AN: I do not own Teen Wolf or any of its characters. So, I finally found myself a beta/co-author and she is wondrous and full of angsty goodness so she is going through the fics I already have and helping me with them. Thus this fic is already up and already complete but in a much more rough draft version. We will try to get this fic rewritten quickly so the entire better version can be posted.

Much thanks to CherFleur. You are awesome.

The Smell of Blood

The coppery tang of blood flooded Derek's nose as he neared the Stilinski' home, walking through the neighborhood, the last location on his list-that-he-did-not-keep of pack-houses-that-certainly-didn't-need-to-be-patro lled. His first feeling was one of confusion, and maybe a bit of disbelief. His first instinct, was to attack whatever had caused this sudden, horrible panic. His next – noticeably more calm and rational reaction, the one he listened to – was to assess the situation before going in, claws and teeth bared against an unknown threat to someone that he considered a part of his pack. Already, in the back of his mind he had sorted through all of his people, his pack, and that particular scent, was sending up flares of warning and cold terror.

There was no doubt that the blood belonged to Stiles Stilinski.

He had been witness to the smell of Stiles' blood more times than he liked to recall. Quietly and carefully, he crept around the side of the house, muscles twitching and trembling with adrenaline and nerves, peering through each window as he went. Nothing looked wrong with the first floor, which just made him bare his teeth in a snarl of frustration, and try to reign in his ever jumping heartbeat. He leapt to the roof to start a search of the second floor; he couldn't hear anything other than the unnervingly steady heartbeat of the lone teenage boy who rested in his room, engulfed in the thick, terrifying smell of that irritatingly endearing teenager's lifeblood. After he rounded the corner on Stiles' room he almost gagged. The smell of blood had intensified, and he had to force himself not to tear into the room without thoroughly examining the situation. Instead, he took a deep, calming breath – which was less calming than he would have liked as it was tainted with the smell of blood, blood of someone very important to him, and he craned his neck around the window to see inside.

Derek didn't know what he had been expecting, but this was nowhere near it.

He could never have even imagined something like this.

Perhaps he thought he would see the Alpha pack standing over a dying, beaten, and bloody Stiles. Maybe Gerard had come back for revenge. Perhaps, for once, it had nothing to do with the dangerous world of the supernatural, perhaps it was just some human robber that had chosen the wrong house to rob, or the right house, depending on how you looked at it; Stiles himself wasn't a werewolf, and they could have easily found one in Beacon Hills. Robbing a werewolf would certainly not go over well for the unwitting thief.

The last thing on Derek's mind as he peered through the bedroom window was that the only thing or person he would see was Stiles.

Just Stiles.

Alone in his room.

With a razor.

For a moment Derek was frozen, even if it felt like time itself had slowed to allow him to feel his heart squeeze tightly against his ribs and his blood to pump loudly, as if to mock the droplets that emitted the deadly intriguing aroma which had beckoned him to the teenager's house. He didn't know how to process this new information. He didn't think he could. His mind tried denying what his eyes were telling him. Stiles wouldn't be hurting himself, not on purpose. Not with as much as he did on accident. Stiles wasn't like that. Stiles was happy and healthy and stable – well, that was a bit debatable, but he wasn't like… this. Stiles was full of jokes and sarcasm. He rarely was caught without a grin on his face. A person like Stiles would never attack himself with the cold calculated ferocity Derek clearly saw in every line of the young man's body.

There had to be a reason.

Derek snapped back to reality, when he saw, with startling, supernatural clarity Stiles preparing to set down another mind-numbingly, excruciating line on his already blood-stained skin. In an instant he tore open the window – really, Stiles should have honestly known better than to leave windows unlocked by then – and shot into the house. The delicate yet deadly, gleaming metal was in his hands so fast that the Alpha didn't even register the movements himself.

There was a moment where the younger male's hand continued the motion, only to break off once the realization hit that he no longer held the object of focus. Confusion crossed the teen's features, where before there had only been concentration, and perhaps a disturbing bit of relief, as if the action of painting himself with delicate lines of crimson removed a weight, a burden that was invisible before. Derek himself wished to bleed at the thought that there was something so crushing inside one of his pack and he hadn't known.

