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Sometimes Stiles wonders just when his life turned into a horror film, and not even a good one at that. He wonders when running for your life from crazy werewolves with malicious intents become a thing he didn’t just fear, but expected.
Because if he was being completely serious with himself, werewolves weren’t cool anymore; they had lost their cool factor around the sixth near death experience and third accidental maiming. Werewolves weren’t cool and never again would be if they continued to try to peal his flesh away from his body and use his fragile human bones as chew toys.
And if he didn’t keep running that’s most likely how he would end up, as a chew toy for a psychotic alpha and his pack of mindless attack dogs.
His heart beat lurches when the sound of howling resonates through the forest, closer then ever, and quickly gaining on him. He tries to pick up speed--push his legs to move faster but he feels as though someone has attached led weights to legs, weighing him down.
He can’t outrun werewolves know matter how hard he tries, and damn has he tried. Stiles was just hoping that maybe he could have bought enough time for the pack to arrive and save his scrawny human ass (he’s not even ashamed that he needs there help because he sure as hell has saved their asses enough times to make up for his own screw ups).
Another howl echoes around him, closer then ever before, and Stiles decides that it’s time to stop running. He’s going to die.
He’s going to die.
he’s going to die.
Stiles really doesn’t want to die, not now, not like this.
His breath is ragged and desperate, finding it harder with every passing moment to pull the much-needed air into his lungs. The howls have become sharp and excited as if they know that the chase has finally come to an end, the kill is all that is left.
Stiles is going to die, he’s going to die, he’s going to die, he’s going to-
“Sometimes there are going to be situations that you can’t talk your way out of.”
Stiles takes a shaky inhale, relief beginning to flood his system. Thank god for Deaton, how could he have forgotten?
“There are going to be times that neither Scott nor Derek will be able to get to you in time.”
Quickly he rummages through his pockets clasping the small vile tightly in his hands, and pulling the cork out in a swift motion.
“What does it do?” he asks, swirling the golden liquid around in it’s casing.
“It saves you.”
He downs the contents in a single gulp, flinching as the howls get closer and closer.
“That’s not vague at all.”
“Sometimes knowing what can safe you makes it harder to use.”
A sudden pain in his abdominal brings him crashing to the ground, groaning and clutching his side as the pain steadily increases.
Before he knows it he’s screaming, withering on the ground as wave after wave of mind numbing pain washes over him, blurring his eyesight and distracting him from everything other then his mantra of make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.
He begins to cough violently, blood flying from his lips and body trembling.
By the time the other pack make it to the clearing he’s sobbing, chocking on his own blood and wishing that they had been the ones to kill him.
The last thing he remembers is the cold red eyes of the intruding alpha before he slips into unconsousness.
He doesn’t expect to wake up.
… fuck you Deaton.
Coming back to consciousness is a slow process. It involves multiple states of awareness that Stiles does not want to experience because everything hurts and it is sure to hurt a hell of a lot more when he becomes more aware of the pain.
But he slowly pushes through, because he knows somewhere in the back of his mind that he is in danger and that he needs to find a way to protect himself from whatever it is out there in the big hazy world.
Huh… is the world supposed to be that blurry? Because he’s pretty sure trees aren’t supposed to look like they’re dancing.
Somewhere off in the distance the sounds of blood thirsty howls and ripping flesh become clear to him, but for all he knows he’s hallucinating at this point because damn the trees are still dancing. It’s almost sweet in a weird way.
The next howls are those of pain, and it makes his head hurt even more then it already does. Should he be worried about the fact that it seems as though people are dying around him? No? Maybe the trees are doing the samba…
Slowly he turns his head to the side, witnessing the beautiful sight of a wolfed out Derek ripping the other Alpha’s head off, blood splattering the ground. He watches in a sort of sick fascination as Derek continues to rip into the Alpha’s body, even though it’s clear the alpha has been dead since the sudden decapitation.
“I’m pretty sure you’ve already killed it to death buddy,” he mutters, watching as Derek’s head snaps in his direction, his eyes wide and--is he crying? No, he must be hallucinating because the trees are still dancing and Derek is crying. This isn’t real life.
“Stiles?” Derek asks shakily, taking a small step towards him, blood covered hand reaching out ever so slightly.
“Who else would it be?” he asks quietly, vision beginning to clear, the dancing trees performing more of a slow dance now then anything else.
The sudden whine that escapes Derek’s throat is the most heart wrenchingly broken thing that Stiles has every heard that when Derek pulls him into his arms Stiles throws his arms around the alpha’s neck, ignoring the pain that blossoms at the sudden movement. Derek continues to pull him closer and closer, head buried in Stiles neck and hands roving up and down his body.
“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re safe, Jesus Christ you’re alive,” Derek murmurs, face moving up so that he can tuck Stiles head under his chin.
“Of course I’m alive,” Stiles chuckles, “You can’t get rid of me that easy.”
“You were dead, you were dead and we couldn’t get to you in time and your heart wasn’t fucking beating,” Derek growled, hands beginning to check for injuries.
“I was dead? No, I wasn’t dead,” Stiles says, his confusion growing, “From the looks of it,” he continues, watching, as Derek grows more and more frustrated with his lack of injuries, “The other pack didn’t even leave a scratch, all that happened was--“ he stops suddenly, slowly opening his hand to reveal the small empty vial, “Jesus Christ.”
“Stiles, what’s wrong.”
“I hate Deaton so much man,” he mutters, letting his head fall onto Derek’s shoulder, “Saves your life my ass.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Deaton is just an asshole,” Stiles laughs, looking up slightly so that he can make out the trees that continue to swirl together. As Derek picks him up gently--something Stiles wasn't entirely sure until now that Derek was capable of--Stiles let's his head fall against the werewolves shoulder.
“The trees are still dancing."
“You’re weird.”
“And you… you were crying. You’re a crybaby,” Stiles murmurs, letting his eyes slip shut.
“I’m not a crybaby,” he grits out.
“Yeah, yeah I know,” Stiles smiles, curling his fingers into the fabric of Derek’s shirt, “It makes your crying more special I guess, because its shows you caaaaare about me.”
“Shut up Stiles.”
“Whatever you say Derek.”