Derek clutches at Stiles' mutilated, long-dead body, roaring-wailing-screaming into Stiles' chest. Stiles' stupid red hoodie (the one Derek scoffed at and mocked because are you serious stiles you're such a dork and now he wished he hadn't) is too soaked with blood and vomit to be dampened by Derek's tears and, God, the stench of it all...
Stiles' stomach is torn open, spine severed, barely being held together if not for the- fuck- muscle and skin of his back.
Derek is kneeling in Stiles' blood, God it's like a fucking sea there's so much and it reeks of fear and desperation; Stiles was fucking waiting for him, praying to be saved, and he let him down. He couldn't save him, he led the only thing he loved to a horrific death, and fuck, that's just how it is with Derek, isn't it?
He should never have expected anything different. They wouldn't have grown old together. Hell, they probably wouldn't have made it more a few years. They wouldn't have gotten married or had kids. They probably wouldn't even have had good enough luck to die together.
That doesn't mean Derek didn't pray for it.
He kisses Stiles' lukewarm lips, tastes blood from Stiles' tongueless mouth. Thinking of the agony his mate went through before death makes him dry heave until he passes out, bathed in Stiles' guts.