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What You Wish For

When he can't sleep, when he's too keyed up to let go and fall asleep, he thinks about it. About Stiles. Not—not that way, he always hurries to stop himself when it starts. Not that way, only…

He isn't blind. He knows that Stiles is attractive, that he's attracted to Stiles. But he's also not dumb or insane. Derek isn't going to say a thing to Stiles about it. Because he has no way of knowing what Stiles might say but he does know that no matter what Stiles does say it's going to be cataclysmic. Telling Stiles would be inviting disaster. Touching Stiles would be chaos. It's bad enough that he likes Stiles, that he enjoys his company.

Oh, and he does. Stiles is funny, is a sarcastic little shit, is smart as hell and stubborn and loyal and strangely insightful and a complete idiot. He's a pain in the ass and a jerk in his belly. He runs with wolves and he's so unafraid of being afraid.

He's part of Derek's pack, uninvited and unintentional and undeniable.

He's a risk Derek can't take, a shooting star he can't wish on. He's a heartache waiting to happen.

He's in Derek's loft.

"What the hell?" Derek asks jerking upright and staring at Stiles who is suddenly in his bedroom. From out of nowhere. In the middle of his bed. With Derek. Derek should stop sleeping naked because Stiles is practically in his lap. Stiles is three inches and one thin blanket away from being in his lap.

Stiles frowns at him. "I think I'm having a second puberty. That is magical. Weird things are happening, at any rate. Possibly magical. I'm working on it. I'll get back to you, big guy. For now, I wish I was with Scott."

With that, Stiles is gone just as suddenly as he came.

Derek stares at the comforter, the indentation that Stiles left behind, the proof that Stiles had been there. When he touches it, it is faintly warm. The air smells likes Stiles and ozone, the aftermath of a lightning strike. "I am not crazy," Derek says out loud to himself. He's also pretty sure he's not dreaming but if he is then he really, really wants to wake up.

His phone rings as soon as the thought is out and it's Scott. When he picks up, he can hear Scott shrieking at him. "Stiles is here, how is Stiles here? He smells like you and how is he here? I DON'T WANT HIM HERE!"

He can hear Stiles as well, shrieking in the background. "DUDE, ME TOO!"

Allison, very calmly and much closer than Stiles' voice, says, "Can somebody hand me my bra?"

"Oh my god, STILES! GO AWAY. I WISH YOU WOULD GO AWAY!"

"ME TOO!"

Stiles is back. Very loudly. He looks shaken. "Scott was with Allison."

Derek is just going to roll with this. "So I heard," he says dryly.

"Naked," Stiles stresses. "He was with her naked. Naked. Doing naked things."

Derek looks significantly down at himself.

Stiles scrambles back, teetering on the edge of the bed. "Okay, dude, pants. Not that you aren't—awkward. This is awkward no matter what. Oh man. Pants. I wish you had pants."

Derek stares at him. This is just. Why the hell in his BED? Derek didn't need the mental image. And if he was going to get it, he didn't need it to be a horrified Stiles. He'd like to believe that Stiles would enjoy a trip to his bed if he ever, voluntarily, took it. "Grab me some pants?" he says after a long, long moment of mutual staring.

In reply, Stiles tips off the bed and then yanks back the blankets.

There's another long, long moment of staring. Derek wants to tell Stiles that his eyes are up significantly higher than his gaze. "Um." Stiles says.

Derek rubs a hand over his face and points to his dresser. "Please grab me some pants?" he tries.

"That should have worked," Stiles says, not moving.

With a wordless sigh, Derek gets up, brushes past Stiles—resolutely not feeling the fleeting touch of their shoulders—and gets himself some pants. "Call Scott," he instructs as he puts his pant on.

Stiles is staring at him. "Commando," he says. Then, "What?"

"Call. Scott." Derek repeats slowly. "Have him call Isaac. I'm going to call Peter and Erica and Boyd."

"Why?"

He's already digging his phone out as he asks so Derek feels free to answer him. "Because we're going to Deaton's to figure out what the hell is wrong with you."

"I've been tested," Stiles says cheerfully, swinging his feet from where he sits on Deaton's exam table. "Many different times. By many different doctors. For multiple things. The only disorder that stuck was the ADHD. Also, this is probably magical puberty and not rabies so I'm not sure if you're qualified. No offense, Doc." If Derek wasn't a werewolf, if he wasn't versed in Stiles' scent, in his heartbeat, he'd probably believe the front that Stiles is putting up.

"Magical puberty doesn't exist," Deaton says serenely. He's very calm for a man woken up at midnight to deal with Stiles' current predicament of possible magical puberty. "And I'm sure you're not rabid."

"He might be," Peter offers.

Nobody pays any attention to him, except Derek. Derek flashes him the alpha eyes and a scowl. Now is not the time for Peter to get cute.

"Just because you didn't go through it doesn't mean I'm not," Stiles says, still swinging his feet. "The magical puberty, not the rabies."

"Stiles," Scott says.

"I’m serious!"

"Stiles," Scott repeats, tone colored by affectionate exasperation.

"I'm bored," says Peter with absolutely no affection and complete exasperation.

"Man," says Boyd, "I wish I knew what the hell was going on."

Deaton smiles. "I happen to have heard from reputable sources that our Mister Stilinski has managed to make a genie upset. Very, very upset. Wishes are going to come true for him until he finds the correct key to unlock the magic." Derek really wonders about Deaton and his connections, sometimes. "Or until the genie decides to end it.

Stiles looks from Boyd to Deaton. "I wish," he says very clearly "that Lydia was here."

"Frankly, I wish she were as well," Peter says. "She at least is entertaining."

"It's the middle of the night," says Lydia as she walks into the room. "Why does Erica think I care about Stiles?" she asks, holding up her phone. She fixes a glare at Peter. "Why is he here?"

"Did Stiles do that or did Peter?" Isaac wonders out loud. "Because Scott said he wished Stiles would go away earlier and Boyd just wished to know what was going on. Now this with Lydia."

Erica shrugs, blonde curls bouncing. "I don't know; see if somebody can wish Jackson was here, too."

Jackson walks in. "What are you losers talking about?" He sneers around the room. "I wish I—"

"STOP." Derek goes a little bit alpha to make Jackson shut up. He holds up both hands. "Everybody stop." He can smell that ozone scent on the air, the one that came with Stiles on his bed. It's new and given that the newest new thing is Stiles pissing off a genie—and how even did that happen, he has to wonder—and getting magic laid on him, he's going to have to assume that the smell is related to the magic. It's strong in the room. The person nearest to him is Scott. He grabs him by the scruff of the neck, snatches his arm, and inhales deeply.

"Hey!" Scott yelps.

Scott smells like ozone, but it's faint. Peter is the next closest and Derek circles to him. He also smells like ozone, stronger than Scott. So does Boyd, when he silently offers his hand out to Derek to smell after exchanging a small glance with Isaac. It's on Boyd, too, but not as strong as on Peter. This is not what he wants to smell and not how he wants to smell it. The scent is even stronger on Erica, non-existent on Isaac and Jackson. He doesn't particularly want to sniff Deaton, he's not willing to lose a body part to trying to sniff Lydia, and he's not going to sniff an Argent, period. With a sinking heart he steps in front of Stiles.

"Why are you sniffing me? Or any of us? Did you smell crime, McGruff?" Stiles asks. His heart is thumping, picking up speed. It makes his own scent stronger, the other harder to find. He has to put his face right against Stiles' neck to catch it. When he does, the smell is faint, the aftermath of a storm rather than the lightning itself. "Derek?" Stiles asks. "Dude, 'cmon."

This is not what he wants. Stiles' feet are still kicking and he puts his hands on his knees to still him. And Stiles does go still. It's nice. Even though things are not looking so good, it's nice. For a moment Derek rests his forehead against Stiles' shoulder. He lets out a breath and takes another. The ozone smell is all but gone.

Until Stiles says, "Okay, I know we now know what's wrong with me but I kinda wish we'd asked about what the hell was wrong with Derek."

It's sharp, a flash of scent that makes Derek back away quickly. This is not good. At all. It's so bad.

"What did you find, Derek?" Deaton asks.

Derek can't help but put his face in his hand. "Stiles, what the hell did you wish for after you left my place?"

"…crap," Stiles mutters.

Derek looks at him from between his fingers. "Say it."

"Okay, but you have to understand that I didn't know and those two—" He points at Allison and Scott "—were naked and I so did not need to see that. It was traumatizing. It was like watching my Dad have se—ew. Oh, that's gross."

