A/N: This was supposed to be just a short Stiles/Sheriff h/c fic and I was going to leave it with Stiles pondering how lucky his Jeep is. However I'd be a horrendous person to leave it there, considering Stiles and Scott's relationship seems to be disintegrating right in front of my eyes. And I realised I had a great opportunity to explore some pack feels. I mean this is all new to most of the pack, apart from Derek, who I suddenly realised might have lost some of that loving feeling, and what it feels like to have humans in the pack, back when the fire happened. Whether I do it any justice, well that's another story. There's also to be some Stilinski Jeep love.

Still, the main focus is Stiles/Sheriff and Stiles/pack feels.

Disclaimer: See Ch.1

Chapter 4

They arrive to the sound of screaming. Pain-filled and terrified screaming. More importantly, Scott realises, is that it is actually Stiles who's doing the screaming.

He stills, heart thudding wildly in his chest, a growl forming from deep within. Isaac glances at him with horror-filled eyes.

"Stiles!" he yells. He starts running at the door, acutely aware that he can smell him. His best friend. His blood. His pain. Heartbeats loud in his ears, mixing with his own.

"Scott, wait!" he hears Derek command from behind. He doesn't though, only coming to a stop when his own mother quickly exits the room and practically body checks him backwards.

"Mom," he says, voice cracking.

"He's okay," she quickly tells him, placing a hand on his arm.

Another, more muted, wail is heard through the door.

"How can he be?" he can hear the too fast beats to the heart. He can still feel the nauseating pain. He can still feel the lingering fear. "He's in pain and scared."

"I know honey," his mom nods at him. She flicks her head back at the door, pointing at it over her shoulder with her thumb. "But his dad's in there with him."

"He's okay?" Scott repeats hopefully. He glances around at the others who all look a bit stricken. Even Derek looks on the pale side.

His mom nods at him.

"He's beat as hell. A little shaken up. So far it doesn't look like anything's life threatening."

"Why was he screaming like that?" Isaac softly asks beside him. He's clearly still shaken himself.

"He's got a broken arm and dislocated shoulder. Same arm."

He hears Derek breathe in sharply behind him as though he knew what that combination felt like, as though he hadn't been anything but werewolf. Scott blinks in surprise over his shoulder at him.

"They have to put it back in before they cast the arm," his mom continues. "It's pretty nasty, even with pain relief."

Another shriek suddenly cuts off sharply, pain flaring in his own arm and shoulder, although Scott picks up the faint gasps of breath and the soft murmurings from his father which follow. By the look on both Isaac and Derek's faces they had felt it too.

"Was that it?" Scott asks, feeling sick to his stomach.

"Poor kid," Derek mutters.

Melissa nods, glancing back. "I should get back in there."

"Mom, wait -" Scott grabs at her arm. "I need to see him."

She turns and nods sympathetically.

"I know but his dad's in there and it's pretty crowded. Take a seat and wait."

Scott starts to protest but she folds her arms and gives him the mom look, the one he knows that he will never win, so nods reluctantly.

"Good," she smiles in satisfaction. "I promise as soon as we've got him settled you'll be able to see him. Okay?"

Scott nods again and heads for the small strip of chairs against the wall. He feels Derek and Isaac start to file in after him.

"Not you," he hears his mom say. Her voice sounds colder and less inviting. Looking back he sees that she's singled Derek out. She points at them all before saying - "As far as I know Stiles hasn't told his dad about you guys yet, right?"

Derek nods at her.

"I can explain Scott and Isaac. It's a given really," his mom says. He looks on nervously as she actually stares down an alpha but Derek doesn't even flinch, simply stares back. "But I can't explain Derek Hale sitting in the waiting room. Ex-wanted felon and murder suspect."

"Mom-" Scott starts to protest.

"It's okay," Derek says in warning.

"I'm not going to be the reason that the Sheriff finds out and he's definitely not finding out by seeing you here. And it will come out. He wont leave it alone until he finds out."

"I thought you didn't agree with Stiles lying to his dad?" Scott pipes up.

"I don't," she shakes her head. "But I know that boy. He'd lie through his teeth if he thought he was going to protect his dad. They're already on fragile ground. This will just make it worse. Besides, Stiles needs to be the one to tell him. Not circumstance."

