Derek was never sure if he liked dreams like these, dreams that actually weren't dreams, but memories of happier times. On the one hand, he was reliving some of the greatest moments of his life. On the other, it was a painful reminder of what he no longer had and he always woke up feeling cold and hollow.
But at the moment, he was loving it.
Because at that moment, he was fully sheathed inside his Mate, cock buried to the root, gasping against sweat soaked skin. His thrusts had gradually picked up steam, getting faster, longer, harder, as the lean frame beneath him began begging for more, for all of it, for "please, Der, god, fuck, don't stop."
He braced his forearms on either side of his Mate's head, dragged his bottom lip along the shell of his ear, relishing the shiver it earned him in response. Because his Mate was nothing if not responsive, always vocal, always shuddering, always telling in some way, shape, or form what he liked and what he didn't. Even if he, by some miracle, didn't actually say anything, Derek would still know. It was the slightest tremble in his muscles, the tick in his lips, the blip in his heart beat, the way his scent grew stronger, spicier, that little hint of something extra that made Derek and his wolf both lose their mind.
And now? Now he was further losing it as he drove himself deeper into his Mate. The leaner male's hands had disappeared under the pillows at some point, gripping at the edge of the mattress as his arms jerked uncontrollably. His head was bowed down, hips bucking up to keep Derek inside, to bring them together once again.
The Werewolf pressed himself along his Mate's back, grinding down into him, feeling a pulse around the base of his cock. His knot. He gasped out against a slender neck, eyes closing tight, nose nuzzling into buzzed hair. He breathed out a swear, his Mate's name, his hand drifting down to grip his hip in a bruising hold.
"Oh fuck, baby," he groaned. "Wanna knot you so bad. Wanna fill you up with my come and keep you full, hold it inside you with my cock as I tie us together."
His Mate moaned louder than ever, Derek's name a swear and a praise all in one as his hips ground his own cock into the mattress. His hand shot out from under the pillow, immediately slipping under his body, presumably to wrap around his dick. His entire frame was trembling beneath Derek, inhaling harshly on a gasp and holding it in as every muscle in his body tensed up and his scent shifted to something more...
A loud obnoxious tone woke Derek up with a start, eyes shooting open as his entire body jerked. It took him a moment to figure out the sound had come from his phone, that it was alerting him to a new text, and that while normally he'd be cursing the thing in new and creative ways for waking him up during a damn good dream, he was actually glad for it. It woke him up right before shit had hit the fan and things had taken a turn for the absolute worse.
Sitting up, Derek shoved a hand through his hair and rubbed at his eyes, ignoring the hollow ache in his chest and the empty side of his bed. Waking up was always the worst part of his day, was always the time when he felt most vulnerable and prone to loneliness. His mind was still groggy and unable to form those protective barriers he'd grown to rely on, leaving him exposed to haunting thoughts and realizations that he'd later be able to ignore.
His bed was empty.
His Mate was gone, no longer in town, off to someplace unknown.
His Mate didn't wanna be found, not by Derek or anyone else.
And it had been nearly three years.
"I'm sorry, Der, but this is for the best. Don't look for me."
God, he felt empty.
The Werewolf let his hands fall to his sheet covered lap, gray-green eyes halfway focused on the end of the bed, where the comforter that had been folded up neatly there at the beginning of the night had been kicked off onto the floor. He didn't really need the comforter. He'd only bought it for one reason, one person. And despite said person not having been around for three years, Derek couldn't bear to get rid of it.
Wishful thinking, he supposed.
Yet the comforter stayed there.
With heavy limbs, he got out of bed, flipping the sheet over the mattress before padding over on the hardwood floors in his bare feet. He set the comforter back where it had been, smoothing the dark blue fabric, sweeping off any dust or debris that had gotten on it when it had fallen. He really should get rid of it. It was completely useless, served only as a reminder of bundling up a chilly human on the couch during movie nights or the time it had been laid out over the back of the couch and the coffee table as a terrible excuse for a blanket fort—his words, not Derek's—before he'd sucked his boyfriend off for the first time, getting a sloppy yet enthusiastic hand job in return.
