Work Text:
It was a strange feeling, this pull, like a call he couldn’t ignore. It was cold. He couldn’t understand why it was cold, but he continued along, bare toes digging into the soft mud, pines pressed beneath his feet. He inhaled deeply, the biting chill of autumn burning his lungs. His fingers grazed against the rough bark of trees, a low howl from behind forcing him to pause for a moment. He numbly looked around at the darkness, sniffling slightly, before he started walking again. The night was dotted with stars, a nearly new moon hanging in the sky. There was the sound of a branch snapping, a flash of red darting between the trees, but this time he didn’t stop. The pull, the ache in his chest was too great. He stumbled forward and his eyes began to water. It was suddenly so hard to breathe, like he was inhaling smoke instead of air. He wanted to scream because it hurt. It hurt so fucking bad and his skin was on fire and he was screaming, screaming, screaming....
“Stiles?”
There was a firm hold on his shoulders, a gentle shake before Stiles was blinking awake. His chest was still heaving with sobs, tongue weighted with the taste of burning flesh, but there was no fire. Just a house. A house in the middle of the woods and a woman whose face was long dead and burnt staring down at him.
“What the hell is Claudia’s kid doing out here?”
Stiles swallowed down his fear, but he couldn’t stop his entire body from trembling. Talia kneeled down, trying to meet his eyes, but he couldn’t look at her. Her face was no longer that of an ash stricken corpse, but Stiles could not fucking look at her. Just behind where she was standing was Peter, a dark and quizzical look on his face as he regarded Stiles with interest. Stiles knew the Hales. Everyone knew the Hales. They were a force to be reckoned with. A powerful influence over the town of Beacon Hills with the family history and name to prove it. Talia reminded him of his mother in a way, always smiling. She never raised her voice, a quiet anger when someone wronged her. Laura used to babysit him when his parents went out for date nights. She’d read him ghost stories and make s’mores in the oven. But now he was thirteen and his dad didn’t go on dates anymore so he doesn’t need a babysitter. Cora was just a year younger than he was, all scraped knees and a dominating force of the playground. And Derek, well, Stiles tried not to think too much about Derek, least it make his cheeks flush hotly like he’d been stuck in the sun too long.
“Stiles, sweetie,” Talia said softly, rubbing her blistering hands over his arms to try and warm him, “what are you doing out here?”
Stiles wanted to tell her he had been asleep in his bed, that he didn’t know how he got here. He just remembered this feeling, like a hot coil, tightening around his chest that made him want to scream. So he followed the feeling, let it guide him until everything became fire and smoke. He wanted to tell her that for a moment she was dead. Is dead. Or will die. He’s not really sure, but it seems more real than her standing there trying to offer him comfort.
“Maybe he was sleep walking,” he heard Peter suggest, but Stiles thinks he knows more than he’s saying and it makes Stiles feel nervous.
Stiles opened his mouth to explain, but as soon as he did he vomited. Talia moved quickly, rubbing soothing circles over his back as he purged the contents of his stomach on her front lawn. Her comfort made him think of his mother and how he really wished she were here.
“Peter,” Talia said in a calm voice, “call the Sheriff and get a blanket he’s freezing.”
“There’s something about this boy,” Peter hummed thoughtfully before turning away before Talia could snap at him to get moving.
Stiles knew he was hyperventilating, plunging right over the cliff into a full blown panic attack. Why was he here? He didn’t understand. He just wanted to go home and pretend like he never saw a fire that wasn’t there, but he knows when he closes his eyes again all he’ll see is Talia’s corpse. He doesn’t mean to, but he throws up again. He’s terrified at how it grits against his teeth, almost taste like ash.
“Stiles,” Talia is still there, “come on I’m going to get you inside, your dad is on his way.”
Stiles can’t move. He doesn’t want to go into that house even though it’s just a house. He is frozen, his body tensing as if he is getting ready to fight or run. Talia must sense this as she eases her grip on his arms.
“Okay,” she murmured gently, “we’ll stay right here.”
She wraps a blanket around his shoulders, the warmth making him relax, but just barely. He feels like he is strung out, like he hasn’t slept for weeks. He is on high alert, every sound making him jump.
“Mom?”
Dread began to pool in Stiles’ stomach as he turned to see Derek Hale standing in the driveway, eyebrows knitted in clear confusion. He’s dressed like he just returned from a night out, but it’s a Tuesday and nearing two in the morning. Talia shifted, posture going rigid as she took in the sight of her son.
“Derek,” he can hear the quiet anger, the reverberating growl in her throat, “it’s a school night, did you sneak out?”
“I was out with friends,” Derek huffed, “it’s not a big deal.”
Stiles wanted to call him on the lie, even though he’s not sure how he even knows that the boy is lying. Talia pressed her lips together in a thin line and Stiles wondered what was going through her mind. Did she know Derek was lying too?
“Get inside,” she finally replied with a heavy sigh, “we’ll talk about this in the morning.”
Stiles watched as Derek’s face hardened, his glare pointedly turning on Stiles like this entire conversation was his fault. He wanted to scream at Derek, tell him not to go into the house, but the boy was gone faster than he could breathe.
“There’s the Sheriff,” Talia breathed, “Peter, stay with Stiles while I go get him.”
Stiles blinked against the flashes of red and blue as Peter kneeled down in front of him. For a moment Stiles could see his face marred in scars, but unlike Talia he was still there. Still alive. Peter tilted his head to the side, eyes roaming over Stiles’ face like he was looking at something familiar. Something he recognized. He almost looked sad.
“You’re scared,” Peter stated not unkindly.
Stiles released a shuddering breath, “I think your house is haunted.”
If Peter said anything then Stiles never heard it as his father pulled him into a bone crushing hug, repeatedly thanking Talia and Peter for looking out for his son. He was back in his bed before he knew it, but it was a long time before he could even think of falling asleep.
This time when he was blinking his exhausted eyes open the fire was real. The inhale of smoke, the grit of ash, the rotting stench of burning flesh. This time he was standing on the edge of the preserve watching the Hale house burn to the ground. This time, when he screamed, no one heard him.
Stiles wasn’t sure when smoke gave way to water. His shallow, panting breaths became more labored as he endlessly kicked to keep himself afloat. The pool was just a pool, but why did it have no beginning and no end? There wasn’t a diving block he could swim towards, no metal bar to watch slip through his fingers. There was no Derek Hale to sink to the bottom with him. Because here, Derek was already a sunken corpse, and he was tied to Stiles’ ankle like a terrible weight. Stiles had failed. He failed Derek despite his best efforts. He didn’t stop him from going into that house and he couldn’t save him from the water.
“Stiles,” it was Derek’s voice, but Derek was gone, pulling him down to the darkness, “Stiles.”
Stiles jolted awake, the hoarse and broken sound leaving his lips falling quiet as he became aware of his surroundings. He wasn’t in the pool. He was dressed in pajama bottoms and a hoodie, lying on the burnt remains of the Hale house entrance way. He dug his nails into the charred wood, ignoring the wet tracks on his cheeks and the raw, painful scratch against his throat. He had probably been screaming for hours.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Derek growled, but his grip on Stiles was gentle, almost concerned.
“I—” Stiles started, but he had to force down a sob as he ran his hands through his buzzed hair, “I don’t know.”
Derek cautiously sat down across from Stiles when it was clear he wasn’t going to be moving for a long while. He was dressed like he normally was, leather jacket and all, and it took Stiles too long to realize he didn’t really have a home. He remembered something about his new pack staying in an old train car warehouse. Stiles let his eyes roam over Derek’s face for a moment. There were exhaustion lines and dark circles, the smallest tremble in his jaw. Stiles wasn’t the only one still recovering from the aftershocks of their hours spent in the pool.
“Sleep walking?” Derek guessed, his voice quiet and patient, something Stiles wasn’t used to.
“I suppose,” Stiles replied, “I’m not really sure.”
They fell into silence and Stiles really takes the time to look around. The house is even worse on the inside. There’s debris everywhere, shattered glass and broken boards, leaves stuck to the floor where the rain had blown them in through the blown out windows. When the wind whips through the open spaces the entire house groans, a long, drawn out exhale that makes it sound like it will come crashing down at any moment. He can see the outline of where picture frames would have been on the mantle. The almost shape of a bookcase and the chunk of an old sofa. If he cranes his neck he can look down the hallway where the kitchen would be. He bets they had an island, the big fancy ones you see in expensive houses. He imagined the entire family eating breakfast together, a mass chaos of three Hale children scrambling around the space, knocking over glasses of orange juice and stealing buttered toast from plates that weren’t their own. He wondered if the innocent laughter ringing in his head echoed endlessly in Derek’s mind too.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve ended up here.” It’s not a question, but there is something close to accusation in Derek’s voice, and really, Stiles can’t blame him.
“No,” Stiles murmured, “but I don’t know why—” he stopped, taking a deep breath as his nails dug into the soft skin of his palm to ground himself, “something is pulling me here.”
“There’s nothing here, anymore,” Derek snapped meanly, but he swallowed the rest of his bite when Stiles flinched away.
“I can’t explain it,” Stiles said, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes, “but, there’s this ache in my chest, a terrible pain I can’t get rid of until I start following it.”
“It’s dangerous,” Derek said instead, not knowing what to make of Stiles’ explanation, “you shouldn’t be wandering around Beacon Hills alone in the middle of the night.”
