Author's Note: This just popped into my brain and refused to leave. Teen Wolf belongs to MTV and it's respective creators. Title comes from the Imagine Dragons song that totally gives me Derek feels. This show is nothing but pain I swear.

bleeding out

The Beacon Hill Sherriff's Department was bustling with activity despite the early hour. Officers sped in and out, holding files in their grasp and talking over each other to add to the general chatter of the bullpen.

The Sherriff sat in his office with the door open, listening to the hustle and bustle, the arguments of his officers over the merits of pencils versus pens. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the familiar scents of gun oil and leather, of stale coffee and fresh ink on paper.

It was late for him, far past the end of his shift, but Sherriff John Stilinski had to stay and wrap this up. He was exhausted and wished he could just go to sleep but he knew he'd be here for hours yet. Not for the first time, he wondered what in the hell had happened to his once-sleepy and peaceful town. Right this moment the young Hale was being processed before they started the questioning.

Everything in this town had started to get shot to hell, and it had all started when Derek Hale came back to town. It remained to be seen if this was Hale's fault, but his teenage son and his best friend seemed to think so.

John ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. He'd worked the midnight shift — 6 to 6 — and it was currently seven thirty. It had been hours since he'd gotten the phone call from his son and headed out to Hale property at six thirty this morning, just as the sun was coming up. They'd found a grave just as his son had said, and ended up arresting a silent twenty-four-year-old Derek Hale.

"What do you think, Sherriff?"

John jerked out of his musings to stare up at one of his deputies, who was standing in the doorway looking at him expectantly. He was holding a file in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He blinked bleary eyes and confirmed that it was Deputy Halleck, a bemused smile curling his lips upwards.

"Sorry?" he said, sitting forward in his seat and rubbing his face.

"About Hale doing this," Halleck expanded, handing him the coffee which John took with a grateful smile.

"Too soon to say," John shrugged, rubbing a hand through his hair and holding his other hand out for the file which Halleck immediately passed to him. He flipped it open and scanned over what little information they had about the Hale family—mother, father, two daughters, one son. Tax-paying, wealthy citizens.

Overall they were involved members of the community. Eldest daughter Laura was brilliant, over a four point grade point average looking to go to an Ivy League, son Derek was a basketball star. Then the fire—arson, no suspects, chemicals that burned at unbelievable temperatures and eleven fatalities. Only three of the family survived: the two eldest who were in high school at the time and the uncle, Peter, who had been in a coma since the fire happened. John swallowed hard, remembering that day too well.

There had been chains over the doors, locking everyone inside and condemning them to death. Even years later it still made him a little sick to think about it. The two surviving Hale kids had vanished not long after and hadn't been seen or heard from since. . .until now.

Halleck had been reading all of this over his shoulder and whistled long and low. "Tough break," he murmured, looking at the picture of the young Derek Hale, his face tear-streaked and body limp in the embrace of an older girl, presumably his sister Laura. The boy's expression was totally blank, while Laura's was twisted in agony.

"Shit," John swore, rubbing his eyes. His throat swelled with tears and he had to clear it several times.

There was a rap at the door, causing both of them to look up.

"He's in the interrogation room," the officer said shortly. "They're waiting for you, Sheriff."

"Any news on the body?" John asked as he stood, downing the coffee in one gulp and picking the file off his desk.

"Forensics is still looking it over, say it's going to take some time. All we know so far is that it's a female, mid-to-late twenties, brown hair."

Sighing heavily, he headed to the interrogation room. Hale was sitting on the other side of the glass, eyes unfocused and staring at the opposite wall. He was not looking at the glass, giving John a moment to observe him. Under the bright lighting he looked pale and young. Dark circles marred the flesh beneath his eyes and his clean-shaven face was completely blank of all emotion.

Wasting no more time, he headed for the door. It disconcerted him that the moment he moved, Hale's head snapped around and hazel eyes focused on him through the one-way glass. He froze instinctively, eyes wide himself, but Hale made no other movement save his nostrils flaring.

Shaking away foolish thoughts because there was no way that Hale knew he was there, he walked around to open the door and entered into the good cop/bad cop mentality.

"My son seems to think that you're responsible for this," he said as he slapped the file down on the table between them and took a seat. He made himself comfortable and spread the pictures out one by one before glancing upwards.

The Hale boy was not looking at the pictures. Those disconcerting eyes were fixed on his, intent and unblinking. Instinctively he knew that this was some sort of test and held the boy's unblinking gaze until his eyes burned and he had to blink. It was only then that Hale looked away and he was reminded randomly of a wolf.