Perhaps he had even allowed it, or worse, caused it.

The gears slowly slid into place in Stiles' mind as he sensed the presence of another body in his room, rather close into his personal space, actually, Stiles blinked up at him in shock for a moment. Then, suddenly remembering the position he was in, what he had just been doing, realizing exactly what secrets he was unintentionally revealing to the werewolf who was now in his room – in his space, the space he'd kept so carefully for these moments, these reprieves from all the overwhelming things that were taking over his life – he tried to hide the evidence of what he had done. Tried to hide the history, worries and pain he had carved into himself as a means to hold himself together; to fight off the loneliness and the agony. He tried to reassure himself that he had been fast enough – that Derek had somehow managed to miss what exactly Stiles had been doing mere moments before.

He was just deceiving himself.

"Oh, uh, hey, Derek, what are you doing around here?" Stiles asked feebly, trying to force some cheer into his voice, struggling for conversational, for normalcy, as his routine, his relief, was bared to someone he cared for. He felt fear. There was a growing ache beneath his breastbone. His throat felt like it was swelling as he realized he couldn't, for the life of him, read the unyielding, empty expression before him. As nonchalantly as he could, he slid his arm around behind him, as if just leaning back to support himself. Which, was really a rather good idea anyway, as he felt like he was about to fall over. His limbs felt weak in a way he wished he'd never known before, but was becoming something of a regularity when faced with the werewolf before him. He knew it was stupid to try and hide the glaringly obvious evidence, but some small – or maybe not so small, really, pretty huge in fact – part of him was in denial that Derek had seen Stiles' arm at all. Or maybe it was denial over having arms at all. Yeah, let's go with that. No arms here. Nope.

None.

Who needed arms?

That part was delusional and hopeful in equal measure. He felt his mouth go dry with nerves, tongue sticky and slimy with saliva.

Silence met his question and Stiles sat awkwardly pondering – or panicking at – Derek for a while, heart racing as he watched that intense, deep gaze direct itself towards the floor rather than his face. He couldn't read him. He had no idea what he was thinking. Derek seemingly refused to meet Stiles' eyes, perhaps he was deep in thought, or perhaps he was wondering why he was there at all, why he should care at all about the hyperactive little bastard that only snarked at him and tripped all over himself. The teen wasn't sure he could speak over the lump in his throat.

He didn't know what he would say, anyway.

"Well um… This has been fun and all," Stiles' voice was higher than normal and laced with panic, how was he still talking? He couldn't control the words leaving his mouth. Not like it was any different than usual, but still… "But I have somewhere I need to be, like, now. Oh, wow I am so late for this thing. That very important thing that I'm late for, so I'm going to leave. To get to the thing," Stiles got up delicately – or as delicately as he could, considering the sudden weight and numbness of his limbs – and made to exit the room. He found his way blocked by a wall of Derek. He made a rather effective wall, all things considered. He certainly had the density for it, and Stiles would know, he was well acquainted with many of the walls in town, ironically via the werewolf who was now pretending to be one. Perhaps that was why he shoved Stiles into so many? He was trying to confuse Stiles in some way? Or was it a bonding experience? No, no, not that. Well, maybe – Derek's hand had found its way to his shoulder, gripping it lightly, keeping him in place, and knocking his internal, manic rambling off track.

"Why?"

The voice was deep and familiar, but the tone was so, so different. It was soft and gentle, and perhaps a bit stilted, as if hesitant, perhaps waiting for a rebuff of some sort. It was the most broken sounding word Stiles had ever heard from Derek's mouth. It was wrong. It sounded choked back by something. It could have been anger, or fear, or even perhaps tears. Whatever the cause it felt like a punch to the gut to hear that sound from his Alpha. The whisper of that broken word made Stiles' breath hitch in a whole different kind of pain. It baffled and terrified Stiles and he really didn't want to speculate, he just wanted to escape this whole situation. But his normal route of escape was still clutched in the too strong grip of an Alpha werewolf. The thought crossed Stiles' mind then that perhaps Derek's grip on the deadly implement of relief could actually damage it. He shoved down the irrational anger at Derek for ruining a perfectly good blade.