"Stiles."

Stiles throws both hands up. "I wished it wasn't happening to me."

Lydia looks around the room and says, with sharp precision, "I wish you'd all tell me what's going on." She's nobody's fool. Peter smiles at her pleasantly. "And that you would stop that."

Derek cuffs Peter on the back of the head and pays no attention to the icy glare it nets him. "Stiles pissed off a genie," he tells Lydia. He stops to analyze how he feels, to see if he feels particularly compelled to explain things to her. He doesn't think he does; he'd have told her anyhow just because she is here and possibly already involved.

While he's thinking, Isaac is taking over. "Doctor Deaton says his wishes are going to come true until he finds the way to make it stop."

"Only genius here," Erica adds "wished it wasn't happening to him."

"I wish you'd quit being mean to him just because he didn't want to date you," Allison says. It's kind of her to defend Stiles only now she smells like magic, too.

Erica hugs Stiles from behind. "It's my way of being sweet to him; he's the Batman to my Catwoman."

"I wish I didn't have to say this but…" Isaac breaks in, wincing at the smell. And then again when it gets stronger and very obviously tinted with Isaac's own scent.

"Damn it, Isaac," Erica starts.

"Lovely," Peter smirks at the same time.

"Stiles wished it wasn't happening to him," Derek cuts over all of them. Yeah, he's still not sure if he's feeling compelled or not. Either way, he really doesn't have time for this bullshit. He smiles grimly. "So now it's happening to everybody."

Derek takes Stiles back to the Camero, despite protests, and stuffs him inside. Stiles is uncharacteristically quiet. Derek can't help glancing at him as he drives, heading for the loft again. There's room there for everybody and, with the exception of Peter, nobody to bother them while they sort things out. "Spill," he says eventually.

"I wish we weren't so close to your place," Stiles says.

That ozone-magic smell is there but Derek sees the 'accident ahead' and 'detour' signs even as Stiles says it so it's not…he's not sure. He's willing to admit to himself, too, that he's not that eager to bring Stiles back to his place right now, not that eager to dive into this wish thing. He likes Stiles being in his car, wind in his hair and blowing the scent of him all over the place. He ignores most of the detour, aiming for the edge of town and the long, slow swing back to center. "Noticed it as you said it," he explains, adding "and I wanted you to get this off your chest before you sparked a riot at the loft."

Stiles looks out the window and doesn't say anything. He's not as tense, though, and so Derek is content to let the silence go on, let it empty out of Stiles and fill up the car. He heads past the edge of town, to the far side of the Preserve. The roads are empty so Derek lets his foot down harder on the gas, picks up speed. Stiles sticks his hand out the window, catching the night wind in his palm and straining it through his fingers. He turns his hand and slides it over the air like skimming waves. He is in everything Derek can smell and hear. Stiles' heart humming along with the tires, the engine. Stiles' scent mixed in to all the scents that are thick in the midnight dark air. They crest a hill and for a moment they seem suspended in the stars. For a moment it feels like the last vestiges of his guilt, the blame, has floated off taking with it the weight of the things he owes his pack, owes the boy beside him. For a moment it's just him and Stiles and the sky, weightless. For a moment, Derek thinks of rounding the moon, slingshotting the sun, of being simple, simple, simple. Oh, it's so much of what he wants. And then it's over, the downward pull of the hill dragging them down to Earth again.

"I don't get you," Stiles says.

Derek heads back for town, for the problems waiting for them. "You don't have to," he says, even if he wants Stiles to get it, to get him. He keeps on driving and ignores the way Stiles is watching him.

Unsurprisingly, the others are a little grumpy. It's late, things smell weird (to the werewolves), and they've got to try to unlock the magic on Stiles, the magic he's managed to tangle all of them in. Everybody looks up when they walk in. With the exception of Jackson and Allison, who aren't there.

"Allison had to go home," Erica reports. "We let her because we didn't want to get shot." She flips her hair at Scott's scowl.

"Jackson accidentally wished he wasn't here," Isaac says.

"It wasn't accidental," says Boyd.

"I wish he was here," Lydia says.

Scott narrows his eyes. "I wish he had to suffer with the rest of us."

Jackson appears lying in mid-air and promptly thuds to the floor. He launches himself at Scott, growling and wolfed out.

Peter rolls his eyes before turning away from the wrestling betas. He leans back in his seat, putting his hands behind his head. "You do know that I blame you for all of this," he says to Stiles, tone mild but the rebuke clear.

"I wish you were dead again," Stiles says clearly.

Derek is both relieved and not when it fails to work. "Nobody else," he says to the room at large. "Nobody says it again." He looks at his uncle. "Don't tempt them," he warns. He shoves Stiles forward with a hand planted in the middle of his back. "Move." He lets his hand linger for a second even though he knows he shouldn't. "Work."

They're going to figure this out. They're going to find the limits, find the rules, and then they're going to find the way to stop it. It's not like it's rocket science; it's just magic.

Magic and teenagers don't mix, Derek discovers. Magic is bullshit and teenagers are morons roughly fifty percent of the time. Derek so does not regret putting them into a circle like kindergartners and making them go in turns. He almost wishes he'd bitten five-year-olds. The five-year-olds would probably handle this better.

"I wish I was a tiger," says Stiles.

"No," says Derek.

"I wish Stiles was a tiger," Erica tries.

"No," Derek repeats.

"I wish Stiles were eaten—" begins Peter.

"I will let them wish you were dead again," Derek says over him.

"I wish Peter was on a rocket to the sun," Lydia says. She pouts when nothing happens.

"No names," Derek says. "No aiming at anybody. We've been over this." He points as Isaac, who is next in the circle. "Go."

"I wish I had a kitten," Isaac says.

"Damn it, no," Derek tells him even as a kitten climbs his leg. He pries it off and hands it to Stiles.

Scott reaches over and scratches at the kitten's ginger ears. "I wish we had a puppy."

"Not we!" Boyd says. But it's too late. Scott knocks the heel of his hand against his head. Boyd repeats the action, gently. "We've been over this one twice already."

They've learned that 'we' can mean anybody the wisher considers themselves to be in 'we' with.

Stiles sighs and nuzzles the kitten. "Well now we're going to have to wait for your mom or Allison to call."

"Or his grandma. Again," Lydia says. She looks put out. "Either way, we're going to miss taking a tally on it."

Jackson glares at Scott. "Thanks, McCall. Now we're going to be here even longer."

"Hey, cut him some slack," Stiles snaps. "It's late and we're all tired."

"He's the only one fucking up!" Jackson snaps back.

"How are you such an epic douche?"

"Why do I even know a loser like you?"

"Oh, my god. I wish you had horns!" Stiles shouts at Jackson, flinging his hands out.

Jackson sprouts a devilish set of horns. Not surprisingly, it infuriates him. "I wish YOU had horns! A horn!" Jackson shouts back.

For a second Derek thinks it hasn't worked and then Stiles drops his hands. To cover his crotch. It does a lot to hide the situation but not enough. "Capricious take on horns," Peter observes.

"You are such a—you know what? I am not finishing that. Never mind. Nobody else say anything," Stiles says. "I'm going to go to the bathroom."

Derek does his best to not watch him shuffle out. "Do we need to go over the rules again?" he asks instead. He goes on without waiting for their groaning denials. "No aiming at anybody specific unless it's to fix something, nothing that would cause harm, nothing that is not easily fixable." Isaac clears his throat. Derek manfully resists rolling his eyes. "No wishing yourself home, away, or otherwise elsewhere because I will shoot you."

He is silent for a moment, letting it sink in. But in the silence nobody is wishing and without the magic the scent is fading and Derek can pick out Stiles, growing warmer and spicier by the second. He doesn't want to wait to see if he can hear him. That's just too much. "Go on," he barks.

"I wish we had a gun," Peter says cheerfully. "For Derek," he adds.

Derek leaves it on the table. He supposes it's an emergency option. "Keep going."

By the end of the night Derek's pretty much willing to shoot himself with wolfsbane if it means putting an end to whatever it is the genie has done to his pack. Magic is fickle and horrible. There are currently nine kittens, a puppy, a unicorn, a pony, the world's smallest violin, a river thanks to a busted pipe in the kitchen, a souvenir snow globe from Hawaii, three bus tickets, a plane ticket, a ball pit, the contents of some obscure boutique, and a buffet table. And pizza. And a wingding station, and a chocolate fountain. And curly fries. Scott's skin is green, Lydia is dressed like a clown, Isaac is three feet tall, Stiles is slumped in on himself next to the fries, the white board, cork board and chalk board are all full of names and tally marks, and Derek has a pounding headache.

