Stiles’ face fall with every word.
“You know what?” Stiles is already backing away, his face a mask of wounded fury. “You’re right. It isn’t. I’m sorry I bothered.”
“Good,” Derek spits, slamming the door shut. He stands unmoving, listening to Stiles’ footsteps retreat, the thud of his heart against the fragile bones of his chest, the ruthlessly cut-off almost sob that accompanies the roar of the Jeep’s engine.
He doesn’t go after him; it costs him all every ounce of willpower that he’s got saved up.
That night Derek finds himself in the woods by his house, standing by the post he used to meet Uncle Peter at before their morning runs. When he looks down, he’s wearing a ragged old Cyclones shirt he used to work out in—a hand-me-down relic from Peter’s glory days as a lacrosse star, one of the many things Derek lost in the fire.
“Good to see you again, Derek,” Peter says from behind him. “Even if it’s not under ideal circumstances.”
Derek doesn’t turn around. “Wish I could say the same,” he says, fighting to keep his tone level. It's just a dream, he reminds himself.
“Can’t blame you there,” Peter says. “And I’m sorry, for what that’s worth.”
“How much do you think it's worth?” Derek turns to face Peter, a sudden fury rising in him. "You tore the last person on Earth who gave a damn about me in two. My sister, Peter, your niece. Did you remember that when you were killing her? Or was she just more meat to you?"
"I remembered," Peter says. "But I was out of my mind with anger and grief, and I did what I thought I had to, at the time." He hesitates, his eyes focused, unreadable, on Derek. "It was a zero-sum game, you see. True revenge always is."
"Funny," Derek snarls. "I just had this conversation last night. With Kate."
Peter shrugs, careful and diffident. "We weren't so different, she and I. We both did what we thought was right for our families."
"And it cost us everything," Derek says wearily. "What do you want, Peter? Why are you here?"
“To remind you who you are," Peter says, moving closer. "Who we were.”
“What is there to remember?” Derek spits out. “It’s burned down and cut apart. There’s nothing left. You made sure of that."
“Derek,” Peter says. “You know that isn’t true. You’re still here."
“Barely,” Derek says bitterly.
“That’s enough.” Peter’s voice is sharp, and Derek can’t tell whether he means that what’s left of Derek is enough, or if Derek should stop talking now. He’s not sure if it really matters.
“You’re left,” Peter repeats after a few seconds. “But if you keep going like this—”
“I know,” Derek bites out, unable to contain himself anymore. “I’ll die. And I’ll take everyone else with me. Again.”
“No,” Peter snarls, his grip punishingly hard on Derek’s shoulder. “You’ll turn into me. What I became. Is that what you want, Derek?” His face flickers, and he stands in front of Derek as he was in his last few minutes: a blistered wreck, burned almost past recognition. “Is this what you want?” he says, his voice calm, incongruously normal. “Is this what revenge is worth to you?”
Derek shakes his head, recoiling away from Peter’s hand almost without noticing. “I want to wake up now,” he says. “Please.”
Peter’s face shifts back. “Sure,” he says easily, like they’ve been talking about the weather. “But you know I’m right, Derek. Don’t let the fire take you, too.”
Derek wakes up tense, his mind empty and clear like glass a second away from shattering. He gets dressed somehow and stumbles up the basement stairs to the outdoors. It’s either very early in the morning or very late at night; he’s not sure which, and doesn’t care enough to check the time.
He gets in his car and drives aimlessly through town, its familiar streets blurring by in a haze. He ends up at Stiles’ house—this time on purpose. Stiles gets up and lets him in, his mouth a thin line. Then he sits back on the bed and stares at Derek, unspeaking and unmoving. It’s a little worrying; Derek’s pretty sure he’s never seen Stiles quiet for this long.
After five minutes of silence Derek finally cracks. “I never thanked you for saving my life,” he says. “Back at the pool.”
“You never thanked me any of the other times, either,” Stiles says, a trace of bitterness in his voice.
Derek winces. “I’ve been kind of an asshole,” he says quietly. “Thanks.”
“‘Kind of’ is putting it mildly,” Stiles says. “I have no idea how I’m not punching you right now. Just so you know.”
