So, again I'm re-writing and re-posting my old fics.

This starts right after Stiles left the school in 05x05, rather than going home Stiles finds himself to have driven himself elsewhere.

Everything is the same except Derek never left town, he and Braeden broke up and Malia and Stiles never got back together after she found out she was a Hale but they remain friends.

Stiles felt his body move on auto-pilot.

He didn't know why he drove to the place that he did. The most part of him didn't care.

He stumbled out of the jeep, his blood soaked hand slipping on the Jeep's door and it took him several attempts to slam it shut. He caught sight of his hands, the red almost shining in the moon's light and he choked on the breath in his throat.

The sound of a police siren wailing in the distance pushed him forwards again. The last thing he needed right now was to have to try and explain to one of his father's deputies why he was covered in somebody else's blood.

Stiles shoved his way through the unlocked security door, only half aware of the buzzing of the tripped alarm. He tried to hurry up the stairs, stumbling several times, having to catch himself before hitting the stone steps. Jolting his injured arm painfully.

Finally reaching the highest floor, Stiles raised his uninjured arm to knock but faltered in front of the steel door.

He couldn't be here.

If he knew then he wouldn't want Stiles here.

He couldn't keep this to himself though.

Derek wouldn't judge, he'd killed before.

But that was different. He was—

Stiles' internal debate was cut off as the door slid open, and he was met with Derek's eyebrows, furrowed together in concern.

"Stiles?"

Stiles watched as Derek's lips formed his name, but the sound seemed so far away, barely audible over the sound of his blood rushing through his ears.

Derek's lips were moving again, his mouth forming words that Stiles couldn't begin to comprehend. The world seemed to come suddenly rushing back to him and became acutely aware of the tightness in his chest as he gasped for air.

He stumbled forwards and his knee's buckled. Derek arm shot out and caught Stiles' but he pulled it away as if he'd been burnt at Stiles' pained cry. Without Derek's support, Stiles hit the floor none too gently, his nails digging into the concrete to no avail as he gasped for air that he couldn't get.

"Stiles?" Derek lowered himself to his knees in front of Stiles, holding his hands up to show he meant no harm. "Stiles? Can you hear me?"

Stiles' nodded; or at least he tried to nod and judging by Derek's slight nod, he had made some sort of affirmative gesture.

"Good, now you need to breathe Stiles. You're having a panic attack," Derek said, his voice calm and steady like he knew exactly what was happening and what to do.

"I can't—" Stiles tried to say, the words catching in his throat.

"Yes, you can. The more you breathe, the easier it gets. Take a breath in, as much as you can. Good. Then again; breathe in, slowly, breathe out. Keep going. In… and out…"

As Stiles forced himself to take several deep breaths, he got pulled back into reality. He found himself staring at Derek, the werewolf's eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of confusion and concern.

Stiles felt hot tears slide down his cheeks, he raised his hands to scrub them away but Derek caught his wrists.

"Wha—Oh." Stiles looked down at his hands and faltered, his eyes fixed on the dried blood. He could feel the dampness on his sleeves, pressing against his wrists. "I—It's not mine," he managed to say, his voice uncertain as he looked back up at Derek, who inclined his head in the slightest of motions.

"I know," he said, his fingers curling around Stiles' wrists firmly, not with enough pressure to hurt, just enough to keep the teenager grounded. "At least the most of it isn't yours, I don't recognise the scent. It's not anybody in the packs. But you are bleeding, I can smell it."

Passing both of Stiles' wrists into one hand, Derek used the other to reach out. Careful to keep his movements slow, his eyes not leaving Stiles', ready to pull away at the slightest hint of fear. Derek unzipped Stiles' hoodie, pushing it, and Stiles' shirt aside. Stiles didn't move. He hardly breathed as Derek looked down at his shoulder, inspecting the wound closely. Derek tilted moved his hand to the side of Stiles' neck, tilting him slightly to see it in a better light.

Stiles sighed softly at the touch, sagging slightly as the pain seeped away.

He gasped, shaking his head, trying to squirm out of Derek's grasp. "No," he rasped. "Don't."

Derek pulled his hand away immediately. Holding it away for a moment, before letting it come to rest on Stiles' bicep on the scrunched up hoodie.

"Stiles, you're hurting. Why won't you let me help you?" he asked.

Stiles shook his head, looking back up at Derek, his eyes shining with a type pain that Stiles had never felt before.

"Because I don't deserve it," Stiles said, his voice hoarse and broken.

Derek frowned. "Stiles," he said, his voice soft yet firm. "What happened?"