Peter is the only one who seems to be enjoying things. And he seems to be enjoying them immensely.

"Stop smirking," Derek instructs him. "You're making everybody nervous."

"I'm making the best of things," Peter says to Derek.

Derek does not want Peter to make the best of things. That never fixes anything. It usually makes them immeasurably worse. "I'm calling it," he says. "We're done."

"But I wanted to wish for giant rats!" Peter protests. Nothing happens and Derek can't hear anything that sounds like the skitter and scratch of rats, not even with everybody holding their breath. "Oh, rats," Peter says sadly.

"I wish Peter were plagued by itchy hives," Lydia says, mean and cold.

When Peter curses and starts to tear at his clothes Derek covers his eyes with his hand. "Jackson," he says tiredly.

Jackson snarls and then, when Derek flashes his eyes at him, says, "I wish there was an ointment for Peter's hives."

"Nothing," Peter says waspishly, scratching.

Gesturing silently at Scott, Derek waits. Scott groans. "I wish there was a cure for Peter's hives."

"Derek," Peter snaps.

"I wish I could shoot all of you," Derek says. Stiles nudges him, the curve of a shoulder against the middle of Derek's back. "Keep going."

"I wish Peter didn't have hives," Stiles says. Nothing happens and they end up making it all the way back to Scott before the hives are gone. Stiles raises his arms over his head in a tired salute. "Victory. Tally it."

Lydia does and then bins her piece of chalk, dusting her hands on the garish clown outfit she's in. "There's no pattern. Scott got four in a row—possibly seven but we're missing the tallies—most of them were food but not all. Isaac got a kitten nine times out of ten but it wasn't a consecutive ten wishes. We can't repeat a wish but we can get close with the wording, not everything is literal, we can't undo a wish, we can all wish at once but only one gets granted, we can't undo past events. We can't wish this over and we can't wish for it to stop. We're missing data on Allison but given what happened earlier and extrapolating on current data it seems to be limited to those of us who were at Deaton's tonight. It seems to have missed him and," she gave him an appraising look "somehow Derek is immune."

"Things we already know," Peter announces with a roll of his eyes.

"I wish you'd go away," Stiles says resignedly. He pushes to his feet. "Bottom line, we can't end it with wishing and we can't predict who gets the next wish. Plus, 'wish' seems to be the magic word." He scrubs a hand through his hair and Derek feels his weariness like it is his own.

"So…so what now?" Scott asks. Derek can't help feeling pleased with the way Scott looks to him. "What do we do?"

"We're going to have to be really careful and watch what we say." Derek addresses the room at large, looking at Scott as he says it. He can't wish but he includes himself anyhow. He looks around the room, taking in his betas, his humans, his pack. "Until we find a way to fight this, or find that genie and fight it, we're cautious." He doesn't like it, it feels like giving up, but things are going to be unpredictable. He can't risk the betas to a fight he doesn't know how to have. He turns, looks at each of them in turn. Whatever happens, he has to keep them safe, keep them whole, watch their wolves and guard their humanity. His eyes land on Stiles last. "We stick close to home, we check in regularly."

"Great," Jackson grumbles. "We're grounded. With no end in sight."

Isaac pipes up from the floor. "It's not all bad," he tries.

Every eye snaps to him. He's covered in kittens. Isaac will take what good he can and use it against the bad. It makes Derek want to smile at him but right now he's got to deal with Jackson. "Deal with it, Jackson," he says shortly, frowning.

"Look, I'm sorry," Stiles says. Derek can see the way exhaustion has sapped Stiles' normally rampant energy. He can see the blue smudges under his eyes. Whatever fight is left in him, he's conserving it. He raises his hands to Jackson in a placating way, casting his eyes around the room. "I'm sorry but for once Derek's got the right idea. And, you know, I'm sorry we're de facto grounded. I'm sorry we have to check in with Derek. I'm sorry we're going to have to watch every word out of our mouths. I mean, I wish we didn't have to do that—" he stops abruptly, mouth snapping shut.

The scent of ozone, already filling the loft, is noticeably thicker and fresher. It's bad enough that even Lydia and Stiles can catch the smell.

Derek takes a breath and steps in front of Stiles.

Just in time as it turns out, because while everybody shrieks 'Stiles', Jackson actually lunges for him.

Derek bats him back easily. He doesn't want to make Jackson submit but he will if he has to. Erica has shifted and is at his side so he can, if he needs to. He growls low in his throat, threatening.

"I wish you'd use your words," Isaac says a little desperately. "I wish you'd use your words. I wish you'd use your words."

One of them must take.

"What the hell did you do?" Jackson is screaming at Stiles. "What the hell is wrong with your mouth? I wish you'd fucking shut up! I wish you wouldn't talk! I wish you were mute! I wish you'd be a loser silently!"

"Hey!" Scott breaks in. "I wish you'd stop that! We don't know that it did anything."

Lydia tuts. "We know it did something, we just don't know what. Given the history, we can assume that it's made things even worse."

Stiles turns and walks quickly away from the others, going all the way over to the wall of windows.

Derek is worried. The smell of magic is thick and he has no clue which wish has caused it. Knowing his luck, it isn't one of the good ones.

"It's not so bad," Isaac repeats.

"It's going to be!" Jackson is yelling. Still. "You're going to wish this was the bad part!"

"Which part isn't so bad?" Erica says to Isaac, her voice running hot and vicious. "The part where Stiles wished us this way, the part where he maybe made it worse, or the fact that Jackson is a raging bag of giant dicks?"

"Erica!" Derek waves her down. He does not need her bullshit even if he appreciates her support.

"Say it to my face, bi—"

"Jackson," Derek steps on him. Literally. He is not going to let Jackson bait Erica into a fight. He topples him and puts a foot on his windpipe. Stiles motions for him to come over but now is really not the time. "Damn it, Jackson," he mutters as Jackson struggles. "Sit down, Erica." He flashes his eyes at her, hoping it'll keep her down.

Stiles is staring out the window. Derek doesn't have time for that, either. If Stiles is going to have his feelings hurt, fine, but Derek isn't going to care while he's busy.

"Use your words," Isaac says, obviously aimed at his packmate.

"I wish Allison was here," says Scott. It's clear that he's thinking about how she could put arrows into the errant wolves. Derek kind of wishes she were here, too.

"I am enjoying this," says Peter, obviously just to be a bastard.

"Not those words," Isaac groans.

"Asshole!" And there goes Lydia.

"Lydia!" Derek snaps. "Peter!" This is not what he wanted when came back to Beacon Hills. He wanted to save Laura and he couldn't so now all he really wants is a settled life. He's not going to have one if he can't step it up and keep control of his pack. Isaac is huddled in on himself. "Isaac." Jackson heaves under him, Erica comes at him. Stiles is jumping around like an excitable dog. "KNOCK IT OFF!" he roars. He's the alpha.

Later he isn't going to be sure if it's taking the alpha form that stops his pack in their tracks or if it's Stiles throwing the snow globe and shattering it against the chalkboard. "…Stiles?"

He watches Stiles stride through the room pushing werewolves out of his way like he does this every day, like he's not afraid of them. And he probably does and he so very rarely is. Stiles stops at the blackboard and picks up a piece of chalk. He points at himself, at his throat, and then turns to the board.

D-I-N-O-S-A-U-R.

"Dinosaur?" Derek asks.

Stiles points at the window and nods exaggeratedly.

Derek doesn't stop to think. He shoves his pack at the door and turns to the window.

There's a T-Rex out there. Derek is so fucked. He should have taken a chance on Stiles in the car.

Stiles grabs the tail of his t-shirt and yanks just as the T-Rex breaks the windows and walls and strolls right into Derek's living room. He is so fucked and yet so very pissed off. This is his place, his space. Just who the hell does this lizard think he is? He barely gets a snarl out, though, when he's tumbling back into Stiles. Stiles who is dragging on his shirt, his shoulder, trying to pull him out. He's about to shake him off when he smells ozone, sharp, sharp, sharp.

Derek isn't sure where they are. Well, he knows they're in the parking lot of a Walmart. Nothing at all smells familiar so he know they're most certainly not in Beacon Hills and, given the sunlight, probably not even in California. It's a sad day when being magically transported across state lines is not his number one priority when it comes to the need to yell at his pack for being dumbasses.

