There was blood everywhere.

His hands.

His teeth.

His-oh god he was going to be sick. Stiles was still on the ground, his throat a mangled mess, clothes torn to shreds. Had Scott not witnessed his own body going through the motions of the deed, he scarcely would have believed he was capable of such cruelty. Such an act was so far past the barbaric warfare his kind often fell prey to, it was nearly unforgivable.

Nearly? Oh he could hear Stiles saying it now. You crossed the line Scott; not the steal a prison van line either! You know what Derek is going to do to us? He'll kill you, then me, then you again, because I'm pretty sure you just broke the werewolf code in like five hundred different ways!

Only Derek couldn't kill Stiles; not unless he managed to raise him from his blood soaked grave. And then what? There was no going back from this, no way to reverse the clock and spare Stiles from the monstrosity he had let himself turn into.

He had to dispose of the body.

But the was blood.

There was so much blood.

It still leaked out of Stiles body where the gashes were deepest, though it was starting to cool and become more metallic in smell. Metallic like the jar Stiles always pitched his unused coins in, metallic like the jeep after a heavy rainstorm.

Stiles would never ride in his jeep again.

Stiles would never put change in that jar.

Stiles was gone.

Stiles was gone.

Stiles was gone.

The police came a short while later; with the Sheriff resigned to an awful sort of wailing, though unable to touch his son, as much as he reached for him. From an outsider's prospective it was as if Stiles was covered in some protective casing, impenetrable by human flesh. Even the rest of the officers seemed to work in a roundabout manner, never quite daring to touch the body or glance at it for more than a second. Perhaps it was a respect to the dead, but Scott had a sinking feeling it was more of a gesture to those still living.

"It was an animal, I think it was a mountain lion. I hid in the jeep. There was nothing I could do." Oh how simple of a lie it was! A lie gobbled up, for a truth such as his was one that should only exist on the edge of a campfire.

Then, he saw Derek, his eyes no longer red, but instead glowing the same blue they had many moons ago.

Nothing could have prepared Scott for Derek.

Nothing could have prepared anyone for Derek.

He walked past the tapes with such purpose, no one dared stop him until he collapsed nearly on top of the now cold body. His throat admitted no sob, his body no false movement that suggested he might attack the by-standers. Instead he cradled Stiles in the most tender way, taking his sleeve and cleaning the dried blood from the corner of the boys mouth. Derek's head bent forward, his shoulders slumping as if a thousand bricks had been poured down upon him. Perhaps they had.

"Sir, you have to move." One of the police women prompted, but Derek was too far away to absorb her words. Had he not lost everything he had ever cherished to the unforgiving nature of this town? Did no one understand that? His head tipped back, and from the bottom of his stomach echoed a howl that would forever be the source of legends in the cursed little town of Beacon Hills.

It was the most horrible sound anyone had ever heard. It paralyzed Scott, for he knew exactly what he meant. In the wolf's tongue it was a cry more powerful than threat or curse, a mourning song not meant for the deceased, but rather the ears of the cowardly assassin who had slain ones mate.

I will not kill you; instead I condemn you to live before you burn, for no hellfire can replace what you have taken, what was rightfully mine.

Scott fell to the ground, his stare blank but his mind still so very aware. On a loop in his head played those last final words Stiles had spoke to him in utter confidence, that one confession that had ended his life far before his time.

Scott, I think I might be in love with Derek.