Author's Note:

Trigger Warning: Suicide, murder, gore.

This is my first actual fic, so be gentle. God knows this TV series wasn't.


"Shit, shit, shit, shit—Shiiiit!"

Lanky limbs scramble across dead leaves and dirt, trying to find steady ground, only to trip again over a rotting log.

Ragged breaths fill the air.

Fuck, those are his.

Something wet is dripping from his hands, warm and sluggish. Blood.

Fuck, that's not his.

If he wasn't laying on the cold ground—face bruised, head concussed, and ankle splayed a little too far to the left—he'd find the whole situation hilarious. Objectively, he guesses it still is. Hysteria bubbles up his throat, fighting with his uneven breathing until all that comes out is a choked cough.

It's funny. It is. It's abso-fucking-lutely hilarious because this is the seventh time in a calendar year that Stiles has been on the run from a bloodthirsty monster and the thing that still trips him up—quite literally—is that he still hasn't gotten any better at running through the woods. Granted, it's pitch black outside, but Stiles can't help but find it ironic that even after the great unveiling of the supernatural, the thing that causes the most damage is still his ability to trip over every surface he comes into contact with. Well, it almost is.

There's also the reason he's running through the woods in the first place. Gerard Argent.

Yeah, fuck that guy.

Scrunching his legs underneath him, Stiles drags himself upright until he's completely vertical and sprints off in the direction of his jeep.

He slams into the driver's side door—shit, both he and Roscoe's paint job have seen better days—climbs into the cab, and prays to the werewolf gods—do they have gods? God? he should really ask Derek, oh wait he's fucking dead—that his jeep starts up. The reluctant purr of the engine has Stiles whoop with, well, not joy, but something close enough that a ghost of a smile crosses his face. He takes a lingering look out his rearview mirror, trying to see if anyone else will magically make it out of the preserve. Nothing but darkness stares back.

They're dead.

He's dead.

Another one of those choked sobs escapes his throat.

Gotta find dad.

He gives the preserve one last look.

Then he gets the fuck out of there.


Stiles has always been the clever one; smart in a way that others like Scott can't even try to be. He's even smart in a way that Lydia can't quite match. Sure, she's got the rest of Beacon Hills thinking that to match her wits, her hair color should be platinum blonde, but Stiles knows the truth. She's intelligent, she's calculative, and she's driven. His ten-year plan may be needing to be extended another decade, but it wasn't built solely on her looks.

Well, it kind of was.

But even with all of her brains, she still lacks Stiles' ability to find the most unlikely of connections, his dogged determination, his ability to research obscure supernatural texts with only the internet, coffee, and an abuse of his Adderall to help guide him.

What that means is that Stiles knows a lot. And, that knowledge, combined with his dubious morality and incessant need to protect the people that he loves, forces him to take a step back and observe. It forces him to prepare for every eventuality, to see farther ahead than all the monsters nipping at their heels, to find a way to stop them.

Stiles Stilinski is clever in a way that other people aren't because he learns things and then goes out and does something with it. He's the determined one, he's the strategist, he's the one that does what needs to be done. He's got plans from A-Z.

He's the clever one.

So, it throws Stiles' whole world off kilter when after all that they'd been through: the whole kanima whodunit, psycho Matt gunning down deputies who helped raise Stiles, geriatric Gerard beating the hell out of him—as if texting isn't an easier way to send a message?—and Allison turning into Kate Lite, having to watch as Lydia turns Jackson from a murderous lizardy douchebag into a werewolfy douchebag with the power of her love—or the power of angst and house keys? it's still unclear, witnessing Peter Hale come back from the dead, the part where Scott "saves" the day with some mountain ash and a stolen bite from Derek, forcing Gerard to slither away into the night—after the whole shebang, Stiles thought it was over.

Sure, Boyd and Erica needed to be found and Gerard was most definitely going to be terrorizing them all again, and don't even get Stiles started on what he's filing Peter Hale under (that would be "M" for Machiavellian); but, after that shit show Stiles thought they'd done it. He'd figured out what was happening, helped save some lives, and kept his dad and Scott safe(ish).