"Who the hell wished for a dinosaur?" he demands.

"Do you think it ate the kittens?" Isaac frets.

Derek resists being cruel. "I don't care," he says. "Who the hell ordered the damn dinosaur?"

Lydia, holding an armful of clothes she must have snagged on her way out of the loft, gives him a pitying look. "Better, how did it happen? Because I'm guessing that if Derek doesn't know who did it then nobody said it out loud."

Out loud. Shit. "Stiles, can you talk?" he asks, wheeling to face him.

Stiles' shoulders slump and he shakes his head before jerking it in Jackson's direction

Jackson smirks. "You mean I got my wish? A few days of a break from your voice?"

God damn it, Jackson, Derek thinks as a fresh wave of magical ozone scent hits him. "Damn it, Jackson," he says. "We almost got eaten by a dinosaur because he couldn't tell us it was there." Which reminds him. "Who ordered the damn dinosaur?"

Boyd raises a hand. "I was thinking 'I wish something would happen to break up this fight'."

"Thinking?" Lydia says. "No words?"

"No," Derek answers for him before Boyd can do it for himself. "I didn't hear a word. And the wish thought a dinosaur was the way to do that?" He doesn't believe that. Not all the wishes are literal but that's a pretty big step, even for magic.

"I thought that probably only a dinosaur busting in Jurassic Park style would be enough to stop the fight and get everybody back under control," Boyd says. He sounds completely without shame or sorrow. "I was right," he adds.

They already have one Peter. They don't need Boyd to add to the sass. "Good job," Derek says without any sarcasm. "You're fixing my apartment when we get home."

"Speaking of," Erica says, cuddling around Isaac. "Where the hell are we?"

"Um." says Isaac. He smells guilty. "Walmart?"

Everybody's phone rings at once, before Derek can get into that guilty smell.

It's a text message from Stiles.

Jupiter.

Stiles waves his phone at them, the Around Me app clearly visible on the screen. He lowers it once they've all seen. Florida, the next text says. Then, And at Walmart.

Derek's phone vibrates but he's the only one getting a message. It's still Stiles, fingers flying over his phone. The message reads: Isaac looks guilty. Ask him what's up.

"Isaac," Derek says.

I mean says Derek's phone, shaking with another message maybe it wasn't him but everybody else looks confused.

Derek rolls his eyes. "Isaac," he starts again.

Ask him if this place means anything to him.

By 'meaning anything' I mean you should ask him why he picked here.

If he did pick it, that is.

Innocent until proven guilty, dude.

And we should fix him; he's still three feet tall and adorable.

Leave off the adorable part, though.

We can leave Jackson's horns.

"Oh my god, Stiles," Derek turns his phone off completely. "You can't even talk and I want to tell you to shut up."

"See," says Jackson smugly.

Stiles flinches. Derek feels bad, he does. Normally he's more than happy to let Stiles' voice wash over him, to listen absently to his words and his tone and the cadence of his breath. But now they're in Florida, all mired in Stiles' magical puberty crisis. "Not now," he says, including both Stiles and Jackson in the look, turning his phone back on; communication is important. He'll listen. "Isaac," he says.

Isaac fidgets, shoves his hands in his pockets. "I've always wanted to come here. It sounded so neat when I was a kid."

"Thrilling," Erica says. "I wish we were home."

Derek rubs a hand over his face. Isaac smells even guiltier. "What else?"

"I was just…I always thought it'd be a fun road trip," Isaac says in a small voice.

Really, it's sweet how Isaac cares and how he's still innocent in some ways. Derek loves him like any brother loves a younger sibling—whole heartedly, fiercely, and with the strong desire to smack him hard upside the back of his head every now and again. "We don't have a car," he says.

Which is, of course, when Stiles texts him again. Sure do, big guy.

Looking up, looking around, shows Stiles standing next to a full-sized van with California plates that say '♥ weres' He's grinning, keys dangling from his fingers.

"Shotgun," Peter says instantly.

"Fuck," say the betas.

Derek would like to drive straight home but the betas, the human members of his pack, and Peter are all determined to make this an adventure. It takes them all of two minutes inside the van—they're still in the parking lot—to discover that Jupiter is on the beach.

"We live by the ocean," Derek says reasonably. "We can go when we get home."

"This is the Atlantic ocean!" Erica protests. "When are we ever going to be here again?"

Boyd backs her. "Let's go to the beach. We can regroup and see how the magic is working out here."

I vote beach Stiles texts everybody. A second later, Derek's phone buzzes. He sighs, stops, and fishes it out. Also, Boyd is so transparent. The magic obviously works just as well here as it did at home.

"I'd like to go the beach," Peter says from the front passenger seat.

Lydia looks torn. There are a number of cute bikinis in the pile of clothes she has and Derek can see her considering it when he looks in the rearview. "Hell," she sighs at last. "Me too. And Jackson."

"I wish Allison was here," Scott murmurs.

"I wish you weren't such a loser," Jackson says.

"How about if we stop at the beach when we hit the Gulf?" Derek asks. He's kind of banking on everybody else falling asleep so he won't have to stop.

I wish we could do both! chimes Stiles' text.

"Yeah!"

Derek knows when he's beat, he really does. Very rarely does that mean giving in or giving up. In this case, it does. The smell of burnt-out lightning doesn't even have anything to do with it. He stop the van, not even caring that it's not anywhere near a parking space. "All right," he growls. If they are going to drag him around the lower half of the United States he is damn well going to make them suffer, too. "Everybody into Walmart."

Inside Walmart nobody gives any of them a second look even though Clown-Lydia is carrying clothes to the ladies room, Jackson has horns, and Isaac goes from being the size of a large toddler to the size of a semi-large teenager. Derek doesn't know if this is because this store is used to seeing magic and werewolves or if it's because it's used to seeing weirdos. "Find your beach stuff," he says, dragging them toward the corner with a sign that says 'summer fun'. "And be quick."

Some twenty minutes later, while Scott, Boyd and Isaac are hitting each other with pool noodles, Stiles edges up to him and touches him. It's just a tiny touch but it's at the small of his back and Derek feels his heart do something funny and complicated in his chest. When he turns, Stiles jerks his head meaningfully and walks away. Derek follows him all the way to the pharmacy.

"What?" he asks. Then. "Oh." He stops. "Why do you need me?" And doesn't he need some sort of prescription? Derek's pretty sure this is one of those kinds of things that needs a legal document of some sort. "Don't you need a prescription?"

Stiles beams and pulls a folded square of paper out of his pocket. Unfolded, it turns out to be a prescription. Stiles' thumb is over his name, even as he folds it up again. Derek's phone buzzes. Wished it from home, says the text. Derek is getting too used to the scent of this magic. He hardly noticed the smell. Get out your license Stiles adds.

He's already doing it as Stiles steps to the window and hands over the paper. "He's mute," Derek says immediately. "We're on vacation. I don't know why you need my license."

Adderall makes him nervous Stiles writes on his phone, holding it up so that the girl behind the counter can read it. But we are on vay-cay! Stiles does a little dance and grins at the girl, who smiles back.

"We might have to call," she says, looking apologetic. "Since it's out of state. If you could just have a seat…"

Stiles makes the 'okay' sign and leads the way to a metal bench. I'm not legally old enough to pick up my Adderall. At home they just let me, he explains on his phone, tilting the screen so Derek can see. But I figured they'd check here because it's from Cali. You're legal if slightly creepy. Derek wants to thump him and so he does. Gently. Stiles wrinkles his nose, smiling.

Derek never thinks about Stiles' medication. It's just a part of the overall smell of him; strongest in the morning and after school. "Couldn't you just wish it away right now?" he asks curiously.

For some reason Stiles stops, everything about him going still. He looks away. Derek doesn't know what to do so he waits, watching the people around him. Stiles' nudges him, knee knocking against his own, phone held out. Ever wish you weren't a werewolf?

When his family died, he thinks. When Laura died. When he looks at Peter. When he sees Scott's mother fighting to hide her doubts and fears from her son. "Yes," he says.

Stiles looks startled. Seriously?

Derek looks away, discomforted. He doesn't like thinking about this. He doesn't know if he likes Stiles knowing. It doesn't feel like a threat, though, so he tells him. "When I think of my family."

There's silence between them in the midst of the noise of the store and the far off sounds of his pack laughing in another place. Stiles' knee is back and it stays, radiating warmth. Stiles' phone is warm, too, when he hands it over.

