He was reaching, clawing, trying to hold but something or was it someone was yanking, grabbing, trying to contain him. It was too late by second, minutes, what felt like hours. Someone was yelling, shouting, pleading but he couldn't be sure who it was. Honestly he couldn't give enough emotion or care or brain power to even think about who was making the noise. He couldn't spare anything at all to think about them, not when he had this horrible, dreadful, stabbing reality to deal with. His eyes were glued, frozen, teetered to the scene unable to pull away. He couldn't look away. He wanted to look away but he was lying to himself at the same time.

This couldn't be happening, it was a lie, a lie by fate that bitch. It was a cruel joke that Lady Luck would fix. She had to. This, this couldn't be reality, he couldn't tale this. But the gradual coolness on his hands, shirt, pants was telling him a different story. The slippery, coppery, red that had long since stopped pouring settling into a puddle, lake, ocean of death was killing him. It was killing him to look at this. It was killing a part of him, the important part that's not living and breathing but still alive. His soul, his heart, was breaking down. And nothing, not making a deal with a demon or the devil himself was going to stop it. There was nothing that could make this okay for him. Nothing that could fix the pain he felt slowly slipping away and pooling past his cheeks. The pain which was taking a rollercoaster ride done the river of his hurt. There was nothing in the world that could yank away the gray veil to reveal the blackened cloak-wearing sickle-handling Mr. Death.

Stiles wished, yearned, was not above begging to meet Death. He had grievances to state, shout, to the man. Death had already stolen in the night more from his life than was frankly right you could forget even mentioning fair. He knew life wasn't fair. When you watch your mother wither and die just because the luck of the draw was against her you understand. When you do every damn thing in the world to protect your father, the last or near to last thing to blood family you have in the world, only to have fate spit in your face and show you that she can still steal away your happiness you get it. You get that life is a game of playing Russian roulette straws at knife point. You play the game with no choice. There are no backs, pauses or restarts. Life's a bitch and then-

And then…then you-

"No," and he realizes now that the shouts were his shouts but that doesn't matter because he's going to start shouting again. If shouting is the only way to get his pain across, if it's the only thing he can do because raising the dead is not something he can accomplish then he's going to scream until his throat bleeds raw. Until the blood on his hands are from his shouts of pain and not his dying, dead, love.

When his father died two years ago, he nearly died. They were fighting a war that had no reason to start, that had no right to exist. It was a second too brief and too quick for him to even change even if he had a time turner like Hermione. And how can he even think about stupid things like fantasy and geekdom at a time like this. His dad was rammed through. Slice and diced with blood crusted and rusty blades. There was nothing he could do. There was no way to save him. Yelling, screaming, cursing out God didn't do a damn thing. His tears that rivaled the water of Niagara Falls just kept flowing as he rocked his dead father's corpse in his arms while blood etched itself into his fingers. Etched in ways no water, bleach, or cloth could ever wipe away.

He knew, he tried.

But all he could see in the pain and shadows of his heart, the only thing he could remember beyond how heavy and light a dead body felt was the blood that would never leave. Oh Lady Macbeth how you knew. How you knew the damn'd spot will not go out. he would whisper to himself at night as he tried to clear it away. And in his hearty warped terrors he ran to a falling corpse he could never hope to catch. A shell of a person that would slip by his numbing fingers. A blood-spattered corrupted shell with damning eyes and even worst tint. A tint that no ocean could ever wash clean.

He was broken…a cracked shell waiting to break at the slightest touch. He was nothing. He was empty. He felt dead already. He was spilling at the seams, like water through nets. He nearly let the ocean which could never clean his hands take him. He nearly let the tides sweep him away through darkness until he could emerge again in the light. But he was there. He pushed the pieces together, sewed the slipping soul back to the body, made him hole again. He held him close to his beating heart at night so that Stiles would know, without a moment of doubt, that he was alive. That his last connection, reason, most precious person in the world was there still. That he hadn't lost him too, stolen in the night. That he was always going to be there with him.

Stiles prayed at night.

Stiles prayed in the morning.

Stiles made bargains with God when he was sure his love was vast asleep. When he knew he couldn't hear his mumbled jumbled pleads. When he knew he had enough time to sit in the tub and cry with all his promises dropping down his face as if each drip contained it's very own wish. As if for every drop he made a falling painful wish. He did it when he knew he had time to clean up. When he could shower away the salty remnants and smell of tears so that he wouldn't have to worry about him. So that the smiles he finds are enough for him to never question too hard if Stiles is alright. Because Stiles can never be alright. He can never be alright until he's sure that his love will live a long life. Until he's sure without a doubt that nothing can steal him away from him, at least until he dies.