“Why are you here?” Stiles asked, eyeing Derek suspiciously. He supposed Derek didn’t need a reason to visit the remains of his family home, but he had a pack now and it wasn’t like Derek was invincible. He was just as vulnerable as the rest of them despite the red glow of his eyes.
“It felt—” Derek stopped, exhaling harshly through his nose as he realized he sounded just like Stiles, “it felt like I needed to be here.”
“That makes two of us,” Stiles tried for a smile, “maybe Matt was right, we do make a pretty good pair.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Derek huffed, but there was no bite to his words this time.
Stiles chuckled, low and soft before they fell into silence again. He could feel his heart starting to pound against his chest, his anxiety nestling like pins pricking his skin. He was suddenly terrified to look around the dark room, like he would see ghosts or corpses lining the space where there was nothing. Derek must have noticed because his fingers were brushing against the top of Stiles’ knee, eyebrows furrowing with concern.
“What is it?” He asked, his voice low, almost a growl. Protective.
“I think,” Stiles said, letting out a shaky breath, “I should probably get home.”
“I can give you a ride,” Derek offered as he got to his feet.
“Yeah,” Stiles gave the wolf a half smile, “it’s dangerous to go alone.”
Derek rolled his eyes, but he gave Stiles a hand. He watched, for a moment, as the thinnest lines of black inked up Derek’s veins. Derek’s grip became tighter, his mouth pulling into a taut line. The worried expression now crossing his face made Stiles swallow the lump in his throat as he quickly pulled his hand from Derek’s grasp.
“It’s just a dull ache,” he said defensively, which was mostly true.
Derek didn’t respond, but he was still frowning and now he was looking at Stiles like he was really seeing him for the first time. It was the same look he had given him in the parking lot of the high school.The one that made him really understand the complexities of Derek Hale.
“I want you to know,” Stiles suddenly blurted out as he moved towards the front door, “that wasn’t the reason I was holding on to you”
“I know, Stiles,” Derek said quietly, “I know.”
Stiles could feel Derek’s blistering fingers against the small of his back, the ache in his body easing away. He didn’t say anything as Derek moved past him, leading them out to the gravel driveway where the Camaro was parked. He knew he shouldn’t look back. He could already feel how his hair was standing up on the back of his neck. He tried to take deep breaths, but there was a terrible pressure against his chest, one that threatened to build until he fucking turned around. He doesn’t want to, but he feels like he will die if he refuses. He dug his toes into the soft ground, pausing in his step as he finally gave in. He turned slowly, his heart in his throat now. He catches her standing in the doorway, the marred, burnt corpse he envisioned all those years ago.
He didn't realize he had vomited until Derek was at his side, voice slightly panicked, “Stiles, what’s wrong?”
Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, the back of his hand coming up to wipe at his mouth. His throat burned with the acidity, fresh tears falling down his cheeks as he said, “Derek, I think your house is haunted.
Stiles stared down at his untouched lunch, the spaghetti splattered with meat sauce making his stomach churn uncomfortably. He was faintly reminded of worms in the underbrush, digging their paths in the mud. He watched as they circled the roots of an old, abandoned tree in the middle of the preserve. Just roots and a trunk alone in the surrounding darkness. But Stiles hadn’t felt alone when he saw it. He hadn’t felt alone when he ran his fingers over the rough, worn edges of bark, following the jagged rings until he reached the pith. He hadn’t felt alone when he felt something grab onto him, like it wanted to pull him right through the trunk and swallow him wh—
“Stiles,” Scott said, startling the boy, “you okay?”
Stiles blinked a few times, righting himself in his seat as he met Scott’s eyes. He smiled, scrubbing a hand over his face to dispel his exhaustion.
“Yeah,” Stiles replied, “sorry, I must have drifted off there.”
“Still sleepwalking?” Scott whispered, careful not to catch anyone else’s attention.
Stiles threw the rest of his friends a sideways glance. Cora and Boyd were nowhere to be seen, Allison and Lydia were caught up in a conversation, paying them no mind while Isaac was furiously scribbling in a notebook, face twisted up in concentration.
“Yes,” Stiles admitted after a moment, “I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”
Scott placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly, “With everything going on, it’s understandable.”
Stiles sighed, pushing his lunch away. Between the human sacrifices and the Alpha pack he was beginning to think his sleepwalking adventures were the least of his worries. He felt on edge, like he was being stretched too thin. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a decent night's sleep. Every night felt the same. He’d stay up until ungodly hours going over research or plans to find the answers or protect the pack and finally, when he crashed somewhere near three or four in the morning he’d wake up in some location that wasn’t his bed. It was that goddamn ache in his chest, the one that pulled him until he felt like he was going to break.
“Okay,” Isaac groaned, pulling everyone’s gaze in his direction, “what sounds more realistic, getting chased by a bear or falling off a cliff and drowning?”
Silence filled the space between them as everyone’s eyebrows shot up. Stiles looked between Scott and Lydia, his confusion and slight concern mirrored in their faces.
“It’s for the dream journal Ms. Blake wants us to fill out,” Isaac rolled his eyes.
Everyone visibly relaxed as Allison said, “Cliff drowning for sure.”
“Thanks,” Isaac replied offhandedly as he began scribbling in his notebook again.
“Wait,” Stiles said as he looked at all of his friends, “did you all make up your dreams for the dream journal?”
Now the confused gazes turned in his direction and the particularly judgemental raise of eyebrows from Lydia made his skin itch.
“Stiles,” Lydia said pointedly, “do you really think I’m going to share with anyone the things that keep me up at night?”
Stiles pulled his eyes from Lydia, moving across Allison and Isaac, the same expression on their faces. Stiles sighed, turning to Scott, but his best friend just gave him a sheepish smile in return.
“Scott,” Stiles pleaded, “seriously?”
“Lydia’s right,” Scott shrugged, “If I wrote what I actually dreamed about I’d probably out the entire supernatural scene of Beacon Hills.”
“Are you saying you,” Isaac pointed his pencil in Stiles’ direction, “Stiles Stilinski are being honest in your stupid dream journal of all things?’
“Well,” Stiles said in exasperation, “I don’t get into specific details, but yeah!”
“Oh Stiles,” Lydia sighed as she returned to her lunch.
Stiles chose not to respond as he pulled his lip between his teeth to mull over their words. It wasn’t like anyone was willing to really listen to what his nightmares were about. They all had their own problems and Stiles knew he didn’t need to burden them. Scott insisted he didn’t mind when Stiles talked about his haunting dreams, but he knew Scott was exhausted. He could see how his best friend’s shoulders sagged, the way his baby browns had sunken in. It didn’t matter if he had werewolf strength or stamina. Scott could only take so much and right now it felt like they were all drowning. So, when Stiles woke up screaming in the Hale house or the abandoned mall where Derek almost died he wrote it down. He dragged his trembling hands across the paper and made incomplete sentences, scribbled half completed drawings of the burnt staircase or the broken elevator. He described the darkness, the coil around his heart that made him feel like he was being ripped apart if he didn’t let it take him away. He knew it probably made him seem unhinged. Unwell. But Stiles was far from feeling fine.
“Stiles,” Jennifer called as the class began to file out, “do you have a moment?”
Stiles grimaced as he spotted his dream journal sitting just behind her on the desk. He saw Scott throw him a sideways glance as Lydia shook her head, like she knew this was going to happen. Stiles dropped his bag on the ground as he planted himself in front of Jennifer, waiting for the teacher mental health checkup he was surely about to receive. He could only imagine what Jennifer thought of him after reading the horrors he put in there. He ran his hands through his hair as Jennifer waited for the room to clear before she turned, picking up his notebook, clutching it in her hands tightly.
“You know,” Jennifer started, her eyes on Stiles, “when I assigned this dream journal project to the class I expected most of the content to be bullshit.”
Stiles snorted a laugh.
“I thought at least some people would be truthful,” Jennifer continued, smiling softly, “but you and Greenburg may be the only ones that have written anything remotely close to the truth.”
“Greenburg,” Stiles asked with light amusement.
“Don’t ask,” Jennifer laughed. She cleared her throat before she flipped open his notebook, “Stiles, the things you’ve written…”
“They’re just dreams,” Stiles blurted out as she stopped on a page with a detailed drawing of the tree stump from his most recent sleepwalking adventure. Her ice blue eyes moved from the drawing to his face as he quietly repeated, “They’re just dreams.”
“I know that, Stiles,” Jennifer reassured him as she reached out, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “You talk about a house,” she started when he gave her a small, sad smile in return.
“Yeah,” Stiles swallowed. If he closed his eyes he could see her. He could see her when he was thirteen years old and she was comforting him in the dark, faces covered in burned scars that had not come to pass yet. He could see her dead, charred corpse standing in the doorway like a ghost. Like a warning. He would never be rid of the image of Talia Hale dead and gone. “It’s haunted,” he added after a moment.
“There’s a woman,” Jennifer read, “who is stuck in the black walls of the house in the woods. She is stuck and she wants to get out. She wants to get out, but she can’t. She will never, ever be able to get out. No one can see her. I’ve seen her since I was thirteen. I can see the way the flames lick her face, steal her future, and leave behind a broken legacy. I don’t want to see her, but she wants to be seen. Sometimes I think she’s calling me. Sometimes I think she wants me to see, to know, to protect something she’s left behind. She knows I should have warned him not to go into that house. She knows. It’s all my fault and she knows.”