Derek nods and accepts it gracefully, "Yeah, you're right. I should check on the others anyway."

Derek's gone before Scott can even blink. He stays sitting there in bewilderment until he realises why. Isaac sums it up perfectly.

"Never thought I'd see the day when your mom and Derek actually agree on something."


"You're a lucky son-of-a-bitch," the doctor tells him sometime after his arm is cast and they've put twelve stitches down the side of his face and scalp and at least twenty-four across his thigh, when he's still thrumming on the after effects of pain relief, gas and air.

Stiles doesn't feel lucky but by the look on everyone's faces he might as well be a walking miracle. What person gets thrown though a windscreen and only walks away with cuts and broken bones? The doctor's words. Not his. He wants to point out he has twelve stitches in his face and twenty-four across his thigh. That any lucky person wouldn't have had a broken arm and a dislocated shoulder. According to the tests they had found some older damage to the shoulder ligaments, an old injury (thank you, you old crotchety bastard) that was just asking for it to be popped out. Being thrown through a windscreen and hitting cold concrete appeared to be that catalyst.

He's dad senses his discomfort and pats his good hand reassuringly. Stiles sees the way his dad's face twitches with the doctor's words.

"What about the blood pressure?" his dad asks tightly. Stiles isn't sure why he's dad's so worried about his blood pressure. He pulls his hand out from under his dad's and squeezes it.

"I'm fine dad. Didn't hear you what the doc said," Stiles throws him a lazy grin, aborting it with a wince as he felt the stitches pull stiffly against his face. His voice sounds hoarse and scratchy. Screaming will do that to you it seems.

His dad smiles back and squeezes his hand in return. There's still a worried frown there though.

"We can't find any signs of internal bleeding."

Internal bleeding. Huh. No wonder his dad looks so worried. He can't remember anyone saying that before but for all knew they did. He's only just remembering now that someone – and he really wants his dad to start taking names – might have cut his pants off.

"His blood pressure's improved now. It might just be from shock. His potassium levels were on a bit on the low side, which indicated he might have been dehydrated and although he didn't nick any arteries with the cut to his leg, he still lost quite a bit of blood. Not enough to be life threatening. We're going to set an IV up – rehydrate him and then we'll check his platelet levels. I suspect his BP will improve with a saline drip but depending on his blood results we might consider a blood transfusion."

Stiles watches as his dad sags a little. Some of the tension drifts out of his shoulders and he feels the squeeze tighten to his hand.

Stiles vaguely remembers that he had Lacrosse practice. That he hadn't drank anything, save for a quick refreshment brake, then high-tailed it to the pack meeting with Scott and Isaac. In fact that was probably the last drink he'd had.

"And his head? The scans?"

"All good," the doctor answers confidently. "He's got a grade 3 concussion, so he's going to have a hell of headache. There might be some confusion and nausea too. The cut to his thigh was deep. It went through muscle. We're not sure if there's any nerve damage yet, but he's probably going to need some physio. No spinal damage either, which is why we got rid of the collar."

Confusion, nausea, muscles and nerve damage. None of that sounded anywhere near lucky and he huffs out a breath of displeasure to show it.

"What with his BP, the concussion and his leg, we'll want to keep him in at least for a day or so."

His huff of displeasure filters out of him as he starts to protest, body flailing slightly on the bed. "Stay in? No, dad. I don't need to. I'm fine-" whatever argument he was trying to prove suddenly gets cut off as the flailing (and some bad timing) causes his head to throb and that sudden wretched nausea to rise.

"You think?" his dad asks, voice a mixture of amusement and concern, as a vomit bowl majestically appears in front of his face just as his body decides to hurl it's cookies. He groans, as he retches over it, clutching his pulsating head with his free hand. His dad catches it within his own while keeping the bowl in place. "You're staying, kid. No arguments."

Stiles doesn't protest on the grounds he's totally spent. Once he's done his dad settles him back down against his pillow and the doctor's shining that blasted pen-light in his eyes again as though the whole process is starting all over again. He considers swiping the horrendous contraption from the offending hand but his dad still has his clasped in his own. The cast on his other arm is heavy and probably damage-worthy but it felt like too much effort to even lift it, so he leaves it alone.