My mom had a heart condition but nobody knew. Having me made it worse. Nobody knew. I was always ADHD so when she was tired it was always because of that. Until it wasn't. He takes his phone back. His fingers fly and he hands it back again. I used to wish all the time that I was never ADHD but now that I can, I can't. It's part of me. Like toes or armpit hair. Just me.

Stiles' last name is called, butchered beyond belief, before Derek can think of a reply. Derek pays and watches Stiles dry swallow a capsule. Stiles gives him a small smile before going to weigh in on Peter's choice of swim trunks.

When they eventually leave Walmart he is hundreds of dollars poorer, has a happier pack, more pool noodles than anybody needs, and the nebulous feeling that he's found something he didn't know he was looking for.

By the time the reach the Gulf Coast it is late enough that the sun is setting despite possibly having had magical extra hours magically added to the day. Everybody is over-tired, severely under-slept, sticky, sandy, disheveled, and hungry. In other words, the picture of a road-tripped family. The van has acquired bumper stickers from Sea World, Disney World ("We have a Disney World at home!" "Derek, that's Disney LAND, this is a whole other WORLD! Pull in."), Universal Studios, and Busch Gardens. There were lines even with so much magic going off so often that Derek has given up all hope of ever smelling anything but ozone and wishes. It's been a long day despite Derek's best effort and so they're stopping for the night. Derek is making them camp in retaliation for all the theme parks.

He loves his pack, loves having them around, but there are times when he craves solitude. He leaves them to set up the tents and build a campfire on the beach and wanders away. The ocean smells strongly of salt and wind and sharp grass; it’s the only reason he can think of as to why he doesn't notice Stiles at the water's edge until he's almost on top of him.

"Hey," he says. He means to walk away. He honestly does; it's time for peace and quiet. But Stiles is limned in setting sun, brushed with the early silver light of the moon and Derek has always felt the pull of the moon. It is hardwired into his bones.

Stiles looks up and there is something in him that is so open, so worn, that Derek takes a step back. Barefoot in the sand, naked toes curling in the lacey dregs of foam from the waves slipping in, Stiles is so vulnerable in a way Derek never sees. He feels like he's intruding on something he shouldn't. "I can—" he starts, trailing off when Stiles offers him a small smile and pats the sand beside him.

Derek sits and the sand is chilly even through his jeans. He watches the waves for a while and then switches to watching Stiles. It's a long time before Stiles looks at him. "Creeper," he mouths with great care.

"What's up?" Derek asks.

As he watches Stiles fiddles with his fingers for a moment. He looks like he's debating with himself about answering and Derek finds that he's holding his breath only when he lets it out again. Stiles is tracing letters into the sand with two fingers. "Dad's day off," he writes. The ocean washes it away, filling in the letters like they were never there.

This magic thing is Stiles' fault. There is no way this can be traced back to Derek. Stiles could piss off genies even without knowing about them, Derek has no doubt. But he still feels guilt wriggle in his stomach, low and oily. "Did you have plans?"

Stiles shrugs. It is neither a yes nor a no. Derek's not sure if he's avoiding answering or if that was the answer—a non-verbal way to say it could have gone either way. It doesn't help. Stiles begins to write again. "Told him was hanging w/Erica and Boyd. Sleeping at Scott's."

Once again the ocean snatches up the words, almost before they're written, almost before Derek can read them. "With Erica and—cover," he realizes before the question fully materializes. "In case anybody checks into it." By 'anybody' he means Stiles' father. Erica and Boyd aren't close to their families; Derek has met them, they'll 'remember' that their kids left to hang out with Stiles because it's easier and more comfortable than actually knowing. "Thank you," he says because Stiles has no way of knowing that about them. Stiles seems to automatically assume that kids love their parents and that parents love their kids. Stiles presupposes that Peter and Derek still care under the disdain and the anger.

"Not a lie," Stiles writes. He stops, fingers resting on the words, sinking into the sand as the waves come up again and again. "I hate lying to him" he writes suddenly, the words deep and jagged. He underlines it and those lines stay clear.

There's nothing he can say about that. Nothing to say about Stiles' father knowing or not knowing, nothing to say about how Stiles is doing what he thinks is best. Stiles is smart, he's clever, he already knows all the angles on what he's doing, what he's done. Stiles already knows that he's doing what he thinks is best. He already knows that Derek understands this feeling—not the lying, but the distance it creates. Stiles lies to his father because he loves him. Yet each lie pushes them farther from each other. It doesn't matter how much love is between them, that invisible something that his father doesn't understand is always there too.

Stiles is looking at the sand under his fingers. He is hunched and miserable, so much so that Derek thinks he would know it even without looking at him, thinks he'd be able to feel it. He smells of magic and Derek wishes he could make him feel better.

Stiles glances over at him, all amber-eyed resignation.

"C'mon," he says, standing up and holding out a hand.

When Stiles only blinks at him, Derek reaches out even more, shoving his hand in Stiles' face. "Come on," he repeats. "Stiles. Come. On."

It makes his heart do that funny, uncomfortable thing when Stiles puts his hand into his own, the weight of him pulling against Derek's balance. When he's on his feet he lets go and lifts his hands in an exaggerated flair of 'now what'.

There's a reason why his anchor is, and has always been, anger. It is because being shifted is joy. The full shift to the wolf form is pure and unfiltered joy. There is no anger. There is annoyance, there is threat, there is momentary fury, but it all passes so quickly. The part of him that is a wolf is simple and lets things go. When Derek shifts fully he has to cling to his anger so he doesn't lose himself in the easy, wolfish world. The animal side of him doesn't know the true value of things to the human half and so he has to fight it, to fight it back. Even his beta form is risky, so much simpler and so effortlessly happy. He'll share it, if he can. "Wish you were a wolf," he tells Stiles. "For tonight, wish you could shift with me."

He's noticed, Derek has, that Stiles' wishes tend to come true more often than not and even more so when he's not with the others. They're far enough out that he's sure Stiles can't even hear the other and he knows that the others will have to actively try to hear them. "Make a wish," Derek says. Take a chance, Derek thinks. He shifts.

A moment later Stiles shifts as well. His eyes are almost the same color as they've always been and Derek can't help but smile. He feints a lunge Stiles and then goes around him, circling him before dashing off up the beach. "Run," he says and when Stiles' face lights up, when Stiles runs at him, he drops into the awkward-fast bounding of the beta form.

Like this his senses are sharper, he can hear the sand shift under Stiles' hands and feet, can hear the push-pull of his breathing, the unburdened bump of his heart in his chest. He runs and runs, splashing in the roll of surf. Stretching beneath the rose-light of the coming evening, in the first light of the early moon. He is happy. Stiles can't quite keep up, isn't as fast, and Derek circles back to him constantly. Each time he circles around him until finally Stiles gives him a look that clearly says 'quit with the butt-sniffing' and shifts again. Fully wolf in a way that's almost impossible to manage. He sprints ahead with a smug look on his pointed, fur-ruffed face.

Derek laughs and it comes out as a bark, the full shift taking him like he takes a breath. Easy, natural, right. He catches up to Stiles with a snap at his tail before falling into step beside him. Shoulder to shoulder, in the ocean-salt-dusky smell of the setting sun. He throws back his head and howls, a song for two when Stiles joins him. For a single second, Derek is alpha of the whole world.

Then Stiles is stretched out on the sand, human and laughing up at the sky. "Oh, man," he says. Then, "Oh, wow. Voice. Hello, voice, I have missed you." He frowns. "How did that even happen?"

Derek doesn't realize he's shifted back to fully human until he feels the way the smile comes across his face. "Werewolf metabolism," he guesses. "You burned through the magic in Jackson's wish pretty quickly."

"I feel better," Stiles says softly. "Thank you."

It's dark but Derek feels sun-warmed. He ducks his face away, turns his whole body away. Stiles is the half-moon, the stars coming out, night things that are light against the darkness. Derek is earth-bound, moon-struck. "Don't thank me yet. We're about six or seven miles away from the others and you're not a werewolf anymore. It's a long walk back."

Stiles whines. "Can't you carry me?"

"Nope," Derek says, setting off. "Not without pants."

"…I am not wearing pants," Stiles realizes.

Derek had grabbed their pants in his jaws earlier, dropped them when he nipped at Stiles. They're not far away. He shakes the sand out and throws Stiles' behind him, steps into his own. "C'mon, let's get back," he says once he's zipped up and Stiles is comfortably covered. He starts off in the direction they came from, following the half-washed away wolf prints back. Stiles falls into step beside him and despite his ability to talk again, he stays quiet. It's comfortable. It's comforting.

