Oh God, his dad.
Stiles crumbled to his knees next to his father and took his bloody hand. It was cold and slippery and no, his dad couldn't die! Stiles couldn't do anything, couldn't talk, couldn't breathe. All he could do was hold his father's hand between his shaking ones and beg for him to hold on.
Another hand joined his and with it came warmth at his back. The hand slid down under the sleeve and the black veins appeared as the werewolf leeched Sheriff's pain.
Stiles should fight him. Shouldn't let Theo close to his father after what he did. But nothing else mattered now besides his dying father.
"Please, save my dad," Stiles strangled out.
Theo's other hand came around his waist, dragging him back. Not away from the Sheriff, just closer to the warm, solid body at his back. There was a weight on his shoulder; the person's head resting there as they nuzzled into his neck in comfort, all hot breaths and scrapes of stubble. Definitely not Theo.
"Ambulance is on it's way," said a familiar grumpy voice.
"My dad–" Stiles sobbed.
"I know," Derek soothed, tightening his hold on the teenager.
They waited.