The memories only further compounded the ache he was feeling in his chest, spreading it to his limbs. He looked down at his bare arms, the appendages feeling heavier than usual, sore down to the marrow in an inexplicable way. It was the same thing every morning, was why he hated waking up. Separation Sickness. He'd researched it a month or so after his Mate had left, needing to know what the hell was wrong, but unable to bring himself to ask his mom about it. So he'd checked countless sites online, all of them pointing to Separation Sickness. And the symptoms fit what he was experiencing: the crippling depression, the agitated wolf, the aching limbs and hollow chest, the inability to feel joy or happiness, the refusal to even be around one's pack. Add in the fact that his Mate was gone and it was clear that that was what he was suffering from.
He'd told Laura about it but she'd rolled her eyes and said he was probably overreacting and that researching your own illness online was a stupid idea, that people often ended up diagnosing themselves with some life-ending incurable disease when it was simply a common cold. She suggested he see an actual doctor to get an actual diagnosis of it, but he refused. Having it confirmed by a medical professional made it too real, made it one-hundred percent certain that his Mate was gone and not coming back. Sometimes Derek's denial was his only coping mechanism and his only way to handle his illness. Wasn't like he could be cured from it, since the only options there were to be with his Mate or to kill himself.
Although some days, the latter option was tempting.
He was gonna have to make sure he left his service weapon at the station on Christmas Eve, just to be safe.
His phone chirped again, reminding him of the text he'd yet to check. He left the comforter alone before padding over, snatching the device up from where it sat on his nightstand and unlocking it to see a message from Laura.
emailed u info u wanted. sounds like ur dealin with wendigos. ur welcome asshole. ps call mom
He grunted at the addition to her message before sending a prompt thanks and closing out the line of messages. A quick check of the time told him he had a couple hours before he needed to head to work and he soon came up with a plan on how to kill it. If there was one thing he'd learned over the years, it was that downtime wasn't his friend. No, what was best for him was to be busy and active, to not let his brain rest or drift off, otherwise it'll drift off to places he didn't want it to go.
He couldn't cure his sickness, but he could treat it with denial and distractions. Starting with breakfast and reading up on Wendigos.
The rest of his morning—or more technically afternoon—was spent working out and running errands, glaring at anyone who wished him a merry Christmas or a happy holidays or any other shitty sentiment along those lines. He printed out the research Laura had sent him, recognizing some of the pages as having been scanned directly from Hale family tomes and the Argents' own bestiary. His lip curled at that, but he had to admit, the former Hunters were thorough and knew a whole lot about a whole lot.
Parrish lived in the same building, just a few floors down, so the two carpooled to the sheriff's station as usual. Derek filled his partner in on what his sister had found and Parrish shared that Lydia had slept soundly throughout the night with no screaming, but had woken up with disturbed look on her face. The Werewolf cocked a curious eyebrow at the first half of his story, only to lower it and smirk slightly at the last part.
"Maybe she was freaked out by your ugly mug first thing in the morning," he joked, getting a punch in the shoulder and a "screw you" in response. But the grin on Parrish's face meant he hadn't taken it to heart and wasn't offended. Although given the way Lydia's scent was still clinging to Parrish's skin despite an obvious shower, Derek figured nothing was gonna get the guy down. Getting laid would do that.
Parrish clarified that it wasn't like that between them, that they'd spent the night actually sleeping, his heartbeat remaining steady as he spoke the truth. Derek nodded as he took his partner's word, knowing full well the joy of just being able to hold the one you loved all night.
Just sucked he hadn't been able to do it for so long, his heart clenching in loneliness, want, and a slight hint of jealousy.
The sheriff was on the phone when the partners arrived for work, so Derek busied himself with paperwork while waiting for his chance to speak with his boss. Parrish spent his time arguing with Haigh over the guard duty for Sean Wolcott, Boyd having to step in and use his size to get the argumentative deputy to back down. There might've been a flash of golden eyes in there for good measure, something that in turn caused Haigh's scent to turn bitter and disgusted. Derek glared at the other deputy with his own glowing eyes as the human made his way back to his own desk in the bullpen, wordlessly stating he wasn't gonna take the guys species-ism. Anti-Supes were the worst kind of people.