“I’d deserve it,” Derek says honestly. “But you’d probably have to get in line. I’ve fucked a lot of people over, these last few months.”
Stiles’ mouth tightens at that. He pushes himself off the bed and stalks over to Derek, crowding him against the windowsill. “Fuck you,” he says. “Just—fuck you. You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself, Derek. You want to make things better? Do it. Step up.”
“You think I don’t want to? That I wanted this?” Derek can hear the anger in his voice; doesn’t care. “I have no fucking idea what I’m doing, Stiles. Nobody ever thought I’d have to know.”
“And that sucks, I agree. But hey, welcome to the world. Everything sucks and nobody has any fucking idea what to do about it. But you’re not on your own, Derek. You’ve got all of us—for now, anyway.” Stiles sighs. “You just won’t admit it.”
Derek stares down at his hands. “I’m terrified,” he admits quietly. “I keep fucking things up.”
“You’re not alone there,” Stiles says, his voice softening. “My dad can't even look at me anymore. I don’t blame him; it’s not like I’ve done much to earn his trust lately.”
What Derek wants to say: you’re trustworthy anyway, you’re the best person I know and I’m scared to death of how much I like you. What he actually says: “Let’s sit down,” steering Stiles to the edge of the bed, and then, awkwardly—because he’s bad at this, always has been—“I’m sure he knows how much you love him. You’re a good son.”
He freezes when Stiles reaches tentatively for his hand, curving his fingers carefully around Derek’s. He’s staring, he knows that, but he has no idea what else to do.
Stiles flushes, his hand already pulling away from Derek’s. Derek reaches back for it instinctively, twining their fingers together securely. The look of surprise to that on Stiles’ face hurts him, somehow, makes him want to chase it away, but he has no idea how to do that. He looks down instead, traces circles on Stiles’ palm with his thumb. They sit silent for a long moment.
“My mother read Tarot cards,” Stiles says finally, seemingly out of nowhere. “She did readings for the neighbors, sometimes. She was good at it, I think. I mean, I was nine, but.”
“I’m sure she was,” Derek says, and means it. “Mine read palms. She was pretty awful. My little sister did better readings for her Barbie dolls.”
Stiles chokes out a cautious laugh. “You’re sweet,” he says, a little teasingly. His shoulders relax a little.
“I never told her that,” Derek protests. He’s smiling; when the hell did that happen? “I was a good kid.”
“You?” Stiles laughs again, more certain now. He has a good laugh, Derek thinks, and oh god. He’s in so much fucking trouble. “Yeah, I just bet. You probably got away with all kinds of shit, with that face.” Stiles rushes through the last part of the sentence and looks away right after, sliding his gaze down to the floor. “I mean—oh, you know what I mean,” he mumbles, flushing.
Derek pulls him in before he can think too much about it, untangling their fingers to slide a cautious hand up to Stiles’ neck. “Can I?” he asks belatedly against Stiles’ mouth.
Stiles pulls back to glare at him. “Are you—yes,” he says, tugging Derek in again impatiently. Derek goes easily, lets Stiles tumble them both down on top of the unmade covers and pull him into a kiss.
“You’ve been sleeping here,” Stiles murmurs afterwards, the words dropping warm and lazy against Derek’s neck. He rucks Derek’s shirt up and off, long fingers dragging up his side and leaving Derek shivering in their wake. “I thought I was dreaming at first, but you were really here, weren’t you?” He presses a kiss into Derek’s collarbone.
“I was,” Derek admits, and pauses, distracted by Stiles’ clothing and just how much of it he has on. “Off,” he says, tugging at the string of Stiles’ hoodie, and watches with satisfaction as Stiles obliges, sitting up and pulling the hoodie and the worn sleep shirt he has on underneath it off.
Stiles tosses his shirts over the side of the bed and rolls back into Derek, curling into him, hands curious and restless on Derek's skin. He’s all nervous energy and heat; it shouldn’t be soothing to Derek, but it is. He rolls over and pulls Stiles in close, tracing a careful hand over the delicate knobs of his spine, past the dip of his neck and down to his chest.
“Couldn’t keep away,” Stiles says smugly, grinning up at him. “They never can.”