"What, not even a hello?" he prodded to the still-silent murder suspect.

Hale's expression never changed.

Rolling his eyes slightly, John tapped the pictures. "Do you know who this is?" he questioned.

The man's expression didn't falter even for a second.

"Why did you kill her?"

Still, nothing. Not even an eyebrow twitch. It was almost inhuman, the complete lack of emotion on his face.

It was hard to think of him like a man right now, though. He was only a few years older than his own son, and those hazel eyes looked world-weary. Losing his entire family at sixteen probably hadn't helped much. Under the harsh lighting Derek Hale didn't look guilty—he looked like he was one breath away from coming apart at the seams. There was something almost vulnerable about him, even though he hadn't said a word and his expression had never changed.

John started to doubt Stiles' words, because he may be dangerous, but there was just something about Derek Hale that didn't fit. His gut was telling him that the man—boy—sitting across from him wasn't guilty. But they had no proof thus far, so he had to do his job.

An hour later, he gave up because Hale wasn't speaking a word. He just stared at the wall over John's shoulder and didn't make eye contact again. It confused him slightly because Derek hadn't even looked at the pictures, not once.

So, was he guilty for killing the woman ... or was he afraid to look because he didn't want to see?

"He said anything?" Halleck wondered as he wandered by the next day.

"Not a word," John responded tiredly, flipping through the file. "Forensics is doing their best, but they have discovered that the marks weren't made by a person. They were made by an animal."

"An animal?"

"A wolf," the sheriff confirmed, rubbing his temples. "Seems like Stiles was wrong after all. Derek Hale is innocent, and I have a bad feeling. I need to ask him some more questions. We might be able to get an ID without having to wait this long." He stood, file in hand, and made his way back to the interrogation room.

Hale hadn't moved an inch. He was staring at the same spot, and he hadn't touched the water bottle or the sandwich in a baggie that he'd dropped off for him hours ago.

"Good morning, Derek," he said quietly, sitting across from him. He placed the file down and folded his arms over it, clasping his hands together and studying the ex-murder-suspect silently. The use of his first name had drawn his attention, because Derek was looking at him now.

"So we're on a first name basis now?" Derek rasped, his voice rough from hours of no use. He turned his attention to John except this time, his eyes were fixed on the file folded beneath his arms.

"You and your sister left for New York after what happened to your family," said John conversationally, telling Hale—Derek—what he already knew. "You returned a couple months ago. Why?"

Derek shrugged but didn't answer, his eyes staring unblinkingly at the file as if he was worried it was going to bite him, and that confirmed it enough for John. Derek wasn't afraid of being guilty because he knew he was innocent.

He was afraid that John was going to bring out the pictures again, even if he would rather die than admit it.

"Son, where's Laura?" he asked gently, leaning forward.

Derek's entire body jolted. He inhaled sharply, a painful sound, as his eyes snapped up to the sheriff's.

All the remaining blood had drained from his face and it made him look even younger and suddenly the sheriff was struck with the realization that this boy had never gotten a chance to be a kid and grow up a normal life. He'd had his life ripped away at sixteen and in a lot of ways, he still was a kid.

John closed his eyes. Jesus Christ, it had been exactly what he was afraid of. He watched with compassion as Derek's chest heaved with emotion, his hands balling into fists as he kept his eyes open and unblinking as they turned watery. He opened and closed his mouth several times before clamping his trembling lips together and staring down at his clenched fists.

The urge to hug him struck John out of nowhere and he fought it back, because he refused to think about it. Refused to think about how Derek Hale had just lost his last remaining family member, and how he knew exactly how that would feel because he had nightmares about losing Stiles every night and Stiles was all he had left and he could barely stand the thought of waking up every day to the knowledge that he would never see his son again.

"Why didn't you say something?" he asked gently after a long moment, giving Derek time to compose himself.

Derek laughed, but it was a short, angry, bitter sound. "No one would have believed me," he rasped, still not looking at the sheriff. "You all were too busy pinning the blame on me because some dumbass teenagers desecrated La—her grave right after I finished burying her." His hands were shaking now, and John wished he could do something, anything, but he had a job to do. Questions to ask.

"Why didn't you go the police?"

"I was trying to figure out what to say, but no matter how I worded it, the words I found my sister chopped in half out in the woods made me sound guilty," Derek said in a low voice. "I . . . I was going to figure it out by morning. I was going to try and figure it out, but I didn't have the chance." The words because your son and his friend dug her up and tried to frame me for murder, went unsaid but John heard them loud and clear.