Stiles could feel how his jaw ached as he clenched it so tightly he thought it might break. He knew his palms were pooling with blood from where he was digging his nails into the soft skin.
“Do you know who this woman is?” Jennifer asked as she pinned him with a look that made him squirm.
“No,” Stiles lied, because he didn't want to tell her. He dropped his gaze to the ground because he could not look at her. He didn’t want her to see the fear that lived behind his eyes, the way he wanted to scratch at his skin until it peeled off and he could finally be free of this perpetual ache that ran so deep he could feel it in his bones.
She knew he was lying, but she doesn’t press as she says more quietly, “And what is it that you need to protect, Stiles?”
Stiles wondered if Jennifer knew that he was about a few seconds away from just bolting from the room. He felt like he had been cornered and the walls were closing in. He suddenly had a terrible, overwhelming feeling that Jennifer knew more than she let on. It was a quiet, nagging pull in the back of his mind that made his hair stand on end. He choked down the acidic taste of bile rising at the back of his throat as he dug the heel of his hand in his eyes. His head was throbbing, a terrible pressure building behind his eyes.
“Am I interrupting something?”
Stiles’ head snapped forward, his heart dropping into his stomach as he met those grey-green eyes that haunted him just as much as the rest of the nightmares of Beacon Hills did. Derek was casually leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest as he looked between Jennifer and Stiles with interest.
“Derek,” Jennifer smiled brightly, “I didn’t know you were stopping by.”
And it suddenly all made sense. This was why they hadn’t really heard from Derek in days. It didn’t matter if Stiles never wanted to take his eyes off of the wolf after hearing he was alive, because Derek clearly only had eyes for one person and she was suddenly moving into his space. Stiles quickly averted his gaze as it darted up to the ceiling. It shouldn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt. Derek didn’t mean anything to him. They’re barely friends, reluctant allies in this fight against forces that were much stronger than all of them. It didn’t matter that he held Derek up in a pool for hours. It didn’t matter if they had spent the summer together looking for Erica and Boyd. It didn’t matter if Stiles woke up screaming in the Hale family home and Derek was there every single time. Whatever Stiles thought was between them didn’t matter. Stiles was just a thirteen year old boy watching Derek walk into a house with the lingering scent of Kate Argent and a trail of gasoline in his wake.
“I just wanted to check in,” Derek said and Stiles could feel his hardened stare, but he didn’t look back. He didn’t look back. He didn’t fucking look back.
“I was just going over an assignment with Stiles,” Jennifer explained, “nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah,” Stiles said suddenly as he hurriedly gathered up his things, “if there’s nothing else Ms. Blake, I think I’m going to go.”
He threw his backpack over his shoulder, refusing to look at Derek as he focused all of his attention on Jennifer who still had his dream journal clutched in her hands.
“Of course,” Jennifer was still smiling, “we can discuss this more later.”
Stiles had to stop himself from saying no thanks as he pulled his lips into what he thought was a smile, but felt more like a grimace. He hastily pushed past Jennifer and Derek, the need to vomit rising with every passing moment. He barely made it down the hall when he felt a hand gently grip his wrist. Stiles watched as black lines inked up taut veins, a small sense of relief washing over him before he wretched his hand out of Derek’s grasp.
“Stiles,” Derek’s voice was quiet as he watched the boy with concern, but Stiles didn’t want Derek’s concern.
He was fucking fine.
“I’m good,” Stiles snapped, “all good.”
Derek swallowed his next words as he silently stood in the hallway, the inches between them becoming miles.
“It’s nice to see you,” he said meanly because he wanted it to hurt. He felt vindicated when he saw Derek wincing at the words.
“You’re in pain,” Derek murmured instead.
“Yeah, well,” Stiles huffed as he readjusted his backpack, “that’s nothing new these days.”
“You’re still sleepwalking,” Derek said, ignoring Stiles’ bitterness.
“And you’re clearly busy,” Stiles sneered, “have a great day, Derek.”
He didn’t wait for Derek to reply as he turned on his heel and headed towards the nearest bathroom to vomit in a trashcan.
This time when he woke up in the Hale house screaming he was all alone.
He breathed in deeply, the thick, heavy scent of incense filled his lungs, a startling contrast to the biting chill. He swallowed the smoke, exhaling harshly as he let his back fall against something hard. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, a burn running down his arms as he pulled against the rough edges of rope tied securely to his wrist. His chest began to heave, the panic burrowing into his ribs as he finally looked up at the night sky. He was met with a scatter of stars, a waxing Gibbous moon falling over him in near perfect alignment.
“No,” he whimpered as he tugged on the rope again, “no, no, no.”
He knew exactly where he was. He knew how the trees fell over the sky, a small clearing in the middle of the preserve where an old stump lay waiting in the darkness. He had been here before. Several times. Everytime felt the same, but this — this was different. His vision was suddenly obscured by a mess of black hair, a pale face, and ice blue eyes gazing down at him like a predator who had just caught its prey.
“Shh,” Jennifer cooed as she cupped his cheek, “it’s okay.”
“What are you doing?” He said in-between shuddering breaths.
“Don’t you feel it, Stiles?” Jennifer asked, “Can’t you hear its call?”
Stiles let his head hit the tree as he shook it furiously. He tried to blink back tears, but the pull in his chest, the coil that wrapped around his heart felt like it was going to explode. He wanted to scream, but he knew no one would hear him. He was on his own.
“Believe me,” Jennifer laughed as she sat back, her hand reaching into her jacket for something, “I was surprised to see that it had chosen you, of all people, but fate is a funny thing.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles snarled as he caught a glint of silver in her hand.
Jennifer brought the knife up to his throat, carefully tracing it along his skin. Stiles felt his entire body freeze, his breath fanning against the blade.
“All that power,” Jennifer hummed as she dragged it down his chest, the fingers of her free hand circling over a spot just above his hip on his left side, “trapped in this human body.”
“You’re crazy,” Stiles laughed hysterically, “and when I tell De—”
His words died in a scream as Jennifer dug the knife into his side. She held his writhing body down with surprising strength as she twisted the weapon. He could see black spots pooling over his eyes, his head spinning terribly as he felt her carefully pull the knife out. He barely had time to release the sob trapped in his throat when she thrusted the knife in on his other side. He knew he was begging for her to stop, but he couldn’t hear the words. There was just a dull buzzing in his ears as he jerked against his bonds uncontrollably.
“I’m doing this for Derek,” Jennifer said as she brought her fingers to Stiles’ lips, smearing his own blood into his skin, “I’m protecting him.”
“From what?” Stiles whispered. He could taste the blood. Sharp and metallic. He tried to gain control of his breathing, but his chest was rising and falling so rapidly he felt like he was going to pass out.
“You.” Jennifer replied simply. “I know what it wants and I know what you want.”
“You don’t know what I want,” Stiles argued weakly, his eyes fluttering close.
“It’s the same thing the woman in your dreams wants, Stiles,” Jennifer said, patting his cheek roughly until he forced his eyes back open. “You have no idea what you could become.”
“It’s you,” Stiles coughed, blood spilling over his lips, “you’re doing this.”
“Not yet,” Jennifer growled as she ripped open his shirt, “you can’t know. You need to forget.”
“Why?” Stiles asked as he watched her raise the knife above her head.
“I’m not powerful enough,” Jennifer said, eyes glowing white, “but don’t worry, I will be.”
He didn’t get a chance to call for someone — anyone — as she drove the dagger right into his heart. This time he did wake up screaming, his body jolting forward as he stumbled into a pile of autumn leaves. He dug his fingers into the cold, hard ground, the grass still wet with dew. He frantically looked around, his adrenaline pumping through his veins making his nerve endings feel like they were on fire. His hands immediately came up to his chest, his fingers running over the wounds that were not there. He looked down, but there was no blood. No marks from where Jennifer had stabbed him. He doubled over in pain, vomiting as he held himself up on his hands and knees. He was still wearing his clothes from last night, the ones he fell asleep in while he was sitting at his desk. He was alive. He wasn’t hurt, but it felt like he had been. He rolled onto his back, fishing his phone from his pocket.
Scott: Allison is getting coffee, I told her you were a pumpkin spice fan :P
He blinked a few times, the text message feeling unreal as he read it over and over again. It was a quarter past seven in the morning, the rays of sun lazily falling behind dark, grey clouds. He turned his head, catching the old Hale house just behind him. He quickly looked away and pulled himself to his feet, nearly falling over again as his body screamed at the movement. He couldn’t figure out how he got here.
“Think,” he said, his voice cracking, “think, Stiles.”
He was in his room. Jennifer killed him. He fell asleep at his desk. Jennifer killed him. He was tied to the tree. Jennifer killed him. He was at the Hale house. Jennifer killed him.
Jennifer killed him.
He hastily wiped at his eyes another sob threatening to break him. He knew she was standing there. He knew Talia Hale was waiting for him to turn back around.
“I can’t do it,” he cried into the empty space, “I can’t fucking do this anymore!”
But the pull was too great and Stiles knew he would never win this fight. She was always in the same spot. A ghost standing in the burnt entranceway. This time her eyes were the fire and Stiles could feel it in his bones.
