Derek grunts as Peter deposits him on the soiled and bloody couch. He winces visibly but most of his color is already starting to return, so Stiles counts it as an improvement. His uniform, however, is soaked in blood and ripped past recognition; even his radio is a mangled lost cause, which is too bad. Stiles shudders as he moves to stare at Derek, eyes zooming in on his gaping, bleeding flesh. He glances away immediately, sickened; his stomach still toils from being emptied onto Derek's lawn. Not sure what to do next, Stiles meanders towards the couch and stops just before it, gaze contemplative, if a bit lost. Derek looks up at him with a sweat lined brow, gaze glassy and unfocused.

"Are you hurt?" Derek rasps in poorly concealed concern. His chest heaves in a hitching movement, making clear the amount of pain he is in.

Stiles wants to laugh self deprecatingly because Derek was the one who had gotten bitten, not him. "I'm fine," he says instead. He isn't though, not really. Sure, physically he got away with a broken wrist, but he had watched Peter kill a man. But, no, that's not quite right, is it? Peter didn't kill a man. He killed a werewolf, who likely used to be a man. And perhaps that's all kinds of fucked up and maybe Stiles is a screwed up individual because he feels thankful. He watched a person's neck snap and he's thankful.

Stiles has the sudden urge to vomit all over again, but his stomach tightens at the thought.

Derek continues to watch him. "You're covered in blood," he states, jaw clicking.

"Yours," Stiles says quickly, suddenly reminded of the grime covering him. "I'm—I'm okay. I'm fine." A lie.

Derek snuffs at the air and frowns. "You're lying."

"I'm not," Stiles argues weakly, heart hammering a bit faster.

"The heart isn't capable of lying," Derek murmurs softly, "and yours stuttered when you said you were fine." He pauses, gaze going somber. Goosebumps ripple over the back of Stiles' neck as he swallows nervously. Derek's gaze travels down Stiles' arm and stops on his swollen wrist. "Your wrist," he says gruffly.

Stiles touches it lightly and winces. "Broken," he answers begrudgingly.

For a brief moment, Derek looks murderous but it fades away almost as quickly as it had come, instead replaced by extreme weariness. "I told you to stay inside."

"I don't listen very well," Stiles quips, lips quirking upwards.

Derek exhales a gentle laugh. "So I am learning."

"Let Derek rest," Peter says from behind Stiles, reminding him of his presence. "Your chattering takes up too many of my nephew's meager brain cells, I'm afraid."

Stiles thinks he should be offended, but instead he feels a bit amused. Derek, however, is not. He growls at Peter.

"Now, now," Peter chastises, "don't be like that."

Even though Derek looks as if he is going to say something else, Stiles stalks off before he can. Peter is right, after all. He searches out Scott automatically; he's catatonic and standing in the doorway like a lost puppy. Stiles takes pity on him. "Hey, dumbass," he calls affectionately. "Know where Derek keeps the first aid kit?" He holds up his wrist and winces for emphasis. Scott blinks, pauses, and then nods sullenly. "Awesome," he continues, forcing a ridiculously fake smile. He tries not to think about the blood staining the clothes that aren't his, or the cracked blood smeared across his neck and cheeks. It is deceptively easy to trick his mind into a false sense of reality.

"In the cabinet," Scott mumbles, edging past Stiles and swinging open one of the higher cupboards. He pulls out a dusty first aid kit and tosses it on the countertop. He grips at the kit, frowning something fierce. A multitude of emotions flicker across his face like an oncoming storm, pained and worrisome.

Stiles uses his good hand to wrench the kit from Scott's grip and pull out an ace bandage. He looks at Scott expectantly. "Hey airhead," he prods, "help me, would you?"

"Oh," Scott breathes, scowling apologetically as he twists the bandage around Stiles' purpling wrist. "Sorry."

Stiles sighs theatrically. "Get it out already, Scott," he grumbles, "your silent sulking is really unbecoming."

There is a pause and then Scott looks up, soulful brown eyes filled with such confusion Stiles already feels drained. "Peter said the Alpha—he called him Gerard… Gerard Argent."

"Ah," Stiles exhales as he leans into the counter. "You're worried about Allison."

Scott nods curtly.

"I'm sure there is no family connection, Scott. I wouldn't worry about it." That's a lie, of course, but Scott looks like he needs words of encouragement, not the cold, hard truth.

"But what if there is?" Scott contends angrily.

Stiles frowns. "Then we'll deal with it," he says resolutely, "in the morning, when I don't have a headache the size of Texas."