"Only to be expected," the doctor murmurs at them, pocketing it away. Thank god.

The room spins in front of him. He closes his eyes against the onslaught, feeling the familiar roll of his stomach, as his dad hums next to him.

"I wont give you anything for it just yet. We want to able to assess to see if anything changes and an anti-emetic might mask it," the doctor tells them. Stiles frowns, not really liking the idea of repeat performances just for the entertainment for these so-called professionals. When he catches sight of both Stiles and his father's own disapproving frown, he pats at Stiles leg, on an area that was thankfully free of any discomfort. "We'll give you something if it gets worse. Just let us know, okay?"

Stiles smiles thinly at him (because that's all he can manage without the pull of stitches), shows a bit of teeth, hoping that he looks vaguely threatening. He frees his hand from his dad and gives a half-hearted thumbs up.

"Asshole" Stiles mutters for the second time that evening once the doctor has left the room. He drops his hand back on to the bed.

"Stiles-" his father admonishes him, but there's a smirk on his face too.

He attempts a shrug but gasps a little before looking blearily around him. He sees that someone has brought a clear bag in with some of his belongings. He recognises his jacket on top of it and sees that whatever else is in there is covered in blood.

"My pants," stiles moans in frustration, voice accusatory. "Someone cut them off. They're ruined. My good ones too."

His dad snorts at him, looking at him funny. "They were covered in blood, kid. Pretty much ruined already."

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times. He's going to argue that he can wash it out (considers asking Derek for tips but then realises that's probably the reason he has a tendency to be half naked all the time) but instead he jumps a little.

"The Jeep, dad-" Stiles starts, swallowing the muffled pain. "We just left it in the middle of the road. Anything can happen to it."

Yeah, as soon as it slipped out of his mouth, he knew it sounded absurd. Because, really.

"Hey," his dad shuffles his seat closer and braces a soft hand against his chest – because he knew it was still sore there, ribs bruised and tender – keeping him in place. "The guys down the station are securing the scene."

"I don't give a damn-" about the guys down the station Stiles starts but shuts up quickly when sees his dad's eyes flash angrily. A fleeting feeling of shame passes through him, as he settles back against the bed, pouting. "I don't know them. They don't know me. They don't understand."

His dad's eyes soften.

"I'm the sheriff. They know me," his dad tells him, reaching up and touching the other side of his face gently. "Don't worry about the Jeep. I'm sorting it."

He can't help but worry about the Jeep. It was important. It was significant, and for a day that had started out with a lot of insignificances, it was ending with a pretty big one.

"It was bad. Right?" Stiles asks, closing his eyes, feeling the pull of a drug induced slumber. He waved his hand lazily to where he thought his dad's face might be. "I saw your face."

His hand is caught mid-air, enveloped in the warmth of his father. When he cracked his eyes open he could see the tell-tell signs of tears in his eyes.

"My face looked like that because my only son just went through the windscreen of his car," his dad says, voice sounding strained yet familiar. Stiles hadn't heard that type of torment since his dad took him out of class to tell him his mother had passed away. Stiles gulps against his own sudden emotion and fear that he is responsible for his father's pain. Again. "Stiles, why the hell were you not wearing your belt. What were you thinking, kid?"

"My shoulder was bothering me. Lacrosse practice must have irritated it."

"Yeah?" his dad muses. "You should have told me."

"I'm sorry," Stiles says quickly, honestly.

His dad sighs and drops his head to rest against Stiles' hand.

"We were lucky, kid. So so lucky," his dad breathes quietly against his skin.

"I'm sorry," Stiles whispers again.

They lapse into silence. Stiles fills it with what-if scenarios and gets stuck in one where he sees his dad grief-stricken and a shadow of his former self. It involves full blown alcoholism and dying alone from a heart attack or wasting away from liver disease.

"Hey," he feels his dad tug on his hand.

"Hmm" he asks lazily, words slurring with a mixture of tiredness and drugs, everything slowing. There was an alluring and steady beep pulling him down.

"The Jeep will be okay. I was expecting it to be worse."