After all, he's the clever one.

So maybe it's this false sense of security that blinded him. It was the huge sense of relief that he felt after realizing he could now hug his dad without being paralyzed or shot at. Sure, his whole body was in pain and his left eye was swollen shut, but he could still walk away. Maybe it was being blindsided by Scott not trusting him with his plan—maybe that should have been a red flag that his plans weren't quite cutting it, that he didn't see every piece on the chessboard as clearly as he thought he did.

Maybe he wasn't as clever as he thought he was.

Because just a week after the showdown in the warehouse finds Stiles Stilinski running for his life in the woods, a sense of déjà vu creeping up his spine as he remembers this sort of fear all too well.

This sort of fear, the one that keeps his blood pumping hot and his sweat breaking cold, yeah, that's the sort of fear he associates with Gerard Argent.

Yeah, fuck that guy.


It goes like this: exactly a week after Gerard left dripping motor oil from his mouth, Stiles is spending yet another night researching pack bonds and werewolf communication, as Erica and Boyd have yet to be found. His face is black and purple, and his ribs ache with every page he flips.

He looks up every so often to make sure Derek is still looming in the doorway of the train depot. The aesthetic of this grimy deathtrap just isn't the same without Derek's particular brand of gloomy, alpha werewolf posturing.

The location also doesn't exactly help with Stiles' aches, as he's constantly trying to find a comfortable spot while sitting on the floor.

Of an abandoned train depot.

Another squirm brings about another pang in his chest, and Stiles can't manage to muffle the hitch in his breath that follows. Glancing back up, he sees Derek looking at him with something other than contempt.

How strange.

"You really should find another place to live, Sourwolf. This place is just a series of building code violations and Hepatitis." Stiles mutters as he turns another page.

Derek scowls. Ah, all is right in the world. "You can comment on my interior decorating as soon as you find something useful. Until then, shut up Stiles."

Stiles fake pouts, his split lip stinging with the strain, but buries his head back into the tome.

He isn't surprised when hours later Scott, Isaac, and Jackson show up, telling Derek that there's still no sign of the missing betas.

Scott walks over to where Stiles is sprawled, placing a hand on his shoulder. Stiles watches as Scott's veins turn black and pulse.

They still haven't talked about it. Scott's collaboration with and double-cross of Gerard or Stiles' time spent in the Argent basement being tortured. Stiles loves Scott, and Scott loves Stiles; but, he can't help but dislike him at this very moment.

He didn't notice. He didn't trust you. He doesn't trust you.

He's unsure of where they stand, something that scares Stiles more than he can put into words.

So, Stiles isn't talking about it.

He watches as Scott's veins fade to grey. Stiles' entire body unwinds, and he holds out his fist for Scott to bump. "Thanks, bro."

Scott bumps back, smile hesitant until it's not, like a ray of sunshine peeking out from behind a bog of clouds, "No problem. You find anything yet?"

At that question, all other voices in the room quiet.

Stiles feels all eyes on him. He also feels the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up. Someone else has entered the depot, he can feel their eyes add to the weight of the rest of the room's gaze already on his back.

"Well, we know that Erica and Boyd told Derek they were leaving. They heard other wolves and decided to take the risk in someone else's pack. We also know that they weren't successful because, well," Stiles swallows, "because they were with me in the basement. That being said, I think we should assume that they're okay and still looking for a pack."

"What makes you say that?" Scott asks.

"From what I've gathered from this Alpha MacKenzie's personal account," Stiles gestures to the giant book splayed out in front of him, "the connection between an alpha and its beta is rather intuitive. Alphas gain power from every beta in their pack, and with that comes the ability to sense each beta's physical location and emotional state. MacKenzie even says that the stronger the alpha and its pack, the farther that connection can be maintained." Stiles turns towards Derek, "You can still feel them, can't you?"

Derek flinches. "How do you know that?"