"Scott, I get it. You love her; you write sonnets in her name, you want her to have your sickly adorable babies—but me? I just want to get off this mountain without dying." Stiles pauses, fiddling with the rough edge of his ace bandage. "I can't leave my dad with no one," he says tightly. "So, I respect that you're worried about Allison, but you need to respect that there are more important things to focus on right now."

"Fine," Scott snaps at him, stomping off in a fit, shoulders hunched. Stiles groans and presses his good hand into his forehead before moving his fingers to massage his temples. He just wants to sleep. So that is exactly what he does.

There is a warm hand sliding up over his forehead and into his hair, the contact gentle and comforting. Stiles hums and leans into the touch automatically, his eyes fluttering open. Derek is looming over him, his lips twisted into an unfairly attractive scowl. Stiles blinks at him owlishly.

"Up," Derek grunts, loosely gripping Stiles by his upper arm and tugging.

Stiles eyes him blearily, yawning widely before curling in on himself and shutting his eyes once more. "No," he refuses obstinately. Sleep is important. Sleep is good.

He hears Derek sigh grumpily. "You're covered in blood."

"So are you," he points out, cracking his eyes open to give Derek a quick once over. He's pleased to note Derek's shoulder looks exceedingly better; no fleshy bits or gushing blood, at least. But he still smells like dead squirrel carcass. Stiles scrunches up his nose at that 'cause gross.

Derek glares down at him. "Just get up, Stiles," he grumbles, looking almost pathetic.

Against his better judgment, Stiles lets Derek haul him to his feet without another word. He stands there for a moment, gathering his bearings as Derek steadies him gently by the shoulders. He then proceeds to just stand there. And stare at him. With a frown on his face. Looking decidedly constipated.

"What?" Stiles mutters at him, lifting his hand to rub at his left eye distractedly. He had fallen asleep in the only available loveseat after his energy-draining conversation with Scott. Now that he has a proper look around, Peter is nowhere to be found, but Scott is propped up on the floor, looking cranky even while asleep. Huh.

"You need to shower," Derek tells him, already dragging him unwillingly towards the only bathroom in the place.

Stiles attempts to jerk out of his grip, to no avail. "Uh—so do you?" he challenges skeptically as Derek drags the door open and shoves him inside… and then closes the door behind himself, locking it with a distinct click. Um.

Derek levels his gaze on him then and there is just something about the way he is looking at him. It can almost be described as smoldering. Which, what? "That would be kind of the point," Derek says throatily, eyes dark and lust laden? Stiles is quite sure he may have broken reality and replaced it with all of his prepubescent fantasies since the beginning of time.

"Uh," he manages dumbly as his vocal coherency flees the building.

They stand there in very tense, very awkward silence. Derek is glowering at him as if he can somehow glare his intentions into Stiles' brain which… oh. "You want to shower with me," he squeaks. "Naked."

This time, Derek does roll his eyes. "So it would seem," he bites out, the smoldering look gone, instead replaced by irritated tolerance.

Which damn, Stiles had really liked Derek looking all surly and smoldering. "Thirteen percent of all falls occur in the bathroom," Stiles rattles, surprising even himself with the absurd way in which his brain works. Derek looks at him as if he's grown another head. "I think I account for at least eight percent of that statistic, just so you know what you're get—"

Derek's lips silence him as they press in roughly. Stiles gasps, hot breath mixing with Derek's as he claims his mouth with possessive vigor, with want, and repressed hunger. The kiss is forceful and warm and wet and – woah. Stiles' good hand flashes forward to grip at the tattered remains of Derek's uniform, fisting into the torn fabric as a moan slips past his lips and into Derek's eager mouth. His tongue flutters across Stiles' lower lip almost teasingly before he nips at it with bruising force. Stiles fights back, pushing in, needing more, more, more. Derek tastes so damn good, like fresh mint and raw sex. It's intoxicating.

As Derek pulls away, Stiles whines in protest, his voice betraying him. He is incapable of thinking straight. All the blood has rushed to his head, leaving him flushed from being so thoroughly kissed. Derek has moved a hand to his jaw, thumb stroking at his lower lip, a pleased rumble reverberating from his chest. Stiles flickers his eyes upwards and Derek's piercing blue gaze strips him away bare, breathless. "Take off your clothes," Derek demands with a growl. His hands have already relocated to start tugging at Stiles' shirt as if it personally offends him.