It was the third proofreading of his fifth report when his opportunity to talk to the sheriff finally came. He waited a couple minutes to make sure Stilinski really was free and to also not make it totally obvious that he'd been halfway spying on him through the wall of windows separating the office and the bullpen and waiting on his chance. Gathering the manila folder of print-outs, he headed to the sheriff's office, waving to Parrish as he left for guard duty at the hospital.
He knocked on the door and opened it a crack, sticking his head in as he let out a curious "sheriff?", double-checking it was safe to enter. Although at that point it was hard to tell.
Stilinski was in his seat, chin in his hand, seemingly zoned out as he stared at something on his desk. To anyone else, it would've appeared like the same distant look the sheriff gained whenever he was thinking about something, but Derek knew better. He could recognize the tightness in his eyes and the slight liquidy look to them as he stubbornly refused to let the tears fully form. He could smell the salty sadness and sharp scent of loss all around him, to the point where it was almost tangible, to where it was a taste dancing on his tongue. And he knew without having to look, that Stilinski's eyes weren't staring off into space, but were focused on a particular framed photograph sitting on the left side of his desk. It was a photo of his son Stiles, grinning wide and dopey at the camera, hanging a wreath on the front grill of his powder blue Jeep. It was also the last photo anyone had captured of Stiles before he'd taken off to parts unknown without any explanation why.
"Don't look for me."
It was an order, not just one made to a Mate with the knowledge that it would be followed solely due to basic instincts that made any Were-creature follow through on their Mate's wishes, no matter how ridiculous. But it was also one a son made to his father with the addition that he'd keep in contact, but if the sheriff tracked him down and brought him back home, Stiles would leave again and never keep in touch. So Stilinski kept his end of the bargain, knowing his son was eighteen and he legally couldn't force him to stay in Beacon Hills, not without bringing kidnapping charges upon himself. And Stiles kept to his word, weekly emails that gave no details of where he was or why he'd left, an occasional Skype chat to prove that it was him typing those messages and that he truly was alive and okay.
Derek had pointed out that all those could be traced, that Stiles had a hacker buddy named Danny who could do it and it would never get back to them. But the sheriff had simply shook his head, resignation on his face, in his body language, flooding his scent.
"If you love something, son, you gotta let it go and just hope like hell your kid learned something from you other than how to evade the cops or pick a lock."
The sheriff seemed to snap out of his daze, inhaling suddenly before snapping his head to the door. His eyes focused more on the present, spine stiffening as he sat up straighter, hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Hale. Yeah. C'min," he muttered gruffly, gesturing his deputy into the office with his hand.
Derek nodded once before slipping inside, closing the door behind himself and soundproofing the office.. He crossed the space in three strides, sinking down into a chair on the opposite side of the desk, still gripping the manila folder as he watched his boss shift his gaze to another framed picture, this one a family portrait when Stiles was seven, before his mom got sick and the Stilinski family was forever altered.
"You heard from him, didn't you?" he asked softly, already knowing the answer. The sheriff wasn't really one for being wistful or nostalgic, not without a reason. Three days before Christmas wasn't really a day for tripping down Memory Lane, not with the same sort of sadness and longing flooding his scent.
Stilinski nodded, chin propped in his hand again, elbow on the desk, sad sigh exhaling through his nose. "Yeah," he breathed out roughly, dropping his hand with a slap against the wood. "He's not coming home for Christmas. Again." A sardonic laugh choked its way out as he switched his line of sight to his deputy. "Not that I was expecting any different or even bothered asking. Most days I'm just completely resigned to the fact that he's never coming home. Ever." He wrapped it up with a shrug and a shake of the head, a wordless "what can you do?" motion that spoke more than words.
Derek nodded himself, lips pressed into a tight line, eyes shifting over to the back of the first frame Stilinski had been staring at. He couldn't actually see the photo from his angle, but he could still perfectly picture it in his mind. Because he'd been the one who'd taken it before sending it to the sheriff's phone upon request, before Stiles had taken over then and taught his dad how to email it to himself then print it off and "seriously, Pops, this isn't rocket science, you can quit with the confused constipated look."
