Chapter Text
Stiles is toeing off his shoes and kicking them under his desk when he feels it. It’s like a punch to the chest or a hand squeezing around his lungs. There’s the feeling of panic and pain, and it takes him a moment to realise they’re not his. They’re Scott’s. He’s not sure how he knows this but he just knows. Scott’s in danger.
He’ll take the time to wonder when exactly Scott became pack later –though he has a feeling Scott has always been pack, from the second Stiles became a werewolf. Right now, all that matters is to get to him, and fast. Stiles’s window is open, and jumping through it is quicker than racing down the stairs and out through the door.
He lands on his hands and feet and starts running, not caring about the twigs and gravel digging in his skin, or about how hard and dirty the pavement is. His arms are longer and his legs twisted in an inhuman shape, which makes running on all fours so much faster than anything he could have imagined, and he doesn’t care if someone sees him, doesn’t even think about the possibility. All he knows is that Scott needs him.
His heart sinks when he smells the scent of Derek and blood and fear, and an angry howl tears its way out of his throat as he turns the corner of Scott’s street. He’s pretty far away, but he can see it clearly. Derek is sprawled out flat on his back, holding his arm. Scott is kneeling on the ground, batting an arm in the direction of a woman, but mostly swatting at air. The werewolf (the Alpha, all of his senses scream at him), is turning away from Derek, probably judging him harmless now, and she’s about to lunge at Scott when she notices him and turns her red eyes towards Stiles.
Stiles is still charging, growling, a blinding rage taking over him. All he can see is the other Alpha, his target, his enemy. She attacked his pack. He doesn’t anticipate the human woman to step between them as he closes in and to throw a fistful of wolfsbane-laced mountain ash at him. Stiles yelps as it lands on him, burning, pushing him away.
But Derek is still on the ground, not moving, and Scott is kneeling a few feet away, and something wild and dangerous in Stiles is roaring in rage, so Stiles just pushes through, calling on energy from the ground under his bare hands and feet and from the moon rising in the sky, and it’s like the magical dust just turns to nothingness as he slams into the other Alpha, sending her rolling ten feet away.
Stiles turns towards the witch, who’s staring at him, and growls as he crouches between her and Derek. Behind her, Scott is getting to his feet and growling too.
“This explains so much,” the witch says, not taking her eyes off Stiles.
“Let her go,” the Alpha growls from where she’s getting back to her feet.
“Why should I?” Stiles snarls, his eyes glancing in her direction.
“Because if you touch her, I swear I’ll kill the human before any of you can do anything about it.”
Behind Stiles, Derek makes a small noise. Stiles can smell his fear underneath the blood, and it makes his throat tighten. His instincts are telling him to protect Derek, to kill the threat, kill the other Alpha who hurt him, and hurt Scott too. But he knows he’s not fast enough, and he can feel how weak Scott actually still is. He can’t take that risk.
“This isn’t over,” he barks, and the witch smiles before running to her Alpha.
“No, it isn’t,” the Alpha says, her red eyes pinned on Stiles. “But next time, we’ll be expecting you.”
Stiles watches them go. He doesn’t move until their scents start to dissipate, and then he’s kneeling next to Derek, pushing his hands away to look at his wounds.
“We should take him inside,” Scott says, voice shaking a little.
Stiles can smell the magic on him still. It’s slowly wearing off, but it explains why Scott’s hands tremble a little as he helps Stiles lift Derek up. Derek grunts, biting his lip in what is probably an effort not to cry out. The street is still miraculously empty and no one seems to have called the police yet, but they definitely need to move before their luck changes.
Stiles takes most of Derek’s weight and starts walking towards Scott’s house. Derek is leaning heavily on him, and if anyone sees them they’ll wonder how Stiles isn’t collapsing under Derek. They really need to get inside.
Scott unlocks the door and leads them in, then he bolts back outside, mumbling about needing to grab something, as Stiles helps Derek sit down on the living room sofa and starts pulling the ruins of Derek’s leather jacket off. Derek hisses in pain, and Stiles mumbles “sorry, sorry” as he gets Derek’s arm out of it.
“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Scott tells him, dropping a wooden bowl on the floor before running up the stairs. “Should I call my mom?”
“No!” Derek hisses as the same time as Stiles says “Yes!”
Stiles growls at Derek.
“You’re hurt, and you’re human so you need your wounds to be properly taken care of,” he barks at Derek. “Besides, Mrs McCall knows about us. She’s safe. She’s pack, like Scott. Like you.”
Derek stares at him, like he can’t believe what’s coming out of Stiles’s mouth. It’s a familiar look at least, and it helps Stiles’s pulse settle down a little. If Derek can still get frustrated with him, then the world probably isn’t about to end.
Though if Stiles is completely honest with himself, he too is a little bit surprised by his own words. But they’re true. Derek is pack. He guesses if Allison and him could be Scott’s pack, then human pack members are a thing, so it’s not that weird, right? Plus, Stiles’s wolf is actually Derek’s wolf, so that might explain why he feels so possessively protective of him. Of course Derek is pack.
Scott is already on the phone with his mom as he comes back and tosses the first-aid kit to Stiles, who catches it easily. Werewolf reflexes really are awesome.
