Derek woke to find that he had, in fact, fallen asleep in Stiles' bed and while Stiles hadn't tossed or turned enough to wake him up, he slowly registered the boy's beating heart pressed up against his chest. He opened his eyes and was surprised to find not only had Stiles wormed his way into Derek's personal space and had tucked his head underneath his chin, but that his arms – his own, treacherous arms – had wrapped themselves around the boy and were holding him close. He stiffened at the contact and slowly drew his arms away from Stiles and began extricating himself from the other boy.
Stiles stirred in his sleep and tried to follow Derek as he rolled out of bed, but did not wake as Derek gently removed his hand from where it was twisted up in his shirt. As soon as he was fully out of Stiles' grasp and standing beside the bed, Stiles let out a low whine and rolled over onto his back, arms and legs flailing out in an unconscious mimicry of his waking demeanor. Derek's breath caught as he looked down at the boy with his arms and legs spread wide and a sleepy, peaceful smile on his face. He caught himself as he unwillingly reached out to stroke the side of Stiles' face. His wolf whined for the contact, but Derek slowly backed away from the bed and turned to grab his jacket and his shoes.
He paused for a moment halfway out of the bedroom window to look back at the sleeping boy. It was the first time in a very long while that he remembered falling asleep without nightmares, and waking up relaxed and … peaceful. He hadn't felt peace since the night the fire claimed his pack, his family. But the sight of the unconscious boy in bed seemed to soothe something inside of him, the rage and anger and guilt and he felt bewilderment rise up to replace the emotions that were his constant companions. Shaking his head against his confusion, he fled to the woods in the early dawn light.
/
Stiles woke slowly, taking inventory of his body as he came aware of his surroundings. He half expected to have a mammoth headache, or at least an aching in his gut that usually came after panic attacks or throwing up, but he felt fine. Great, actually. Calm and serene like he hadn't felt in years. He smiled face-down in the pillow and inhaled deeply. It smelled like the forest surrounding the town, and leather, and – Derek. Stiles sat straight up as he remembered the events of the night before and how Derek freakin' Hale had climbed into bed with him, ostensibly to spend the night.
He looked around frantically, trying to locate said Sourwolf, but his gaze landed on the chair that no longer held Derek's jacket or shoes and the window that was still partially open. He groaned and flopped back down onto the bed. Maybe I hallucinated the whole thing, he thought as he grabbed the pillow and covered his face.
There's no way Derek Hale spent the night. In my bed. He inhaled again and froze mid-breath as Derek's scent invaded his nose again and he squirmed uncomfortably as the now-familiar smell did … things … to his body. Shit. He spent a few moments mentally freaking out over the fact that apparently he was attracted to Derek Hale and this was his life now. Of course I come to the realization that I'm probably bi and then I go and get a crush on the insanely attractive anti-social werewolf who finds it acceptable to slam me against doors.
He thought for a moment how door-slamming and growling could be – and was – very, very hot and wondered briefly about his life choices. Why does it have to be Derek Hale though? Why couldn't it have been Danny? He snorted into the pillow. Even Danny was way too far out of his league. Great. Now that I haven't limited myself to a gender, I still go for the ones I have absolutely no chance with. Awesome.
Sighing, Stiles kicked off the blankets and huffed the pillow that smelled like Derek across his room without looking. He glanced down at his boxers and groaned again before heading to the bathroom for a very cold shower. Because this? Was apparently his life now.
/
When Stiles emerged from the steam-filled bathroom fifteen minutes later – what, he was still a teenager, you couldn't blame him for that stuff – it was to the familiar and welcoming smell of pancakes wafting up from the kitchen. Evidently his dad heard him get out of the shower, because he called up to Stiles saying breakfast would be ready in ten. Stiles grabbed a clean pair of clothes and headed down the stairs two at a time to find his dad in front of the stove flipping pancakes and neglecting the bacon that looked fearfully close to cooking as a solid brick of meat. He grabbed a fork and began separating the bacon strips and flipping them over so they cooked evenly as he looked around for the packaging the bacon had come in. His dad caught him looking around and shot him a look.
"It's low sodium, okay?" he grumbled. "I made sure I picked up the right kind. But I did get maple flavoured, so sue me."
Stiles laughed and bumped shoulders with his dad. He knew he sounded like a mother hen some days when he lectured his father about his dietary needs, but he just worried about him and didn't want to see his dad get sick. It's the one thing he felt like he had control over in his life – especially since his life started including werewolves and hunters.
His dad finished cooking the last of the pancakes and piled them all onto a plate that he set in the middle of the kitchen table. Stiles finished up with the bacon and the two of them sat down at the table. He smacked his dad's hands away from the butter and shoved the butter flavoured maple syrup at him instead. The Sheriff made a face but proceeded to drizzle some over his stack of pancakes. Stiles smeared butter over one pancake and layered strips of bacon over it before covering it with another pancake, and drowning the whole thing in syrup. His mouth watered as he attacked his sandwich of awesome pancake-and-bacon syrupy goodness while his dad made a face at him over his glass of orange juice.
Stiles smiled at him around a mouthful of food and the Sheriff snorted … and it was easy. Easy in a way that it hadn't been between them since Scott was bitten and Stiles had to lie to protect everything he loved. His heart clenched and he started to feel nauseous but he pushed down the feeling. No. Not this time. This time he was going to enjoy it and pretend like nothing was wrong. He deserved that much.