"I'm sorry," the Werewolf muttered for lack of anything better to say, yet needing to say it. Because he was. He was sorry the sheriff had lost his only son, had lost the one remaining part of his family, had lost seemingly everything.
The sheriff just shrugged again. "Not your fault, son," he commented, lips curved up on one corner in a sad, twisted version of a smile. His scent remained the same, if not maybe even becoming more pleasant, seeming okay—for once—with the moniker he'd just referred to his deputy as.
Knees on his elbows, Derek hung his head, unable to look at his boss, at the man who might've one day been his father-in-law. It was his fault; he knew it deep down inside. Stiles might not have given either of them any reason or explanation for leaving so suddenly, but the Werewolf had a damn good idea that he was the cause. A guy doesn't flip out in the middle of sex then completely leave town without it being his partner's fault.
But it wasn't like he could say any of that. "Actually, Sheriff, that's where you're wrong. See, I tried to knot your son and he had a massive meltdown and a near panic attack, screaming about how wrong it was and how there wasn't supposed to be a knot, and then he ran out and left town, never to return."
He wouldn't just lose his job for that shit; he'd probably lose his life. The sheriff didn't carry a gun full of wolfsbane ammo just for decoration.
Okay, yes, the sheriff was aware of the nature of Derek's relationship with his son and was most likely tuned in to the fact that their sleepovers weren't exactly PG. But there was a line between having a pretty good idea that something was happening and knowing the full details of what exactly was going on and sharing that nugget of info with the older man was not just crossing it, but shooting oneself out of a cannon over it.
That was more his ex's MO than Derek's.
So no, Derek wasn't gonna correct him on that, despite the overwhelming guilt that threatened to crush him under its weight. It was probably mean and rude to let the older male continue to wonder what was so major that it caused his only child to run away, but the Werewolf figured it was better than knowing the truth: that his son had freaked out over his boyfriend actually being a Werewolf and all the not-so-normal body parts that came with it.
Real blow to a guy's ego, but better Derek deal with the pain of his Mate hating his nature than his Mate's dad dealing with way too personal details of his son's sex life.
"Anyway," the sheriff heaved, rubbing his hand over his graying hair before gesturing to his deputy. "I assume you have something in that folder for me."
Derek snapped back into work-mode, sitting up straight in his seat and holding the manila folder out to his boss. "It's research Laura sent me from the SRB's files, the Hale family histories, and the Argent Bestiary indicating that the Wolcotts were most likely Wendigos."
The sheriff paused where he'd flipped the folder open, staring at the younger man with his brow furrowed and his bottom teeth showing, disbelief coloring his scent in an almost overwhelming manner. "Wendigos," he repeated dubiously, getting a nod in response.
"They're apparently from Native American origins," the deputy began, recalling info he'd read over earlier that day while eating breakfast, the facts sparking memories of an overly enthused then-teenaged boy rambling about how awesome the word "Wendigo" was and "seriously, Der, just say it. Wendigo. Weeeeendigo. Wendigo. Wendigo. Wendigooooooo!"
"They're cannibalistic shape-shifters known for having two rows of sharp, shark-like teeth and a voracious appetite for human flesh," he summed up, keeping his voice level and professional, trying to hide how despicable he actually found that. Wendigos were some of the reasons why the SRB was needed and why anti-Supes continuously argued that Supes were monsters who needed to be kept in cages—if not put down.
Both the sheriff's eyebrows raised at that before he bobbed them in a dismissive manner as he see-sawed his head. "Sounds like it fits the Wolcotts," he reasoned, flapping the folder closed and putting it down on his desk. "I really don't need the gory details of what exactly they are or how they eat, but I think we'd better get down to the hospital to make sure Sean isn't turning some poor orderly into his lunch."
The two men both rose to their feet as the sheriff's desk phone rang and Derek's cell pinged with a new text. He tuned out his hearing in a well-practiced manner so as not to eavesdrop on the phone conversation, only listening to the gruff "Stilinski" with which the older male used to answer. Instead, he focused on taking his cell out the pocket of his slacks and checking the message he'd just received.