The sheriff pursed his lips and cleared his throat. "Well, Mr. Hale, it looks like you're free to go," he said, exhaling out a deep steadying breath. "I just have to say how sorry we are for all of this, and how sorry I am on Stiles' behalf. He and Scott . . . well, they shouldn't have done what they did."

Derek finally looked at him then, and it caused him physical pain to see the young man completely stripped bare. Those hazel eyes were haunted, full of guilt and pain and loss and grief and it made his own heart ache because that was what he saw in his own eyes in the mirror every morning.

"When do I get her body back?" he rasped, wincing at the word as his lip trembled. John watched as he bit down on it hard enough to draw blood and swallowed, hard.

"When we determine what killed her for absolute certainty, we can release her to you," John promised. "Do you . . . do you need help making funeral arrangements?"

"No," Derek rasped, dropping his eyes again. "My family was wealthy. Life insurance. I . . . it won't be a problem."

"Okay," said John lowly, standing and leaving the file on the desk. He stood and let the young man out of the room, leading him through the precinct. It didn't escape his notice how Derek met everyone's gazes unflinchingly with his shaking hands hidden in the pockets of his leather jacket. John handed him the keys to his Camaro and Derek hesitated for a second just inside the doors to the precinct, turning to give him a strange look.

"Uh, thank you, I guess," Derek said lowly.

John could only nod and watch his broad shoulders move away.

"Sheriff?" the precinct said as a whole, staring at him in shock as they flicked their eyes from him to Derek's retreating form.

"I have an ID on the body," the sheriff said, exhaustion permeating his entire being. He dropped his head into his hands and fought back his own sympathy and grief.

"And…?"

"Her name was Laura Hale," he announced to the room at large.

Several of his deputies exhaled as if they'd been struck as Halleck gasped, "Holy shit."

"Yeah, holy shit," John agreed. "So let's hurry this investigation along and leave Derek Hale alone to bury his sister in peace, okay?"

His officers scrambled to do his bidding.

The morning was calm and cold, misty fog hanging in the air around the Beacon Hills Graveyard. Not a soul was in sight, but John Stilinski knew exactly where he was going.

He tucked his hands into his suit pockets and ambled through the cemetery, heading for where he knew the Hale's were buried. A few minutes of moving silently through the fog later, he found the Hale section. Talia Hale, David Hale, Cora Hale, Mary Hale, Patrick Hale, Justin Hale, Nicholas Hale, Bianca Hale, Aaron Hale, Julia Hale, and god fucking dammit this was awful. An entire family, innocent lives, were gone in flame and death and it left Derek behind. Beloved Mother, Beloved Father, Sister, Aunt, Cousin...tears formed as his throat clogged, because the same date glared out from every tomb stone, mocking him.

You failed them, the graves mocked, you failed those kids and you never found who was responsible for taking their family, for taking us away from them. You all knew it was arson and you couldn't do anything, couldn't prove anything. You left them alone. You failed them. Failed them. Failed. FAILED. FAILED.

John whispered, "I'm sorry," as he touched Talia Hale's gravestone, tracing his fingers over her name. She and his wife had been close, once upon a time, and they had never found who was responsible for wiping them all from the face of the earth in one terrible, horrifying night. He knew in his gut, all the cops had known, that someone had locked that family in their house and burned it to the ground. Burned children, babies, to death. The fire had been too hot, chemicals that should not have been present were there to accelerate the heat and rage of the burn, but they hadn't been able to prove anything. All they could do was watch as the last embers died and two teenagers clutched each other in unimaginable grief, knowing that they had failed them because those wonderful, kind people had never gotten the justice they deserved. And then Laura and Derek had vanished, and now Laura was dead.

Laura was dead, and Derek was alone.

Derek Hale was a child of ash and fire and grief when he should have been a child of love and laughter and hope.

It was a few more seconds until Derek materialized out of the fog a few feet in front of him, staring down into the dark pit of his sister's grave as he watched the casket being lowered.

The minister was just wrapping up, and he paused to squeeze Derek's shoulder in sympathy before leaving him to his grief. Leaving him to say goodbye for the last time.

It struck John again, the grief, a bone-deep ache that had never really went away.

There was nobody else here but him. Nobody cared but him. Derek was alone, completely alone. He had nobody left, and John's heart broke for him, ex-murder suspect or not. Nobody deserved this much pain.

Nobody.

He was just a kid.