“Did she bite you?” Stiles asks while helping Derek take his leather jacket off. The thing is ruined, and so is Derek’s shirt underneath, torn up and bloodied.
“Don’t think so,” Derek winces.
He flinches under Stiles’s hands, hissing through his teeth when Stiles carefully lifts the shirt out of the way. It’s weird, to see him half-naked on the couch. It’s not the first time he’s seen Derek shirtless –that time with Danny was memorable– but there’s usually some sort of threatening aggression going with Derek’s bare skin that makes it more scary than hot.
But right now Stiles doesn’t find Derek scary or ridiculously attractive or frustratingly annoying. Right now, Derek looks hurt and vulnerable, and it makes Stiles feel like something is stuck in the back of his throat.
“She says to clean up the wounds with antiseptic and check that nothing is bleeding excessively,” Scott relays even though Stiles can hear his best friend’s mother through the phone. “And that the cuts aren’t too deep. She’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
“What does ‘not too deep’ even mean?” Stiles growls as he pours antiseptic on a clean cotton cloth. “Sorry, Derek, that’s gonna hurt.”
“Just do it,” Derek grunts through gritted teeth.
“Can’t be worse than a wolfsbane bullet, hey?” Stiles tries to joke as he cleans the claw marks on Derek’s belly. Derek just grips the armrest tighter.
Stiles has to take a new cloth when he’s finished with the wounds on Derek’s stomach, but they’re not bleeding too badly and he lets Scott press some pads against them. No use trying to put on bandages that his mom would only make them take off when she arrives.
Derek’s arm caught the blunt force of the attack. The cuts are deep, about half an inch at least, and it’s lucky Derek has so much arm muscle to protect his veins and bones. Two of the deepest wounds keep oozing more blood than the others, no matter how much pressure Stiles puts on them, and Stiles makes a sad whimpering noise.
Derek puts his hand on top of Stiles’s, and Stiles looks up. The pain is obvious on Derek’s face, but he’s clearly pushing through it to try and look reassuring.
“I’m not dying, Stiles, I’m fine,” he tells him, slowly, like the way you speak to a wounded animal. Which is rich, given that Derek’s the wounded one here.
Stiles nods, forcing himself to take a deep breath. He’s seen worse, he’s seen Lydia. Derek’s wounds are nothing compared to what Peter did to her. Still, it makes Stiles’s stomach clench. He wants to hold on to Derek, to make sure he’s there and alive and not going anywhere. It’s the wolf in him, that foreign entity that’s a part of Derek, that makes Stiles bury his face in the crook of Derek’s neck and take in his scent where it’s not tinged by blood.
It calms him, and when he straightens up he can feel a blush tint his cheeks, but he manfully ignores it in favor of taking a new look at Derek’s arm. There’s no change, so they keep putting pressure on the wounds until Scott’s mom arrives.
Stiles is reluctant to step back and let her treat Derek, but he forces himself away. She doesn’t ask questions as she injects a small amount of anesthetic into Derek’s arm and carefully stitches up the worst of his wounds.
“Is he going to get into more trouble?” she finally asks when she’s finishing bandaging Derek’s abdomen. Then she digs through her purse and hands Derek a small bottle of pills to take for the next few days, for the pain.
“The danger’s passed for now,” Stiles says, feeling his shoulders slouch. “Thanks, really. For taking care of us.”
“That’s what family’s for, Stiles,” she tells him, squeezing his arm. “I’m sure you have important things to talk about, so I’ll be putting these back in place.” She holds up the emergency kit and, with a small smile, heads up the stairs.
Stiles sits down on the couch next to Derek and Scott drops down on his other side. Now that he knows Derek’s gonna be fine, Stiles takes a moment to be glad that Scott too is okay. He hugs his best friend, wrinkling his nose at the smell of dirt and magic still faintly clinging to him.
“Dude, you need a shower.”
“Says the guy covered in blood,” Scott snorts, before his face gets serious again. “How did you know we were in trouble?”
“I guess it’s an Alpha thing, like when Mrs Argent tried to kill you and Derek could feel you were in danger?”
Stiles looks at Derek, who nods slowly. He seems incredibly tired, and once again Stiles cringes at how vulnerable Derek is right now.
“Like you said, Scott is your pack. The bond that makes you stronger also gives you responsibilities.”
“Yeah, but why couldn’t I feel that you were hurt?”
“I’m human, Stiles,” Derek snaps, then he takes a deep breath and continues more calmly. “Humans, even pack members, can’t form the same bounds to an Alpha that wolves do. You can’t borrow their strength, and they can’t call for you if we need help. They can’t feel the presence of the pack the way werewolves do. It’s dreadful and lonely.”
Stiles squeezes Derek’s hand, but Derek’s face closes off anyway. The silence that follows is so awkward that Stiles feels obligated to break it. He’s never been good with silence anyway.
“So, what do you think they wanted with Scott? Did they say anything?”
“No, but they seemed surprised to see you. They should have known, though, that my Alpha would show up, right?”
“Maybe they thought you were an Omega?” Stiles suggests.