Stiles smirks at him. "Only if you take off yours first," he tells him, feeling suddenly cheeky. He leans up and his breath sweeps across Derek's ear as he speaks. "Thought it'd be that easy to get me naked did you?"

He barely gets the words out before Derek pushes him backwards and rips his shirt off with an angry jerk. Stiles yelps in surprise, absently noting the beast is testy when poked. "Now look what you went and did," Stiles complains as Derek dips his head to snuffle at his throat aggressively, nails digging into the fabric of his pants.

Derek snorts. "That shirt wasn't yours," he mutters against Stiles skin and, oh, what is he doing with his tongue? Christ. "It belonged to me."

"Mm, point," Stiles rasps, voice hitching as Derek begins to suck on the mark he'd left previously, stubble rubbing against his jaw roughly. Stiles hisses at the mistreatment and then gasps as Derek forces his pants – and underwear! – off. He stumbles backwards, stepping out of them and hitting his naked back against the bathroom wall clumsily. Derek is growling happily as his hands roam up Stiles' lower back, his nails dragging delicately over the exposed skin; Stiles shudders at the caress.

"You smell like me," Derek rumbles possessively into Stiles ear after trailing soft, fleeting butterfly kisses up the side of his neck, "like mine."

"Shit," Stiles curses because if he wasn't already hard, that sure as hell would have sealed the deal.

Derek's lips claim his for a second time and this kiss is slower, softer. He drags it out with parted lips and the fleeting meeting of their tongues. As he withdraws, his eyes glow dangerously and he rakes his gaze up and down Stiles' body. Stiles feels unexpectedly exposed and so very vulnerable in that moment. He looks away, face on fire. Derek chuckles.

Stiles glares and shoves Derek away, who dares to look amused. "No more heavy petting," he declares, "until you are also naked."

Derek smirks. "Very well, your royal highness."

Stiles grumbles as he stalks over the shower—still very aware of his own nakedness—and twists the knob, bringing the spray to life. When he turns around, Derek has his shirt half removed, showing off his chest. Stiles swallows audibly because damn. He had known Derek was built; there was no denying that but – wow. He has the sudden urge to run his working hand along the hard line of Derek's abs, possibly while licking them. And then Derek is unbuckling his belt and slipping out of his slacks, naked as the day he came into this world.

He nearly faints, but Derek catches him by the arm and begins to methodically unwind his ace bandage. He tosses it to the ground and scowls at the purple and yellow skin, delicately running his thumb over the abused flesh. With a displeased grunt, he slides the shower curtain back and forces Stiles into the scalding spray without another word.

Derek steps in behind him, Stiles blinking into the water as he is suddenly very aware of the very large, very male anomaly pressing into his back. Derek's arms come to rest idly on Stiles' hips and he's so aware of the soft and lazy touch that the contact burns. He's mid freak out when Derek reaches around him to snag the loofah hanging from the shower head.

"Turn around," Derek orders. Stiles does so. He's greeted with a face full of soap and rough loofah induced cleaning. He sputters indignantly. "Hold still," Derek grumbles. Stiles wiggles and jerks away instinctively. One of Derek's hands flies up to grip him tight, effectively subduing him. Derek dunks Stiles' head under the spray abruptly to wash away the soap and then pulls him back flush against his front. Their dicks rub against one another, leaving Stiles to groan at the sudden contact, leaning in against Derek helplessly as his lower half contracts a serious case of jelly legs.

"They heavy petting can start now y'know," Stiles moans pathetically, getting grabby.

Derek catches his eager hand in a tight grip. "Not yet," he grunts.

"Tease," Stiles pouts.

Derek grins down at him indulgently. "Patience," he says almost playfully. "I hear it's a virtue."

"Oh, now you're just being an ass." Stiles smacks him for good measure.

He merely hums in reply, scrubbing the soap laden loofah down Stiles' neck and then over his chest. He cleans Stiles almost languidly, getting every spot of dirt and blood out of his pours. Stiles lets him, relaxing and enjoying Derek's hands all over his body. He's never had anyone clean him before; it's oddly intimate in the way that casual sex never quite manages to be. At Derek's gentle prodding he turns around, granting him access to his no doubt filthy back. It doesn't take long until he's covered in soap spuds and Derek is pushing him under the spray once more.

When he looks back at Derek, the older man is holding out the loofah. "Your turn," he informs him.

Stiles blinks. "You want me to—?"

"Yes," Derek responds gruffly, shaking the loofah impatiently.