Stiles can't help the little burst of laughter that erupts from him, it slips out easily and rolls off the tongue as though the exhaustion and drugs had untethered it. He wondered, if he dared open his eyes, if he'd see it like the words that had escaped from him before. He'd breathe it back in and let it fill every part of his being.

"What?" he feels his dad rumble next to him.

"Nothing," Stiles answers.

He'd been lucky today, apparently, and walked away with broken and dislocated arms, concussions, cuts and bruises. The Jeep, just like him, according to his dad, was pretty lucky too (he hoped, anyway, because his dad was no mechanic) and he laughs again, the flavor of it filling his mouth. Statistically speaking...


Derek called Erica, knowing Boyd would be with her, on the way back from the hospital. They told him they were in the woods to see if they could pick up any signs of the alpha pack. Derek had told them what had happened to Stiles and that he wasn't happy for the two of them to be out there by themselves. They had barely survived their last encounter with them.

He hadn't been able to get hold of Jackson and headed back to the house to wait for Erica and Boyd instead.

Surprisingly he finds Lydia Martin standing on his porch.

"Something's wrong with Jackson," Lydia tells him coldly.

He pushes past her to see Jackson pacing in the ramshackle of his living room. Jackson looks terrible, face shiny with sweat, pale and trembling. His eyes looked lighter than usual but not the usual blue orbs he was accustomed to when the beta was shifting. It wasn't completely obvious, but Derek thought he saw subtle changes, small flicks and contortions, as his skeletal frame shifted under his skin.


"I feel like shit," he grinds out at him.

"How long have you felt like this?" Derek asks as he inches himself closer. They both looked up as small and soft footsteps followed from behind, seeing Lydia joining them. She stays back, in the the wooden frame, shying from them.

"Since the pack meeting. I think. I don't know?" Jackson shakes his head. "It got worse after."

Another roll of bone against skin and Jackson drops heavily on to the old and dusty couch.

"God. It hurts," he growls. A tiny whimper follows.

"What's happening to him?" Lydia asks from behind. Her voice is a perfect mixture of accusation and concern.

Derek doesn't answer her directly. He has his suspicions but can't be sure.

Derek crouches low in front of him and tests his theory by wrapping his hand tightly around Jackson's arm.

"Does that feel better?"

Jackson's eyes dim a little, his features softening. He glances down at Derek's hand on his arm and then looks back up at him with surprise.

"Yeah... how?"

"It's a pack thing," Derek tells him, surprised at how better he too feels and ashamed that he hadn't recognised it for what it was. "You felt lost, bereft, like you were losing control. You felt the pain too."

"Derek?" Lydia huffs in frustration.

"Stiles was in an accident. Car crash."

Jackson surprises them all when his eyes suddenly flash bright again. A growl escapes as he pushes up, claws extending. Even Derek jumps back a little, struggling to re-balance himself, before he pushes Jackson back with his hand across his chest.

"What the hell was that?" Lydia exclaims in shock, jumping. "Wait? What?"

"Stilinski..." Jackson growls, pushing against him.

"He's fine," Derek reassures the two teens before directing his stare back at Jackson's morphing face, eyes flashing red. "Calm down."

Jackson instantly does, but remains agitated and tense under his hand, and Derek shakes his head. Of all people, it was Jackson, who had felt it first. It wasn't a new feeling to Derek – he had, after all, had human pack members before but he hadn't been connected to anything like this, felt like this, since the fire. He figured, somewhere down the line, he'd forgotten what it had felt like.

But still... Jackson?


Stiles wakes to find his dad in the corner of the room whispering into his phone. When he sees that he is awake he throws him an apologetic smile and speaks a little bit louder.

"No, he's awake now. I'll head down there. Thanks for letting me know."

"Going into work?" Stiles asks. His voice sounds a bit on the slurred side. He can't deny that he feels a little stung by his dad's decision but then belatedly remembers that Stiles impromptu exit through a window had interrupted his dad's shift.

"Sorry, kid-" his dad tells him, looking a bit conflicted. "- but the female driver just handed herself in. I want to be there."

Stiles blinks a few times as he tries to figure out his dad's words.