Stiles shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks in steady tracks but he made no move to wipe them away as his bottom lip wavered. "It was my fault. I didn't mean to. It was an accident. I just—he just—" Stiles' eyes met Derek's and he swallowed. "I killed him. He's dead. It was me. I killed him!"

Derek made a startled noise, the hand on Stiles' arm fell away and Stiles felt his gut twist tighter. His head dropping as he sobbed.

He had been wrong.

Derek was going to pull away.

He was going to hate him.

He was going to—

Derek's fingers on Stiles' wrist pressed deeper. His other hand coming up, brushing through Stiles' hair, before settling on the back of his head.

Stiles whimpered at the gentle contact, a sound that at any other time would have embarrassed him, but now it was all he could do not to lean into Derek's touch.

Derek shifted, seeming to sense what Stiles wanted, what he needed. He tipped Stiles' head forward. Pulling Stiles against him as he sobbed, letting the boys head rest against his collar bone.

Stiles sagged against him, scrunching up his eyes letting himself cry, hoping that his tears would wash away his memories.

Derek held him tightly for a moment, until Stiles felt the twinge in his shoulder and he felt his pulse race, Donovan's smirk flashing in front of his eyes. Stiles struggled against Derek's shoulder, gasping for air he couldn't find.

Derek pushed him gently away, the hand in his hair coming round to cup Stiles' cheek.

"Stiles," he said. "Stiles! Look at me. Whatever happened, it's over. You're going to be okay. Just breathe, breathe Stiles."

Stiles tried to take a breath and talk at the same time, "He was gonna— I had to sto—"

"Stiles, I believe you. Okay? I believe you. You can explain everything, but you need to keep breathing."

Stiles nodded, pressing his cheek further into Derek's palm, he closed his eyes. Focussing as he forced himself to take a shaky breath in, then stumbled over a sob as he tried to breathe out.

"Again," Derek said softly.

Stiles tried to be patient with himself, focussing instead on the feeling of Derek's hand against his face, the warmth of Derek's fingers, around his wrists. He took a deep breath in… then out… then in… and out.

Stiles repeated this several times before slowly, almost cautiously blinking his eyes open. He looked up at Derek who had a soft look in his eye that Stiles had never seen in his eyes before, something… something that Stiles couldn't read.

"You don't have to tell me now," Derek said quietly, the hand on Stiles' cheek going back to his arm. "Not now, not ever. If you don't want to."

Stiles' felt some of the tension in his gut start to unravel.

He knew that if this was Scott, this conversation would be very different.

"I–he—" Stiles forced himself to take another breath before trying again. "My Dad," he said, doing everything he could not to actually think about his Dad. "My Dad arrested this guy, Donavon. He's a few years older than us, he wanted to be a cop but failed the psych exam. He was the one who escaped when Tracy turned the other day… He threatened me, he threatened my Dad. I was in the parking lot, at school trying to fix my jeep and he grabbed me. But his hand—his one of them. A Chimera now. A—a Wendigo I think. He was going to kill me. He was going to kill my Dad..." Stiles tugged his hand like he was going to run it across his face, but then paused as he remembered that Derek still had hold of them both. Instead, he slumped back, letting his hands fall slack in Derek's.

"He—he chased me into the library and I was going to call one of you, any of you, but I dropped my phone and he had it, and then he was threatening Malia… and I tried to run. I tried. But he grabbed me again, and I went through a bookcase and I tried… I don't know why but I tried to climb up the scaffolding that is in there, and he came up behind me and grabbed my legs and—" he gave a strangled gasp, as the clattering of the poles echoed in his ears. "There was a peg holding up spare poles and I pulled the peg.

"I pulled the peg and I thought it would just knock him back but it didn't. One of the poles… one of the poles went straight through him and – and he was just lying there and he was dying. He couldn't heal, so I tried—I tried to pull the pole out so he would heal but I couldn't and he—he's dead. I killed him and he's dead because of me and—"

Stiles broke off with a choked gasp and Derek hushed him gently. "Breathe, Stiles," he said for what felt like the millionth time. "It wasn't your fault. You didn't have a choice. It wasn't your fault."

Stiles let himself sag back against Derek, his head dropping down onto his shoulder. His body shaking as Derek's words started to sink in.

Derek's hand slid up Stiles' arm, skipping over the wound to rest on the back of his neck. Stiles whined softly as his pain eased into nothing. With the pain gone and his adrenaline dropping fast, the exhaustion set in and Stiles was too tired to protest.

"Stiles," Derek murmured, shifting slightly underneath Stiles who groaned groggily, pressing his face further into the crook of Derek's neck. "C'mon Stiles, you can't sleep here. I need to check your shoulder."