"You've been pacing, frustrated and worried for a week now. The level of stress you're under only makes sense if something important is at stake. If you have something to lose, its means that you still have something. Therefore, you're still able to feel them. Therefore, Erica and Boyd are still in the pack." Stiles yawns, eyes blurred and back stiff. He wipes at his face, only to look up and see everyone looking at him curiously.

A low chuckle reverberates across the room. Stiles stiffens.

"Very astute, little spark. Knowing my nephew better than he knows himself? How quaint." Peter emerges from the shadows near the entrance.

He circles the room, coming to stand over Stiles. Peter crouches down and cocks his head. "Yes, you really are the cleverest witch of your age, aren't you?"

The gears turning in Stiles' mind halt. He splutters, "Did you just quote Harry Potter at me?"

Peter grins, "Technically, you'll find that I quoted Remus Lupin at you."

Stiles huffs, uncomfortable that he's not all that uncomfortable with Zombie Wolf so close to his very frail, very human self. It's sad that all it takes is a joke and a smirk to get on Stiles' good side these days.

Stiles stands, turning away from Peter to address Derek, who's been watching their interaction warily. And, funnily enough, he's inched closer to Stiles.

How strange.

"They're probably still out in the preserve, too scared to face you and out of the loop about the Argents. We should wait until morning and sweep the woods." Stiles glances at Peter, who's continuing to stare at Stiles with an unreadable look on his face.

Derek's eyebrows pinch together, "We should go tonight. They've been alone out there for too long. We shouldn't waste any time that we have. Isaac, Jackson, come with me. Scott, go to Deaton and find out if there's any sort of tracking spell he can do."

Scott growls and begins to protest, but is too late as Derek marches past him, indifferent to his opinion. Derek pauses before the exit, turns back with red eyes blazing and mutters, "Thanks, Stiles. Now go home." And with that, he vanishes into the night. Isaac and Jackson dutifully follow behind him, Isaac with a backward glance at Scott and Jackson with a sneer at Stiles.

Stiles walks over to Scott and leans into his space. "Dude, you should go to Deaton. We need all of the information we can get. I know you don't like Derek, but dude's got a point." Stiles also likes the idea of Scott not wandering in the creature-infested woods at midnight, but wisely chooses not to voice that opinion. "Besides, Deaton actually talks to you. He's just unhelpfully cryptic when I try and talk to him."

Scott's shoulders slump. "Yeah, I, yeah, that makes sense. See you tomorrow? We can just play COD and chill." He looked jittery, a combination of hopeful and tired that hits Stiles directly in the chamber of his heart labeled "Scott's Territory."

"Yeah, sure Scotty. I'll see you tomorrow. Text me if you get anything good out of Deaton."

Scott smiles and leaps at Stiles, hugging him tightly. Stiles winds his arms around his brother's back and squeezes back. They both awkwardly extricate themselves from the hug, casually ignoring their feelings like men.

Scott passes by Peter, who has been silently watching their interaction out of the corner of his eye. Once he reaches the older wolf, Scott growls and says, "I haven't forgotten who you are or what you've done. Stay away from me and my mom. And stay away from Stiles." Then he stalks out of the room with one last nod in Stiles' direction.

Then it's just Stiles and Peter Hale, alone in an abandoned train depot. The reality is like some sort of ridiculous Mad Lib come to life.

"What's got you so nervous, Stiles?" Peter asks, prowling slowly back towards the boy in question.

"Maybe it's the resurrected mass murderer in the room. Or maybe it's the room itself, I touched that rail over there and I think I've already contracted tetanus. But, now that I think about it, it's probably the former."

It's definitely the former.

"Now Stiles, name-calling is so beneath you. Although you are spot-on with your assessment of Derek's living arrangements. Rats wouldn't squat here, they have too good of taste." Peter comes even closer, and Stiles' heart rate jumps. "But no, I don't think it's either of those choices. I think you're nervous about something else entirely."

Peter's quick, grabbing the handle of Stiles' backpack from the floor and ripping it open. He takes the thick folder out of the bag and shuffles through the collected pages of notes. "I've seen you working on this all week. Plans, hm? Looks like you've almost completed them. And look, they're alphabetized."