From Lydia.
A cold sense of dread washed over him, hackles rising as he read her words over and over, making sure he wasn't seeing anything that wasn't actually there.
I just drove to the hospital with no knowledge of doing so and I have a terrible feeling and you should come here NOW.
His gray-green eyes flipped up to the sheriff as the human hung up the phone with a loud crack. "That was the hospital," Stilinski stated, scent shifting to something dark and remorseful, as well as sad and defeated.
"Sean's dead," Derek completed for him, already having had that feeling when he'd read Lydia's text.
The sheriff nodded absently before rounding his desk, back in Sheriff Mode, striding purposefully over to his coat rack. "We need to get there. Now."
Lydia was pacing back and forth outside the main entrance of Beacon Hills Memorial when the sheriff and Derek pulled up. Stilinski parked the SUV in the fire lane, knowing the gold block letters spelling "SHERIFF" running along the side of the vehicle would save it from being towed or ticketed, before killing the lights and siren. The deputy was out the car before the engine was cut off, striding over to the petite Banshee as she finally pulled to a stop herself.
The wide-eyed look from the previous night was still there, lips pressed together in a hard line, green orbs glassy and watery. But she'd managed to get dressed before her subconscious had driven her to the hospital, which was more than the night before, so she was definitely doing better.
Granted her outfit still wasn't weather appropriate, considering the mini-skirt that was covered by her wool trench, but Derek could make out the woven threads of a pair of nude nylons covering her legs.
"I don't know how I got here or why," she stated shakily as Derek stopped in front of her, her arms clutching tightly at her midsection, head shaking absently. Her body was trembling slightly, hair having fallen out of the braids she had wrapped around her head like a crown, cheeks rosy from the cold.. "I know it has to do with that boy from last night though."
The Werewolf nodded, brow in a hard line, face in full business-mode. "Yeah, the hospital already called and told Stilinski about it."
As if on cue, the driver's side door shut and the sheriff rounded the engine, striding over to the twosome standing near the front entrance. The anxiety in Lydia's scent ratcheted up tenfold as she watched the older man draw near, although Derek knew it had nothing to do with Stilinski himself. The human treated Lydia the same way every other male in her life seemed to: like she was made of porcelain. Her wide eyes and full lips coupled with her fair skin and tiny frame created a doll-like appearance, leading everyone to treat her as such. But when she opened her mouth, she was quick witted with a sharp tongue that could leave the deepest marks on anyone she so chose. Granted her sharp edges had dulled down over the years, making her softer to those she cared about. Yet if anyone were to cross her in any way, God help them.
Lydia's Bambi eyes slid from the sheriff to Derek, curiosity as evident in them as it was in her scent, voice a harsh whisper as she spoke. "Where's Jordan?"
The deputy's brow furrowed before it relaxed, realizing her anxiety was most likely caused by the fact that his usual partner hadn't arrived with him and chances were she was worried over his whereabouts. "Inside on guard duty," he responded, pointing towards the front door with a thumb over his shoulder.
The anxiety and curiosity gave way to anger, her jaw working as she glared. "He's in the hospital and he didn't respond to my text saying I was outside?" she seethed.
Derek had a sudden burst of concern over his partner's well-being, too. Lydia was gonna use his flesh to do her nails.
If something else hadn't already happened to him, a cheery voice piped up from within.
Which really, was the only explanation for why Parrish wouldn't respond to a text from the girl he was into, why he wasn't outside with Lydia calming her down, why something had happened to Sean Wolcott. Parrish wasn't one to shy away from his duties, wouldn't have just given in and let someone harm the boy—Wendigo or not—not without putting up one hell of a fight.
Someone must've put Parrish outta commission before doing the same to Wolcott.
Hopefully his partner's state wasn't as permanent.
The Werewolf opened his mouth to speak, but never got a word out. The entrance doors slid open and a familiar curly head jogged out, desperation and anxiety rolling off her in waves.