“If they’ve been watching him, they knew he spent the last few days with the pack,” Derek cuts in. “And they knew who I was and weren’t surprised that I was human.”
Stiles hums, trying to make sense of it.
“If they knew about Derek but not about me, then transferring Derek’s wolf to me hadn’t been their goal, but an accident. Maybe they’re just trying to unwolf the whole pack?”
“Is that even possible?” Scott frowns, and there’s a hint of hope in his voice.
“Not that I know of, but you should ask Deaton,” Derek grunts, crossing his arms defensively and wincing. The stitches must remind him of his wounds, Stiles figures.
Stiles grabs the wooden bowl that Scott had brought back inside. He wonders if he could identify what herbs had been used in it, and maybe deduce what the witch had intended to do, but most of its contents was probably scattered outside on the road. The little amount of grey dust clinging to the wood wouldn’t get him far.
“This looks familiar,” he frowns, suddenly.
The shape of the bowl, the smoothness of the polished wood, even the shade of dark brown... Stiles had seen a similar one. Stiles had used a similar one. Deaton’s.
Stiles looks around the shop, nervously. The Magick Willow isn’t quite as small as it looks from the outside; it’s all in length. There are rows of jars on the shelves, full of herbs and powders. On the other side, crystal bowls and actual wands share the shelves with books about love spells and well-being.
This place is mostly amateur stuff that holds no power, Deaton had said. Run by old-fashioned hippies and day-dreamers. But they do sell supplies that can be useful, rare herbs and gems, the occasional antique item that still holds some power. That’s why Deaton often comes here.
But not today. Today, they’re here incognito. And by ‘they’, he means him and Derek. Who is, technically, kind of still a person of interest in a few murder cases, even though Chris Argent had finally been helping out steering the police investigation in another direction.
Still, Stiles is pretty sure that if his father found out about him hanging out with Derek Hale in a magic shop, heads would roll. Though, granted, his dad wasn’t the biggest threat they were facing.
Stiles shakes his head, trying to focus on the task at hand. They walk up to the counter as the customer, a woman in her mid-thirties who smells of cats and marijuana, gathers her purchases and leaves. Derek is still moving a little bit awkwardly, keeping his injured arm as unmoving along his side as he can.
“Good afternoon,” the salesgirl smiles, her eyes darting towards Derek as she twirls a lock of hair around her fingers like a teenager. “How can I help you?”
“Hi,” says Derek, leaning over the counter on his good side. “We’re not really sure what we’re looking for. I have to say, we’re kind of new to all this. Maybe you could point us towards a few books? Basic stuff?”
Derek’s turned on his killer smile, the one he used in the Police station that one time, and the girl’s just melting as she babbles on about fate and the interconnection of all things. Her voice is irritating, and Stiles grits his teeth, resisting the urge to dramatically roll his eyes at her.
She steps around the counter to lead them to the books near the front window and Derek follows her without a second thought. Stiles isn’t sure what his point is, they don’t need books about the power of positive thoughts or the secret meaning of gems, and they certainly don’t need crystals to ‘cleanse their auras’. And why is she looking at Stiles when she says that, anyway?
What they need is to find out who bought that damn bowl. Deaton confirmed it was the same as the one he used, and he told them this was the only place in the area selling that model as far as he knew. Something about a small, artisanally made series. Because apparently, hand-making bowls in rare wood essences was a thing.
“Is it true that magic works better when there are several people involved?” Derek asks smoothly, putting his hand on a crystal ball inches away from the girl’s hand. Sage, her nametag says, and what a stupid name.
“Oh you mean like a Coven? Yes, it’s true. If you want, I could introduce you to mine,” she replies, stepping closer, her fingertips dancing on the crystal ball, so close to Derek’s.
Stiles feels his fingers turn into claws, because dude, so not on. He flexes his hands, trying to rein in the wolf feeling possessive of Derek.
“There’s a witch coven in Beacon Hills?” Derek asks, feigning surprise, but still smiling at her, and Stiles isn’t sure why he’s finding Derek’s blatant flirting so damn irritating.
It doesn’t matter though. What matters is the way the girl is laughing, baring her throat, all white skin begging to be torn apart.
“You make it sound like we brew potions and dance around naked in the moonlight! I can assure you, I prefer to keep my naked dancing a private thing, if you know what I mean.”
Stiles is pretty sure his face is showing how angry he’s currently feeling, even if he’s keeping his elongated teeth well hidden behind tightly closed lips. The girl isn’t looking at him though. Stiles’s ears are buzzing, and he doesn’t catch what Derek says next, or the girl’s reply. All he can hear is the rush of his own blood in his veins as his pulse picks up speed. All he can see is the hand she casually brushes against Derek’s arm as she reaches for something on a shelf, all he can smell is the faint scent of her arousal.
Her arousal. Not his. Stiles’s eyes are showing him a flirting Derek, smiling and leaning in, but when Stiles closes them, his other senses tell another story. Derek’s scent is, if anything, more neutral than it usually is, almost toned down. His heartbeat is slow and steady.