He made bargains to a devil who wasn't listening. Pity, he would have sold his soul.

Stiles pulls out of his mind to stare again at the face. To stare at the slowly cooling unblemished face except for where his blood painted digits have marked it, have tainted it's beauty. He has blood on his hands again. Blood that will never leave. Blood that will soak into his skin and burn on its way down because it's all his fault. It's his fault. If he wasn't his mate. If he wasn't human still. If he wasn't so weak to need protection. This wouldn't have happened if he was better. If he was more. It's all his fault.

"It's all my fault" he mutters to himself as he clings with human claws that anchor him down. Anchors that will keep him here to stare one last time into his love's frozen DEAD eyes. "He's dead. He's dead!" And he's shouting again. He vaguely thinks he's finally lost it. That he's finally snapped. He's not hysterical, he's gone, gone, baby so gone.

Someone's grabbing at him again and he wont be moved. No one is going to move him from this spot. There's still another battle going on around him but he could care less. He doesn't have anything left inside to care about. His life is nothing compared to…

Derek's dead.

Derek's dead.

Derek is DEAD.

"Please," he tries with a throat turning sore. He's not sure exactly what he's asking. Please don't be dead? Please come back? Please make this all be a twisted dream? Please finally be listening to me God and grant me this one wish? Please Death spare me this one thing? It doesn't matter who he's asking. It doesn't matter he knows, nothing can fix this. There's nothing to do. He's lost everything now. He has nothing left to keep him alive. No one's going to be able to fix this humpty dumpty together again. He's broken for good now.

Stiles always knew life was a bitch. He always knew that she wasn't done with him yet. That there were worst things to come for him. So he's been prepared. He's been waiting for this…for Life and Fate to finally clip the last important thread in his life. The weight on his existence.

Stiles has always known that he would get the wrong end of the stick for fortune. So he's prepared for this. He's ready.

He looks around for the first time in he doesn't know or care to know. Everyone's away from him right now. No one will notice as he does it…no one will be able to stop him. He doesn't care for a fight anymore. He has no fight left in him. He has nothing in him anymore other than an ache. An ache that starts from the blood on his fingers and spread to his heart. An ache that makes it hard to breath and maybe it's really a panic attack but he doesn't take notice. Dark red fingers pull out a necklace he always has kept on since his father's death. There's a long box like pendant which opens to reveal a bottle in the darkest richest purple. The Mt. Ash has hidden the smell from all the wolves well all these years. He stares into the violet contents letting the moonlight catch upon its surface trying to cement this last picture into his mind, trying to make on last memory.

He looks around once more and Allison's staring at him with wide saucer eyes that stab through his starting haze. He doesn't stop the bottle's assent to his lips, he just looks into her eyes. He looks into eyes he knows understands in ways no other could ever hope to understand. How she already knows what it means to lose too much that if you lose one more you'll break. He looks into eyes that start to plop tears that shine like diamonds from the rays of the full moon. He looks into eyes that see all the pain he can't hold anymore, into eyes that see how he's already dead. Allison stares as if she can't look away. As if she wont ever look away. As if, she's going to be there for him in this last moment of pain.

Stiles lays down next to Derek's cold body on the floor uncaring of the blood anymore. What's a little bit of blood now? He weaves their hands together once more before closing his eyes, this will be a nice dream.

It hurts so much… the pain slides it's nails through him and it's all he can do to remain silent …to take this moment and laugh inside his mind. Romeo and Juliet were idiots. He hopes Scott will never become them. He hopes…

You didn't have to get it you know?"

"Derek, this triskele means more than just what you told the others. It's a sign of your pack… it's a sign…it's a sign that we're together."

"You don't have to get a tattoo to prove that we're together. You're my mate and nothing's going to change that."

"Some cultures believe that being marked together means something…that you can tie your souls together…even for the next life…

"Stiles…I-"

"Shh...this way we'll always be together."

"Stiles you-"

"Sourwolf when I say shh I mean shh. Just, if we die earlier than we should, let's meet again okay?"

"Yeah, we'll meet again."

"In the next life."

"By moonlight. "

"By moonlight."

Your Author Pixie: That last part was influenced by Kingdom Hearts 2 spoken by Axel to Roxas.

I'm not sure if I got the emotions acrross right or so...tell me if you liked it.
reviews? Yes? Please? Thanks :D