Instead he let his mouth run freely as he threw out any words he felt could potentially make the wolf release him, "Well you know… things to do, places to be… not really my choice. This thing really isn't by choice, y'know? Sometimes there's just a thing that you got to get to. There isn't much 'why?' to it. I just need to go. To the thing. Which I'm very late for," rambling. Rambling had always been his 100% effective way to get people to leave him alone. It sent them running for the hills so they didn't have to tolerate his inane babble.

To his surprise, Derek didn't retreat or give up. Instead he looked up at last and met his eyes, Stiles was taken aback by the look of the red shaded with strong, barely restrained emotions. Derek growled out, "I'm not asking why you're trying to leave and you know it. Don't think you can play dumb here, you can't word vomit your way out of this. Why would you do this to yourself? I want to know what caused you to turn to this."

And if I can fix it, he added silently. Let me be able to fix this. Don't let me lose another person so close to me. Don't break my pack any more than it already is.

Looking into Derek's eyes was what ruined Stiles, the depth there that he was normally lost in, and swallowed by, was overflowing with so much emotion, emotion that he never thought he'd get to see when facing the Alpha. He was floored by the pain and sorrow, the self-recrimination, that he saw swimming in those big green eyes. Stiles felt his control of the situation start to slip, as well as the delusion that he'd had any control to begin with. The lack of control is what got him into this situation in the first place. He couldn't keep pretending that everything was fine and he couldn't keep brushing off what Derek had walked in on, because while it was normal and every day to him, it was not so to the man before him. It was not something that should be passed by, not really, not when he really thought about it. When faced with those eyes all he could do was break down. So he did. It felt like such a slow process to him, starting from within and then worming outwards from his soul, into his bones, muscles and blood.

It was so much quicker on the outside though. At first, he blinked rapidly, skin shivering with goose bumps and cold sweat as he struggled to keep a handle on his emotions. His lip quivered, jaw clenching, hands fisting and splaying without thought and then… just a few tears slipped, gathering quickly and running out and spilling over, but soon they were cascading down his face. Just as he lost the ability to stand – emotion breaking through his thin, weak defenses – Derek was there to catch him. It was a new sensation, being caught by someone as broad and intimidating as the older man, and he didn't know how to feel about it. Usually it was Scott who did any sort of supporting, but he wasn't there, and he hadn't really been there for a while. He found himself on the floor enfolded in Derek's warm arms. Stiles clung to him like his life depended on it.

It probably does, in some twisted way, some ignored part of him thought.

They sat for a while together on the floor as Stiles continued to weep, body almost convulsing with the strength of his distress. Derek just held him firmly, with his strength gentled enough to not hurt the boy, and rubbed tender patterns onto his back to comfort him more than to calm him down. Once Stiles had reasonably more control, had released enough of his pent up feelings, Derek stood up, gave Stiles a soothing look that told him to stay put – that he would be back – oddly calming in its confidence, as if Derek were in complete control and nothing would go wrong now that he was there, and then he walked out the door. That look easily convinced Stiles to stay exactly where he was, staring numbly after the Alpha. It was also a very effective look in helping him hold it together. Some part of him responded to the Alpha command in Derek's eyes and he found he didn't think he could move even if he wanted to. In his mentally and emotionally exhausted state, he really didn't want to.

As Derek left the room that was so flooded with the heavy scent of blood, he practically gasped at the fresher air. He took a moment to lean against the wall as he shoved down the wolf in him that was roaring in anger and pain. His breaths came quicker than normal and his hands trembled but he soon shoved off the wall and forced his feet to carry him to the bathroom. Stiles needed him, and that was all the motivation that he needed. Derek grabbed a washcloth and small basin that he found under the sink, and filled it with warm water, taking the time that he stood waiting for it to fill to force some calm into his raging, aching thoughts before he left the small room. Wordlessly he went back into Stiles' room and grasped the arm that was still very slightly seeping blood. Gently, with an almost feathery touch that seemed contradictory of his superior strength, he started to wipe away the blood that had dried already, and that was gathering on soft, pale skin. As he went, his heart twisted and squeezed. Broke more and more.