This is a trick. Derek is playing a role, trying to get information from the girl. He’s not interested. She’s nothing, she won’t be able to take Derek away from Stiles, away from his pack. Stiles takes a deep breath, and when he opens his eyes again it’s like someone took off the red veil of anger from his eyes. He digs human fingernails in his palm just to make sure he got himself back under control, and exhales shakily.
“Sure, I’ll be just a sec!” the girl is saying.
Stiles realizes he missed most of the conversation and has no idea what the hell just happened. The girl, Sage he reminds himself, runs back to the counter and disappears behind a door, and Derek aims a smug little smile at Stiles. He must see something on Stiles’s face, because his expression turns into a worried frown.
“Are you alright?” he asks, low enough that Sage can’t hear him from the back of the shop –where she’s typing away on a computer, Stiles’s hearing tells him.
Stiles nods, because yeah, he is now, but judging by the way Derek’s frown increases and how he takes a few steps closer to Stiles, it can’t have been very convincing.
“I’ll explain after,” Stiles sighs, because he can hear Sage’s footsteps behind him.
And sure enough, the girl is back with a piece of paper. She hands him to Derek with a smile.
“I’ve added my phone number on the back,” she tells him, leaning forward. “Give me a call.”
Stiles swallows back the growl rising in his throat as Derek just smiles and pockets the piece of paper. They buy a couple of books and a moonstone amulet before leaving, and Stiles lets out a big breath of relief once they’re outside.
“So, what happened in there,” Derek asks him as they walk back towards the car.
He hands Stiles the piece of paper with the credit card info of the man who purchased the wooden bowl. They’ll probably have to convince Danny to run a trace on it.
“It’s nothing,” Stiles replies, shifting his eyes away from Derek. “Just your stupid wolf being possessive.”
There’s a silence, and when Stiles glances back at Derek, the former werewolf has a quizzical frown on. Stiles sighs.
“Apparently it didn’t like seeing that girl flirt with you.”
Derek’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He stares at Stiles with an expression Stiles has never seen on his face before.
“What?” Stiles asks, defensively. “I managed to get it under control though, so nothing to worry about, I swear!”
“Stiles, the wolf…” Derek avert his eyes, and Stiles could swear he looks embarrassed. “It’s not... It just heightens your instincts and reflexes, connects you to the world in a slightly mystical way that’s a bit hard to understand, but... I know I said you had my wolf in you, a part of me, of who I was. But the wolf doesn’t have a will of its own. It can’t feel possessive of me.”
Derek looks back at him then, and it’s half curious and half amazed. Stiles doesn’t know what to say, and it’s not often he’s at a loss for words. They’ve stopped walking, they’re just standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at each other. Derek’s scent is filling Stiles’s nose, his heart beats slightly faster in Stiles’s ears.
The silence stretches, and Stiles doesn’t know what to do with it, what to do with the sudden realization that he wants Derek.
“I think I might need some time to adjust to that,” he says eventually, his mouth dry.
“Okay,” Derek breathes out. “We can… We can talk about it later, if you want.”
“See if it might lead anywhere?” Stiles asks, nervously biting his lower lip.
He watches Derek swallow, nod. There’s the shadow or a smile on his lips.
“Okay,” Stiles says, his heart beating fast in his chest. “Okay. When we’ve sorted his Alpha situation.
They walk back to Derek’s Camaro in silence, but the back of Derek’s hand keeps brushing against Stiles’s.
“Ease up, Derek,” Stiles tells him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Derek leans into the touch, craving a connection he can no longer feel. Physical contact could never replace a pack bond, and he feels fleetingly sad for Jackson that his former kanima nature will always prevent him from forming such a bond.
Still, physical contact is better than nothing, and Stiles’s touch calms him down. Jackson isn’t a threat; he’s here to help, even though he keeps glaring at everyone. Derek unfolds his arms and shoves his hands in his pockets.
Stiles moves to where Lydia and Deaton are bent over a map. Ultimately, the girl’s help will probably mean more that Jackson’s. Plus, she’d convinced Allison to join them, which also meant they got Chris Argent’s support. The other hunters won’t help, they barely tolerate Derek’s pack –Stiles’s pack– and the Alphas haven’t attacked any human yet.
There’s a hushed conversation over the map, and Stiles calls the Argents to have a look at something. Derek misses his heightened senses, unable to hear what they’re saying, but he trusts Stiles to share any important modification to the plan.
He trusts Stiles. Scott trusts Stiles. The Argents are listening to Stiles. Jackson strongly dislikes Stiles but seems to trust him too. They’re all coming together around him, almost naturally, like he was always meant to be an Alpha. There’s something about him now that speaks of confidence and capability, some natural authority that was always there but hidden under a pile of insecurities.
As he watches the teenager, Derek can’t help but think about the fact that Stiles is attracted to him, feels possessive of him. If he’s honest with himself, Derek has to admit that he actually likes Stiles. He liked him even when he was just a human brat getting in his way. He liked his guts and his loyalty to his friends, and the way he tried to do the right thing. He’s not sure if a relationship between them would work, they’re so different, but he wouldn’t mind trying. Because if it works, they could be phenomenal.
“I told you he’d make a good werewolf,” Peter says quietly behind him. “I just didn’t think he’d make such a great Alpha.”