Stiles swallows, but finds himself willing to play along with Peter's game. Only he wants to flip it on its head by being uncharacteristically honest. It might actually shake Peter up.

"Actually, that's my revised edition. I already had 26 contingency plans, I just needed to update them a bit after, well, after what happened this year." Stiles scratched at a scab on his cheek. "You were filed twice under 'A' for 'Asshole Alpha' and under 'Z' for 'Peter Hale is killing everyone so obviously he needs more than one plan.'"

Peter laughs, seemingly surprised by Stiles' answer. "And now, dear spark? Now that you that there are worse monsters out there than me, what exactly is your Plan Z?" He seems genuinely interested—or at least as genuine as Peter's burnt out heart can be.

Stiles' own heart skips, making Peter look up sharply from the folder.

"You really don't want to know what Plan Z is." And Peter seems to hear the seriousness in Stiles' tone.

"You'll find that I really do."

"You don't."

"I do."

"Don't."

"Do."

"Magical redo button." Stiles whispers, ready for this conversation to be over.

Peter stalks right up to him, grips Stiles' chin in his clawed hand, and looks intently into his eyes. "What do you—," a buzz interrupts Peter's question.

Stiles digs his phone out of his pocket and glances at the screen. It's a text from Scott.

Deaton has info ab forest. Smthng ab triggers, currents, and a tree called a nemeton? Going out there now 2 meet up w Derek

Then Stiles really starts to panic. He knows exactly what the nemeton is. After so many times being ignored by Deaton and stumbling around in the woods, he's seen some strange shit. So he researched. And he researched. And then he found what he was looking for and so much more. He found what he wanted to know, but it wasn't everything—he knows that now, no amount of information can ever be enough—and what he found was also terrible.

Or, rather, if he ever needed that information everything would already be pretty terrible.

Stiles couldn't ignore the growing feeling of dread in his stomach—a void slowly unfolding and expanding within his body.

From what he learned so far, that tree was bad news.

He looks up from his phone to find Peter gone.

Stiles sighs and types out a reply.

Wait for me. Omw.


Stiles drives to the preserve. He steps out of the jeep, grabs his trusty baseball bat, and begins to run without thought. He can feel something dark drawing him deeper into the forest.

Deaton once told him he was a spark, and Peter's definitely taken to the idea, but Stiles bets neither of them know the extent to which he's looked into what that means.

He bets they don't know about the pens that scattered across his desk without him touching them during a frustrated attempt to control the mountain ash Deaton had given him during the kanima debacle. He didn't even realize because he was too focused on that infuriating black powder.

He definitely realized a few days later during one of his research benders. Stiles was keyed up, thanks to an Adderall binge, when his curtains caught fire. It was really tough to explain to the Sheriff. The "Hey, what can you do, teenagers play with matches" excuse didn't really go over well, but his dad didn't push it.

Ever since he singed his room, Stiles hoarded all knowledge about magic and how to wield it safely. He thought he was doing okay for a newbie.

Three months later he finds himself running towards something dark, something alien, without much conscious thought, so maybe he isn't doing as well as he thought.

It's weird, though. Stiles has wandered out into the forest once or twice after research binges to see if he could get a read on the dormant nemeton. It always felt dark, but it never felt violent like it does now. He's dreading what that could possibly mean.

And he hates that he doesn't know.

This last week has been a lesson in humility.

Stiles reaches the clearing, the one marked by a large stump and not much else.

Well, except maybe death.

Stiles can't help but feel grim as he enters the clearing. Everything is too quiet, all he can hear is his own heartbeat. He lifts his bat over his shoulder and blindly walks toward the stump.

Fuck werewolves and their ability to see in the dark.

He trips over something big and goes down, hands thrown out in front to cushion his fall.

He lands on something long. It's soft, yet resistant. Bony.

Bile rises in Stiles' throat.

Nononononononono—

He scrambles for his phone and turns on the flashlight.

The bloodied face of Isaac Lahey stares unblinkingly back at him.

He pushes himself away from the body—the body—and shines the flashlight around him.