Stiles snatches it out of Derek's outstretched arm with his good hand and grins. He smashes it into Derek's face without warning and laughs. "Payback's a bitch," he snickers.

He removes the loofah to find Derek scowling at him, suds all over his face. "What's wrong? The grumpy wolf doesn't like a face full of soap?" he taunts.

But then Derek is grinning and forcing a kiss on top of Stiles' wide mouth. He tastes like soap and leaves Stiles sputtering. "Okay," he whines as they break apart. "That was just unfair."

Derek nudges past him, careful not to bump his bad wrist, and steps under the water. Once his face is spud-free, he smirks. "Done already? I didn't know you gave up so easily Stilinski."

"Not a chance, man," he says, smiling. He steps forward, running the loofah up and down Derek's torso, appreciating the view while he does so. As he works his way from one side to the other, he stops over the bright pink mark on Derek's shoulder. He removes the loofah to gaze at it. He peers at Derek, who is staring at him in return, unreadable expression in place. "Does it still hurt?" he asks tentatively.


Stiles frowns, the guilt coming back in full force.

"It wasn't your fault," Derek says softly, as if sensing Stiles' mood.


Derek reaches forward to run the pads of his fingers over the line of his jaw. "I said it wasn't your fault," he huffs gruffly, "so it's not."

"Okay," he exhales.

Derek nods, as if he considers the matter resolved and turns around, baring his back for Stiles to wash. Stiles' eyes widen automatically. "You have a tattoo?" he blurts without thinking. He hooks the loofah around his wrist and starts touching immediately, tracing the outline of the three swirls. Derek doesn't stiffen under his touch like he expects him to, but instead relaxes into it.

"It's a Triskelion," Derek says, as if Stiles doesn't already know that.

"Father, son, holy spirit," he rattles off, "Celtic, often represented in Christianity—oh," he pauses in realization, "Alpha, Beta, Omega."

He notes the way Derek's wet hair flops as he nods. "Yeah," he says and it almost sounds shy. Stiles smiles privately to himself, still dragging his fingers across Derek's wet skin. He breaks out of his trance with the shake of his head and resumes scrubbing. He makes quick work of it and tosses to loofah to their feet when he finishes. "Done," he announces with a flourish.

"Good," Derek husks, all rough baritones as he turns by his heel so quickly it makes Stiles' head spin. He presses hot palms against his face and Stiles knows the kiss is coming, he expects it, but it is so warm and filled with feeling that it catches him off guard. Derek mouths at his lips with a slow sort of reverence, as if he's trying to memorize every crevice and quirk of pleasure. It's emotionally raw, powerful and it sets Stiles heart ablaze. He can feel his heart rate pick up, beating excitedly.

"God, you smell—" Derek cuts himself off, making a soft and frustrated sound. He palms at Stiles' hips and jerks them into his. "Fuck, Stiles."

"I know, I know," Stiles gasps back at him, digging his own hips into Derek's, rubbing, needing—and wow, okay, Derek is grabbing his dick, holy shit his dick is in Derek's hand and he's, fuck, fuck. "Yes, God, please," he begs as Derek works his hand upwards, thumb swiping over the head of Stiles' dick multiple times before digging into the slit and dragging down. It's a sweet torture and he can't help but moan shamelessly.

Derek moves to bite at Stiles' neck with blunt teeth and he loves it. He loves the way the scrape of teeth feels against his skin, especially paired with the tender strokes of Derek's hand against his cock. He can feel it building, the surmounting pleasure. "Derek," he whines, "Derek, Derek, Derek."

He lets go suddenly, much to Stiles' displeasure. "Why'd you stop—" but he feels Derek's hard length lined up against his own, his hand slick from the water and soap, grasping them both, pumping "—oohhhh, shit, yes, oh my God." Stiles bucks his hips involuntarily, head going back, exploding with ecstasy.

Derek growls and it really shouldn't turn him on even more, but it sure as hell does. Derek's pace picks up, pumping faster, more vigorously. "Stiles," he groans into his neck, "you so fucking right," he continues, squeezing the heads of their dicks together again and again and again, "smell like home, smell right, fuck,"

"Fuck," Stiles cries out, "don't say shit like that."

"Like what?" Derek says dragging his teeth across the crest of Stiles' jaw. "That you smell good enough to eat?"

"Christ," Stiles pants, "asshole."

Derek laughs into his mouth. The meeting of lips is short, sweet, but lost amongst the groaning and desperate jerks of their rubbing bodies.