Derek groans. “It’s not difficult to make a better Alpha than you,” he says. “Or me, I’ll admit it.”
“You were never meant to be an Alpha, Derek. You did your best, but you were always better at following orders than giving them. Always craving someone competent to rely on, to the point that you even followed me.”
“Worst mistake of my life, and that’s saying a lot,” Derek replies, turning to glare at his uncle.
“I’ll admit it, I was a little bit unhinged back then,” Peter concedes with a smile.
“A little?” Derek raises an eyebrow.
Peter shrugs. “Are you sure you want to go back to being the almighty Alpha of Beacon Hills?”
Derek doesn’t reply, won’t give Peter that satisfaction. Because if he’s honest with himself, the answer is no. He never wanted to be Alpha, but he took that responsibility, he made Betas, tried to build up a pack. It was his choice. Stiles, on the other hand, didn’t ask for any of this. He didn’t ask to be a werewolf, he certainly didn’t ask to be an Alpha and have a responsibility over them all. And just because he’s so good at it doesn’t give Derek the right to ask him to keep that role.
And on top of that, Derek can’t stand being human. He can’t stand how weak and fragile he feels, almost useless, even with one of Chris Argent’s guns strapped to his hip. He can’t stand the constant loneliness even when the pack is surrounding him. He can’t stand the void in his chest were his instincts and primal desires used to boil up, to almost talk to him, whispering about wilderness and freedom.
“We need to do this,” Derek finally breathes out, more to himself than to Peter.
“Everyone remembers what they have to do?” Stiles asks while Deaton is rolling up the map. “Then it’s time. Let’s go kick some Alpha ass.”
“I wish I could go with you,” he tells Deaton and Lydia again.
“And broadcast your presence to the other Alphas? Yeah right! They know your scent,” Lydia reminds him. “You’ll never get close enough.”
“Still, you’re putting yourself in danger for us.”
Lydia glares at him, and Stiles almost flinches. He might be an Alpha, but Lydia is still as terrifying as ever.
“They came after Scott. They’ll come after Jackson too. I’m not losing him again; I’m not losing any of you. So you better make sure you protect your pack, you hear me?”
She stabs a finger at him, and Stiles nods frenetically.
“I’ll call you when it’s done,” Deaton tells him. “You’ll have to move quickly, the two of us won’t be able to hold the barriers up long without your help.”
“I know,” Stiles replies, swallowing hard.
He watches the pair disappear into the night. Scott walks up to him and bumps their shoulders together. Stiles can feel his support through the pack bond. He can feel Isaac’s support too, and even Peter’s. He wishes he could feel Derek too.
His phone vibrates in his pocket, and Stiles pulls it out to read the text message.
“Allison and her dad are in place,” he tells the others. “They can see Deaton and Lydia starting to pour the mountain ash.”
“If anything happens to her, Stilinski, I’m holding you responsible,” Jackson growls from where he’s leaning against his Porsche.
“You and me both,” Stiles replies, turning his head in the direction of the motel.
As they wait, Stiles resists the urge to pace between the cars. Instead, he walks slowly among his wolves. Stiles squeezes Isaac’s shoulder, then gives Scott one of their goofy hugs. He puts a hand on Peter’s arm, feeling their bond grow a little bit firmer. Peter is still creepy, but he’s here, with them. He’s pack. When he reaches Jackson, he hesitates. Jackson huffs, rolling his eyes.
“Whatever,” he says, holding his hand out.
Stiles shakes it, briefly and slightly awkwardly. Jackson smells like a wolf, and Stiles is trying to connect with him the same way he’s connected to the other wolves, but it doesn’t work. It’s frustrating. Still, Jackson’s acceptance of him means a lot. Stiles nods at him, then moves on.
Derek is standing just there. He looks nervous and brooding and ready for the waiting to be over. And Stiles understands. Derek has lived his whole life with these bonds, with being able to feel someone else’s presence with him always. The loneliness of humanity must be a nightmare for him. It’ll be hard enough on Stiles when things get back to normal. If things get back to normal.
Stiles is too nervous to fight his instincts, to fight his wolf. He walks right into Derek’s space, puts a hand on Derek’s neck as their faces are barely a couple of inches apart. Derek leans into the touch, his skin warm under Stiles’s fingers.
“We’ll make this right, one way or another,” Stiles promises.
They stare at each other, and Stiles gets distracted by the green flecks in Derek’s eyes, by the smell of leather and the scent of Derek. It’s hard to ignore it, now that he’s admitted his own feelings to himself. It’s hard to ignore the way he wants to close the distance between them and brush his lips against Derek’s. He even thinks Derek might let him, that he might open his mouth and kiss him back, and Stiles doesn’t care that the pack is right there, probably watching them, he’s going to do it, he’s going to–
He feels the barrier snap shut, so powerful the magic ripples on his skin.
“They did it,” Stiles breathes out, turning his head back in the direction of the motel.
His phone starts buzzing in his pocket and Stiles takes it out while motioning to the pack to move. They run, werewolf-fast, except for Derek who jumps into the Camaro. He would have fallen behind if he’d followed them on foot.
“I know,” Stiles says before Deaton can speak. “I felt it. I had no idea it would be so powerful.”