The light finds the brutalized body of Jackson not five feet away. Stiles walks closer, noticing that both Isaac and Jackson have been trapped in tree roots, their legs, arms, and throats choked by thick bark and barren vines.

"Stiles."

He jerks away from Isaac and Jackson, searching wildly for whoever gargled his name.

Two red pinpoints glow in the dark, and Stiles sprints over, falling to his knees next to a dying Derek.

"Stiles," he gasps. "It—was. Gerard. Tree, killed his men—sacrifice. Woke it. Used it to kill, us. Had, Boyd, Erica."

And Stiles—Stiles is crying. He reaches out and grabs the vines suffocating Derek. He pulls and he pulls but he isn't strong enough.

Stiles looks within himself, tapping into the warmth in his chest, his magic. He reaches out to the nemeton, trying to connect to its own power. But it's too late, the nemeton, dark and powerful in its own right, has already been tied to something else. Someone else.

The nemeton is no longer just dark and dormant—it's alive and it's power is being channeled by evil.

"Stiles."

He opens his eyes and meets Derek's. He stops yanking fruitlessly at the roots constricting Derek's body.

"It's okay, Derek. I'll find him, I'll stop this. Just hold on."

"Not. Soon. Enough," Derek wheezes. "Stiles. Gerard—trying, find, you. Revenge, on us—all. Stiles, be safe."

"Fuck, fuck! Derek don't you fucking die on me. You don't deserve this, you stupid Sourwolf."

And Derek—Derek smiles. Then he says, "Stiles, don't look. Don't." The red flicks to his left. "Don't."

"Don't look? What are you—?"

And then it hits him.

"Derek, Derek where's Scott?"

Derek's no longer smiling, Derek's no longer doing anything. The red in his eyes is no longer shining and Stiles can't breathe.

He cups Derek's cheek. "Derek?"

And then he's alone. He's alone and he knows what Derek meant. Stiles knows that if he looks to his left he's going to see something that will shatter his whole world. He knows that if he looks he's not going to be able to leave the clearing. If he looks, nothing will be okay. He can't afford to panic.

So he doesn't look.

Gerard is trying to find him.

Dad.

Then he sprints towards his jeep, leaving seven bodies behind him without a backward glance.


So it went like this: Gerard, psychotic megalomaniac that he is, decided that the best way to exact his revenge on a group of teenagers and heal himself was by using the power of the nemeton.

He kills his own goons to kickstart the connection to the tree.

Then he uses that connection to kill the pack, to kill his best—no.

Don't look.

Stiles can't help but roll around this information in his head as he speeds toward his house.

Think, Stilinski, think.

That's what he does best.

So he thinks. And he enacts Plan G.

He skids to a stop outside his house, noting that dad's cruiser is in the driveway. He hustles over to the trunk and digs out the keyring from his pocket. He pops it open—thank you past self for taking one for the team and illegally cutting keys—and he grabs the shotgun from the back. He loads five shells into the gun and pumps it once.

Silently, he creeps around to the back door. He knows dad leaves it open when he's home to save money on the AC.

He enters the house, barrel raised and eyes alert.

Stiles hears a voice. That fucking voice.

It's talking about monsters, about human sympathizers. It's talking about how it's sorry, but they brought this on themselves.

It's talking to his dad.

"Hello, Stiles," that voice croaks.

Gerard is sitting next to his dad at the kitchen table, the Sheriff's own service Glock is in Gerard's right hand and pointed directly at his dad's heart.

Red meats and Cheetos were the only things meant to threaten his dad's heart.

"I was just telling your father about all of the trouble you've gotten yourself into."

His dad grimaces, and Stiles notices the gash on his temple, the steady trickle of blood running down his face.

"We've been waiting for you to get home. Where were you?" Gerard grins maniacally. "Did you find them?"

Fury, hot and pure, races through Stiles' body. He's shaking with rage, his grip on the shotgun white-knuckled and twitchy.

"Stiles be careful," his dad intones.

Gerard jumps up, grabbing his father in a chokehold and forcing the muzzle of the gun into the Sheriff's chest.

