Sleep Tight (Teen Wolf Holiday Exchange)
Length: ~500 words
Genre(s): Schmoop, hurt/comfort, nightmares, established relationship
Summary: Derek makes a pretty good dreamcatcher. And teddy-bear.
Prompts: demon, invisible, space
He jerks awake with a choked cry and for a second he has no idea where he is—the room is black as a coal mine at midnight, the dimmest of glows coming in through the curtains opposite the bed, and he has to be quiet or it'll find him but he doesn't remember what it is and he can't get enough air like this, breathing in hitching stifled gasps, staring blindly into the dark.
Something moves next to him on the bed, creak of springs and the rustle of sheets as it reaches for him, and Stiles nearly falls off the bed in his haste to get away.
There's a hand gripping his arm, and another curling around the back of his neck, dry and hot against his chilled skin. A darker patch of night growls, "Damn it, Stiles, calm down!"
"Fuck, you scared the hell out of me," Derek says, and Stiles breathes out in a huge rush.
"God," he mutters, and lets himself be drawn into Derek's arms, pulled back against his bare chest and held there just this side of too tightly. Derek's body is warm against his, his solid heat radiating through Stiles, burning the last fragments of the dream from his mind like fog under the morning sun.
The details of the dream are already fading, something about smoke and running and being stalked through the deep woods by something with teeth for eyes, something forlorn and hungry. Stiles shivers and Derek makes a gruff noise, tone caught between soothing and impatient as he pulls Stiles in closer.
He can't see Derek at all in this light, so he closes his eyes and turns his head into Derek's shoulder, burying his face in his throat. Derek settles back against the mattress with Stiles halfway on top of him, dragging up the blankets they'd kicked down to their ankles and tucking them just under their chins.
"Bad dream?" he asks, eventually. The grip at Stiles' nape has softened, knuckles stroking up the line of Stiles' neck, over the ridge of his skull and back.
Stiles gives a shaky sigh, and nods.
"... want to talk about it?" Derek offers, and he says it so obviously grudgingly Stiles can't help but snort, lifting his head to look down at Derek's face, just the suggestion of a shape in the darkness.
"Sorry I woke you up," he says softly.
Fingers feather over his cheek, and a thumb traces the edge of his bottom lip. "'S fine."
Derek huffs out a breath and tugs Stiles down again. "Yes, really. Go back to sleep."
Stiles can't, though. He's never been able to sleep after nightmares; usually, he gets up, plays around online, works on homework or watches episodes of Mythbusters and Star Trek until the sun comes up. A lot of the time he sleeps better in full sunlight than he does a night.
But laying here, Derek's breath warm and rhythmic in his hair, Derek's heart a steady metronome under his palm, isn't too bad either.