“It seems we underestimated Miss Martin’s abilities,” Deaton agrees. “But I’m not sure even that’s going to be enough if you don’t get here fast.”
“Almost there,” Stiles replies, then flicks the phone shut as he takes a left turn and spots the small motel the Alphas have taken residency in.
There’s a ring of mountain ash circling it, as well as candles evenly spaced along the barrier. Lydia is kneeling about five feet outside of the circle, eyes closed in concentration as she keeps up the barrier that will suppress any attempts at magic inside it.
Jackson goes to crouch defensively in front of her as four Alphas growl at her, trapped inside. Stiles lets the change wash over him, muscles and bones shifting, teeth elongating and nails turning into claws.
He recognizes the scent of the Alpha who attacked Scott and Derek, and he snarls at her, anger growing inside him. There are three other wolves, pacing and growling along the line of mountain ash. Stiles can feel them trying to will their way out of the barrier, and he takes a deep breath, concentrates on keeping it sealed.
“You think you can hold us in forever?” one of the Alphas asks, baring his teeth at Stiles.
“Forever? No,” Stiles replies as the Camaro comes to a halt behind him. “But long enough for our hunter friends to pick you off one by one.”
“Do you even hear yourself?” the female Alpha snickers. “‘Hunter friends’, really. Kid, you’re in over your head and your little trick here is impressive, but useless.”
Stiles resists the urge to turn his head and look at Derek, who’s walking up to him. Instead, he raises his hand and makes the signal Chris Argent taught him. A bullet ricochets off the ground, barely a foot from one of the Alphas. The smell of wolfsbane is strong and heady in Stiles’s nose, and someone lets out a small cry of surprise.
“Ah, so your human witch is there too,” Stiles says. “Good. I’m guessing you’re going to need her.”
Stiles feels the barrier start to waver at the same time he hears Lydia’s sharp in-breath. He switches his main focus from the Alphas to the spell, drawing energy from the earth under his feet, from the moon high in the sky and the pendent around his neck. The barrier stands.
“What are you waiting for, then, kid?” one of the Alphas asks, his eyes sweeping between the mostly empty buildings around them.
“I’m waiting for you to reverse it. Whatever spell you worked, do it again, and give this pack its rightful Alpha back.”
“Sorry kid, not possible,” he says.
He doesn’t look particularly sorry. Stiles growls, his anger feeding the spells Lydia and Deaton worked.
“The spell requires a witch as a target,” the human witch says, walking out of the room she’d been hiding in. She’s raising her hands up, as if to say that she’s not arm and thus harmless. As if magic always required hands. “And even then, there’s no way to predict who the werewolf nature is going to attach itself to, as it turns out.”
“Rachel!” the female Alpha snaps at her.
“Sorry, but this is kind of a mess, sis’. You know this isn’t what I signed up for. You promised no harm would come to anyone, and yet you already hurt him,” she points at Derek, who’s standing just behind Stiles’s left shoulder, “and now there’s this, and they have guns, Danielle!”
“They told you no one would be hurt?” Stiles repeats, surprised, and his anger recedes slightly. “So this was a way for you to become an Alpha without having to kill anyone? But why? And why did you attack Scott?”
“I’m sick,” Rachel says bitterly. “The wolf would save me, but not before the bite would kill me. We thought the first spell had failed completely–”
“Shut up,” one of the Alphas cuts in with a snarl at her.
“And what are you gonna do if I don’t, Stan?”
“I’ll rip your face off is what I’ll do!” Stan replies, taking a step in her direction.
“No you won’t,” Danielle growls back, moving between them. “You touch my sister and I’ll turn you into a rug.”
Stan growls some more, but takes a step back. So even a pack made of Alphas has a hierarchy, it would seem, or maybe Danielle is just the most badass of the pack.
“Rachel,” Stiles starts before the tense silence that follows stretches for too long. “I don’t especially want this to end in a blood bath either, so please go on.”
“Right,” she nods, looking a bit pale. “So we thought the spell had failed because it wasn’t designed to be worked on an Alpha in the first place. And, well, we figured being a Beta would still be better than being dead, and we knew Scott McCall was the least happy to be a werewolf, so...”
“How did you know that?” Stiles frowns.
“Your little friends told us,” one of the other Alphas smirks.
“Erica and Boyd?” Derek asks, an aggressive bark that hides most of the worry in his voice. “What have you done with them?”
“We let them go after they–” Rachel starts, but Stan cuts in.
“We killed them.”
“You what?” Rachel hiccups, taking a step back.
The other Alphas look as shocked as her.
“I slit their throats, girl,” Stan grins maniacally. “I don’t care what your sister–”
Stiles’s roar of anger covers the rest of his words. He could feel the rest of the pack seething too, and it fueled his own rage. Boyd and Erica might not have ever been part of his pack, but they’d been his friends, as much as anyone other than Scott had ever been. They were good people, if a bit messed up.
Stiles remembers the scared look on their faces when he found them in Gerard Argent’s basement. His vision goes red, and he leaps into the protection barrier.