Derek pushed Stiles away enough to move, and Stiles just sat their sluggishly, letting Derek pull him to his feet; catching him as he stumbled, sliding a supportive arm around his waist. Stiles stumbled forwards, following across the loft and up the spiral staircase where Derek guided him. Along the upstairs corridor, Derek pushed open a door to his left; Stiles followed as he was tugged inside.

Stiles looked around groggily to see that they were in the loft's small bathroom, one of the few things in the building to have been professionally refurbished.

Derek lowered him down to sit on top the closed toilet seat, helping Stiles to shrug off the hoodie and pull his shredded shirt. Derek nudged Stiles' legs with his foot, nodding towards the sink next to him when Stiles looked up.

Stiles looked down at his hands and got the hint, reaching up, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder as he reached up into the sink, turning on the tap; letting the water run red as the blood washed away. Stiles washed his hands methodically, scrubbing the soap the soap into his skin until it was red and raw. Once the water finally ran clear and he was satisfied that every last drop was gone from his hands and his arms.

Turning off the taps he stared at his hands for a moment, before looking up at the sound of Derek moving. He watched as he pulled a clean, dark grey towel out of the cupboard, holding out to Stiles who took it with shaking hands. He clutched the towel tightly for almost a full minutes, letting its soft warmth brush against his sore skin for a second before drying them carefully.

"This might sting," Derek warned softly, opening the first aid kit, pulling out a packet of antiseptic wipes. He stepped behind Stiles, resting one hand on the back of Stiles' neck before carefully cleaning the wound.

Stiles hissed at contact, the burning of the alcohol on his torn skin woke him back up, but just as quickly as the pain came, it was eased away.

"Why—why do you have a first aid kit?" Stiles asked, trying to keep his voice light and even. "You're a werewolf with super healing powers."

"Because we have humans in our pack," Derek said gently, cleaning the wound. "You and Lydia don't heal like we do, and nor did Braeden or Allison. Besides, I was just as vulnerable for a time. And as much as we might not show it, we're all aware of how easily humans can get hurt."

"Just as easily as you do," Stiles said, going for pointed but his voice came across more grumpily.

Derek scoffed not unkindly. "True," he said. "But we heal in minutes, you don't. You have to be more careful."

Stiles hummed in agreement, picking a piece of lint off of the towel, rolling it between his finger and thumb for a moment before letting it fall to the floor. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but shut it with an audible click of his teeth and sighed.

"What?" Derek asked, tossing the blood stained wipes into the sink, reaching for a gauze pad, pressing it over the wound.

"How—how did you know—before—how did you know what—"

"What to do when somebody has a panic attack?" Derek finished. Stiles huffed, his head dropping and he nodded.

"They're not uncommon in wolves. When pups can't control their shifts, they tend to start panicking… Then after—after the fire, I had my share of them, Laura always seemed to know what to do. Then Isaac, when Isaac first moved into the subway station it was rare he slept through the night," Derek said, a soft hint of something in his voice that Stiles couldn't decipher.

Stiles felt his heart clench at the mention of Isaac, he couldn't help but feel a stab of guilt as he remembered how Isaac had just started to feel comfortable. To feel safe to live and love without punishment; with Allison, and how that was torn away from him. How after everything, when Isaac was saying goodbye, he and Stiles could barely look at each other.

"Don't blame yourself," Derek said, his voice rough as he added another piece of gauze, taping it in place with ease.

Stiles clenched his jaw and nodded, no matter how many times he heard it, no matter who said it; he didn't think he'd ever believe it.

Derek scooped up the bloodied gauze and wipes from the sink, tossing them in the trash before washing his hands.

He took the towel from Stiles, drying his hands before hanging it over the side of the tub.

"C'mon," he said, reaching out, taking Stiles' good arm, helping him to his feet. "You're staying here tonight." He led him out of the bathroom, into the bedroom opposite that Stiles had never been in before. Judging by the unmade bed Stiles guessed that his was Derek's room, but didn't ask why he was here. Instead, at Derek's nudge, he laid down, sinking into the pillows with a soft sigh and a wince. His features softening as Derek syphoned away his pain again. He hesitated, kicking off his shoes, letting them fall to the floor with twin thuds, before pulling his knee's up to his chest.

Derek pulled his hand away, tugging the covers up and over Stiles, careful to avoid his shoulder, he stepped back, taking his cell phone off of the nightstand, before crouching down, his eyes level with Stiles'.

"Stiles, I need to know," he said, a hint of regret in his voice. "I need to know. The body, where is it? Is it still in the library?"

Stiles' eyes widened fractionally and he shook his head.

"I called the police. They came and went. When I went back his body was gone. Everything was in place. Like nothing had ever happened," he said, his voice shaking.