Derek's shoulders were shaking as he crouched to grab a handful of earth and drop it on the grave. John was close enough to hear the boy's choked off words.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there, Laura," he rasped, hands fisting at his sides as his shoulders shook. His breath hitched on what sounded like a sob, but John would take that information to his grave. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you. I'm sorry you had to die alone. God, Laura, what do I do?"

John could only watch as Derek fell to his knees, hugging himself tightly for a moment before taking one hand away to rest on the edge of her grave.

"I miss you so much already," he said lowly, voice full of agony. "Shit, Laura, I loved you so much. I swear to you, I will get revenge for everything."

That made him take a step forward, and Derek's head shot up again as he whipped around to face him in a defensive crouch before relaxing a second later. He got to his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets. He hadn't heard those words, and would never reveal them to any living soul for as long as he lived. What a man said in grief was his own business.

John would forever say that the fog was damp, and that was why Derek's face was wet.

"Why are you here?" Derek said, all aggression now.

He didn't take it personally. After Claudia, he'd been much the same. So, instead of answering, he took a few steps forward and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently for a moment before releasing Derek to lay the flowers he had brought on the top of Laura's tombstone.

Derek was unnaturally still beside him, staring at him with mixed emotions on his face, but the easiest for John to read was why does he care?

He wants to say it wasn't your fault Derek don't do that to yourself but he can't find the words past the lump in his throat and he hates himself for that because he knows there isn't anyone else to tell him that, not anymore. There is nobody to help this kid bear this terrible, crushing grief and loneliness and pain and regret and misery. There is nobody there to hold him tight and rock him back and forth and comfort him.

"I didn't want you to be alone," was what he said instead, and Derek seemed to accept that because he just stood a couple feet to his left and watched in solemn silence as the dirt was piled atop Laura's grave,

John watched as some kind of silent sentry as Derek was made the official sole and sane survivor of the entire Hale family.

When John gets home that afternoon, Stiles asks him why he's in a suit, and he responds that he was at Laura Hale's funeral.

Stiles rants and raves about what a psycho Derek Hale is, about how creepy and stalkerish and downright scary he is, and how he still thinks that Derek was the one who did it. John wants to correct him, wants to say, Stiles you didn't see his eyes he would never have hurt her he loved her to death and he's dying on the inside, but he doesn't. He wants to tell Stiles that it was wrong to dig her up, that it was wrong to take away what little solace Derek Hale had left, but he doesn't.

His son all but berates him for going to that asshole's sister's funeral dad what the hell why did you go what were you thinking he could have killed you!

He reminds Stiles that it's none of his business and tells him to do his homework.

It's easier, he decides as he watches Stiles muttering irritably to himself as he stalks up the stairs, easier to simply brush it aside and not answer Stiles' questions.

Easier to keep to himself that he went because he couldn't bear the thought of Derek going through that alone, because he couldn't imagine Stiles going through that alone, god forbid. He hopes that in the same situation someone would do for Stiles what he did for Derek, even though realistically he knows Stiles wouldn't be alone. It was the thought, the peace of mind.

It was easier to keep to himself that he knew exactly how Derek felt, and how he had seen the same pain and grief in those hazel eyes that he had carried since his beloved life had died. It was easier to not admit out loud that he had carried a ball of pain and misery around his heart for years since his wife had been taken from him, and he could see plain as day that Derek did the same because people in pain always recognized it in each other.

He could see the grief and agony literally crushing the young man beneath it's weight, could see it in his eyes and the slopes of his shoulders and his furrowed eyebrows and the hard unforgiving angle of his clenched jaw. Could see it in his outright aggression and hear it in his short, clipped words. Could see it in his trembling hands, tucked tight against his sides as he watched his sister being laid to rest. The same sister he had tenderly buried with his own two hands, those same large and trembling hands, not three days before.

It was easier to pretend that it was no big deal for Stiles' benefit, instead of telling him that instead of a psycho serial killer, all he had seen at the graveyard today was a broken little boy who had lost his entire family and didn't know how to move on or cope, who was drowning in so much pain that he didn't know which way was up anymore.

And well, if he stood beside Derek's stony silence while Laura was put to rest, it was okay with him that Derek didn't say anything.

He hadn't been alone.

And that was all that mattered.

E/N: Papa Stilinski feels. I just. . . I could just picture him doing this for Derek, whether he likes him or not, because he knows what it feels like and doesn't want anyone to have to suffer through that alone. And now I'm off to drown in my tears. Seriously brain what the hell why last week's epiSODE WAS BAD ENOUGH. ;-;