“I couldn’t,” Derek says, painfully sincere, and watches as Stiles’ face changes, opens up with something terrifyingly close to joy.
"Well." Stiles says finally. "Like I said. Irresistible." He jumps a little when Derek laughs, then elbows him with a mock-indignant scowl. "Jerk."
Derek slides a hand down Stiles' back, pulling him in. "Liar," he says, low and fond against Stiles' mouth. He’s tired, but it isn’t the bone-deep exhaustion he’s been carrying with him for the past few months; it’s lighter, somehow. Easier to bear.
He slides into sleep easily, without fear, and dreams:
It’s late July, hazy with heat, and his family’s out in the garden picking the last of the summer harvest. He’s watching everyone from the far side of the garden, holding a handful of rosemary and thyme. His mother smiles her familiar crooked smile at him as she bends down to yank a weed out of a bed with one hand, balancing a basket filled with tomatoes on her hip with the other. Peter leans down and elbows Charlie, whispering something to her, and she giggles, her face blurred with joy. He jumps back with theatrical surprise when she throws a strawberry at him; Charlie loves to think she has the upper hand, and Peter’s good at letting her think she does.
His father’s over by the hives, frowning underneath his apiarist’s bonnet. “I don’t think they’re doing well, Joan,” he calls to Derek’s mother. “There aren’t as many of them this year.”
“Don’t worry about it, George,” she yells back, winking at Derek. “I’m sure they’ll rally soon.”
Derek grins at her, almost painfully happy. He didn’t think he’d ever get to do this again.
“So what do you think, little brother?” Laura asks from beside him. She’s wearing the huge straw hat she always wears to garden in; she’s paler than the rest of them and burns easily.
Derek’s stomach clenches a little as he turns to her; this is a dream, he reminds himself. Only a dream. “I miss you all,” he admits painfully. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop. Sometimes I wake up and can’t breathe, it hurts so much.”
“And we miss you,” Laura says gently. “But you have to let go for now, baby. You have to grow your own garden.”
The plants shift around them, growing unkempt, weeds sprouting up between the neatly kept beds. Derek’s mom looks up at him, a tomato still cradled in her hand. “You’re not going to let it stay like this,” she says. “You know better than that.”
His dad nods in agreement. “There’s more to do, Derek,” he says, taking off his bonnet and letting it dangle at his side.
“I don’t know if I can,” Derek admits, staring down at the overgrown raspberry bushes. “Not like this. Not—” Alone, he wants to say, but that might not be true anymore.
“You already know you don’t have to,” Charlie says. She points at the house. “Look.”
Derek looks, squinting against the light. There are figures there, sitting on the steps and standing propped against the porch pillars. He can recognize Scott, Erica, and Boyd, and he smiles a little as Isaac, Allison, and Lydia blur into focus. There’s one person missing, though.
“Where’s Stiles?” Derek asks, turning back to Laura. She rolls her eyes at him.
“He’s inside,” she says, like it’s obvious. Maybe it is, Derek thinks.
“Time you made a home, Derek,” Peter says, walking up from the edge of the garden. “Don’t you think?”
Derek’s shoulders slump, loose with sudden relief, and he smiles at his family for the last time. “Maybe,” he agrees, and then, “I love you all.”
Laura grins at him and rocks up on her toes to kiss him on the forehead, like she always does. Did. “We love you too, Derek. Always will,” she says quietly. “Don’t forget that,” and Derek wakes up.
He wakes up curled around Stiles, the early morning light pouring in through the open window and pooling golden on their skin.
“I dreamed about your family,” Stiles murmurs sleepily. “Your house, anyway. I was in the kitchen, and you were all out in the garden.”
“Yeah?” Derek isn’t surprised by that, somehow. He kisses the nape of Stiles’ neck, the crook of his jaw, because he can, now.
“They looked nice,” Stiles says, already falling back asleep. “And you were happy, I could tell.”
“I was,” Derek says, and then, correcting himself, “Am. I am. Happy.”
He closes his eyes, lets sleep claim him again. There’s going to be so much to fix, later, but it’s okay. There’s time.
When he dreams this time, it’s of open windows and wide fields, stretching out green and endless.