This is for thecoloursoftheworld for being such a cool person. Sorry if it doesn't live up to expectations. Also, I don't know why but everything I write seems to descend into angst. My bad.. But hey, if you like Sterek angst then this is the place to be right?
Title is from the Imagine Dragons one of the same name, incase you were wondering.
Bleeding Out
"You're an idiot, you know that right? A complete and utter idiot!" Usually, Stiles would know better than to insult an Alpha werewolf who, on a regular basis, was prone to throwing him into hard surfaces and causes minor bodily harm. But on this occasion he assumed he could get away with it. Considering Derek was currently collapsed on the ground, barely breathing and oozing blood onto the stained asphalt, Stiles guessed he wouldn't be in any shape to threaten him, let alone gain enough strength to put those claws and teeth to good use. He sure as hell wasn't using them to protect himself, going by the four deep gashes that had been clawed through the Alpha's chest, leaving the skin raw and open, oddly similar to that of the injuries Stiles only ever witnessed in his video games. How the hell could something like that be real life?! Of course, he hadn't factored in that his life wasn't normal. His friendship group was made up of a werewolf best friend, said best friend's werewolf hunter girlfriend, a couple more werewolves, an ex-kanima turned werewolf and whatever the hell Lydia was. And then there was Derek. If Stiles was thinking past holy-shit-theres-so-much-blood he would be ecstatic that he had to use more than one hand to count his friends on. But there wasn't time for that because holy shit where was all that blood coming from?!
"Stiles," Derek growled, though it came out as more of a gargle as another mouthful of the black tar like substance trickled out of the werewolf. Stiles blanched. Right, injured Alpha on the floor.
"God Derek what the hell happened?" He knelt closer, not caring if he would accidentally end up in a pool of the drying blood, crusting over the surface of the road like a new coat of extremely gory paint. Why was it always him having to come and save the day? He was supposed to just be Robin for god's sake, but here he was, trying desperately not to melt down and freak out over the dying body before him. He was not the right person to be doing werewolf recovery, but there was no one else. Scott was, as per usual, with Allison, probably on some secret date that was no way in hell a secret from anybody, except maybe Danny who couldn't care less about their love life and wasn't involved in all the supernatural shit Stiles had to live through every day of his freaking life. He had no idea where the rest of Derek's pack was, and he had no way of contacting them without his phone, which was still in his jeep, the other side of the abandoned parking lot across the street, with its battery dead. Probably not his best planning, but he was running purely on adrenaline and adderall for the past two days, what did people expect?
"I don't know what to do! Why aren't you healing?" Stiles gasped out when Derek choked up another mouthful of blood, spitting it ungracefully all over his own ruined shirt and tattered chest. Why did it feel like everything was moving too quickly, yet in that moment like all of time had stopped? Stiles' heart raced, pounding erratically against his ribcage like it was trying to break free. He couldn't concentrate, everything felt like it was closing in on him. The gentle hum of cars in the distant had become an extravagant roar against his ears, the usually undetectable smell of gas and burnt rubber was hanging heavily in the air, crawling into Stiles' nose like heavy smog in a city centre. He even thought he could feel Derek's pulse beneath his blood covered fingers, slowing down every second that went by, every second Stiles failed to make a decision.
"I don't know what to do, shit I don't know! God don't die on me Derek, please don't die. I need to get those closed up, they're starting to smell. Is this what death smells like?" He rambled aimlessly, hands flitting uselessly over the other man's body. What did he mean other man? He was merely a boy, a boy who had been unceremoniously dumped into a situation he had no idea how to control. Stiles was pretty sure this was exactly how he would feel if he was ever put into a position of responsibility. He couldn't even imagine himself doing his dad's job, or even Derek's job, because Derek had to take care of a whole pack of puppies who just seemed to attract trouble, more so than even Stiles did. Why couldn't his school teach him something useful, like perhaps How To Save A Werewolf 101, or maybe provide a self help book called "Don't Panic! You can save your werewolf friend from certain death by following these quick and simple steps!"
"Stiles." Derek's voice was weaker, barely above a whisper. Stiles whipped his head round, locking eyes with the Alpha. There was no life there, no hope left in the usually hard and calculating orbs. Derek had given up. Fleetingly, Stiles wondered if that was the look a young Derek would have had after the fire. He could just imagine a small boy, barely his age, finding out everyone he had ever cared about was lost. Somewhat disturbingly, Stiles could picture it easily, after witnessing the expression Derek had in that moment.
"No! No way in hell am I letting you go Derek!" He placed his hands either side of the man's face and stared. Just stared, trying to convey everything with just that look. He needed Derek to fight. For once Derek's eyes weren't guarded, but an open book, allowing Stiles to rip his way through the pages, desperate to find something. Anything that would keep the Alpha going. He hadn't noticed the salty tears sliding down his cheeks, dripping from his chin onto the motionless body beneath him, until Derek lifted a hand painstakingly slowly, and brushed a thumb carefully over his cheekbone, catching one in its path. His eyes fluttered closed before Stiles pulled away and tugged his shirt over his head. Tearing it up, he tried to wrap it against the wounds, desperate to stop the bleeding in anyway he could.
"You can heal from this," Stiles whispered, his face barely a few inches from Derek's. A small, wry smile crept onto Derek's lips. Stiles couldn't bare this, he couldn't watch Derek just leave. He had never been able to watch him leave. Of course he hadn't, because this was Derek; the man Stiles hadn't been able to figure out, the man he'd allowed to throw him around because it never really hurt, the man he'd accidentally fallen in love with. And now he was about to watch him die.
"Please Derek," he begged. Stiles pulled Derek's head into his lap and cradled it, choking out his pitiful begs to some unknown being. The hand came up to his face again, this time Derek watched with half lidded eyes as his thumb traced down Stiles' jaw and across his bottom lip. Stiles pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb, his tears blurring his vision. What kind of sick joke was this? Why did he have to realise how desperately in love he was with the aggravating sourwolf in his last moments?
"I.. sorry.." Derek croaked out, voice hoarse and barely there, but the words could have been screamed from the top of his lungs, they would have had the same affect on Stiles in that moment. He shook his head frantically, running his hands over Derek's face and neck, not even daring to glance at the weeping gashes on his chest. The hand dropped from his cheek the same time Derek's eyes slid shut, his breathing coming in short huffs. Stiles squeezed his own eyes shut, letting the tears splash wherever they landed. He pressed his forehead to Derek's, feeling the skin there cold against his own. He didn't hear the screeching of tires, nor did he register the cries of his name. His focus was only on the body in his arms, now limp and lifeless, and all Stiles could do was cling tighter, afraid to ever let go.
A/N: Oops? I warned you it descends in angst galore! I don't like sad endings though so..