Protect Derek
“He doesn’t need me!” Stiles yelled at her. “He doesn’t need me!”
She levels him with a look. One that says, we both know that’s not true. He blinks and she’s gone, a wisp of smoke that’s already being carried off by the wind.
He went straight to the loft, the pain radiating through his body made his teeth grind together. He paused at the rolling door, remembering that it wasn’t long ago he passed through this entranceway to see the consequences of their mistakes. He didn’t know how Derek could sleep here. Not after what happened to Boyd. But, he supposed, Derek was used to living in haunted places. He pushed away the urge to vomit again as he pulled the doors open with shaking hands. The loft smelled like fresh coffee, a soft glow illuminating the room from the giant windows. Derek was sitting on the couch, drinking from a steaming mug and reading a book. It all looked so domestic it made Stiles nearly stop in his tracks. He felt like he was interrupting some private moment, a version of Derek that lived outside of the guilt and abuse. He wondered if it was too late to turn around and pretend like the past few years had never happened.
“Shouldn’t you be at school,” Derek asked, still looking down at his book, his tone wavering between annoyance and amusement.
He stood on the step leading into Derek’s loft, his hands wringing together in anxiety. His silence must have been enough to make Derek worry as the wolf closed his book, turning to face Stiles fully now. Stiles watched as his half smile fell, grey-green eyes widening with pained concern. Stiles wasn’t sure what he looked like, but he would hazard a guess that it wasn’t great. He was shaking, a side effect of the excruciating pain he was feeling from where Jennifer had stabbed him, but not stabbed him. He knew there were dark circles loitering beneath his eyes, hollowed cheeks from not eating. His fingers were caked in dirt, his face stained with tears.
“Stiles,” Derek’s voice was soft and he moved carefully in Stiles’ direction, like he was afraid the boy would bolt at any moment.
Stiles wondered if the pounding in his heart banged against Derek’s ears. He wondered if Derek could taste how the air soured with pure fear and exhaustion. He wondered if Derek knew he was on the precipice of falling apart.
“Jennifer,” Stiles blurted out, his voice hoarse and caked in agony, “she’s behind all of this.”
“What?” Derek asked, straightening up. Stiles could see his defenses prickling.
“There’s this tree,” Stiles explained, his words coming out so fast he wasn’t sure he was really speaking at all, “more of a stump, but last night or early this morning I woke up there, like I have been the past couple of months.”
“Stiles,” Derek tried to cut in, but Stiles wouldn’t let him finish.
“And she had me tied to it,” Stiles explained as he began to pace furiously in front of Derek, “she had me fucking tied to that goddamn tree, Derek.”
“Stiles…”
“She—” Stiles tugged at his hair, the ache in his body becoming unbearable, “she had a knife and she told me things,” his lips trembled, his voice breaking, “she said she needed to protect you from me.”
“Stiles,” Derek tried again.
Stiles laughed hysterically, “I mean, for god sakes, look at me!” He dragged his thumb across his lip as he laughed again, only for a sob to echo in its wake, “And then she stabbed me, Derek. She dug her knife in and made me taste my own blood.”
He raised up his shirt, ran his fingers over the places that felt like they were on fire, “I know there’s nothing there, but I fucking swear it was real,” Stiles said when he dropped his hands, his pleading eyes looking back up at Derek now, “say you believe me, please.”
Derek looked so pained as he said the boy’s name, “Stiles, listen Je—”
Stiles took a staggering step forward, “Take my pain!” He said as he thrust his hand in front of Derek, “Take my pain and you’ll know! Listen to my heart, it won’t skip!”
Derek’s hands hovered over Stiles, unsure of what to do.
“Take it!” Stiles yelled because he felt so fucking close to breaking.
Derek closed his hands around Stiles and immediate relief began to wash over him. He watched the lines, dark and thick, snake their way up Derek’s arms. Derek’s entire body was tense, jaw clenched so tightly Stiles could hear his teeth grind together. This wasn’t the dull ache that accompanied his sleepwalking nightmares. This was Jennifer cutting him open, piece by piece, before delivering the fatal blow. He wanted to cry again and maybe he never really stopped crying since he woke up, but he was done. He was fucking done with the bad guys and the ghosts and the entirety of Beacon fucking Hills. He’d seen enough. Taken enough. He wanted out.
“Stiles,” Derek murmured, “Jennifer couldn’t have done that to you.”
“Why not?” Stiles asked, his voice so small.
“Because,” Derek swallowed, his head turning so he wasn’t looking at Stiles when he said, “she was with me last night.”
Stiles wretched his hand out of Derek’s grasp so quickly pain shot up his arm from the jerky movement. “You’re lying,” he accused, his chest beginning to heave, “Derek, don’t protect her!”
“I’m not lying,” Derek huffed angrily, “I wouldn’t lie to you about that.”
“I didn’t make this up!” Stiles snapped. “She hurt me, Derek!”
“She didn’t leave the loft unt—” Derek began, but Stiles cut him off.
“How do you know?” Stiles snarled. “Were you rolling around the sheets all night? Huh? Is that it?”
“Stiles,” Derek growled, “stop.”
“No,” Stiles placed his hands against Derek’s chest, but he forced himself not to hit, not to push, “go ahead, tell me Derek. Tell me about how you’ve abandoned all of us to fuck off with someone you barely know.”
Derek gently wrapped his hands around Stiles’ wrist, “You were dreaming — sleepwalking — it doesn’t mean what you saw was real.”
“Then why does it feel real?” Stiles said, choking back a sob. “Why do I still feel her blood soaked fingers trailing across my skin? Why do I still feel the way she carved into my stomach? Why can I still see her predatory smile and hear the words so clearly in my head?”
“I don’t know,” Derek admitted quietly, but there was doubt settling into the shades of grey, bleeding into the sea of green, “I don’t know.”
Stiles’ eyes roamed over Derek’s face. He traced Derek’s jawline, counted the lashes fanning over his eyes, followed the frown lines in his forehead. He could see the confusion and guilt already twisting in the soft parts of his face. Another person he let in who took advantage of his vulnerability, Another mistake. Another price paid. He was wrestling with what he thought was the truth and the words of a boy who was something undefined to him.
“Out of everyone in Beacon Hills,” Stiles whispered, “I thought you’d be the person who would always believe me.”
“Stiles,” and this time it was Derek’s voice breaking.
Stiles pulled out of his reach, just as he tried to take away more pain. “I’m fine,” he said with a sniffle, “all good. It was just a dream, right?”
He turned on his heel to leave before Derek could stop him.
He went straight home, swallowed as much pain medication as he could manage with three shots of espresso. He pulled up to his desk, setting to work to find as much information on Jennifer Blake as possible. He ignored his throbbing headache and the urge to vomit as he pulled up tab after tab. Stiles knew what he saw. It didn’t matter if no one believed him. He had felt it. It was real. It was real. It was real.
“Stiles,” Scott said quietly, startling his best friend.
Stiles hadn’t remembered falling asleep, in all reality his body had probably given up. He was just thankful he wasn’t waking up in the Hale house again. He quickly ran the pad of his fingers over his thumb, silently counting until he reached ten. He could see the sun beginning to set from his window just behind Scott, which meant he had half slept through most of the day. He wished he could say he felt better.
“You’re freezing,” Scott said as he ran his hands over Stiles’ arms to try and warm him, “and you’re hurting.”
Stiles let his best friend take the pain away. He let his weight sag in Scott’s hold, a deep exhale in the crook of his neck.
“What happened?” Scott asked, holding onto Stiles protectively. “I was worried when you said you weren’t feeling well.”
Stiles didn’t know where to start. He thought about everything he needed to say. He just wanted someone to understand, to believe that what he was going through wasn’t his fault. That he didn’t ask for this. That he wasn’t losing his goddamn mind. He bit down on his tongue, swallowing all of the words with him. Instead, he just squeezed Scott tighter in their embrace, a small, defeated whimper escaping him.
“Hey,” Scott said gently, “it’s okay. Sleepwalking again?”
“It’s not just sleepwalking anymore, Scott,” Stiles finally said, “I feel like something is happening to me and I don’t know how to stop it.”
“Stiles,” Scott pulled his best friend out of his hold so he could level him with a serious expression, “something bad happened and you’re not telling me.”
Stiles just shook his head, “I don’t know how I know this, but I think Jennifer has something to do with the sacrifices.”
Scott looked taken aback, blinking a few times as he processed Stiles’ accusation, “Jennifer, as in our English teacher?”
“Scott,” Stiles started, “she—” he stopped, knowing he wouldn’t be able to talk about it again. Not after Derek. “Just, trust me on this, okay?”
“Okay,” Scott replied hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure, “we’ll keep an eye on her. There’s a concert tomorrow, maybe Cora and Lydia can help us figure something out.”
“Yes,” Stiles nodded furiously, “good, that’s a great plan.”
“Should we call Derek?” Scott asked as he let Stiles move back to his desk.
“No,” Stiles replied immediately, shutting his laptop before he crawled into bed, “he’s preoccupied at the moment.”
Scott raised a questioning eyebrow, but didn’t ask. Stiles knew he should eat something, but he was far from being hungry. He could still taste the bitter bite of acid from vomiting earlier. The metallic tang of blood lingering in the back of his throat.
