The original prompt, from -wondersmith:
all the love for whoever writes me hurt!stiles after he is kidnapped by the argents and tortured for info and then rescued by the pack and derek who takes care of him in the aftermath
extra points if derek knows stiles is his mate and stiles doesn't but then he finds out
He was stupid.
He was stupid, and careless, and it's his own fucking fault. But it's good that it's him, good that he's here in this basement that smells like rot and stone and rat shit. Good, because—
Good, he thinks in tight brutal spirals, good, good, ohgodohgodohgod—! He can't think, can hardly breathe around the pain jolting suddenly through him, radiating from his arm, leg, side through his body like a shockwave, reverberating off the pieces of him that are already broken and making his muscles pull and seize in protest. It comes at irregular intervals, nothing with a beat he can predict or brace for, just the unending, unendurable anticipation of agony wearing at him.
Someone is speaking again, tone placid, even kind. They're asking him a question. He can't hear the words over the sound of his own blood in his ears. Good, Stiles thinks again, left gasping in the pain's receding wake, and then even that glassy shard of thought shatters as fingers hard dig into the almost artistic cuts that grace the inside of his elbow.
"Are you listening to me, boy?"
Good, because every second Stiles spends here—
"You know, boy, I've been trying my hardest to be polite here."
Every bleeding, bruised inch—
"But that's not working for me, is it?"
Every second of feeling like this time, this time, the pain will finally break him apart—
"I did ask nicely. Remember that."
Every second Stiles lies here is a second that Scott doesn't, that Lydia doesn't, that Derek, oh God Derek, Derek Derek Derek—
There's a hand on his cheek and Stiles is trying to recoil before he's even fully awake. Trying, because he's floating somewhere above and slightly behind himself, body loose and largely unresponsive through a thick, cottony mass of dull agony. The best he manages is a hitched breath and an abortive jerk of his head. His eyes flutter open.
There's a hand on his shoulder and it's attached to an arm, an arm that's attached to Derek and Derek's face is—
He looks fucking terrifying, actually, but Stiles knows that that face is not for him. Or at least, not aimed at him.
"Stiles," Derek breaths. Just his name.
And then he's sort of collapsing all over Stiles and that renders his face a moot point.
Well, not all over Stiles. Stiles can feel enough twinges and aches without even moving to know that wouldn't be a great idea. Derek drops a little to the side, leaving an arm draped across Stiles' bandaged shoulders, head tucked into the curve of his neck and faint, barely-there shudders working through his body.
"Hey," Stiles croaks. "You found me."
"I'll always find you," Derek rasps into his hair, and shakes.
Stiles wasn't awake for most of his own rescue, because Grandpa Argent had been practicing on werewolves too long and greatly overestimated the amount of time a normal human could withstand the direct attentions of an acetylene torch without losing consciousness.
"There wasn't enough left of him to make chili with," Lydia confides with relish, propped up on a hand at the foot of his sickbed.
"I've never seen Derek so angry," Jackson adds, leaning on the wall opposite.
Stiles makes a noncommittal sound and lays back, because constant pain is more exhausting than you'd think and the two of them can be hard enough to deal with on his best days. He's trying to think of a nice way to tell them to get the fuck out so he can sleep, but then the door opens and Scott and Allison pile through and immediately add their chatter to the noise.
He has no idea what Lydia and Jackson have told their parents—Stiles' dad is under the impression he and Scott have gone on an extended camping trip (and Allison's family knows right where she is)—but none of them have left the Hale house in several days. Maybe a week. Time passes strangely for Stiles as he heals inch by human inch.
He sighs a little louder, hoping they'll hear him this time. His stitches itch, the burns sting, Lydia's voice is going shrill and he'd really just like to be left alo—
Derek throws open the door and barks, "Out!"
Within seconds the room is empty.
Stiles breaths out and Derek comes in, shutting the door behind him. Without a word, he goes to the dresser drawer they're keeping the pain medication in and grabs the bottle of Vicodin Deaton had given them.
"How do you know these things," Stiles murmurs, taking the pill and the bottle of water Derek hands him.
Derek doesn't answer, just sits and watches as Stiles swallows the meds and takes a big gulp of water. It's probably just a psychological thing, the placebo effect or whatever, but he already feels better. He always feels better when Derek is there.
When Stiles sets the water aside Derek tugs at the hem of his shirt, and Stiles slowly, haltingly raises his arms until between the two of them they can wiggle his shirt off.
More of Deaton's handiwork criss-crosses his chest and arms like rail lines, tiny neat sutures over raw red flesh. Derek checks each cut, probing the ragged edges gently but thoroughly, replacing bandages and antibacterial ointment with careful attention. Under his hands, Stiles shifts, strangely restless. It's on the tip of his tongue to say something, to ask something, but he can't quite remember what it was. He blames the Vicodin.
He helps Derek peel off the burn wraps on his stomach, and for a moment his alpha just looms over him, fingertips tracing the pattern the torch left. His face is impassive, implacable. Furious.
"Derek?" he asks, as the silence stretches.
Derek lays the new wrap in place, tapes it securely down, and then brackets Stiles with his arms.
"I will protect you," he says. Growls.
"And I'll protect you," Stiles replies, and when Derek's face twists he says it louder. "I will protect you, and you'll protect me, because we're pack and that's the way it— eep!"
The squeak is for Derek rolling him, tangling him up in sheets and limbs until Derek is wrapped all around him, caging him in. Keeping him safe.
"How did you find me?" Stiles asks him a little breathlessly, ignoring the stretch and pull of the stitches as he turns so their faces are bare inches apart. "It rained. I thought the trail was lost."
"It doesn't matter," Derek tells him, words huffed out against his temple. "I'll always be able to find you. You're mine. Not anyone else's, not even the pack's. Just— mine."
Derek's arms tighten minutely.
"Okay, then," Stiles says softly, and laughs.