He was talking, always talking. How did he keep talking, how did that even work? How was he breathing? What? He was talking about something dumb, something totally, absolutely absurd and Derek wasn't listening, he wasn't listening because he was driving, and if he was listening to the dumb thing that Stiles was saying then he wouldn't be driving, and if he wasn't driving they would be crashing and he didn't want to be crashing, because he hadn't trusted the insurance man who came to their door one Saturday morning and would have to pay for it on his own.

But he liked the fact that Stiles was talking, because when he talked he fiddled with his ring, and Derek didn't know why he liked that, but he did. And Stiles' voice was the soundtrack of his life, and it wasn't like he was going to dislike his own soundtrack. Well, sometimes he disliked it, he used to dislike it a lot, but he didn't dislike it as much now. Now he understood that Stiles wasn't really talking to him, he was talking to the world; it was just that Derek was in his general vicinity. And for some reason that didn't really make any sense, that made it oka-

Smash.

…

The world was going in all different directions and he couldn't keep track of it. Something slammed into him, and then he slammed into the doors, and the steering wheel was gone from his hands and he could hear Stiles yelling, but he couldn't quite tell where Stiles was or where he was or where the car was.

And he couldn't breathe, breath was not escaping his lungs, nothing was escaping his lungs, he gasped for air, and something was dripping into his eye and he was fairly sure it was blood and Stiles had stopped screaming, and he couldn't tell why that was so scary but it was and he was so scared. Because he couldn't breath, and blood was in his eye, and he could find Stiles and he couldn't hear Stiles, and he couldn't see Stiles because he couldn't see anything, because the world was going somewhere else.

And he could hear something in the distance, sirens he thought, there were sirens in the distance, but he couldn't understand why there were in the distance because they were so loud. And people were yelling and somebody was pulling at his collar as if trying to drag him out of someplace, but they couldn't because he was wearing his seat belt. Or at least he assumes that was what it was.

Still the hands pulled at him and his eyes were closed, but he couldn't remember closing them and everything hurt, but he couldn't tell where everything was. It felt like all his nerves were on fire and he still couldn't breath.

"Stiles," he gasped. Because he wanted whoever it was to be Stiles, because that meant that Stiles was safe, Stiles was still there, still good. And that was the most important thing. The owner of the hands on his collar began talking to him in rushed, hurried tones and that felt so familiar, but it wasn't Stiles. The voice was wrong. He couldn't tell who it was, but it wasn't Stiles.

The sirens were getting closer again, he could here them and it didn't feel like they were in the distance anymore, they felt like they were close and connected to things. He gasped for breath, wanting to bring it into his lungs and have it stay there until it grew stale. But it didn't.

He cracked open his eyes and the world swam, like he was viewing it though a fishbowl that was being rocked from side to side.

A face loomed in front of him but he couldn't make out any features, only that it wasn't Stiles, and that was all he was able to figure out, before, just like that, the was fell out from around him, and everything went away, black and empty.

And he still couldn't breath.

…

"Mr. Hale? Mr. Hale, can you hear me?"

Someone flashed a torch in from of his eyes, and he coughed weakly, heaving in breath after breath, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling was white. It was so white it almost looked like pearl, but it wasn't. Another face loomed over him, and he tried to locate his limbs. This face wasn't Stiles either, and he frowned and coughed again, because he wanted at least one face to be Stiles' face, because he was fairly sure he wasn't in hell, and that meant it was still his responsibility to look after Stiles. He had to look after Stiles, he had to because it was his job, and Stiles belonged to him and you had to look after the things that belonged to you.

"Stiles?" He croaked.

Something was wrong with him. Something was broken and he couldn't tell was it was, but he needed to find Stiles, he had to find Stiles, had to find out if he was okay. The man in the lab coat looked at him sadly, eyebrows pushed together. Derek began to sit up; he needed to find Stiles, he had to find Stiles or something bad was going to happen.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Stilin-"

Derek pushed past him, roughly; reaching out an uncoordinated paw to clear the way so that he could go find Stiles, because he had to be around here somewhere. He ripped the IV from his arm, and he didn't care about the pain, because the pain was nothing. He took the grey clamp from his finger and the doctor was still looking at him sadly as he ripped himself from the sheets and fell immediately forward as soon as his legs attempted to hold their own weight.

The doctor only just managed to catch him before screaming for a wheelchair and having to lower him back down into it before the nurse scuttled away. Derek looked up at him dazedly.

"I-I need to find Stiles," he rasped, because he needed to find Stiles or something bad would happen and he would get more broken. The doctor's sad eyes looked at him.

"Maybe it would be better if I showed you," he said sadly, and began to push him along.

"Are you taking me to Stiles?" He asked, because he hoped that he was and he wanted to go to Stiles, but he legs wouldn't work and it was important that he got to him anyway.

"Yeah," he heard the sad doctor say, "I'm taking you to Stiles."

The hallway was nearly empty and out the windows it was dark and he tried to figure out what had happened. He had been driving and Stiles had been talking and then suddenly, he hadn't and he couldn't breath. He supposed that maybe they had crashed, but they hadn't crashed because he had been concentrating on not crashing, so maybe someone had crashed into him and he wanted to think about it more but then they came to a door, and the sad doctor opened it and Stiles was lying on a table.

And he wasn't breathing.

And Derek couldn't breath.

It was the first thing he noticed about him, his not breathing. Because he was so used to seeing him breathing, that when he wasn't, it was so jarring that he didn't breath in response.

And then he realized what not breathing meant and he felt like the whole world was forcing it's way up his throat and there was nothing he could do about it. A strangled, desperate noise erupted from his mouth, and he reached out in horrid desperation, reaching for the not breathing version of his husband.

A sob emerged from his throat and he stumbled up, trying desperately to get to his feet, to go to him. As if he would somehow start breathing again if Derek just reached him. He staggered on his not working legs, grabbing onto the silver tables and the backs of chairs trying to keep himself upright.

He was crying, he could tell because tears were falling down his face and he hadn't cried since their wedding. And now he was sobbing, and saying his name over and over again. Pain everywhere, his heaving drunken breathing restrained and hard.

And Stiles was dead.

He wasn't breathing and he was dead and it was his fault. He was driving, he should have seen. He failed. He didn't protect him like he had said he would because Stiles was dead. Dead. And he wasn't.

The love of his liked was dead and not breathing and he had failed and alive, and where was the sense in that? What more was there now?

And then he began to scream because this could not be happening.

Nononononononononononononono….

No.

And he screamed hysterically as he sank to the floor because he was alone.

…

"Derek? Derek, babe, wake up."

Stiles looked at him through the dark, hair ruffled from sleep, eyes wide with fright and Derek didn't care because he was breathing all he could manage was to violently wrap his arms tightly around him, and hold him as tightly as he could.

"Woah there, big fella."

Stiles patted his shoulder and laughed nervously, and Derek buried his nose into the crook of his neck as if seeking his warmth in the darkness.

"I dreamed you were dead."

He sniffed and Stiles immediately softened, wryly wrapping his arms around him as well, holding him as he was being held.

"Well I'm not." He said firmly. "I am right here. I will not leave you."