He felt shattered and hollow.

Not just because of these new marks covering Stiles' skin, a testament to the stress he'd been under dealing with the Alpha Pack, and possibly everything since the supernatural had crashed into his life – since Derek crashed into his life. No, he felt crushing emptiness, because, underneath the blood he found clusters of scars. Scars that were clearly from years past, some so old he could barely see them, even with his wolf sight. Lines of slightly puckered skin marred Stiles' entire arm with smaller fine white lines dotted between the larger offenses. Derek tried to think of a time that Stiles had ever worn anything that didn't hide his arms and his thoughts ran into a blank wall. Never, he had never seen these bare arms. He had no idea how long Stiles had been hiding this secret. Derek's hand lingered lightly over a few of the worst marks as his mind tried frantically to deny the evidence of pain that lay right at his fingertips. Pain he should have seen – should have stopped. Even the very oldest lines, lines carved into skin far before Derek had even met Stiles, felt like a crime he should have been able to halt had he only known what caused them.

"It started after my mom died," was the answer to his unasked, horrified, pained thoughts.

He paused briefly in his work as if to absorb Stiles' words.

Really, he was just thinking about the pain of losing someone so important to you that it felt like the whole world was falling down around you, on you, crushing you under the weight. He'd had several of those someone's, and now, he recognized his panic and fear at the scent of Stiles' blood as the prelude to the same feeling of utter devastation he had felt losing Laura and the rest of his family.

He knew the feeling, but, he'd never even thought of turning to something like this to keep himself in check. Without lifting his gaze from the wounds he was cleaning, he wondered bleakly how different he and this young man before him really were.

Stiles had watched the werewolf work in silence for a few minutes before he decided to speak up. He had the silly, romanticized feeling that letting the werewolf wipe the blood from his marked arm, baring his past woes in such a way, was cleaning more than his skin. It wasn't a bad thought, just a little too much of the Scott-when-encountered-with-Allison style.

Something about the atmosphere in the room had shifted and Stiles felt that he owed an explanation to this man who was so carefully taking care of him. More so, he wanted to tell someone, and because he knew that Derek had plenty of secrets, practically breathed them, he knew he could keep them. Mostly, he wanted to trust this new side of the werewolf that he'd never seen directed at him before, a comforting, safe side, the side that eased some of his nerves about how very Alpha he had become. It separated him in a way he hadn't known he'd been comparing him to the Alpha Pack in.

Compassion.

Receiving no more response from Derek, Stiles continued, hoping he was right in feeling that he wouldn't be scolded or brushed off for his feelings and thoughts.

"It was how I dealt with my panic attacks, mostly. When I felt myself slipping… losing control… I would do what I could to try and focus on the present instead of on… well, on whatever was triggering my attack. At first, I just would dig my nails into my hands, because it was just so frustrating, so humiliating that I couldn't control my body, that I couldn't…" Stiles took a deep breath and Derek glanced up at the teen quickly seeing the few silent tears leaking out of his wide brown eyes dripping down his pale cheeks. Derek gave Stiles' what he hoped was an understanding look and it must have worked because the boy opened his mouth again, "Once I realized that the pain kept me grounded I started finding easier ways to cause the pain. It was the only way I could be myself again. The drugs they give me and all the 'help' that people offered me did nothing to bring me back. Once I found that pain could make me feel whole again, make me me again, there was nothing that was taking that away from me. It fought back the constant sensation of drowning and I couldn't face going back to that feeling again.

"It kept me stable. Stable Stiles," he tried to joke weakly, voice going soft and uncertain as he stared down at his exposed arm, thinking, remembering. "And with my dad… he was so… so tired and broken and… heavy… but once I'd started, it got easier for him. Now I've been doing it for so long… I'm…I'm not certain anymore how to stop. I've never really even thought about it. What if I were to stop, and everything goes back to the way it was? That I wouldn't be able to pull through for my dad, that Scott wouldn't have anyone to turn to for his wolfy problems, or something comes up with the Alpha Pack and I won't be able to help you guys, that I could make things worse or be unable to help when everyone needed it most… The idea that the panic attacks would start again – that I'd lose myself to that – that my dad would feel that weight… it terrifies me."