"Hey," Stiles says when they're still a good mile away. Derek can see the light of the fire in the distance, bright and warm but small. "Hey, um. Wait."

The light has faded to nearly nothing, stars and an early-setting moon brighter than the last of the sun-stain on the western sky. He can still see the way blood has risen to tint Stiles' cheeks pink. "Hm?"

Stiles stuffs his hands into his pockets. "You can't—you're immune to all of this but I was wondering." He takes a short, hard breath. "I was wondering what you'd wish for, if you could. If you wanted to."

Inside of Derek is a place that aches, a void that is heavier than it should be, regret that is powdered and bitter and tastes of ashes. "My family," he answers without meaning to. He might as well put it all out there because if anybody understands, it would be Stiles. "The last memories I have of any of them are…" he shakes his head. "They're not good. But we weren't not-good. We were just a family. The kind who'd have taken a road trip together, the whole pack, all the friends, just—" He feels his shoulders slump, curve in. "All the pictures that are left are from newspaper clippings." Their happy family photos turned tragic. "If I could wish? Without it backfiring? I'd just want to see them again." In a way that isn't nightmarish, isn't a parody of who they were. A moment to go back in time.

Beside him, Stiles lets out the breath he'd taken in. "I can do that," he says. "I've got that." His hand is warm on Derek's arm, warmer than anything. "Derek."

"How?"

Stiles pulls his phone from pocket, long fingers dancing over it. "I found this ages ago. I thought about showing it to you but there didn't seem to be a good way to ask if you'd want to watch it. I didn't know if you would want that at all." He stops, so still all of a sudden and Derek thinks of his hands on Stiles' knees at Deaton's, the way he'd held him in place. "When my mom died, we put away everything of hers. Just—everything. I go through one box every year just to see it. Touch it. Anyhow, I found this old video and I—here."

He hands Derek his phone and Derek takes it, looks at it and understands the sudden stillness. In the frozen image of the old elementary school gym he can see his entire family. His mother, his father, the old Peter, his auntie Elaina, his cousins, his sisters, his brothers. He reaches out to touch their faces and the movie begins to play.

The footage is shaky, the camera obviously still being set. "Don't fret, Johnny," says a woman's voice. Derek doesn't know it but he doesn't have to. Something in the rhythm of the words, in the strength of the tone, is all Stiles.

"My—that's my mom," Stiles supplies. "She always. She was in charge of the camera."

"Mommy, I want to sit by Auntie Talia!" a little voice pipes up and Derek's heart seizes. "Can I sit by auntie?"

"Kelly," Derek says. His finger hovers over the little blonde head on the tiny screen. "My cousin, Kelly. Uncle James and Auntie Ivy's oldest." He moves to hover over another little blonde head, and another. "Charity, Donovan."

"Come to Auntie!" his mother's voice was sing-song and playful and so alive that Derek had to swallow. She was dark-haired and beautiful. When he'd been four he'd wanted to marry her.

"Come to Uncle!" his father mock-roared, plucking the little girl from his mother's arms to squeals of delight.

"Uncle Peter!" Laura was snuggled into Peter's side and giggling. Peter was holding two-year-old Cody. "Make them stop! They're so embarrassing."

Peter nudged…him. A much younger version of Derek himself, huffing with laughter beside him. "Think I should kiss Auntie Elaina and make it worse?"

Stiles nudges Derek now, in much the same way. "He was always a sass-master, huh?"

Elaina is laughing too, "Honey, no. You've gotta wait until they're all old enough to be embarrassed. Otherwise it's no fun." She's cuddling Evan even though Evan was nine and had thought he was too old for that stuff.

"Old people love!" his younger self declares, making a face at Laura.

Off-screen, Stiles' mother is giggling. "Oh, Johnny. One day that's going to be us. All those kids and us being 'old'."

The Sheriff speaks next. "Woman, I feel old enough. My son's graduating."

On the tiny screen even tinier kids begin to file in to the tune of Pomp and Circumstance. Little red and white robes, paper graduation caps. Kindergarten graduation day. "Cora," Derek says, throat tight. And right beside her, a Stiles in miniature.

"I forgot that I knew her," Stiles says softly. "We were never in the same class but I knew her. I knew your sister."

The Cora from years ago breaks ranks, rushes the stands, and Derek-from-then picks her up and twirls her around. "Go graduate!" he tells her. "I want to see it!"

"I love you, Derek!"

The file pauses, buffering as the battery wanes, and Derek shuts the phone off entirely. He can hardly breathe. He looks up at the sky, the moon watching over him. "Stiles," he says and his voice is hoarse and honest.

Stiles takes his phone back, turns it in his hands, over and over like tumbling a stone to smooth the edges. "The whole thing is on there. I've got a copy for you at home but if you want—you know, whenever, before we get there. You can."

He nods. His heart is hammering because that was his family. That was them and he suddenly cannot fathom their loss. He doesn't know how he lost them all even though he can trace the events back perfectly. He doesn't understand how these people that he knew and loved so completely are gone. How they will never be again. "Thank you," he says because that's what one says when a wish like that comes true.

Stiles steps in close to him, close enough to feel without actually touching him. "When I first watched it I thought it was some sort of cosmic joke. I mean, my mom at my graduation, wanting to be like the Hales, and just—but it's good. So it's—if you feel—"

Derek reaches back, gropes until he finds Stiles' wrist. He can feel his pulse under his fingers. "Laura and Cora," he says. He shake his head. "My mom and dad didn't even think about it. Peter and Auntie came back from their honeymoon and that was the first thing Peter said. 'You named your girls Laura and Cora.' And my mom," he can't help it. He squeezes Stiles' wrist for just a moment, just to anchor himself. "My mom said 'damn it, Peter, where were you four days ago?' right in front of all of us kids."

Stiles snorts. "He had a point."

He turns and Stiles is so close. "I'd forgotten that entirely until now."

"Well then, don't forget again," Stiles says and he's smiling. "Or else I'll have to make it a wish that you don't forget this."

Derek doesn't think he can.

Everything he knows in this moment is Stiles. He can feel the uptick in Stiles' pulse, can hear his heartbeat and his breath in the surf. Can feel the way Stiles watches him in the light of the moon. It's too much. He knows that he shouldn't. Derek can list out so many reason for why this is a bad idea, why this won't work, why it shouldn't.

But none of it matters. He wants Stiles. He just wants him. All he wants is to let go of everything, shed all those good intentions and better reasons and just quit waiting around for fate to tip one way or another.

When he takes a step, it's closer instead of farther away. He watches Stiles face tilt up and he deliberately drops his eyes to Stiles' mouth. "I don't know why this has taken so long," he says softly as he leans in, closing the distance between them. Between what he has and what he wants.

Stiles rears back. "Derek," he says and his tone is panicked. "You don't—I wa—no, okay, no you should—there's—"

Derek's heart falls. He knew. Whenever he thought about it, those nights he couldn't sleep, he had always known. He drops Stiles' hand and steps back. And back again. "Sure," he says. Whatever."

Something in Stiles' eyes is distraught and it pulls at him so Derek steps back again, stopped only by Stiles' hand landing on his arm. "Seriously, there's—I don't want—" He flails for a moment. "Shit, I can't—I wish—"

Ozone, sharp and immediate and magic.

"DINOSAUR!" Jackson's screech pierces the night like a shot from a starting pistol.

"Boyd!" Erica shrieks.

"Not me!" Boyd shouts back.

"DEREK!" Isaac is shouting.

Stiles slaps a hand over his face. "Oh my god, this is not what I wanted. This is so fucked up."

"Oh, Derek~~!" Peter trills.

If he had to have this ending to this moment, Derek thinks, at least there's a convenient excuse to run away from it. "Damn it," he says and starts running.

The T-Rex from Beacon Hills is stomping towards their tents and campfire and the heady scent of toasted marshmallows and chocolate. It has already destroyed Derek's loft; there is no way in hell it's getting his s'mores.

Closer to their piece of the coast Derek can hear Lydia calmly, if not quickly, going through a list of wishes. "I wish it were gone. I wish it was tiny. I wish it was plastic. I wish it was just my imagination."

"I wish Allison was here!" Scott yelps.

"Oh, goody," Allison says. She's got her crossbow drawn. "Just what I wanted."

Derek is pretty sure he's going to need more help than a handful of werewolves and one marksman.

Evidentially Peter agrees because the next words Derek hears from him are "I wish she'd brought her father."