“Stay for a while?” Stiles asked without thinking. He was tired. So, so tired and he just wanted a few hours of sleep that didn’t cause him to wake up screaming.
“Of course,” Scott smiled softly as he laid down next to Stiles, “for as long as you need me.”
“Maybe we can distract them,” Scott suggested, “give you enough time to reach the ambulance to get Cora out of here.”
“I’ll go with you,” Stiles said as he drew even with Scott.
“Stiles,” Derek growled as he exhaled harshly air through his nose, “you’re not going to be bait.”
“I’ll be fine,” Stiles argued, “and we don’t have a lot of options right now.”
In his peripheral he could see the corner of Jennifer’s lips curl up. In the back of his mind he could hear her whispering, It’s the same thing the woman in your dreams wants, Stiles. He needed to get as far away from Jennifer as possible. Since they had revealed her true face in the loft the bone deep excruciating pain he felt after she tortured him had come crawling back. The only thing keeping him standing upright was the pure adrenaline pumping through his veins. He thinks maybe, just maybe if he can put some distance between them he won’t feel like he is being ripped apart. She knew. She knew he was so fucking close to falling apart in the middle of all the chaos.
“Stiles,” Derek sounded more desperate now, “I’m not letting you go.”
Derek’s fingers were curled around his bicep, a gentle strength holding him in place. Stiles could read it on his face. This was his fault. He didn’t believe Stiles the first time and now everyone was paying the price. He trusted the wrong person — always trusted the wrong person — and now they were all going to burn in the flames.
“Don’t be such a Sourwolf,” he said softly as he pulled himself from Derek.
He nodded his head towards Scott and they started for the door. When he threw his head over his shoulder he had to fight the terrified yell that clawed its way up his throat. Because standing there, behind Derek — who looked absolutely devastated — and next to Jennifer was Heather. He slid his eyes from the broken neck and bloodied face to Jennifer whose eyes were darting to the side, as if she knew he was looking at something that wasn’t there. He was out of the room as his skin began to burn terribly from where she had thrust the knife in.
He eventually lost Scott who had drawn the twins in a different direction, giving Stiles the chance to run to the ambulance. He could hear the wind rattling through broken windows, the rain pelting the tiled floor. A loud clap of thunder made him jump, but he didn't slow his pace. The remaining few flickering lights made him want to puke as the adrenaline slowly wore down. He passed by blurred shapes, outlines of people who were there, but not really there. The ones who didn’t make it. The sacrifices of Beacon Hills. He turned the corner, crashing right into Derek and Jennifer. Derek carefully steadied him, firm but gentle hands on his arms to keep him on his feet.
“What are you doing here?” He asked, panicked.
His answer came as Kali tore down the hallway right towards them. He barely heard Jennifer yell about the elevator before Derek was pulling him along. They stumbled inside, the doors closing just in time. Derek was still holding onto him, the lines of black swimming up his arms and, for a moment, Stiles let him take the pain. He jerked forward as the elevator came to a screeching halt, the lights blinking feebly before the emergency power flicked on.
“What the hell just happened?” Stiles groaned as he climbed back to his feet.
“They’re trapping us,” Jennifer said as she looked between Derek and Stiles, “looks like we'll be stuck here for a while.”
“I’ll text Scott,” Derek said, ignoring her as he moved out of her space, “the sooner we’re out of here the better.”
Stiles was pressed against the wall opposite of Jennifer, but she was looking directly at him. He felt bare - naked - under her piercing gaze, like the sharp points of her smirk were carving into him until he was hollow. His skin was on fire, the coil in his chest squeezing so hard, too hard, that he was having trouble keeping his breathing steady.
Jennifer cocked her head to the side, “You look like you’re in pain, Stiles,” she took a step forward, “tell me, on a scale of one to ten how badly does it hurt?”
“Stabbing people tends to fucking do that,” Stiles snapped, pushing himself into the wall. He could feel the bar digging uncomfortably in his back, but the last thing he wanted was her touching him.
“I didn’t really stab you,” she said, growing closer, “just a little trick I picked up years ago.”
“Well,” Stiles said, forcing himself not to double over from the pain, “it felt real to me.”
“I can help,” she hummed, her fingers reaching out for him.
Derek snatched her wrist, grip so tight Stiles knew he would leave bruises as he stood protectively in front of the boy, “Touch him and it will be the last thing you do.”
Jennifer hardly looked upset as Derek released her, in fact she chuckled, a low and spine chilling sound, as she rolled her wrist to ease the pain, “Derek, did you know Stiles can see ghosts?”
Stiles stiffened. He hadn’t told anyone what he saw. His father, Scott, and Derek knew that he had terrible nightmares. That he woke up in places he didn’t fall asleep in. But the things he saw, the face of Talia Hale, of Heather, of those who had been taken far too soon in life, were kept locked away. He’d given them some life in his journal, a vague description of hauntings lost in a dream. He never thought Jennifer would use them as weapons. He never thought she would see them for what they really were. Derek was still standing in front of him, a barrier between him and Jennifer, because Derek would always put himself in danger, especially where Stiles was concerned. Stiles could see the look of pain, of burned anguish slither into the lines of Derek’s face as the grey-green fell over him.
“I didn’t want to hurt Stiles,” Jennifer continued when the two boys remained silent, “but I did what I had to.”
“Shut up,” Derek growled.
“You have to understand how connected we all are,” Jennifer said, her voice almost pleading.
“You are nothing to us,” Derek argued and Stiles could see that he was resisting the urge to draw out his claws.
“Oh Derek,” Jennifer sighed as she moved closer to him, “we are.” She looked past Derek at Stiles, “There’s a girl. There’s a girl who sits on the tree.”
“Stop,” Stiles said suddenly, because he knew where she was going. Those words — his words — about a ghost he would never, ever speak about. Not after what Peter told him. Not after he understood exactly who she was.
“She sits on the tree, but she can’t move. I think she’s stuck. Cursed. Like me. It calls me. But I don’t think she calls me. I think she wants to stop me. Warn me. She sits on the tree and her hair is dark, her skin is painted pale in the full moon,” Jennifer recited like it was her favorite work of art.
Derek looked like he was hanging on Jennifer’s every word now, his body tense, but eyes wide. Stiles reached out, his fingers wrapping in the fabric of Derek’s sleeve, “Derek, don’t listen to her, it was never real. It was just a dream.”
“She’s bleeding, but she never speaks. She just looks at me with these sad, sad honey coated eyes,” Jennifer’s voice is soft, smooth as it carries in the small space, “She knows why I’m here. But she won’t tell me. When she looks at me — really looks at me — she is afraid. Shakes her head when I try to help her. I think she sees a monster. I think that monster is me.”
Stiles is gripping Derek’s arm so hard, blunt nails buried in skin that it starts to draw blood. He’s afraid that if Derek looks at him he’ll see the monster too.
“You brought the Nemeton back to life, Derek,” Jennifer said. “Sacrifice.”
“Stop talking,” Derek growled, low and deadly.
“You saved me,” Jennifer said, unafraid as she moved closer to Derek, “I was left to die, but I heard it calling to me.” She tilted her head in Stiles’ direction, eyes narrowing, “It calls to Stiles,” her face grew hard, almost mean, “but not because it wants to save him.”
“Who said I needed to be saved,” Stiles chewed out.
Jennifer’s gaze was firm, piercing, and it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Stiles swallowed wishing Scott would hurry the fuck up and get them out of there. He blinked and Jennifer was smirking again, her entire demeanor more relaxed, but Stiles knew how fucking dangerous she was.
“Were you jealous, Stiles?” Jennifer asked, giving him a smile that was all teeth, “I mean, it was pretty obvious when Derek came to my classroom, right?”
“Fuck off,” Stiles scoffed, but he couldn’t stop the rush of heat up his neck, the way his cheeks burned crimson.
“You think you’re destined to protect Derek,” Jennifer said, “to protect Beacon Hills.” She laughed, a merciless sound.
“I’m not a hero,” Stiles moved closer to her, Derek’s arm the only barrier between them, “and I’m not here to save Beacon Hills.”
“You don’t know what you are,” Jennifer murmured, “but I do.”
For a moment they held each other’s gaze. Stiles could see her face, her true face, marred and scared by betrayal and darkness. Another ghost of Beacon Hills. He imagined her dragging across the forest floor, her dying and gasping breaths shaking the trees. He could feel the way her nails broke into the dirt, how they scratched against the earth to pull her closer, the coil wrapping around her chest white hot and burning. He hated that he knew the feeling. He hated that he understood what it was like to crawl your way towards salvation.
The elevator jerked to life and a terrible scream brought him to his knees. When he looked up Derek was on the floor and Jennifer was heaving him against the wall. She was pressed so close, her fingers curled into his shirt as she held him in place.
“You want to save Derek?” She snarled, “You want to save your father and Scott? You can’t have them all, Stiles.” She carefully lowered him back to the ground, reaching her left hand up to thread her fingers through his hair, “I’m going to let you in on a little secret.” She pressed her cheek against his, lips brushing his ear, “If I don’t destroy them all, you will.”
Stiles didn’t say anything, his jaw and the lines of his face set in righteous fury, but his eyes, the swirling pools of amber gave him away because they were drowning in devastating fear. Jennifer’s face morphed and everything around him went black.