Here, right now with Derek, is a whole new level of intimate for him. Because, sure, he's fooled around before but he's never, not like this—and it feels right. Stiles doesn't believe in cosmic love, he doesn't believe in fate, or soul mates, but in this moment, finite as it may be, he feels made for Derek. He feels the pull, the want, the sparking attraction. He's filled to brim and he never wants that feeling to disappear.

Stars explode before his eyes as he comes in uneven spurts, run ragged and heaving for mercy. "Derek, Derek, Derek," he mumbles into his chest, jerking as his body rides out the best freaking orgasm of his life.

It doesn't take long for Derek to join him, his own come coating not only his own stomach, but Stiles' as well. He exhales raggedly, eyes blissed out and brilliant blue. He rests his head against Stiles, sated smile in place.

"That was," Stiles breathes, smile dopey.

"Yeah," Derek agrees.

"If you want," Stiles begins, face flushing even more if possible, "we could, I mean, I'm not adverse to you," he coughs awkwardly, "having your wicked way with me?"

Derek looks like he would very much like to do just that but instead, he says, "Not yet." A pause. "There are… things you don't yet know. That you should know, before we go that far."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Then tell me, you idiot. It's sex, not rocket science."

Derek glowers at him as if he's being difficult on purpose. Which he is, but he just got denied. He's entitled to be a little difficult. "We will," he promises darkly. "Later." He places a chaste kiss on Stiles' lips and then flees the shower, leaving Stiles by his lonesome under the now lukewarm spray.

"Way to kill the mood!" Stiles yells after him.

After a moment of grumbling to himself, Stiles turns off the water and steps out in to the steam. Derek already has pants on and is slipping a shirt over his head when Stiles meanders over to the counter area. A pair of clothes is also set out for him, which isn't surprising since Derek had planned to attack him all along, the sneaky bastard. Stiles dresses just as quickly and lets Derek rewrap his wrist with careful diligence.

"Scott's awake," Derek informs him with the cock of his head. He vanishes from the bathroom in the next moment, leaving Stiles to frown after him. He slaps himself on the cheek and makes his own exit a moment later. The face Scott shoots him when he steps out is so worth every untoward Allison rehash he has ever been forced to listen to.

Stiles smirks at him and winks.

"Gross, Stiles!" Scott rages before throwing himself back on the couch. Stiles snickers evilly. Revenge tastes oh-so-sweet.

After puttering around the kitchen and scrounging up breakfast for four—whilst batting away Scott's grabby hands—he sets the table and beams as Derek and Peter deign to join them. He gestures gallantly at the table. "Breakfast is served," he says.

"Oh thank God," Scott groans, sliding into his seat with too much enthusiasm.

Peter sits down politely, smiles creepily and nods a thank you.

Derek stands there awkwardly for a moment, growls to himself, seems to decide something and plants a soft kiss on Stiles' cheek before sitting down, ears tinged red.


"Seriously?" Scott balks.

Peter merely chuckles darkly and takes a sip of his coffee.

"Shut up McCall," Derek snarls.

Stiles grins stupidly as he takes his own seat next to Derek, hooking their feet together.

Derek sits back and he looks almost content.

And that is the reason why it's so hard to say what he has to say next. He clears his throat. "I have a plan," he declares gaze shifting hesitantly to look at Derek as he continues, "but you're not going to like it."

It takes lots of convincing (coupled with snarling and growling and general protests from Derek), but here Stiles finds himself, in the middle of the forest, leaves crunching underfoot as he tries not to panic. It's not every day one gets to be bait for a murderous alpha werewolf, after all. He's been walking around aimlessly now for what feels like ages. He knows he has three shadows, carefully hidden and out of sight. Even so, he also knows the Alpha—Gerard—is no fool. When he shows his face, he'll be ready for the ambush.

What he won't be ready for, is Stiles' clever mind.

He can't say he's even surprised when Gerard steps out into the light moments later, gaze cold and calculating, three werewolves on his flank. Two look young, confused—one is even shaking. The last is middle aged, dirty and almost feral in appearance. It makes Stiles tense, but he flexes his toes and reminds himself that everything will be okay. He cracks a smile. "I see your face is all nice and healed," he drawls, forcing a playful smirk.

Gerard smiles slowly as if he knows what Stiles is up to. He relaxes his shoulders and peers at Stiles as if he is a particularly interesting specimen. "Come to accept the bite?" Gerard asks. "Scott will be pleased."

It takes everything within him not to respond in the sarcastic way he wants to. "Is that why you want me?" he inquires aloofly. "To make it easier for Scott?"