Again, like Derek didn't already know it, magic is bullshit and genies are dicks. Chris Argent is striding out of the night with a god damned rocket launcher on his shoulder. "Actually," says Argent, "I brought her."

"Uh, no, see what actually happened is," Scott starts.

"NOT THE TIME, BUTTFACE," Jackson shouts.

Derek so agrees with him. "Lydia, out of the way. Everybody else, all together," he yells to the wolves, nodding to Chris and Alison.

Chris gives him a distinctly unimpressed look. "I can't shoot it with you there unless you'd like me to shoot you, too."

"Fuck that noise," Erica calls, giving both Argents a feral, friendly grin. She flashes her claws.

The dinosaur roars, some strange cross between lion and elephant and peacock loud and strange and eerie. It's creepy. Really, really creepy if the way Peter takes it upon himself to throw his own body over Lydia to protect her is any indication.

Lydia only barely tries to elbow him and is still wishing. "I wish it would leave. I wish my friends weren't idiots. I wish somebody sane was here to take over."

Stiles is panting behind him, holding a stitch in his side. "You know who is really, really great in situations like this? My dad. Not that I wish he was here, but I kinda wish he was here."

"Great. That will take care of the awkward silence when I ask you why dinosaurs are real things now and why seventy percent of your friends are teenaged werewolves." Sheriff Stilinski is also carrying a rocket launcher but he's circled around to face the stomping dinosaur.

"Dad…" Stiles seems to be gutted. Derek wants to reach out to him but he can't take the risk. That and he doesn't want the T-Rex to see. If movies tell any truth at all, it hunts by sight. He doesn't want Stiles in its sights.

"Aim for the head!" Argent is yelling. "You'll never pierce the chest! You have to—"

But the Sheriff has already fired, his aim dead centered on the heart.

The T-Rex keels over with a crash that shakes the earth and messes up the waves, sending them back on themselves.

"…John?" says Chris Argent.

"Oh," says Stiles. "Oh, hey! You remembered!" He seems thrilled.

Sheriff Stilinski hands his rocket launcher off to Boyd and strolls over to the dead dinosaur. "Commotio cordis," he says casually. He nudges it with the toe of his shoe and shrugs at Chris when he joins him next to it. "Stiles went through his dinosaur phase and his thoracic surgeon phase at the same time."

Derek is really ridiculously proud of Stiles for being the kind of kid who even had a thoracic surgeon phase. Stiles is insane. He's turning to him, already giving him one of those arched, amused looks that only Stiles seems to really pull out of him, when he remembers.

Stiles backing up.

Stiles stammering out the word 'no'.

Stiles who wished their dinosaur back just because Derek had let go of his good senses and had reached for Stiles instead.

Stiles who is obviously doing his best to not look at Derek.

Derek is fine with that. Whatever. He'll live. He'll deal. "All right pack," he barks, deliberately turning away from Stiles and his father and the Argents. "We've got a lot of driving to do tomorrow so we're turning in. We'll let the dinosaur corpse handle itself for tonight. If it's not gone in the morning, we'll burn it before we go. Questions?"

Mutely, most of the pack shake their heads. Behind him, Stiles says, "Um…"

Nope. Derek cannot deal with this now. Will not. "Stiles, Scott, you're free to do what you want. You can probably ride back with the Argents and the Sheriff."

"Jurassic Park here killed the SUV about four miles back," Chris says.

Yeah, no, Derek is just done. "Then everybody gets some sleep now. We're leaving early; I want to finish this road trip as soon as possible."

He doesn't look at anybody as he climbs into one of the tents. The tents are magical, he discovers. They stink of it and the inside of the one he's in looks like I-Dream-of-Jeanie had a sex change and exploded. He ignores all of it to strip down and flop face first into the nest of pillows. He wants to be alone. He wants to make this whole thing just stop. He doesn't use his heart much but that doesn't mean he likes having it used for some dick genie's punching bag.

"Derek?" Isaac's voice is soft. His tentative presence in the pile of pillows even softer.

He doesn't use his heart much… "C'mon in," he mumbles, flinging out an arm.

Very shortly he has his pack—minus Peter and the humans—curled around him. They're good betas. They obviously know he's upset. They can probably figure out why. Have, if the quiet, hurting sound Jackson makes is any indication. "Shut up," Jackson whispers immediately after it.

Derek flings an arm behind him, throwing it over Jackson. "It's okay," he says.

Because he's the alpha and he says so.

Because he's the alpha and it's his job to make it that way.

Even if genies are dicks and magic is total bullshit and Derek loves Stiles.

Stiles seems to realize that Derek is upset. He edges closer, like he means to do something and then away again as though he's been reminded that getting close is a bad idea. Derek is trying to get over that. It's his own fault. He's the one who's got to do something.

He'll admit that taking every shift driving the van—now a monstrously over-sized RV—that he can lay claim to is probably not the best way to go about it.

Neither is grunting instead of making real words when Stiles clambers into the seat next to him as they roll through New Mexico.

"So…" Stiles says, drumming absently on the dashboard in front of him.

Derek doesn't say anything. If nothing else, he'll let Stiles set their course. Derek has already proven that he makes poor choices.

Stiles fidgets. Shuffles himself around.

Until recently, until his latest bad choice, Derek never really realized just how comfortably he and Stiles had fit together. Now he can see it because they don't anymore. Everything is awkward, strange, every moment between them an alien. He still doesn't know what to do about it. He still feels the way he does, still wants what he wanted before.

Blowing out a breath, Stiles jerks a thumb toward the back. "Weird, huh? Am I right? It's weird."

The world around them is flat and bare, the road wide and empty. Derek glances back.

Peter, Chris Argent, and the Sheriff are sitting around one of the little tables and playing cards.

"Got any sixes?" Stilinski asks.

"Go fuck yourself," Peter invites, tossing a card at him.

"Sevens?" Chris say and Peter swears again.

Derek glances at Stiles, at the strange hopefulness of his face. He looks back out at the bleak world around them. "It's not like they can play Cheat with Peter."

"No, dude, I mean—" Stiles flaps his hands. "Like, Peter and my dad and Allison's dad are just hanging out. They're drinking beer together!"

"Microbrews!" Peter calls. "Don't be profane."

Chris and the Sheriff clink bottles.

"Shut up!" Stiles calls back. Derek hears them toast again. "But it's weird, right? That they're good together?"

It's sort of creepy, if he's being totally honest. It's a little bit wrong the way they're laughing together and trading stories of dumb things they've seen other people do. Acting like they're drinking buddies, the guys who occasionally hang out together, the men who gather at the grill during cookouts and stick together. Acting like they're new friends who feel like old ones.

"No." Derek says because as weird as it is, it really isn't. They're strong men, with strong codes that they each hold to. They're all upfront about being dangerous, they understand one another. Nobody has ever thought that he and Stiles are friends—or were, maybe—but nobody's ever questioned it, either. Because they used to fit. Derek cracks his neck. "They're stuck on a bus with a bunch of teenage werewolves. Who would you want to hang out with?"

He can almost hear the snap of Stiles shutting down. He listens to the leather of the seat shushing against itself as Stiles pushes himself up. "Yeah. You're—yeah. I'm gonna—" and he slips away, all the way to the back of the RV, to where Jackson is watching a movie with Boyd and Scott and Allison asleep at his sides. In the rearview, he can see Stiles wedge in, making a place for himself with them.

In a strange way the moment with Stiles in the front seat, the moment he chose to go back and be with the others, helps Derek decide he's going to get over himself. Stiles still chose the pack, he tells himself. That's the most important thing. Derek can live without a lot of things; he proved that he could live with almost nothing and nobody a long time ago. He can certainly make peace and even be happy with the fact that Stiles is still here.

Stiles remains instead of being gone. He remains a pain in the ass. He is still funny and sharp and present. It doesn't matter if Stiles also remains that peaceful, warm weight that settles into his bones at the end of the day. It doesn't matter if that desperately dissolute jerk in his belly still comes when he first lays eyes on Stiles.

Derek thinks of it as the miles roll away and they stop at every little tourist trap they can find. He thinks of it when Stiles looks at him and when he doesn't. He thinks of it when Stiles laughs with Allison about their dads, when Stiles and Boyd play red-hands for three straight hours. He thinks of it as the RV gains more and more bumper stickers and Stiles smiling with each addition.

He thinks of it as the RV finally, finally comes to a stop in front of the loft.