"John!" Nurse McCall cried out for the sheriff's attention as she hurried over, hand holding her stethoscope to her chest so it didn't fly about. "You need to come here. Quick." She glanced at the other two members of their small party, worry in dark eyes, before turning and quickly heading back inside.
The sheriff was quick to follow the woman he considered a friend, Derek on his heels, Lydia bringing up the rear. The Werewolf was overwhelmed by the scents of disinfectants and blood, of worry and panic, of pain and despair, almost feeling relieved when they entered the elevator and the doors closed behind them. Only to inhale even more of the same anxiety mixture from the three humans he shared a cart with. It was inescapable and as much as he tried to think of the best and not let his imagination get away from him, his own concern over his partner was ratcheting up.
Nurse McCall was busy murmuring to the sheriff, disbelief coloring her words as she breathed out how she'd never seen anything like what she'd just found—which was really saying something considering her son was a Werewolf who'd gained that status after being attacked by a rogue Alpha. Stilinski was nodding, showing he was listening, blue eyes distant as he stared straight ahead and unclasped the strap over his gun holster by feel alone.
Lydia was the worst of all of them, trembling on Derek's right, her panicked scent the strongest smell in the small area. Even when she was completely falling apart inside, she refused to show any weakness. Her lips were pressed together tight to hide the wobble, her arms were wrapped around her midsection to keep herself together, her eyes were closed to hold back the tears. But Derek knew better, knew she was losing her cool, losing her composure, all because of the unknown that awaited them on the fourth floor, all because she had no idea if the guy she had feelings for was all right.
It was a sensation Derek was all too familiar with, mind flashing through memories of showing up at this very hospital not knowing if the one he loved was okay or dead, only hearing the words "Stiles was in an accident" before he'd hung up and raced off. Fortunately he turned out to be just fine and Stilinski had told the Werewolf to cut the shit and just confess to having feelings for his son already.
They went on their first date a week after Stiles had been released from the hospital. The human had wanted it to be sooner, but Derek was determined to follow Nurse McCall's suggestions and forced Stiles to take it easy for a little while.
Point was, he'd been in Lydia's shoes and knew full well every thought that had to be racing through her mind at that moment. Except she probably had a few pluses working for her when it came to the possibility of Parrish being okay.
"He survived two tours in Afghanistan," he quietly pointed out, leaning over slightly to get closer to her ear. He knew she'd heard him by the way her lids slid open and her eyes flicked to look at him in her peripheral vision. "He can handle this. Besides, if something really bad had happened, wouldn't you know?" He quirked an eyebrow at her in question, letting her fill in the blanks about her Banshee powers and the morbid predictions they gave her.
Lydia kept staring straight ahead, tapping her toes against the floor, lips twisting in thought. "I still have a bad feeling about all this," she confessed lowly, voice huskier than usual.
"You and me both, kid," Stilinski muttered from Derek's other side as the elevator stopped on their floor and dinged.
The doors slid open, both the sheriff and his deputy withdrawing their service weapons before exiting the cart. The hallway was empty, void of life, but the Werewolf could hear heartbeats and monitors, various machines and IVs doing their jobs behind the doors.
"You smell that?" the older man questioned as he visually checked out the hallway as it parted in three directions.
Derek nodded, nose crinkling at the assault on his olfactory senses. "Blood," he commented lowly, declining to further add to the inventory of what exactly he was scenting. Gunpowder and steel, internal organs no longer where they were supposed to be, the usual overwhelming smells of emotions gone haywire. But he refused to say any of those out loud, knowing the redhead he was escorting was already near her wits end when it came to everything.
It wasn't that he doubted Lydia's internal strength, because he knew she was one of the bravest women he'd ever met, Supernatural or not, but sometimes, when things were too personal, any little thing could send someone over the edge and break them beyond repair. Being told there was the scent of carnage in the air while she was worrying over her romantic interest's well-being would be that thing.
The Banshee swallowed, gazing up at the Werewolf, eyes wide once again. "And death," she whispered harshly, voice breaking slightly on the word.