Derek nodded, a look of confusion on his face as he stood back up. "Okay," he said. "Try and get some rest. I'll phone the Sheriff." He held his hand up as Stiles opened his mouth to interrupt. "Just to let him know you're here. I won't say anything if you don't want me too."

Stiles looked down, fiddling with the edge of the duvet. "He'll hate me," he murmured.

"No he won't," Derek said, a firm certainty in his voice. "Your father understands self-defence. He's a cop. He carries a gun."

The unspoken he's done the same thing before hung in the air.

Stiles glanced up at Derek again and nodded. "Okay," he said softly.

"I'll be right outside," Derek said. "I'll come back, okay?"

Stiles nodded again, watching as Derek stepped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

.

Derek closed the bedroom door, stepping to the side to lean against the wall with a heavy sigh.

He ran his hand across his face before glancing back towards his room. Listening for a moment to Stiles steady heartbeat and occasional sniffles. Certain that the boy was as alright as he could be at the moment he stepped further down the hallway, flicking through his contact list, dialling the Sheriff's number, pressing his phone to his ear.

"Hale?" the Sheriff answered, his voice tired and confused. In the background, Derek could hear a faint siren and the light chatter of the station on a night shift.

"Sheriff Stilinski," Derek said then faltered, unsure of what to say.

"What is it? What's happened?" the Sheriff asked, sounding more alert. "Is it Stiles?"

"Stiles is here," Derek said. "He's – he turned up a little over an hour ago having a panic attack."

The Sheriff sighed heavily, and Derek could picture the way he was no doubt pinching the bridge of his nose and frowning.

"Is he okay?"

"He will be," Derek said honestly.

"Was it – was it about the Nogitsune?" the Sheriff asked. It was common knowledge that after the Nogitsune, Stiles' anxiety had only increased.

"No," Derek replied, unsure of what to say and what wasn't his place. "It – it was something else. An incident with a Chimera, a Wendigo. Something that I think Stiles has to tell you himself."

"Okay," the Sheriff said after a moment, a note of something in his voice that told Derek that what he was guessing, wasn't far off the truth. "Who?"

"Donovan," Derek said. "Stiles said you had arrested him before."

"Jesus…" the Sheriff sighed. "Where did this… this incident take place?"

"The High School, the library I think," Derek said. "Stiles called it in but the Dread Doctors or whatever it is cleared it up."

"We got the call, nothing was there. It was put down to a prank call," the Sheriff said, then sighed again. "Parrish and I… we'll go back, take another look."

Derek nodded, then remembered that the Sheriff couldn't actually see him. "I think Malia is at your house, waiting for Stiles. It wouldn't be a bad idea to take her. She'll be able to smell any blood, and a struggle, Parrish might not," he said.

"I could call Scott—"

"No," Derek sharply then winced slightly. "We need to know exactly what happened before Scott knows. He – he—"

"Has a tendency to jump to conclusions, especially if it means he can't save everybody," the Sheriff finished.

"Something like that," Derek said.

"I'll let you know if we find anything."

"I appreciate it."

"Derek—"

"It wasn't his fault," Derek said, his voice hard.

The Sheriff gave a slight humourless laugh. "I know," he said. "It didn't cross my mind for a moment that it was. I was going to say thank you; for taking care of him."

"Oh," Derek faltered. "Of course. He's pack."

The Sheriff was quiet for a moment as if he considered saying something but changed his mind. "I'll call you in the morning and let you know what we find," he said instead.

"Be careful," Derek said. "We still don't know what's doing this, or how to stop it."

"You too," the Sheriff said. They both hesitated for a moment before the Sheriff hung up.

Derek sighed, dropping his head back against the wall heavily, he tuned his senses back in on his room.

Stiles was still awake, anxiety and uncertainty coming off of him in strong waves. He was fighting his exhaustion, his pulse spiking as the wind howled outside.

Keeping his hearing focussed on the teenager, Derek quietly made his way down the stairs. He padded barefoot across the loft, shutting and locking the steel door, he reset the alarm before ducking into the kitchen.

He filled up two glasses with cold water, raising one to his lips he gulped it down.

When this all started, when Peter dragged them all into this. They were innocent. Stiles, Scott, Lydia, Isaac, Erica, Boyd and even Allison and Jackson. They were all so innocent.

Now three of them were dead.

Two of them had fled the country, wanting to get as far away from Beacon Hills as possible.

Lydia was plagued by voices in her head, she'd seen and would see more death in her lifetime than all of them combined.

Scott had a power that he didn't truly understand. He had the eyes of an Alpha, but he didn't have the judgment, the understanding. He was still so naïve.