He was screaming, screaming, screaming until the cold, pelting rain anchored him back to reality. A thunderous bang jolted him awake, a dangerously close flash of lightning lighting up the stormy sky. He was on the roof pressed down on his stomach in the concrete. He was on the roof of the hospital and it was raining. He let out a low whimper, every movement painful.
“You must be the infamous Stiles,” a voice said from above him.
Stiles turned his head, too sick and exhausted to move out of Deucalion’s space. He pushed himself up on his knees, noting the way the man tilted his head, a half smile on his face.
“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting yet,” Deucalion continued like they were out at a nice dinner. When Stiles remained silent Deucalion slowly stood up from his crouching position. “You’re important, Stiles,” he said almost fondly, “Scott and Derek would do anything for you.”
“Maybe they shouldn’t,” Stiles finally said.
Deucalion tapped his cane gently against Stiles’ chest, hitting the place where Jennifer had stabbed him, “We want the same thing, don’t we? To protect the people we care about from that creature.”
“You want Scott and Derek,” Stiles corrected, shivering against the cold.
Deucalion was grinning now, “I said we wanted the same thing.”
Stiles heard the door open and he felt his heart drop into his stomach as he quickly pulled himself to his feet. Scott was standing just out of his reach, a gut wrenching look crossing his face as he met Stiles’ eyes.
“Scott,” Stiles said softly, “Scott, don’t do this.”
“She took my mom,” Scott explained, “and we’re running out of time.”
“Scott, no,” Stiles said as he moved towards his best friend, “come on we always have a plan B.”
Scott reached out, gently taking Stiles’ wrist. For a moment his veins bled black. Stiles let his breath catch in his throat as he blinked back tears. “Not this time,” Scott whispered as he dropped Stiles’ hand, “I'm going to find your dad, I promise.”
Stiles stood motionless as he watched Scott pass him, moving to follow Deucalion. The older man placed a hand on Scott’s shoulder as he turned back towards Stiles, “Stay alive, Stiles, remember you’re important.” He sighed, shook his head before guiding Scott away, “Come along, Scott.”
“Scott!” Stiles called after his best friend, “Scott!”
He watched as they disappeared into the darkness. He had half a mind to follow them, but the terrible ache — that goddamn pull — forced him back inside. He was moving without thinking, running down the stairs back towards the elevator where he knew Derek would be. He skidded to a stop at the sight of Derek’s unconscious body on the floor. The flash of Jennifer’s face made him swallow another biting scream before he ran to Derek’s side.
“Derek,” Stiles said desperately, shaking the man, “Derek, wake up!”
Derek didn’t move. He didn’t blink his eyes open and for a moment Stiles was terrified Jennifer had already done her worst. He placed his trembling hand against Derek’s chest, finding a strong and steady beat. He exhaled in relief, his fingers curling into a fist. Pain. Derek needed to feel pain to heal. He drew his hand back and hit Derek as hard as he could, biting his tongue to stop himself from completely losing it.
“Derek,” He said in a broken voice as he hit Derek again, “Derek, come on!”
Derek caught his fist, his grey-green eyes blurry with confusion as he blinked up at Stiles. Stiles looked between where Derek was holding him and the man’s face, his heart practically pounding right out of his chest.
“Jennifer,” Derek groaned as he slowly sat up.
“Gone,” Stiles said, steadying Derek, “and she took Melissa.”
“Fuck,” Derek growled as he slammed his fist into the ground. He hissed sharply through his teeth as climbed to his feet, still holding onto Stiles, his fingers curled around the boy’s wrist. “Where’s Scott?”
“Gone,” Stiles swallowed, his voice wavering, “he went with Deucalion.” Stiles watched as Derek slowly closed his eyes, falling out of Stiles’ space as his back hit the wall. He remained where he was, shifting on his feet nervously. He knew they didn’t have much time. “Peter texted,” he said quietly, “they got Cora out.”
“Well,” Derek said meanly, but Stiles knew it was directed at himself, “that would only matter if I knew how to save her.”
Stiles could see his breath fan out in the flickering lights, a sharp shiver running down his spine. He knew what was standing behind him. Who was standing behind him, but he refused to turn around. He couldn’t face them.
“This is my fault,” Derek huffed, “I should have listened to you.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Stiles replied with a shake of his head.
“You trusted me,” Derek argued as he looked at Stiles, his jaw clenched tight in anger, “and I did the only thing I’ve ever been good at,” his gaze shifted so it was just behind Stiles now and he wondered if Derek could see them too, “ruin the only people who matter by making the wrong choices.”
“Jennifer manipulated you, Derek,” Stiles said softly, “she used you for her own selfish needs, it’s not your fault.”
He was fighting the urge to get sick. The ghost, seeing them, being near them took so much out of him. He just wanted it to stop. His chin barely brushed over his shoulder, but out of the corner of his eye, hovering just in his peripheral, they waited.
“You really can see them,” Derek murmured as he came to stand next to Stiles, “can’t you?”
“I don’t want to,” Stiles admitted as he ran the heel of his hand against his chest to get rid of the fucking fire burning there.
Derek reached his hands forward, hovering in the space between them, a silent question. Stiles nodded his head and Derek carefully pulled up the edges of Stiles’ shirt, barely exposing his stomach. He placed the blistering pads of his fingertips against the places where Jennifer had cut in.
“I’m not going to let her hurt you again,” Derek promised.
“I know,” Stiles said, despite knowing Derek could never keep a promise like that.
“I’m going to fix this,” Derek continued, his voice sure, “I just need to save Cora first.”
“I know,” Stiles replied, quieter.
Derek nodded his head, his hands dropping to his side, leaving a press of heat in Stiles’ skin. He turned, motioning for Stiles to follow him.
“The police are almost here,” Stiles said, his voice cracking, “I'll buy you some time.”
“Okay,” Derek said, his lips turning down in regret. He let his guilt ridden gaze linger on Stiles for a moment longer before he disappeared around the corner.
Stiles stood there for a moment, too terrified to turn around. He wasn’t ready to look at them, not yet. He knew exactly what they would say, what they were thinking.
You want to save Derek? You want to save your father and Scott? You can’t have them all, Stiles.
He looked down at his hands, cracked and bleeding. He let out a shaky don’t as he finally turned to face them.
If I don’t destroy them all, you will.
“Are you gone now too?” Stiles yelled angrily, his words echoing off the charred walls. “Do you not need me anymore?”
He let the bitterness consume him, fighting the growing urge to smash through the walls. He wanted to rip this goddamn house apart piece by piece. He wanted the foundation to crumble to dust. He wanted the Hale house to disappear from Beacon Hills forever. He was so tired of waking up in its empty halls. He was tired of pulling himself from nightmares only to be awakened by ghosts. But now — now — he was truly alone. Cora was gone. Peter was gone. Derek was gone. And it seemed that Talia was gone as well. There were no Hales left in Beacon Hills.
“Peter and I are going to take Cora back to South America,” Derek said softly, arms crossed over his chest, eyes on the ground.
“Are you coming back?” Stiles asked, voice filled with pained desperation.
Derek’s silence said it all.
Stiles nodded his head, hastily wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, “Sure, yeah, you have to do what’s best for you.”
“Stiles….” Derek began, reaching out, the tips of his fingers brushing against Stiles’.
“Maybe now that this is all over I won’t see them anymore,” Stiles said with a weak smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “maybe I’ll finally get a good night's sleep.”
“Yeah,” Derek said, not believing a word of the lie, “maybe.”
It was four in the morning and the wind from a passing storm made the house creak and moan. Stiles was dressed in flannel pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. His throat rubbed raw from screaming.
“Why did you call if you aren’t even here,” Stiles murmured.
He crossed his arms over his chest, shivering as another gust of wind slammed the front door open. He moved towards it, hoping his jeep was parked somewhere nearby. He paused, his body freezing in absolute terror as something big and dark lurked in the doorway. Stiles had seen plenty of ghosts over the past few years, but whatever stood before him was not a ghost. He could make out the tall silhouette, a misshapen figure wrapped in what looked like some military grade jacket. Whatever it was it began to breathe heavily, a terribly rasping sound in the silence that made Stiles’ heart jump in his throat. It turned, slowly, a row of razor sharp teeth smiling in his direction. Stiles stumbled backwards, tripping over a loose floorboard. He crashed to the floor, but when he looked back up it was gone. He quickly got to his feet, running from the house as fast as he could.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he could hear Jennifer whispering, you have no idea what you are, but I do.
Derek stood in the front entrance way of his house. If he shifted his weight to the right the floorboard would groan, the wood bending beneath his hold. One wrong move and his foot would have gone completely through. He was surprised Stiles hadn’t accidentally put a hole there yet, considering how often he blindly passed through the front door. Maybe, in some way, Stiles had subconsciously learned the space, mapped out a path that would avoid the road hazards and potholes. There were countless nights he would pull Stiles from a waking nightmare. He was pretty sure the sound of Stiles’ screams were just as embedded into the walls as the fire. Derek thought if Stiles was going to turn up somewhere, this would be the place. He’d been missing for two days. Two fucking days. Derek should have never left Beacon Hills in the first place. Maybe things would be different. Maybe that thing wouldn’t have gotten in.