"Among other things," Gerard says, taking a step closer, the werewolves surrounding him fan out, edging ever closer. "I know your little friends are here," he comments off hand. Stiles had expected no less. "The alpha can feel them, even if they belong to another. I'd offer them sanctuary in my pack, but born werewolves are so … complicated."

Stiles stays rooted to the spot. "Is that why you turned the hunters?"

Gerard has the gall to look impressed. "You know about that then? How I gained my power?"

"Yes," Stiles responds. "But what I don't get… is why. Why become what you hate?"

Gerard leans down to pick out a stick off the forest floor. He taps it against his palm, as if in deep thought. "Did you know that werewolves have extraordinary healing powers? That whatever ails you as a human… ceases to exist once you are turned?"

Ah. "You were dying."

"Cancer; really dreary stuff, that." He fixes a steely gaze on Stiles. "But, shall we skip all of this pleasantry? And get to the real reason you're here? You see Stiles, I've watched you, long before you found yourself on this mountain top. And the thing about you is that you'd never accept the bite. The threat of death is too prominent. We wouldn't want dear old dad to lose the last remaining person he loves, now would we?"

That causes pause. Gerard had watched him before? How was that even possible? Stiles swallows, quelling the anger threatening to spill over at the mention of his dad. He narrows his eyes and presses his feet into the dirt, centering himself. He lets his mind whirl at this new information. "Biting Scott wasn't random," he says, keeping his voice steady. "It was intentional."

Gerard smirks. "Glad to see you can keep up, son." He takes another step closer, pointing the stick at Stiles, his eyes now glowing a frightening red.

"Is this where you make the big reveal?" Stiles asks dryly. "Declare your great plan, prattle on about how clever you are? Because I have you figured out now, Gerard," Stiles sneers, taking a step forward, so that the outstretched stick is pressing into his chest. "Your last name is Argent. You were obviously watching me, but I was never your target. I was just always there. With Scott. With Allison—whose last name is also coincidentally Argent. Funny, isn't it?"

"Ah, yes, Allison, my granddaughter. Beautiful girl," Gerard rumbles, eyes sharp, canines extending. "It's really a shame her father shot down my plan, poisoned her against me. I wanted her in my pack—but she was too well guarded."

"So you took that which she loved the most," Stiles concludes for him. "Scott."

"You are a clever one," Gerard hums. "Perhaps too smart for your own good."

Stiles smiles defiantly. "Scott will never join your pack," he declares boldly, "nor will Allison. Scott would never let her, because unlike you, he actually loves her."

Gerard is on him in a split second, holding him up by the neck, claws enclosed around his throat, digging in painfully. Stiles claws at Gerard's hands, gasping for breath and hoping against hope no one does anything stupid. "It is such a shame," Gerard seethes, "I didn't want to have to kill you." He squeezes tighter, drawing blood. Stiles has a moment of unfocused panic before he grins.

"Boom," he croaks.

He enjoys the look of confusion on Gerard's face before he explodes in a fiery hellfire, roaring in pain. Stiles is thrown back several paces, skidding across the grass, arms ripping against the uneven rocks and sticks. He sits up gasping, blessed air filling his lungs. The word is turning and bright lights are flashing before his eyes. He doesn't have time to get his bearings before he's being pulled upright roughly by his broken wrist. He screams in reflex, turning wild eyes on the scrappy, terrifying werewolf from earlier. He bares his disgusting canines at Stiles and lunges.

Stiles braces himself for the pain, for the inevitable tearing out of his throat, but it never comes. Instead, the werewolf collapses on top of him, gurgling blood all over his shoulder. Derek stands above him, lips reared back in a snarl, a heart clasped tightly in his claws. Stiles pushes the dead werewolf off of him and wipes at the disgusting drool-blood on his shoulder. "Oh, this is just disgusting," he groans. He glares at Derek, who looks about as friendly as a deranged Rottweiler at the moment. "This doesn't make me a damsel in distress I will have you know," Stiles tells him seriously.

Derek grunts and helps him to his feet.

They both jerk their heads to the right at the sound of Scott's roar. He has Gerard by the throat, pinning the charred remains of the elder man to ground. "I'm going to kill you," he snarls, arm rearing back, poised to strike.

"Scott, no!" Stiles yells breathlessly, already sprinting helplessly towards him.

To his credit Scott stills, looking at Stiles with what appears to be regret. "Sorry Stiles but I have to do this," he whispers before cleaving his hand through Gerard's chest, twisting and pulling back.