/
"Right, okay, thanks Bobby," Sam said, as he brought the phone down from his ear and pressed disconnect. He turned to where his brother was just emerging from the bathroom in a towel. "Bobby confirmed the low level omens we've been seeing, but he also knew a little bit about why Dad was here six years ago. Looks like he got a call from a woman named Cassandra and came out here to investigate because he owed her a favour? Bobby said he told Dad that he could call up one of the hunters closer to this area to check it out, but Dad got really weird about it and said it was something he had to take care of." Sam turned back to his laptop and pulled up a newspaper article. "And check this out. The day before Dad got here there was a car accident that was ruled a hit and run. Check out the name of the victim."
Dean pulled on a pair of jeans and strode over to look at the article Sam was pointing at. "Huh. Cassandra Stilinski. Wanna bet that it was the Sheriff's wife that gave Dad a call?" He said, eyebrows raised. "I wonder why. Something doesn't sit right with the explanations the Sheriff or Dad gave as to how they knew each other. Click over to her obit, I wanna see if there's any more hints there."
Sam clicked over the obituary and the picture of a beautiful woman with oddly familiar eyes took up most of the screen. He scrolled down to the woman's name and both he and Dean inhaled a sharp breath before turning to stare at each other.
Cassandra Ginevra Stilinski, born Winchester.
"What." Sam said flatly.
Before either of the boys could vocalize their confusion there was a rustle of wings and Castiel appeared in the motel room, disheveled as always and carrying several take out bags of breakfast. Ignoring the boys, he tilted his head to the side as if he were listening to something only he could hear. He placed the bags on the table next to the laptop and strode purposefully to the door, yanking it open to reveal a young man with dark hair and a leather jacket, arm raised as if he was about to knock on the door. The look of surprise on his face was replaced by a scowl and before the Winchesters or Castiel could say anything he stalked into the room and slammed the door behind him.
"So you didn't know about Stiles and his family either," the man said, more of statement than a question.
Dean had just about overcome his shock at the past few minutes and rose menacingly to stare down at the stranger invading their hotel room. "Who the hell are you?" he said, voice low and dangerous.
Castiel sighed and shot Dean a look – seriously, he needed to stop picking up mannerisms from the hunters because it was all too bizarre to see Sammy's best bitch face on an Angel of the Lord – and answered for the stranger.
"This is the loup garou that followed you here from the Sheriff's house yesterday. His name is Derek Hale."
/
Stiles finished loading the dishwasher as his dad left the house, headed to the station. He was full of delicious breakfast but his mind was buzzing anxiously. He was torn between lapsing into a food coma or running suicides to dispel some of the nervous energy that was boiling up inside of him. He sat on the couch for approximately 2.06 seconds before bouncing up and heading to the door, pausing to grab his red hoodie and his car keys before hopping in the Jeep and backing out of the driveway.
He had no destination in mind when he left his house, but was unsurprised to realize he was headed towards the Hale house. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as he passed by the section of road he now knew his mother died on, but straightened his shoulders and continued driving, turning on to the nearly hidden driveway that would take him to the ruins where Derek used to live with his family. He needed to walk off the awful tension in his stomach, feel the fresh air on his face, as suddenly the Jeep seemed small and claustrophobic like never before. Something was guiding him, pulling him towards the house and even with the feeling of apprehension building along the lines of his shoulders and racing up and down his spine he couldn't turn back or stop the car.
He kept going until the blackened ruins of the house pulled into view and he parked the Jeep and got out. Now the tension in his gut threatened to take over his entire body, along with the apprehension and feeling that he was being watched, like a cold finger tracing down the length of his neck. He rolled his shoulders and glanced around but didn't see anything or anyone.
Birds were still chirping around him and he took that as a good sign as he stepped towards the house, shrugging into his hoodie to ward against the cool fall air beneath the canopy of thick leaves. He had no idea what to do or why he was there anymore. The urge to run off his nervous energy had been replaced with the anticipation that comes during a thunderstorm after a spectacular flash of lightning when he and his mother would count the seconds before the crash of thunder to measure how far away the storm was.
He couldn't move, just stood there in front of the decrepit house feeling strung up like a bow, quivering with unreleased energy. At the sound of a snapping branch his head whipped to the right to see what was approaching but there was nothing in the woods. Belatedly, he realized the birds had stopped chirping. The sound came again but he recognized it not as a branch breaking but of fire crackling, popping as the sap was heated by the flames. He looked back to the house and was horrified by the sight before him.
Flames consumed the now-solid and maintained two-storey building. The fire had just begun to ravage the siding covering the house, having escaped from the shattered windows on the first floor. Stiles dropped to his knees and tried to cover his ears as he realizes underneath the roar of the fire were the sounds of the living, trapped inside the house as it burned. His lungs filled with black smoke and he choked, coughing out the ash as his stomach churned, threatening to lose his breakfast. He didn't even realize he was crying, as he watched the Hale house burn, unable to move or cry out or tear his eyes away from the sight.
It's just a memory, he knew this, because he had been inside the skeletal remains of the house, knew because his mother and most of the Hale family died six years ago and there was nothing anybody could do about it – wasn't there? – and this was all a memory. He willed himself back to the present, to forget the smell of fire and burning flesh, to inhale the clean fresh scent of the forest and not the ash of a ruined past.
With a gasp, he felt the cool touch of leaves on his forehead and opened his eyes to find himself hunched over the forest floor, handfuls of leaves and dirt in each of his clenched-tight fists. He sat back up slowly, controlling his breathing. The horrible feeling of anticipation was still in his stomach and the air tingled where it made contact with his skin, almost like the feeling of static electricity.
A twig snapped behind him and this time he knew it wasn't a hallucination. But he sat, frozen and unable to turn around, as an eerily familiar voice spoke.
"Hey there, little Red." And Stiles was brought back to the moments before his mother's death and the chilling voice that mocked her before she died.
There was an explosion like thunder before everything went black.