Derek ignored the chill that raced up his spine and the way his hackles further rose, instead maneuvering her behind him with a sweep of his arm. She went willingly, clinging onto the back of his windbreaker as she followed him and the sheriff down the hall leading straight from the elevator. Her heels clacked loudly against the linoleum floor, a stark contrast to the barely there steps of Nurse McCall in her work sneakers as she rounded out their little group.
The foursome carefully made their way down the corridor, ever alert, ever vigilant. Derek focused his hearing so he could block out all the machines and monitors, listening for anything out of the ordinary, anything that would help him figure out what had happened in Wolcott's room or would stop any random attack.
The fact that they weren't jumped out of nowhere did nothing to soothe his nerves. The scents growing stronger with each step weren't helping either, the chemosignals held within driving his nose insane. Anger, rage, disgust, anxiety. A struggle of some sort had clearly taken place there, further proven by an overturned crash cart two other nurses were hurriedly cleaning up with shaky hands and rapidly pounding hearts.
Nurse McCall's own uneasy scent spiked up as they paused outside a closed door, a hospital security guard standing outside with a pale face and a nauseous look. "That's his room," the curly haired female unnecessarily stated before exhaling slowly. Derek glanced back to see her wrap an arm around herself, the other with its fingers over her mouth. Her dark eyes glanced back and forth between the sheriff and his deputy, feet planted firmly on the ground, a clear sign she wasn't going any further.
Derek untangled Lydia from the back of his jacket and Nurse McCall immediately pulled her in close, holding her like the good mom she was known to be. The Werewolf then turned his attention to his boss, who was nodding at the guard. The security officer must've known what it meant because he stepped to the side and allowed the other two males access to the room he was protecting.
The sheriff and his deputy exchanged a few hand signals before Stilinski pushed the door open inwards, Derek stepping inside. A quick sweep with his gun showed no signs of movement, no one waiting to attack anyone who entered. Not much of a surprise actually, not when he really focused. The room was void of any heartbeats, the only sound the monitor with its never-ending tone.
Made sense considering the dead bodies on the ground.
The scents were overwhelming, Derek covering his mouth and nose with his free hand, barely able to prevent himself from inhaling it all. The coppery smell of blood, the rot of death, the tang of fear, the bitterness of a struggle, the spice of rage, the ache of hunger. It was too much for his sensitive nose and he almost bolted out the room.
But he couldn't. He had a job to do, had to find out exactly what happened and how.
Holstering his gun, he stepped further into the room, taking careful steps to avoid the newly discovered crime scene. Blood was splattered against the back wall, consisted with being shot, and he rounded the bed to reveal the source.
Sean Wolcott lay face-up on the ground, several gunshot wounds to the chest and one to the head evident. His hands were covered in blood, fingers ending in claws, and his bloodied mouth was open to reveal two rows of shark-like teeth all stained red. Laying next to him in a similar fashion was a lean male dressed in a familiar khaki and brown uniform, torso nothing but a gaping wound after he'd literally been torn into, intestines strewn about the place.
Panic had the Werewolf's heart beating faster, pounding louder in his head as he cautiously stepped closer, almost afraid of what he'd find when he was able to better see the deputy's face. His throat had been slashed open by claws, blood dripping out of his mouth past parted lips, eyes wide open and unseeing.
Blue eyes.
Not Parrish.
Relief had Derek's shoulders sagging and his breath leaving him in a rush, head nodding automatically. A quick glance at the name tag on the other deputy's uniform alerted him to his identity: Daehler. No one he knew really, more than likely a rookie who'd just started not long ago. Fresh out the academy and he's killed on what was most likely his first big assignment.
A choked off noise sounded out behind Derek and he looked back to see the sheriff turning his head away, lip curled up and nose scrunched, hand flying up to cover his mouth. A few swears and blasphemies escaped under his breath and the Werewolf couldn't help but nod in agreement.
"Someone caught Wolcott mid-meal," the deputy stated flatly, determined to remain professional and do his job. He figured it was part of being Supernatural, to have a stronger constitution and be able to handle sights like this better than his human superior. That being said, he was sure the image of a slashed open co-worker and his chewed on innards was gonna haunt him when he went to sleep later that night.