“You were right, Stiles,” a voice said from behind him. There was a growl vibrating in Derek’s chest as he turned, catching the sight of it sitting on one of the broken and burnt staircases. He should have heard it, tasted the revolting way the air soured with chaos, but it had all the cards in its hand. As long as it had Stiles, it was always going to win. “Looks like the big bad wolf is here to save you.”
“You knew I would come here,” Derek chewed out, wishing he hadn’t so easily fallen into its trap.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Derek Hale,” it smiled, all teeth as it drummed its fingers against the top of its knees. “Oh I wish you could hear him scream,” its smile grew impossibly wider, “that’s all he knows how to do.”
“Shut up,” Derek snapped. This is what it wanted. It was looking for a rise out of him.
“You know he thinks your house is haunted,” Void said as it moved its head around to look over the walls and the ceiling, “and he’s right, of course.”
Derek bit his tongue to stop another useless reply from spilling out. He wasn’t going to play Void’s game.
“Nothing?” Void asked, arching an eyebrow, “Really?” It sighed, pushing itself up to its feet, “Did the dead family jokes get too old?” It slowly moved down to the next step, fingers drumming against what was left of the banister, “That’s right,” it said, smiling dangerously, “the best way to hurt Derek Hale is to hurt the only things he has left.”
Derel forced himself to remain rooted to the spot despite the instinctual urge yelling at him to run. He couldn’t abandon Stiles. Not again.
“He doesn’t know why he always wakes up here,” Void continued, moving down each step with a loud thud, shaking the entire staircase, “or why they call him.” Derek breathed in deeply, jaw set and firm as Void reached the landing, “But I know,” all Derek can think about is a shark circling its prey in deep water, “and you know.”
“I don’t know anything,” Derek said before he could stop himself.
But it’s a lie. He knows it’s a lie.
“It’ll be our little secret,” Void mused as it brought its finger up to its lips in a shushing motion. “Poor Stiles,” Void pouted, “maybe we should have let Jennifer kill us. Maybe then we could have actually done what we were supposed to.”
“And what would that be?” Derek asked despite himself.
“Protecting Derek Hale, of course,” it grinned widely as he gestured towards him in a way that was so Stiles it was almost painful.
“I don’t need protection,” Derek growled.
“No?” Void asked. It happened so fast. He heard the metal pipe splinter through the wood behind him before he felt the excruciating pain that followed as Void impaled him against the wall. Void placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning close so that he could look Derek right in the eyes, “Don’t worry, he can’t see this yet,” Void whispered, low and deadly, “I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”
“Why are you doing this?” Derek asked, blood trickling over his lips, his shaking hands wrapping around the metal tightly.
“Because I am starving,” Void replied harshly, its teeth dragging against Derek’s ear.
It was like deja vu. Watching Stiles wake up in the house he could never escape from. Screaming, always screaming, just like Void said. But this time Stiles wasn’t screaming because he was afraid. He was screaming because he wanted to be heard.
“Stiles,” Derek murmured, his head lulling against his chest as he tried to reach out for the trembling boy, “Stiles, it’s okay, I’m here.”
“Derek?”
Stiles blinked his eyes a few times. Somewhere in the back of his mind his thoughts warned him that this could all be a trick. Just Void trying to elicit some sort of emotional response to consume, but the biting taste of prescription medication, of exhaustion and fear hit Derek like a fucking freighttrain. He tried not to inhale the faintest wisp of cinnamon. This was Stiles. The real Stiles, but Derek knew the monster was lurking just below the surface.
“I did this to you,” he heard Stiles say, a numb echo on the verge of breaking.
“No,” Derek forced his eyes open, “this wasn’t— this isn’t you, Stiles.”
“Isn’t it?” Stiles asked, “Jennifer was right about me.”
“She wasn’t,” Derek snarled as he wrapped his hands around the pole, ripping it from his body with all of his strength. As soon as it was free he fell to his knees, breathing hard. Stiles stood away from him, his eyes on his hands, which Derek could see were caked in his blood. “Stiles, listen to me—”
“I can’t see them anymore,” Stiles cut him off, he was now frantically looking around the room, “all I see is…” his voice trailed off, his eyes hard on the front entrance way for a long while before he finally finished, “maybe they’re afraid of me.”
“We’re going to figure this out,” Derek said as he rocked back on his heels, his stomach reeling as the hole in his abdomen painfully stitched itself back together.
Stiles shook his head fervently, “If there’s a way to end it then take it.”
“Stiles,” Derek could hear the cracks in his voice, the way his words splintered into pieces.
“Deucalion said I was important,” Stiles continued, “but I’ve never been important.”
You are to me.
Derek doesn’t get a chance to say it as Stiles goes rigid. It’s terrifying, watching the way the lips curl in the corners unnaturally, how the amber darkens to a charcoal. All the little movements, the anxious fidgeting and release of pent up energy just stop and Stiles no longer smells like Stiles. It doesn’t smell like anything.
“Why?” Derek asked as he forced himself to his feet, stumbling into the banister when he became too weak. “Out of everyone in Beacon Hills, why did you take Stiles?”
Void tilted its head to the side for a moment, as if it were really looking at Derek for the first time. It closed the distance between them, ice cold lips soft against his ear, “Let me tell you a little secret,” it said, “Stiles thinks I was calling him, but maybe he was calling me all along.”
It pulled back to watch understanding pass over Derek’s face. Derek shook his head, “You’re wrong.”
Void shrugged its shoulders before turning on its heel to head out the front door, “You know,” it said as it paused in the doorway, “this place is a safety hazard,” it threw Derek a wide grin, “I think you should get it torn down, permanently.”
Derek slipped back to the ground, wishing it didn’t hurt so much to know that Void was right.
“Jesus, kid,” the cashier behind the twenty-four hour mini mart checkout said with wide eyes as he watched Stiles wash down a caffeine pill with a Red Bull, “that’s going to stop your fucking heart.”
“You think so?” Stiles asked with a self-deprecating smile as he wiped at his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
The cashier eyed him wearily and Stiles knew he was thinking that he did not get paid enough to play therapist to an eighteen year old boy with dark circles, hollowed cheeks, and a cocktail of drugs and energy drinks designed to keep him awake until the end of time.
“Here,” the tired man said as he grabbed a thing of beef jerky, slamming it down on Stiles’ purchase, “on the house.”
Stiles was wavering between annoyance and something softer. He knew he looked like death walking, like he was always a few breaths away from falling apart. He knew that he walked like he didn’t trust his body — like he didn’t belong there — because that’s what it felt like. Like he didn’t belong in Beacon Hills anymore, but he didn’t really belong anywhere else so he would just have to suck it the fuck up. He tried for a smile because this stranger who had no idea the hell he had been through was showing him kindness at three in the morning when he really, really, didn’t have to.
“Thanks,” Stiles said, “I’ll try not to let my heart stop.”
It was meant to be a joke, but it didn’t sound very funny.
“Take it easy kid,” the cashier responded with a shake of his head, “and be careful going home. This town is notorious for things that go bump in the night.”
“Don’t I know it,” he replied bitterly as he took his stuff and headed towards the exit.
There was a light drizzle of rain and Stiles stopped on the corner to watch it slant against the orange glow of the nearest street light. He rooted around the plastic bag for a moment, digging out the 500mg bottle of pain medication. The highest dosage the store had. He clumsily peeled the safety contamination sealer before spilling two red pills into his open palm.
“You know,” a voice said from behind him, next to him, all around him, “you have to sleep sometime.”
Stiles popped open another Red Bull, downing it with the medicine, “I sleep.”
“Stiles,” Jennifer chidded gently, “you know better than to lie to me.” Stiles started down the sidewalk, hoping Jennifer would fuck off, but she never does. She sighed heavily, taking a step in front of him, walking backwards. “So, what are we watching tonight? I hope it’s at least educational, considering how long you’ve been out of school.”
“I’m going back Monday,” Stiles shot back hotly.
“That’s better than Allison,” Jennifer laughed, light and airy.
Stiles gritted his teeth, but didn’t dignify the jab with a response. Jennifer just smiled, all teeth as they walked in silence. It had been a month since his possession. A month since they had pulled him apart from the monster that killed Allison. After a week of blackouts and waking up on the Nemeton Stiles vowed to never sleep again if he could help it. It was the only way to make sure that thing didn’t get in again. If he didn’t sleep it couldn’t call him. If he didn’t sleep he could always be in control. Not sleeping had been easy at first. He could barely close his eyes without reliving the horror of being trapped inside your own mind for weeks. He kept his mind busy, abused his adderall, abused caffeine, and anything else that would keep him awake just short of the hard stuff. The results were unpleasant and Stiles felt like he was dying, but Void was still gone and that’s all that mattered.
“You don’t look so good,” Jennifer pouted as she ran her ice cold fingers over his forehead, “I think you have a fever.”
“I think you should fuck off,” Stiles snapped as he forced down the urge to vomit.
“Please,” Jennifer scoffed, “I’m the only thing left you’ve got.”
He wanted to argue. To say it wasn’t true. But Stiles had never felt more alone. It was his own fault. He pushed his friends away. He couldn’t stand the way they looked at him, like they were afraid that maybe it was all a trick, that the real Stiles had died in that ice tub. He couldn’t blame them. How could they ever see him as anything besides the monster if he didn’t let them see anything else? He missed Scott and Lydia. He missed his dad. He missed Derek. But they deserved better than to watch him circle down the drain. Even the ghost had abandoned him. It was just the never ending darkness and Jennifer.