Somebody has helpfully stabilized the falling-apart bits and draped all the open parts with heavy tarp. A reminder, Derek thinks. The county took the old house but somebody has fought to keep the new from falling down.

"Hey, we're back," he calls quietly. It's late, most everybody is sleeping. He swivels his seat around and looks at the mess of his pack and his pack-by-proxy. After so long in close company he's pretty sure that Peter considers both Argent and the senior Stililnski part of the pack. Derek isn't sure he doesn't as well.

Stiles is the only one awake. He's watching him with those eyes of his. "Back to ground zero?" Stiles asks. "Square one?"

Derek thinks that Stiles will always haunt him. The idea of him, of what could have been, what he wants, what he almost had on a beach in Florida, it will always come back to him at odd moments. He'll think of loss, he'll think of unexpectedly gaining something back, and he'll think of Stiles.

And he's okay with that. If that's something that he can get, he'll take it. If somehow he can follow it until the end and then be brought back to the start, he'll do it.

He nods. "Yeah."

The silence between them stays.

"Okay," Danny says, suddenly in the middle of the RV, sitting on the table and smelling like ozone and magic. "So you're done? The magic seems to think it's done its job."

"Danny?" Stiles yelps, blinking at him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Derek demands.

Cocking his head, Danny gives him a strange look. "Taking back the magic. Since it seems to have done its job."

There's a rush of sound that isn't really sound, scent that isn't really isn't a smell. Danny holds out his hands and light rushes into them. It's like watching a field of shooting stars inside the RV.

The RV then disappears and proceeds to send them all to the ground in an ungainly heap and a flutter of souvenir bumper stickers.

Except Danny. He lands on his feet, solid and steady.

The pack stirs, pushing up to sitting, finding their feet, generally waking. The Sheriff is the first person to notice Danny. "Aren't you the Mahealani boy?"

Chris Argent rubs his face. "Is it spreading?"

"Yes sir," Danny says genially to the sheriff before looking to Argent. "And no, not any more. I took everything back."

Jackson pushes Isaac off of him and looks at Stiles. "You pissed off Danny?" he asks incredulously. "How the hell did you manage that? It's impossible to piss off Danny."

"Danny's a genie?" Scott says and then hits Jackson with a rock. In Scott's defense, it had been a pillow at one point. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Non-practicing," Danny says calmly. "And I don't think he thinks of me that way." He looks at Jackson. "He didn't piss me off," he says. "Who said he did that? Sure he was irritating, but I wasn't mad. Upset, annoyed, had a day with Grandma Lolo." He gives Stiles a little smile. "Still think wishes are so great?"

"What?" Stiles squeaks.

"What?" Derek growls, grabbing Danny by the throat and lifting him off his feet. He is just so damn sick of getting screwed around by people he likes and trusts.

"For crying out loud," Lydia says. "Jackson, you're an idiot."

Danny just hangs calmly in Derek's throat-crushing grip. "We ran into each other at Jungle. He kept going on and on about how life should be now that we've graduated, how it should go if magic and werewolves and everything was real. Like he thought magic would solve everything."

"Magic is bullshit," Derek says.

With a smile, Danny pats his arm and is suddenly free, standing a few feet away and helping Stiles to his feet. "Pretty much. It's why I'm non-practicing. So I thought I'd give Stiles a few days with it so he'd stop complaining. I didn't realize he was going to spread it around. Sorry," he adds. And he truly sounds like he's sorry about that.

Naturally, Stiles explodes. "So you let me wish myself out of ever having a chance with Derek and right into breaking my own heart like an idiot just so that you wouldn't have to listen to me bitching at the bar?"

"…what?" says Derek.

"Zero bitching, sure" says Danny. "Missing your chance? Whoever said anything about that?

Stiles, however, is on a roll. He's furious and sparking with it. He's pacing until he stops in front if Derek and throws his hands out. "I wanted to believe that I did not magic-puberty into you being all—" he makes several completely incomprehensible gestures.

"Don't call it that," says Danny. "It's not magical puberty."

"But I did." Stiles says. He looks a little sick. "I honestly did. I mean, I thought maybe with the nakedness and you being all 'where are my pants Stiles' that maybe I wasn't—"

"Oh, I don't need to hear this," the Sheriff groans. "Stiles."

"Because, you know, before that I thought we were getting somewhere, all slow and steady. I thought, just...like I thought 'we're all right we just need to find the right way' and now—" He pulls at his hair, pacing again. "Apparently I just put feelings on you and made you wear them around like a Stiles-suit. A 'Stiles Feels Thing and Wants You to Feel Them Too' suit."

He stops right in front of Derek and looks at him. "I need you to actually tell me something here," he says.

Derek nods because he's not sure what's going on aside from Stiles is saying things that Derek really wants to hear him saying and nobody smells like magic except for Danny. "Okay," he says when it looks like Stiles won't go on without words.

"I really—" Stiles swallows, throat working convulsively. "You are amazeballs hot, you know that and you know that, obviously, I find you to be amazeballs hot."

"Good lord, Stiles," his father mutters.

Stiles ignores it or maybe doesn't even hear it. "But I also just really…I really fucking like you." His face crumples like it hurts to say it, like he'd rather keep it in but can't anymore. "You're so grumpy and sarcastic and stupidly hopeful about the dumbest shit—like biting Jackson. Dude, I can not even begin to imagine how you thought that was a good idea."

"Hey!" Jackson pipes up.

Lydia smacks him and Derek makes a mental note to thank her later.

Stiles just makes an impatient hushing motion at him. "You just charge into things but you always ask for help, look for help, and that's such a stupid, strong thing to do and you're funny, when you want to be. You say stuff that makes me laugh and you sat on Isaac and Erica all senior year until they graduated with honors and I sometimes think that wanting to kiss you is not nearly so bad as wanting to just be with you all the time." He takes a hard, hard breath. "Then magic puberty happened."

"Don't call it that," Danny says, sounding aggrieved.

"It happened and we went for that drive and we went to Walmart and the beach and it was…it was what I wanted. After we ran together, after we watched—I wanted you to want me the way that I wanted you. I wanted it so bad, Derek. I wanted it so, so bad and then you were going to kiss me."

Scott makes a horrified retching sound and Allison slaps a hand over his mouth. Erica reaches out and puts a hand over Boyd's mouth and Isaac's seemingly as a precaution. Derek thinks that he should have bit more girls.

"I need to know if I wished that. If I magic-puberty'd you into wanting that."

"Seriously, don't call it magical puberty. That is so much worse than you know," says Danny. "It's horrible. If Harris were puberty, he'd be magical puberty."

"Derek," Stiles says and he sounds wrecked. "I have to know."

He's frozen. Derek knows full well that the magic didn't affect him the way it did the others. It wasn't just the lack of wishing, it was the way it barely seemed to touch him at all. He's had years of thinking about Stiles and what he wants and what he can't have because he's always known that they're too different to work out any way that's good no matter how much he might have wished otherwise. He knows it wasn't magic, no matter what Stiles or anybody else might have wished.

Nobody else knows this, though. Just Danny and despite the way genies are dicks, Danny looks like he isn't, like he's not going to tell if Derek decides to let Stiles think what he wants. He doesn't have to answer. He can just nod and nobody will know at all. He can let go of these thoughts about Stiles and how it's a bad, bad idea to make it anything more than an idea. He can let the magic make this a non-choice.

Derek has never made good choices. Or, rather, the ones he thought were good were bad and the bad ones worked out okay. Derek's track record is pretty much on par with the wish-tally system. Out of all of them, Stiles had the best luck with wishes and Derek wasn't even on the board. He's learned his lesson.

He's learned it and he's sick of regrets.

He reaches for Stiles. "I'm the alpha," he says.

"Good god, Derek," Peter gripes. "Your whole pack is standing right here."

They are. They're watching, too.

So what? Stiles is smiling at him and Derek loves him.

Derek smiles back and kisses him.

"So, Sheriff, need a ride home?"

"Yes. Yes, Chris, I do. Right now. Peter, need a place to crash tonight?"

"If I want to sleep without nightmares, yes."

Stiles laughs softly, breaking the kiss. "Your uncle is such a jackass."

Derek doesn't care. "Your friends are literally running away from us right now."

"I'm good at this wish stuff," Stiles says and Derek leans in to kiss him again. Stiles pulls back. "We're going to be getting Danny back for this, right?"

"We'll figure something out," Derek promises and when Stiles smiles he kisses the smile on his lips until it's his own.

It tastes like a whole different sort of magic.