"Gerard, don't do it." Stiles warns. "Don't." But there's no arguing with madness. Gerard may have been power-hungry before, but the cold logic is now absent from his eyes.

He's drunk from the nemeton's power, Stiles realizes.

It leaves him feeling cold.

He meets his dad's eyes. They're warm, so warm.

"Stiles, son, I love you."

"Dad."

Gerard sneers, "How sweet."

And then the Sheriff explodes upward, elbowing Gerard in the gut and trying to wrestle the gun away.

A shot goes off.

His dad does down.

A second shot goes off.

Gerard collapses next to the Sheriff.

Stiles leaps forward, kicking the gun away from Gerard and kicking the man in the face for good measure.

He kneels down next to his dad—the position so hauntingly familiar—and he presses his hands to his father's chest, attempting to stop the flow of blood. His father looks at him, blood starting to gurgle in the back of his throat.

"Stiles I—," and then he's gone.

Stiles breaks. He screams, performing chest compressions because that's what you do right? Right? Chest compressions heal fatal bullet wounds. It makes sense—it, it does.

Stiles howls. He trembles with rage.

He goes numb.

Stiles sits back, closing his dad's eyes. He stands, picking up the shotgun. Gerard's still breathing, chest movements shallow. His shot missed his heart, but he's knocked out cold.

Stiles looks down at the man that ruined his life.

"I didn't anticipate you. Next time, I won't make that mistake."

And then he unloads the last four rounds into Gerard Argent's face.


Peter Hale finds him sitting on the nemeton an hour later, cradling Scott's face in his lap.

He had wrestled Scott's body from the tree's roots, finding the task much easier now that the nemeton's master was dead.

A book, thick and weathered, lies next to Stiles. He looks up, watching the werewolf approaching.

"What are you doing, Stiles?" Peter stops in front of the tree, eyes curious and flashing.

"Plan Z." Stiles flips to the right page and begins gathering the magic within him. It builds and builds, burning hotter than it ever has before, and he begins to channel that energy into the nemeton.

Stiles looks up at Peter sharply, eyes burning bright. "Huh, your eyes aren't red. Strange."

Peter flinches, the movement minute, but noticeable. "I know." He looks over Scott's mangled body and the book. "What exactly is Plan Z? We were interrupted before you said."

Stiles laughs. He laughs because it's funny. He's in the woods with Peter Hale, a man so corrupted he's only curious when faced with the mutilated bodies of relatives and teenagers. He laughs because he can see himself becoming exactly like this Peter, if he didn't have Plan Z as an escape.

Stiles laughs in Peter's face, an edge of mania carrying his voice across the clearing.

"Time travel, Peter. I'm going to fix everything."

And at that, Peter's eyes shine bright. He cocks his head to the side and chuckles, matching Stiles' pitch with his own.

"I always liked you most, Stiles Stilinski. How far back are you going?" he asks with unrestrained glee.

"I'm going to save your family, Peter."

Hale stops laughing at that.

"But, not for you, you psycho. I'm doing this for me, for my family and friends. I'm doing this for Derek. For Erica, Boyd, Isaac, hell, even Jackson. I'm doing this because fuck the Argents. I'm doing this for the man you should have been." Stiles stops, breathing heavy.

Nothing but the sound of Stiles' breaths and the rustle of leaves can be heard.

Peter gives him one last look, "Well, alright then." And then he turns and walks away.

Stiles' magic continues to build. His nose begins to bleed. He begins to chant, Latin a bit broken but good enough to get the job done.

Or, at least he hopes it is.

He feels the ground start to tremble, the scent of ozone fills the air.

Stiles finishes the spell, a crescendo of voices roaring in his ears. He shuffles to the side and removes the knife from his back pocket. The steel glints under the moonlight.

He pats his friend's shaggy hair, "It's going to be okay."

Below him, the nemeton begins to crack.

"One last sacrifice, aye Scotty?"

And then Stiles slits his own throat.

He hears the howl of a lone wolf.

Then the world goes dark.