His voice broke a little on his last words, eyes burning for another time, but he blinked it away, not wanting to start that again, even if he felt he wouldn't be condemned for it. Some of these things, he'd never thought of, until he admitted to them, revealed all of the pain and fear that somehow, he could cause the death or worse of one of his friends, his family…

He was so scared of that, so, so scared. So he kept mapping out that fear on his skin, kept that fear at bay with the biting pain that had the ability to overpower even his terror; that let him know he was still in control. Still Stiles, not a sobbing mess of a human struggling to breathe. Struggling to think. For just another minute the pain gave him the strength to keep going. Each scar a reminder of what could have been if he hadn't put the blade to his skin, of how he may have screwed things up when he was needed most. Each of those imperfections on his skin showed him the war he had fought to keep ahold of himself in the worst moments. Each mark was a reminder of the tentative grip he had on his sanity as he watched his friends get torn apart again and again by hunters and other wolves. These lines that tore his body apart were what held him together.

Derek looked up at him then, solid, steady eyes fixed on him in a way that made it apparent he was really looking at Stiles. He was seeing him.

More importantly, Derek was accepting him. Accepting and not judging him for the confessions he had allowed to spill out.

His eyes really did burn then, chest warming, hands shaking with relief as he somehow remembered how to breathe again, unaware that he'd been holding his breath for several moments, afraid of whatever recrimination might be in those eyes. That there was none, really, it just made him want to break down again.

There was no judgment in his gaze, no blame, no anger. Just calm understanding, and a little bit of sadness. Sadness that said he wanted Stiles to have never felt anything like this. A sadness that made it achingly clear Derek wished he could have protected Stiles from each individual hurt that had resulted in this mass of wounds.

It's because he's the Alpha, the back of his mind thought quietly. Because Alphas protect.

"Stiles," he began, his voice cracking a bit, before steadying into the same, deep understanding, mildly remorseful, with an echo of guilt. It was so soothing, and heart wrenching at the same time. There was no disgust, no hate or pity. And best of all, he wasn't dismissed; he wasn't left to feel his terror and ineptitude alone. He'd been alone in this for so long, with his worries and his deep seeded fear, that the relief of having a second, much stronger, set of shoulders to help bear the weight… it was so freeing, and so frightening.

"I don't know what you've gone through and I can't erase the past, but I promise you, that you can stop this. I don't expect you to do it on your own, or that it will be easy. There is nothing easy about this, but I can help you. I will help you. You're one of the strongest people I know, and you have people who love you all around you, you can find it in yourself to beat this. I won't let you stand under this burden alone. If you fall, I will catch you, if you want me to, and even if you don't," those eyes. They were so steady, so direct, and the teenager was so not even trying to break this gaze. The way he was looking at him was just… perfect. "I will catch you. You're pack, Stiles, you're important to all of us. To me," he trailed off for a moment, unknowing of how strongly his words were branding themselves into Stiles' heart, before adding, "I'm so sorry I didn't realize sooner. I didn't know that you were fighting your own battle without us."

"No, Derek, this has nothing to do with you," even though, since the whole werewolf debacle had started, it had. It was just that those scars from a year ago and these most recent ones, had a different meaning behind them. Before it was fear of Derek, and now it was fear for Derek. "Don't try to blame yourself," Stiles bore all the responsibility. "You couldn't have known. I didn't want anyone to know," he was lying, he knew, because he'd always had this part of him that was scared of the pain, didn't like it, knew that he shouldn't and had wanted someone to save him from himself. "It's not your fault that you never noticed."