And Stiles. Stiles who was the funny one, the light; the spark. He had dimmed. His friends had died, his body and his mind had been violated which had left him scared of his own mind. Stiles' light had dimmed, little by little every day with every new homicide that he'd heard over his stolen police scanner. Every friend that had died, every loss that he'd faced had chipped away at his innocence and Derek often forgot that he wasn't even eighteen yet. That he was still a child. Yet he had faced more horrors that most people never saw in a lifetime.

Now, this.

Stiles already bared so much responsibility for everybody else. For his father, growing up. For Scott and the bad decisions he makes. For Lydia, a part of him blames himself for her getting bitten in the first place, for being partially responsible in Peter triggering her powers. For Allison… because Stiles felt as though he lost a battle with his own mind and it had gotten her and Aidan killed.

Stiles bore it all without a word of complaint; Derek had no doubt that Stiles would try to do the same with this. That he would try to go on, pretending he was fine while it tore him up inside.

Derek set the now empty glass in the sink, looking out of the window across the darkened town. Against his will, his mind drifted to Paige. To her smile, her light, her innocence… her blood on his hands. He remembered the pain, the darkness that had hung over him for years, even now the pain was still there.

This is different. Derek reminded himself. Stiles didn't have a choice. As much as Peter might have manipulated him, twisted his way into his mind. At the end of the day, Derek still made the conscious decision to have Paige bitten, fully aware of the risks. Stiles didn't get that choice.

Stiles' choice was his own life, his father's life or Donovan's; and Stiles made that decision. Whether he felt it or realised it now; there wasn't a doubt in Derek's mind that it was the right decision.

He grabbed the glass of water, snatching up a few small chocolate bars from the cupboard before making his way back up the stairs. Making his footsteps heard as he walked along the hallway, so Stiles wouldn't be startled as he opened the door.

"It's okay," he said softly as Stiles' head shot up, wincing as it pulled at his shoulder.

"Is he—" Stiles' words caught in his throat and he swallowed thickly, his eyes shining.

"He's not mad," Derek promised. "He's going to take another look at the school. He's going to call in the morning." Stiles' eyes widened, and after a moment he nodded.

Derek took a step forwards, setting the glass of water and candy on the nightstand just in case he wanted it.

When Stiles didn't say anything Derek hesitated, an almost awkward silence hung in the air for a moment.

"Do you—do you want me to stay?" he asked. Stiles faltered, then frowned like he didn't understand the question or at least the reason for the questions. "You might not be a wolf, but you're still pack. And after something like this, pack takes comfort in each other."

Stiles hesitated before nodding slightly. Derek gave him the slightest of smiles before stepping around the bed, leaving his phone on the other nightstand, he slid under the covers. Derek flicked the lamp off, watching as Stiles shifted anxiously, before rolling over. He looked up at Derek in uncertainty and Derek almost smiled, instead, he slid his arm under Stiles' neck, letting his hand rest between Stiles' shoulder blades. Stiles sniffed, shifting his head to rest on Derek's collar bone.

He seemed to realise what he'd done and tensed as if waiting for Derek to push him away, but when all Derek did was hold him tighter he relaxed.

After a moment Stiles huffed slightly.

"I'm sorry," he said into the darkness.

Derek sighed, he'd been expecting the apology all night. He looked down at him and shook his head slightly. "You don't need to apologise," he said honestly. "This isn't your fault."

Stiles huffed again. "I meant," he said slowly, twisting his head to look up at Derek. "I'm sorry for waking you up and ruining your peace."

"Don't be," Derek said softly, looking down at him with that strange fondness that he always felt about Stiles. That strange fondness that Derek always tried to push away, lock away in a corner of his mind to no avail. "Don't be sorry," he said again. "You're always welcome here; you should know that by now. You should always know that."

For the first time that night, Stiles' lips twitched in the slightest hint of a tired smile.

Stiles stared at him for a beat longer before settling his head back on Derek's chest.

"You used to hate me," Stiles mused softly, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"I did," Derek agreed. It seemed strange to think that this was the same boy that had once tried to frame him for his sister's murder.

"But not anymore?" Stiles said, his eyes falling closed as he tried to fight off the sleep.

"Not for a long time," Derek assured him.

Stiles hummed softly, taking a breath as if to say something else but was cut off by a yawn.

"Go to sleep, Stiles," Derek instructed.

Stiles hummed again; too tired to argue or disagree he closed his eyes and Derek listened as his heartbeat settled down and his breathing evened out until finally, he was asleep.

Derek sighed into the darkness. "Not for a long time," he whispered again. "Not for a long time."

Thank you for reading.

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