The spell shatters around him, briefly burning his skin before its power seeps into him. Two of the Alphas get in his way, but Stiles shoves them away with more strength than he knew he was capable of. He ignores Danielle’s growls from where she’s standing protectively in front of her sister. She’s no threat. She’s not his target. Stan is.
Stan shifts more completely, turning into a black monster similar to what Peter used to look like. Stiles knows what it means, he asked when he realized it didn’t happen to him. Bloodlust. There’s nothing more dangerous than an Alpha lost in bloodlust.
Stan launches himself at Stiles, claws and teeth reaching, grabbing, closing down on Stiles’s flesh. Stiles doesn’t care. He reaches, through the pack bound, for the strength of his Betas. He reaches to the earth under his feet and the moon high in the sky and the pendant hanging against his chest. He reaches deep under his skin for the power of the barrier spell, still thrumming through him, and through it there’s Deaton’s magic and Lydia’s breathtaking power. And they’re letting him borrow it.
Stiles takes it all and, ignoring the blood running from his shoulder and his neck, he digs his claws into Stan’s chest and tugs. Stiles’s ears barely register the roar of pain that escapes the other Alpha under the rush of power and strength. Stealing Stan’s spark, his magic, is almost too easy. But it’s not enough, not by far, and Stiles tugs harder, wills the wolf to come.
When it does, it’s like the world is exploding around him. He lets go of Stan, who slumps down on the ground, human again (and not only just in appearance), and he howls with the strength and power of two Alpha werewolves.
Stan whimpers and Stiles looks down at him. He’s still vibrating with rage and power, and it would be so easy to just claw Stan’s throat out. He deserves it.
“Stiles!”
It’s Derek’s voice calling his name, Derek’s hand carefully tugging on his shoulder.
“He killed them.”
“This isn’t you, Stiles. You’re better than him. Better than most of us.”
Stiles’s vision clears partially, but there’s so much power in him, it’s getting hard to breath.
“I...I can’t give it to you,” he stutters out. “His wolf. I can feel it, feel its weird bond to the others, feel how it’s clinging to my magic. I wish I could give it to you, but I can’t. You don’t have magic.”
“Can you give it to her?” Danielle asks, pleadingly.
Stiles can sense her distress, her despair and her worry. Right now, she’s almost pack, and she’s begging him. He looks back at Derek, not sure what he’s searching for on the older boy’s face, maybe permission, maybe approval, but Derek just stares back, lost and clueless and worried.
When he takes a step towards Rachel, Stan scrambles to his feet and tries to make a run for it, but Jackson gets in his way, growling.
“Let him go,” Stiles tells him. “He’s harmless now.”
From the corner of his eye he can see Scott, Isaac and Peter slowly getting back to their feet. They look exhausted, but Stiles can’t feel sorry for borrowing so heavily on their strength. He doesn’t think they resent it either.
Danielle takes a careful step to the side, her two remaining packmates joining her, and they all keep a wary eye on Stiles when he reaches Rachel.
“This is going to hurt,” he tells her. “I know, I’ve been there.”
She nods, and Stiles digs his claws in her chest. She cries out as he forces the second wolf out of him and into her. Next to them, Danielle makes a whimpering sound but the other Alphas wrap their fingers around her wrists to try and keep her calm.
When it’s over, Stiles staggers back and finds Derek’s strong chest against his back. He leans against it for a moment, catching his breath. Lydia’s power slips out of his grasp, as if she’d snatched it from his fingers, and he can hear her take a deep, relieved breath. Far away, there’s the sirens of police cars.
“We need to go before the cops get here,” he finally says. “Scott, call Allison and tell her and her dad to pack up and leave. You guys,” he looks at where Danielle is holding on Rachel’s shoulders, anchoring her into the here and now, “get the hell out of my town.”
“Yes sir,” one of the other wolves says, almost quietly. Stiles never caught their names, but he doesn’t care at all.
“Come on everybody, let’s go home.”
Lydia is half sprawled on Jackson, mouthing along the dialogue with a tired smile while Isaac, sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, leans against her thigh. Allison has her feet tucked under her as she and Scott sit on the other side of the couch, trying not to touch too much. Peter is sitting down next to Isaac, shoulders touching, his eyes resolutely glued to the tv screen.
For some reason Allison’s dad and Scott’s mom, who had come to check on them after the fight, are still here, sitting together a bit awkwardly on the loveseat. Deaton’s the only one who left, after he received a phonecall from a woman whose voice reminded Stiles of Ms Morell.
Sties is perched on the armrest of the armchair in which Derek is sitting. He’s still feeling wound up, and he keeps getting distracted by Derek’s scent. Wind and wilderness and spice, like always, but now Stiles can recognize the nuances and the feelings that lace through it.
There’s sadness whenever he looks at the pack, all huddled up together, even though half of them can’t feel the pack bonds either. There’s a faint trace of curious arousal whenever Stiles’s dangling foot brushes against his thigh, or when their eyes catch. And there’s something else, something new, flaring every once in a while. Stiles thinks it might be hope.
“I’ll make us some tea,” he says all of a sudden, because he’s bursting with energy and if he doesn’t do something he’s going to slide in Derek’s lap and claim his mouth in front of everyone.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Derek says, getting up when Stiles does and following him to the kitchen.