Flashing lights

Sudden accelerating and braking

Horns blaring

A flash of terrified eyes

"No. Wait-" Stiles asks, snagging his dad's arm and pulling him close. "It wasn't her fault."

"Stiles," his dad warns, trying to extricate his fingers from his shirt. "C'mon son, I wont be long."

"It's not her fault," Stiles reinforces. His voice hitches in his throat and he has no idea why. Damn concussions for making his priorities all out of whack. "The other driver was terrifying her."


"She didn't drive me off the road."

"No, but she still left the scene of a crime-"

A crime. So that's how it was. Not an accident. Stiles Stilinksi who was known for prat-falls, who actively sought out danger, who went running around the woods looking for second half's of dead bodies, who ran down kanima's and kept sour wolf's afloat in pools for two hours at a time, was a victim of a crime. He was already closely acquainted with attempted murder, but what his dad didn't know, wouldn't hurt him.

"- she left my son bleeding in the middle of the road," his dad continues with a hard voice. "You could have been dead for all she knew."

"Dad-" Stiles croaks at him.

"Stiles," his dad cuts him off. "I'm just going down the station to hear what she has to say. She might be able to give us a description of the car that hit you."

"Kay," Stiles agrees reluctantly, releasing his dad's shirt. He drops a little back into the mattress, his own inexplicable panic and his dad's palpable tension leaving him spent again.

"Besides," his dad murmurs down at him, placing a soft kiss on an area of his forehead that wasn't bruised and swollen, which he really didn't mind that much because he was sick and injured and all. "I need to sort out the Jeep."

"Kay," Stiles mumbles again, his lips twitching. "The Jeep... that's good. Go get her."

His dad's gone for all of a minute before the door opens again.

"You're back already?" he asks in surprise, wondering if his head injury was leaving him with gaping holes.

"No. I haven't actually left yet," his dad reassures him. He nods towards the door with his head. "Scott and Isaac are outside. Are you up to visitors yet?"

Stiles instantly feels cold, lingering anchor rear up within him. In the chaos of the accident, Stiles hadn't thought of Scott – or the pack – save for a few ridiculous mental images of Derek.

'you might not get it, Stiles. I mean you're not one of us.'

"No," Stiles says, aware of how his own voice hardens.

"It's Scott," his dad reminds him. "I'd feel better if there was someone here."

"Tell him to go. Isaac too."

His dad looks at him with puzzlement.

"Has something happened between you two?"

Stiles manages a shake of the head even though his whole body resists the lie.

"Is this the reason why Scott called me looking for you?" his dad asks, looking at him in disbelief.

Stiles gives a one shoulder shrug instead, not even realising Scott had called his father.


Stiles tries to hunker down lower in to the bed covers. It turns into a pathetic wriggle that just infuriates his shoulder some more.

"I don't want to see them, dad. Send them home."

He hears his dad sigh. "Okay. Get some sleep, son. We'll talk about this later."

Stiles mumbles under the sheet, hearing his dad's footsteps faintly move away.

About five minutes after his father has left, the door opens again, soft footsteps inching their way to him.

"Dad?" Stiles grouses from under the cover. "How many times do I have to say it?"

"Uh. It's not your dad," he hears instead.

He knows who it is before he even peeps out of the sheets. Scott's standing there with a sheepish look on his face.

"What are you still doing here?" Stiles asks.

"I... uh... just-" Scott says, looking around the room before settling pained eyes on him. "... I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm alive," Stiles states the obvious. "You can go now."

"Stiles," Scott says, stepping forward.

Scott had never been that quick on the uptake and he clearly doesn't recognise when he's not welcome. He can't exactly manage a roll, but he at least succeeds with a half of one, exposing his back.

"Stiles," Scott pleads, voice sounding hurt and rejected. Good. "Please don't be like this."

A soft hand is placed on his back.

"I'm sorry. I never meant for it to sound the way it did."

Stiles felt his eyes sting. He wasn't going to cry, but he sure as hell wasn't going to roll over and pat Scott on the head and tell him that everything was fine, that he was a good boy, and all was forgiven.

"Stiles?" Scott asks again, more hopefully. There's a pause while he waits for a response.

Nothing. Nope. Nil. Nada.