“You’re not even real,” Stiles bit out meanly.
“Real is relative,” Jennifer shrugged, unbothered, “just because the others weren’t alive doesn’t make them any less real.”
Stiles remained silent as he rubbed at his eyes. He was tired. So, so, so, so tired. Despite the ungodly amount of caffeine in his system his brain felt heavy, like it had been coated in syrup. His heart practically pounding out of his chest was the only thing convincing him not to swallow another pill. Yet. When his feet hit a familiar space of wood his entire body froze. Through the rain he blinked up at the darkening silhouette of the Hale house.
“No matter where you go,” Jennifer whispered in his ear, “no matter what you do, you will always end up here.”
Stiles dropped his bag, the remaining two Red Bull exploding on the ground. He quickly counted his fingers. And then again. He suddenly felt dizzy, like the rest of the world was spinning, but he was moving in slow motion.
“Stiles?”
Stiles turned, the motion making him unsteady and he threw his arms out on either side to catch himself. Standing just a few feet away was Derek. Stiles thought he looked beautiful silhouetted in the moonlight. His hair was smashed around his face, wet from rain, eyes that soft grey-green color that made him think of aventurine. Stiles wondered how he would look slanted against the orange glow of the streetlights.
“I’d ask if you’re real,” Stiles said ruefully, smiling despite feeling like he wanted to die, “but apparently being real is relative.”
“You reek of caffeine,” Derek wrinkled his nose, but his eyes were impossibly wide. He was giving Stiles that look. The one after the pool. After being trapped in the elevator. After waking up from all of the nightmares.
“Can’t sleep,” Stiles said, like it was a perfectly good explanation.
“Won’t sleep,” Jennifer corrected from beside him. “Derek looks good,” she noted unhelpfully, “funny how you thought you could ever stand a chance with someone like him.”
Stiles’ eyes darted over to her for a moment, his lips pulling together in a taut line. Derek didn’t miss it as he said, “Ghost?”
“Just Jennifer,” Stiles said, he didn’t feel like lying to Derek about that, “she’s all that I got left.”
“That’s not true,” Derek growled, almost angry, “Stiles, you’ve pushed everyone away.”
Stiles wanted to defend himself, wanted to say he was doing it for them. Hadn’t he done enough damage? They didn’t need to watch him completely fucking lose it after they had risked everything to save him. He deserved this, didn’t he? He opened his mouth, but instead of words he was met with the acidic taste of bile. The throbbing pound of his head as his eyes rolled backwards. He thinks he managed to say, “I don’t feel so good,” as Derek caught him before he hit the ground.
He shouldn’t have been surprised to wake up in a place he hadn’t fallen asleep in, but, he remembers painfully, he didn’t really fall asleep willingly. Or at all, really. When he blinked his hazed and bleary eyes open his father was sitting beside his bed looking equal parts relieved and angry.
“Where’s Derek?” He asked, his throat much more raw than he remembered it being. Had he been screaming the past few hours? Had they let him scream until it wasn’t possible anymore?
“He’s asleep in one of the chairs outside,” his father explained, getting to his feet as he moved closer to Stiles, “I tried to send him home, but he refused to leave.”
Stiles felt his cheeks blush, but he ignored the skip in his heart, the pleasant warmth he surely did not deserve.
“If it wasn’t for Derek...” his father started, voice wavering, “Stiles, what the hell were you doing?” Stiles flinched as his father began to angrily pace around the room. “They had to pump your stomach,” he seethed, face growing red, “and don’t get me started on what Derek said he found you with in the preserve.”
Stiles kept his eyes on his hands, watching as his muscles flexed uncomfortably from the IV in his arm. He knew things were bad, but he didn’t want this. He was just trying to keep them safe from the monster. From him. When he finally looked up at his father, he could see her lingering in the darkness, out of the corner of his eye. Jennifer waved her fingers, smirking as she leaned against the wall. Behind her, staring at him through the window were the others. The ones he had seen time and time again whenever he traced these halls.
“I’m fine,” Stiles said as he forced his gaze away, “I just haven’t been able to sleep.”
“Son,” his father said through tight lips, “you’re in the hospital because you essentially had an overdose, you are not fine.”
Stiles felt his jaw tighten in anger, fingers curling into the sheets of the bed, “I can’t take it anymore,” he chewed out, “I’m tired of seeing all these fucking ghosts.”
His father didn’t say anything as he pulled him into a tight embrace. Stiles let his weight sag forward as he tried to blink back tears. For a moment Jennifer was gone. The ghosts were gone. The heavy weight that had been crushing him for years lifted, just for a second, to let him breathe as he met Derek’s eyes across the room. Because Derek was looking at him like he didn’t see the monster or Void or the boy who saw ghosts. Derek looked at him like he was the only thing that mattered. Like he was the only one in the room.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Stiles huffed as Derek crossed over the threshold of his window, gracefully landing on the carpet with a soft thud.
“I’m not here to babysit you, Stiles,” Derek replied with a roll of his eyes as he carefully pulled his jacket off, throwing it over Stiles’ desk chair.
“Really,” Stiles asked with a raised eyebrow, “because it seems like between my dad and the rest of the pack I’m never left alone for more than five minutes.”
It had been nearly three weeks since his hospital stint. He wasn’t allowed to take any sort of caffeine, they pulled back his adderall prescription, and his dad gave him one fucking low dose Tylenol when he begged for it. And even then he was only given one every other day. His father was constantly watching him and when he couldn’t do that there was always someone from the pack with eyes on him. At least Scott had the decency to actually try and initiate hang outs again, something Stiles had secretly been grateful for. Most of the time Lydia and Malia just glowered at him, like he had some fucking nerve to try and overdose himself. Well, joke’s on them. He wasn’t trying to fucking kill himself. He was just trying to survive. Everyone told him he would get better with time, but he felt like he was getting worse. Now that he was on a caffeine withdrawal he fell into restless sleep, waking up in the middle of the night where Allison died or his second home, the Hale house. He had tripped zip tying himself to the bed, to keep him in place, his arms tucked beneath his pillows so his father wouldn’t see. Sometimes it worked. Most times it didn’t.
“Can you blame them?” Derek asked quietly from the corner he was still standing in.
“God,” Stiles laughed mercilessly, “I’m so sorry I ruined everyone’s life because I don’t know how to handle the fucking trauma of everything that has happened the past few years.”
“No one sa—” Derek began, but Stiles couldn’t stop. It had been building for so long, waging war against his chest that he couldn’t hold it back anymore.
“I don’t want this,” Stiles continued as he grabbed the nearest item, throwing it across the room, “I don’t want to see the ghost or wake up in places I don’t belong.” He threw stuff from his desk, smashed his hands into the wall, “I don’t want to have Jennifer fucking Blake in my head telling me how I should have died on the Nemeton.” His voice broke as he leaned his head against a poster, his fingers tracing over the Big Dipper constellation, “How I will always end up at your front door.”
He felt rough, warm hands gently grab onto his wrist, fingers tracing over the bruises from where the plastic had cut in. Derek turned him so they were facing each other, a breath apart. Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat as Derek took away the throbbing ache that ran to his bones.
“I can’t see them,” Derek murmured, “but I know they’re there.” Stiles’ eyes moved up Derek’s arms, to his aventurine eyes.“Kate and Jennifer. Erica and Boyd. Anyone that has ever suffered from the mistakes I’ve made. They make me wake up in the middle of the night too.” He sighed, long and heavy, one of his hands coming up to cup Stiles’ cheeks, “And I think they always will.”
“She wants me to protect you,” Stiles blurted out, “has always wanted me to protect you. And I think,” Stiles exhaled as his hand wrapped around Derek’s, thumb brushing over his skin, “deep down, that’s what I was always supposed to do. But I didn’t stop you from going into the house even when I knew it was haunted and I couldn’t save you from people like Jennifer and Void—”
Stiles was stunned into silence when Derek smashed their lips together. For a brief, fleeting moment, he had no idea what to do, but he quickly relaxed, melting into Derek’s hold.
“I don’t think you know how many times you’ve saved me,” Derek pressed into Stiles’ skin, “now let me protect you.”
Stiles chuckled, a watery sound as Derek nuzzled gently against his neck. “And how do you plan on doing that?”
Derek pulled Stiles over to the bed, nodding his head in the direction of the pillow. Stiles raised an eyebrow, but Derek just rolled his eyes, “Sleep, Stiles, I’m going to protect you from the nightmares.”
“How?” He asked, his voice small.
“Just trust me,” he said, kissing Stiles’ knuckles.
“Okay,” Stiles said, suddenly feeling like the last couple of years of not sleeping were really, truly catching up with him. He gave Derek a pair of sweatpants to wear as he changed into his sleeping clothes. He crawled into bed, slumping against the mattress in defeat. Derek climbed in next to him, pulling Stiles against his chest, arms wrapping around the boy protectively. “What if I can’t sleep?”
“You can’t go on like this forever,” Derek murmured, lips brushing against Stiles’ forehead.
“No,” Stiles agreed, closing his eyes.
When he opened them sunlight was peaking through the window. He was still in his bed. Still in Derek’s arms. And for the first time, in a long time, he quickly fell back to sleep.