There’s really no need for a second pair of hands to make tea, they realize once they’re waiting for the water to boil. Stiles is fidgeting with the tea ball as he leans against the kitchen counter next to Derek.
“So,” he starts softly, but he stops. He doesn’t know how to say it, doesn’t know how to offer it.
Derek is looking at him, staring with such intensity Stiles almost forgets he’s the one with the power here. He forgets about what he wanted to say, kissing Derek the only thing he can think of. So he does just that.
Derek’s mouth is warm and pliant, and Stiles slides his hands under his leather jacket, grabbing the fabric of the back of Derek’s shirt to pull Derek closer to him. He can feel his own pulse racing in his veins, can feel Derek’s heart beat faster against his as they explore each other’s mouth.
Claws and fangs threaten to come out for a second, but Stiles keeps it under control by just focusing on Derek, what he tastes like and smells like and feels like. When they part for air Derek throws his head back, baring his neck, and Stiles can’t resist the urge to kiss it, to worry at the Adam’s apple with his teeth.
“Stiles!” Derek breathes out, just shy of a moan, and Stiles hums against his skin, then nips playfully at Derek’s throat.
The scent of Derek’s arousal is almost intoxicating, and Stiles can’t help but rub himself against Derek’s hip, just once, before taking a step back. He’s only too aware that there are currently for werewolves with super-hearing sitting in his living room. One of them is his best friend, and other one is Derek’s uncle.
“Hum,” he says, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “So, I gave this a little bit more thought, and...”
“Yeah.” Derek’s smile is small, but honest and real. It makes Stiles’s heart skip a beat.
“Good,” Stiles smiles back.
Derek reaches for the kettle, his hand brushing against Stiles’s arm, and he pours the water into the tea pot. Stiles drops the tea ball in it and stares at it. They have no reason to stay in the kitchen now, they should just grab a few cups and go back to the living room.
“I’m sorry you got the responsability of the pack thrust onto you,” Derek says gruffly. He’s avoiding Stiles’s eyes now, staring at the tiled floor.
“They’re not so bad,” Stiles replies with a soft smile, his eyes dragging back to the door leading to the living room. “I’m sorry I can’t give it all back to you, though. It must feel terrible.”
“I miss the feel of pack,” Derek admits reluctantly. “But I think you make a good Alpha.”
Stiles puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder, and Derek looks up at him.
“I could... I could give you the bite. If you want.”
Derek stares at him intensely, emotions playing in his blue-green eyes, and swallows.
“I would like that very much.”
“Okay.”
They stand, frozen in place, for about a minute before Stiles huffs impatiently and takes a step forward. He can smell Derek’s anticipation, the spicey accent of his renewed arousal, can hear his heartbeat pick up as Stiles slowly slides the leather jacket off Derek’s arms. He lets his hands roam a little bit on the hard muscles there.
“Is any place better?” he asks, nosing Derek’s neck.
“Just avoid any major artery if you don’t want me to bleed to death,” Derek breathes out.
“‘Kay...”
Stiles kisses Derek’s neck, then slips his hands under his shirt to take it off. Derek lifts up his arms to help, and Stiles just stares at the view. He’s seen Derek shirtless before, but this is different, and he’s kind of amazed that he’s allowed to touch now. He lets his fingertips play lightly on Derek’s chest.
“Stiles,” Derek warns, or pleads, it’s hard to say.
“Yes, right.”
Stiles shakes himself. He’s still so keyed up from everything that the shift is easy, the muscles and bones rearranging themselves in a split second. Derek’s scent seems stronger now that he’s wolfed out, his heartbeat louder in Stiles’s ears. Stiles takes a deep breath, steps closer so that their chests bump together.
He closes his teeth on Derek’s shoulder, feeling the skin break, the blood flow in his mouth. It should make him want to gag, he thinks, but it doesn’t. Derek is rigid against him, like he’s trying hard not to cry out in pain, and Stiles wrap his arms around his waist as he licks the wound clean.
“Thank you,” Derek breathes against Stiles’s neck.
Stiles turns his head to kiss him again. It’s slow and tender this time, more about comfort and intimacy than anything sexual. Stiles silently mourns the loss when Derek pulls his shirt back on. He leaves his jacket on a chair though, and the walk back to the living room with the tea pot and a handful of cups.
The tea is too strong, but no one comments on it, or on the fact that Stiles settles on Derek’s lap. There are a few glances, curious or amused or kind of happy, but by the time they pop in a second movie they mostly stop.
Isaac is the first to fall asleep, lightly snoring against Peter’s shoulder. It’s like a signal for the rest of the pack, and one by one they close their eyes. Stiles smile sleepily at the sight of them, all huddled together (that includes Mrs McCall and Mr Argent on the loveseat). They’re safe, for now.
Stiles shifts into Derek’s lap to settle more comfortably, and Derek’s arm around his waist tightens slightly. His father will be here in a few hours, and he’ll probably have questions when he stumbles upon this scene, but Stiles guesses this’ll be as much a good time as any other to have that whole werewolf conversation.
Surrounded by his pack in the comfort of his home, Stiles falls asleep.