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“Stiles, I’m so sorry” the Sheriff said as he walked toward his son standing motionless over Derek’s body, looking so out of place enfolded in itchy white sheets with monitors beeping all around him and tubes feeding him his every breath.
“It’s ridiculously expensive... to keep someone on life support for so long. Even the money that was left to him when his family died won’t be enough to keep this up for much longer.” He grimaced and shook his head softly before trying to pull Stiles into his arms.
“No!” Stiles shouted pushing his father away. “Don’t hug me like you did when you told me ‘mom is sleeping now” he replied, putting harsh air quotes around the word ‘sleeping,’ that made the Sheriff flinch.
“He’s not sleeping, dad... He’s not dead, and he’s not going to die. He’s alive, and he's going to stay that way. I’ll get a job. I’ll get two jobs if I have to; three jobs. Scott and Lydia and Isaac can pitch in. Jackson’s rich, maybe he can… We’ll get the money, we’ll—”
“Stiles…”
“No, dad! He can’t. They can’t… they can’t take him off life-support. No, he’s going to be fine; he’s going to be just fine. He’s going to be okay. He has to be okay! He has to be!” Stiles barely took a breath between each word, and started ringing the hem of his shirt until it began to rip between his shaking hands.
“He’ll heal. He always heals. He has to heal for god’s sake! He’s a were—” Stiles cut himself off with a panicked gasp and a clamped hand over his mouth.
“Stiles, son,” his dad said softly as he squeezed Stile’s shoulder in a failed attempt to ease some of his son’s tangible panic. “Derek’s been in a coma for nearly five months. The doctors say he’s probably not aware of anything right now.”
In another situation he would've laughed at the irony of the English language, at how close he’d come to blowing their secret, and at how close he’d come to being thrown in the loony bin for mentioning werewolves like they actually existed.
In another situation he would've elbowed Derek in the ribs until the alpha rolled his eyes while trying to hide a grin, muttering a fond ‘idiot’ while watching Stiles try (and fail) to explain the manic look in his eyes to the clueless Sheriff.
In another situation, Stiles wouldn't have crumpled onto the hospital floor shaking and screaming, gripping at his arms so tightly that he would leave bruises, just trying to keep himself from shattering into a million tiny pieces.