The sheriff gagged once, then again, muttered about "fuckin' Wendigos" before sniffing loudly and turning back to his deputy. "Think it was Parrish?"
Derek shook his head as he stared down at the corpses a few feet in front of him. "Parrish wouldn't shoot the kid for that. Or at least he wouldn't aim for anywhere vital." He lifted his head and scented the air, sorting through the smells associated with the two victims, the emotions they were feeling right before their deaths, the recently fired gun and all that came with it. "Perp was definitely human though. I can't smell anything else Supernatural in here."
Stilinski nodded, hands on his hips as he looked around at anything but the bodies. "My guess? It was the same folks that killed the rest of his family back to finish the job."
The Werewolf shook his head in disagreement, stepping around the bodies to get to the attached bathroom for further investigation. "Maybe someone from the same group, but not the same exact people. Scent's different."
More muttering came from his boss as he slid his phone out his pocket and quickly dialed. Derek tuned the convo out as his boss barked down the line for a CSU team to show and walked into the en suite, not bothering to be cautious due to a lack of sounds coming from within. It was completely empty, no bodies, torn open or otherwise. And still, no Parrish.
He quickly sniffed around, finding his partner's scent. It was barely there, but enough to lead him into the dirty laundry hamper. Digging through, he tossed aside wet towels and used hospital gowns before locating the source of the scent. At the bottom of the hamper was Parrish's uniform shirt and slacks, his boots, and his belt. Derek checked the clasps on it, finding his cell, pepper spray, baton, and flashlight. Missing were his keys, cuffs, gun, and extra magazines.
Shit.
Gathering up his partner's belongings, he strode back into the main room, holding them up for Stilinski to see. The sheriff's eyebrows shot up, lips hanging open, the person on the other end of the line calling for his attention but not receiving it. Without another word, Derek dropped the items on the bed then strode out of the room and into the hallway, scenting the air more diligently than before.
Lydia was still out there, standing to the side with Nurse McCall, the older female holding the smaller, trembling one and rubbing her arm in comfort. The redhead straightened up slightly, green eyes wider than normal as they fixated on the Werewolf, watching his every move. Hope was flooding into her scent, equaled only by her worry that something was wrong with Parrish.
Which she had every right to believe that.
Derek held a hand up as she parted her lips to speak, nose in the air, inhaling deeply. And there it was, Parrish at its most pure, no emotional weight to it at all.
Not all that reassuring when he really stopped to think about it. But better than nothing.
He followed the familiar scent of his partner further down the hallway, ignoring the curious calls of his name, not stopping until he came across a metal doorway at the end. He strained his hearing, getting a whole lot of nothing on the other side, but unsheathed his claws nonetheless before throwing open the door.
A stairwell was revealed on the other side, an empty one from the sights and sounds. Still, Derek checked up and then down before following Parrish's scent as it headed towards the bottom floor. He continuously glanced around and behind himself as he descended, kept his senses sharp. There was no telling who—or what—had killed Wolcott or who—or what—had taken Parrish. They could still be in the hospital for all he knew, waiting for help to arrive, waiting for Derek or even the sheriff in order to harm them—or worse.
He made it through the stairwell and into an underground parking deck. A couple ambulances sat near an elevator with their engines dead but popping from recent use. Assigned parking spaces featured cars of various makes and models, doctors who were on call and nurses who were making their rounds. But no heartbeats, no figures moving in the shadows, no signs of life anywhere.
Derek continued to follow the scent, jogging at a brisk pace, hoping like hell they'd arrived on time to be of some help to Parrish. The more logical part of him knew he was grasping at straws, knew he was letting his hope get away from him, yet it couldn't be helped. He was refusing to allow the thought of losing someone else he was close to.
The scent trail ended at a parking space near the exit, a wheelchair on its side along the wall, discarded roughly and without much thought. A quick sniff of it alerted Derek to its previous rider, his missing partner, but no other trace of the man himself existed. All that remained were the scents of exhaust and exertion and a couple hastily removed license plates from a Sheriff Department issued SUV. Standing in the middle of the parking space, Derek looked around, stomach sinking and wolf howling as realization sunk in.
Parrish had been abducted.