Stiles slams his body into Scott's, knocking him off of Gerard and sending them tumbling through the dirt. He slams Scott down on his back and wails on him, landing a punch square on his stupidly crooked jaw. He then grabs Scott by the head. "Look at me!" he demands, searching for any signs of red bleeding into Scott's irises.

Scott does, the gold hue of his eyes flickering before going out in a burst and shimmer. His eyes roll into the back of his head and his body begins to seize, shaking violently. "Oh my god, Scott!" Stiles yells, suddenly afraid and regretting his actions immediately.

Derek is there suddenly, ripping Stiles off of Scott and pushing him away. "Get back," he orders.

"What's happening to him?" Stiles demands to know, stumbling forward and falling to his knees beside Scott.

"I don't know," Derek grits out, holding Scott's body in place as he thrashes.

Scott calms abruptly, going slack in Derek's arms.

"Is he…?" Stiles asks, fear etched into his tone.

Scott jolts up right with a gasp and Derek rears back. He glares at Stiles. "You punched me," Scott moans, rubbing his jaw absently.

Stiles gets over the immediate relief that Scott isn't dead with startling swiftness. "Of course I punched you! You're a dumbass—do you even know what killing an Alpha means?!" Stiles shouts hysterically.

"Yes, God Stiles, give me some credit!" Scott yells back, hands balled into angry fists.

"You could have become the next Alpha you jackass!" Stiles lurches forward, but Derek catches him by the waist and holds him back.

"Well I didn't," Scott snaps back.

"You shouldn't have taken the chance!" Stiles growls as his whole body shakes in anger. Because he is angry. Not just at Scott, but at Gerard and this whole fucked up situation and just—just everything. He feels the tears fighting at the back of his eyes and he wipes them away furiously as they spill over. "Fuck, fuck," he says in frustration.

Scott looks shocked. He opens his mouth to respond.

"No, just shut up okay Scott, just shut up. You're my best fucking friend—do you know how I'd feel if I'd lost you—to death or some fucked up werewolf insanity?"


"No, you listen to me, if you ever—ever—get twisted around in this kind of bullshit again I will kill you myself. I will. So don't—don't make me, alright? Just—Just marry Allison hand have her perfect babies and be happy so help my sanity—"

"That's enough," Derek says, hand sliding from his waist—and, oh, he'd forgotten he was being held—to press Stiles' lips shut.

Scott looks miserable.

Which is, of course, when Peter decides to make his presence known.

"Fascinating," Peter says, coming to a stand just behind Scott. His hands are clasped behind his back and he looks contemplative. "You killed the Alpha that turned you, and it cured you," he smiles, doubling his usual creep factor. "It seems the rumors are true."

Stiles' exclaim of "what," is muffled by Derek's hand so he turns angry eyes on Peter instead, glaring his questions at him.

Peter indulges him with a sly smile before looking back at Scott.

"I… am?" Scott smiles brightly. "I'm human? You're sure?" He pats at his stomach and inhales deeply. "Why do I still feel strong? And why am I not having an asthma attack?"

"Residual strength," Peter answers. "It will wear off eventually, so don't get too excited."

"Where are the others?" Derek asks Peter gruffly, tone still deep and rugged with the gravity of transpired events.

Peter smiles pleasantly. "They are hog tied and subdued for now. I will take them back with me when I leave; your mother will offer them sanctuary, I'm sure."

Derek nods.

Peter reaches forward to pat Stiles on the head. "Good thinking with the Molotov cocktails, kid."

"Thanks for the late throw," Stiles snaps back, after wrenching his mouth free of Derek's hand.

Peter chuckles. "Your friend Lydia is very good, isn't she? Got all those ingredients, and so quickly."

"And probably illegally," Stiles grumbles under his breath. He sighs and turns to Scott. "Sorry I punched you."

Scott grins toothily. "No problem, dude."

"Now can we bury this son of a bitch and move on with our lives?" He gestures to Gerard's remains with a blank face.

"Way ahead of you, man," Scott says.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Gerard's remains are buried, the Argents notified, and a meeting set between the two warring sides. Peter bids his farewell, the two sulking werewolves in tow. After a quick once over, Derek deems that Scott is, in fact, completely human and that he's free to go (which Scott scoffs a "yeah, dude, I know" at him). Which is what brings Stiles to the present, standing outside of Scott's car, right back where he started.

"Allison loves me," Scott blurts happily and Stiles swears he can see little hearts swirling around his head.