"No, I'm the Alpha of this pack, our pack," those words carried a meaning that Stiles didn't quite get, but they were heavy, weighed probably the same as the razor did when it rested in his hands. They were words meant to protect others. "It's my job to know when one of my pack needs help. To help them. Especially when it's the person I care about the most. The one I love," Derek said the words quickly as if he were embarrassed to say them but his eyes never left Stiles' and they spoke of honesty and possibly some fear, maybe a little disbelief that those words had escaped his lips, that thought had been allowed out, but...

They were words of truth.

"Derek… I thought… I never thought… never knew…" Stiles paused briefly to collect himself, heart in his throat and body feeling so light, he almost wondered why he hadn't started floating yet. Perhaps it was the grounding feeling of the werewolf's strong, warm, broad hand still gripping his now clean wrist. "I feel the same," his stuttering answer was broken as Derek pulled the boy closer and wrapped his arms around him.

The embrace was gentle and firm, and oh-so warm against Stiles' cold, clammy skin. He felt heated to the core. He could feel the rapid beating of the older man's heart, and that made his own slow down a bit as he fully processed this new declaration of feelings.

He was loved.

Derek loved him.

Derek loved him.

There were tears in his eyes again, but this time there was also a tremulous smile crawling across his features, threatening to split his face wide. His heart had already been bared, and he was finding it hard not to just hand it right over to the stronger, broader, sturdier male to take care of. He certainly would do better with it than Stiles would.

He couldn't do any worse than he himself had.

Derek released a tentative smile at Stile's own confession and he softly stated, "I know," he didn't quite understand why, but he could feel that Stiles was telling the truth. There was no lie in his scent, and the joy that crept into his voice was telling in and of itself. Stiles really did feel the same and despite the somber situation Derek felt himself allow just a little room for hope.

Stiles pulled away from the embrace to look the Alpha in his eyes. Those eyes. Encouraged by the hesitant, almost unsure affection he found in them, Stiles leaned forward. It was with inexperience but little fear of rejection that he gently kissed his sour wolf, finding his heart leap anew with love and elation as he was not rebuffed. It was brief, and it was chaste, but it communicated the depth of their feelings for one another perfectly. He could almost see a depthless ocean spread out before him in that one moment. There were no ripples, but it glowed with their emotion.

Stiles felt sure that in the future, and in a less serious setting, they would do much more kissing. He was definitely down for the kissing. He was so going to get more of the kissing.

Oh god, he'd just kissed Derek Hale.

He felt off-balance and light headed, and it was glorious.

Derek effing Hale.

"So, uh," Stiles said, unsure, but voice breathy and light with a giddiness he had never felt before, lips tingling – he'd just kissed Derek Hale! – and almost glowing with happiness. "What now?"

Green eyes peered deeply, almost shyly into chocolaty brown before warming with confidence again, as well as contemplated affection.

"How about we start with you promising me that we can work together to help you stop hurting yourself?" it hurt more than just Stiles, really. It hurt people who didn't know, because someday they might, and they'd blame themselves, just as Derek was doing then. Derek didn't want to tell Stiles this. It would just make him feel worse in the end. "Because I don't think I could bear ever seeing you do this to yourself again. We'll get through this together."

"I promise," I'll do my best, for you, and for me, he promised deep within, trying to make the thought firm. And for dad, if dad were to ever find out… it would kill him. "And Derek?"

"Hmm?" his voice was almost sleepy, and the deep grumble of it made a light flush flutter into Stiles cheeks as he smiled, enfolded once again into that strong, careful embrace. His eyes prickled again, but that was all they did. He could find no reason to cry, and his joy was so much more than he had felt in years.

There was such safety in this hold.

There was love.

"Thank you."

Derek quietly tightened his hold on Stiles, eyes a little wet himself, even if the younger male couldn't see it, and he didn't let go for a long, long time.

It wasn't perfect, but it was a start.

AN: I mostly just wanted to write a more realistic self-harmfic. I've read a lot where Derek find Stilesself-harming and it somehow leads almost immediately to sex or making out and I find it really isn't a realistic thing for people to do right after one of the two is found cutting. As a former cutter myself, this is a much better way to deal with someone you love who is cutting. The proper response is never, "You're bleeding, let me screw your brains out because I love you and don't want to see you hurt." Oh yeah, I'd go for that.