"Seriously dude? We all almost died and what you get out of it is that Allison loves you?" Stiles throws his hands up. "I give up, you're a lost cause." He smacks Scott on the back of the head. "Also, you owe me sixty bucks."


"Just go, you're mom has been worried about you for weeks, and I have to think of the most epic of explanations to lead my father astray."

"What are you going to tell him about the Jeep?"

Stiles winces. "Derek sent it to the shop—honestly, I'm pretty screwed."

Scott grins mischievously. "Well, Derek is in law enforcement…" he trails off.

The biggest, shit-eating grin spreads across Stiles' face. "Dude," he says, "I knew I kept you around for some reason. Don't squander your genius all in one place, now."

Scott out right laughs. "Bro-hug?"

Stiles rolls his eyes and pulls Scott in for a one-armed hug. He pats him roughly on the back. "Now get out of here before I decide I want to beat your ass."

"Like you could," Scott scoffs.

"Bye Scott." Stiles drones, pulling an unimpressed face.

"Later, loser." Scott smirks and slides into his car, speeding off to reunite with his one true love and well, do whatever happy endings are made of.

"Au revoir!" Stiles calls after the retreating car. He sighs and turns around.

Derek is scowling back at him.

Suddenly, Stiles' good mood is back. "Come on grumpy face," he says lightly, walking up to Derek and threading his fingers in his, "you have some explaining to do."

Derek seems placated by the way he grips Stiles' hand tighter and leads him back into the cabin. Once inside, he crowds Stiles up against the nearest wall, making the most pathetic needy noise as he sniffs at Stiles' neck. His tongue comes out, sliding up and down the blaring red claw marks with incomparable enthusiasm. He licks at them gently and Stiles arches back, baring his throat. Derek withdraws from Stiles' neck as he winds his arms around his thin hips.

He seems to catch himself and pulls back completely, looking constrained.

Stiles lets out a long suffering sigh. "Please, God, get whatever it is off your chest that is preventing you from fucking my brains out."

Derek frowns sourly at that. He shifts awkwardly. "There's a reason you …smell the way you do to me," he begins throatily, "and why you're so… responsive, to my advances."

Stiles blinks at him impishly. "Have you seen yourself?" he asks, arching a brow. "Anyone would be responsive to your 'advances,' as you put it." Cause, really? Derek cannot be that dense. He has the body of a freaking Greek God. Normal people do not look like that. Stiles feels like he won the freaking lottery of hot bodies.

The frown intensifies. He clears his throat and continues sullenly. "There are certain individuals, who, well they—" Derek growls in frustration. "They smell different to wolves—to us, because we are compatible. Together."

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles quips, "So what, am I like your wolf's mate or something?"

Derek tenses at that word. "Not… technically. The smell is only an indicator. There is the possibility of another out there, that could smell the same—but fuck, Stiles you have no idea—" Derek lets out a soft, throaty whine, sticking his head back up against Stiles' neck, inhaling as if Stiles is the best smelling dessert in the whole world. Which, by the way, he totally is. "I can't get enough—you're so frustrating."

Absently, Stiles threads his fingers through Derek's hair, enjoying the warmth of his body against his. "That's too bad for the others," he says lightly, "because I found you first. Dibs, dude."

Derek pulls back, his eyes half-lidded with want and dark with desire. He leans in, taking Stiles lips possessively. "Mine," he growls, fingers fisting into the soft fabric of Stiles' shirt.

Stiles pulls back, smiling quietly. "Yeah, yeah, you possessive oaf."

Derek grunts in reply, getting handsy all of a sudden.

"Alright Derek," Stiles begins smugly, "you're going to take me back to your bedroom and do some very naughty things to me that won't let me look my dad in the eye for at least a week," Derek growls in approval, "after which you are going to call Sheriff Stilinski in Beacon Hills and explain to him why my Jeep is at the mechanics and all of his camping gear got torn to shreds."

Derek pulls back. "Are you using my position in law enforcement to dupe your father?"

Stiles grins sheepishly. "Maybe?"

"Fine," Derek snaps, jerking Stiles roughly away from the wall before throwing him over his shoulder and heading for the bedroom. Stiles flails in surprise but laughs outright.

In the end, even though it was Scott that went on a grand adventure in search of his soul, Stiles was the one that found his.

That's all folks! Hope you enjoyed the story. I should be posting a new one pretty soon, so stay tuned!

If you'd like updates, or to see what stories I have planned, you can follow me at neuroticsourwolf on tumblr. ;)