CHAPTER TWELVE:

It seemed like there was an invisible line separating Derek Hale from the rest of the occupants in the Stilinski residence's living room.

On the other side of the werewolf Alpha, Sheriff Stilinski stood, wearing his holster with his gun, armed with bullets from Chris Argent. Flanking the Sheriff, Isaac stood to the right while Lydia was on the left. The pack members were scattered around the living room, wary of openly defying their Alpha but unwilling to stand by his side.

Looking at his pack, Derek felt exhausted. He could feel pack bonds connecting them to him and each other. The bonds among themselves were strong still, but their connection to him, their Alpha, was tenuous at best. He couldn't find even a trace of the bond that once connected Isaac with Derek.

Derek knew that the reason the pack had splintered was him. If he hadn't done half the things he had, maybe the pack would still be whole, maybe Stiles, the pack's anchor, would still be safe, maybe Stiles wouldn't have suffered so.

There were many things that Derek regretted. But what caused him the most pain was the way he had treated Stiles.

Looking back, Derek realized that without Stiles, the pack wouldn't have gotten out of many problems with all their limbs attached. Also, Stiles was there whenever anyone needed him in whatever form it may be- someone to lean on, a quiet companionship, a sympathetic ear to vent, or a non-judgmental advisor. Even though Derek hadn't realized it then, he knew now, Stiles had been the one who had held the pack together and helped them to maintain peace and calm. Derek might have been the Alpha, but Stiles had been the pack's anchor. And now, he was gone because of Derek's idiocy.

Since the first time they had met, when Stiles and Scott had trespassed into the Hale property, Derek had been intrigued by the erratic boy who talked almost always about anything and everything. It had been so very interesting to hear the way his attention seemed to jump from one thing to another in the span of a second. It had taken almost all of Derek's self-control to keep his fascination under wraps. It didn't help to smell that the fascination was very much mutual and that Stiles had been well on the way to be infatuated with him.

Derek had done everything he could, in his own misguided way, to deter the infatuation. But if anything, Stiles had become even more ensnared in the werewolf's orbit.

In a small corner of his mind, right next to the corner filled with amazement for the breakable human and baffled astonishment that someone could actually be as attracted to danger as this insane being was, Derek was surprised and pleased that someone like Stiles (human he may be, but Derek wouldn't deny that he was among the most gorgeous and talented individuals Derek had known) could find someone like Derek (broken, flawed, naive, so very dirty, the reason his parents, his family was all dead, his fault he believed the honeyed words of Kate Argent, his fault they are all dead, dead, DEAD) worth his attention.

As time wore on, Stiles' interest in Derek didn't wane, instead it waxed even more. Derek's fascination (and lust, when did the gangly kid grown into this slim, muscled, sun-kissed, doe-eyed youth with cherry red lips and sex hair that he'd love to run his hands through and grip tight) didn't seem to disappear either. But he made sure to disguise the concern and care he had for Stiles with harsh words and rough gestures.

No matter how many times the pack and Derek himself told Stiles to stay away from the fight or danger zone, Stiles made sure to charge in right after them. Derek was scared shitless that one day, Stiles might not get out of it unscathed.

He dreams of Stiles. His head is thrown back in laughter, his pale expanse of neck dotted with moles on display to the world, his warm brown eyes sparkling with mirth and mischief. Derek fantasizes that one day, he might be the cause for that delightful laughter, but he knows it won't happen. As it always happens, his dream turns into a nightmare as the laughter stops and is replaced with high, blood curdling screams. Derek runs towards him, his heart thundering, the only thought looping through his mind being, 'not Stiles, not Stiles, please not Stiles'. When he finally reaches the one who has captured his heart (only in his dreams will he ever admit it, never in the waking world, must keep Stiles away, must keep him safe), it is to see the bloodied and broken body lying on the floor, blank eyes staring accusingly right at Derek, his phantom voice whispering through the air, "It's your fault." And standing right over him, cackling gleefully, hands cradling a desperately beating heart, cruel eyes holding his gaze mercilessly, is Kate Argent. "Look at what you've done, Derek darling." As he stands there, unable to move, screaming, fire engulfs them all and he wakes up with a gulping breath, sweat clinging to his skin, ears ringing not with screams or cruel laughter, but with the soft whisper of Stiles' voice, "It's your fault."

The first time Derek visited Stiles at night, and shared his bed, was after a brutal battle with another werewolf pack. The Beacon Hills pack had fought off the rogue pack, defending their territory and avenging their hurt pack mate, Boyd. Even though the native pack emerged victorious, every one was injured in some way or the other. Stiles, though uninjured, had been in mortal danger so many times that Derek had been filled with bone-chilling terror and fiery rage. That night, Derek had only wanted to see with his own eyes that Stiles had been unhurt, and wanted to hear his distinctive heartbeat that always soothed him. When he found Stiles awake and jittery, a hint of a bruise peeking out from beneath his shirt, Derek couldn't help himself from reaching out to touch him, to feel for himself the proof that the person in front of him was still alive and whole.

If there had been even a hint that Stiles did not want it, want him, Derek would have backed away. He had been many things, but he wouldn't ever be a rapist (would never ever become Kate Argent). When Stiles was tired out and slept peacefully, his body curved towards the werewolf, Derek's lips curled with self-loathing and his eyes filled with disgust towards himself. He shouldn't have done what he had, he shouldn't have tainted the pure soul in front of him. He vowed to stay away from Stiles, henceforth. Before he left, he pressed a kiss to the vulnerable neck and inhaled deeply, the rich scent of earth and rain, intermingled with something that was purely Stiles filling his nostrils and lightening his heavy heart. After a last fond look, he left.

Derek's vow to stay away held until the next big bad decided to take Beacon Hills for its own and in the process nearly killed Stiles, fucking again.

And again.

Derek knew how much it hurt Stiles every time he was ignored, every time Derek pushed him away. He could literally smell the bitter scent whenever Derek turned away from him.

Derek hardened his heart and his gaze, and as the first step in his misguided methods of obtaining his goal to keep Stiles safe from the supernatural, he kicked Stiles out of the pack. He could have talked it over with Stiles, like adults, but he didn't do that. He ordered the pack to maintain distance from Stiles so that he won't carry the pack's scent which would make him a target. He should have heeded Isaac's warnings, but he ignored them, chalking it up to a ploy of Isaac to bring Stiles back into the pack, back into danger. He should have checked up on him, if he had, at least then he would have known the truth. But he didn't.

Hindsight was a fucking bitch.

Reality decided to give him a bitch-slap in the form of Sheriff Stilinski.

All this time, Derek had convinced himself that what he was doing was for Stiles' own good. Somewhere along the way, his idea of Stiles had shifted. He had forgotten the main thing about Stiles. The headstrong youth was in no way a damsel in distress, someone to be protected. He was, in actuality, a vicious knight and a protector. The old adage his mother was fond of saying came to his mind.

The highway to hell is paved with good intentions.

Derek finally got his reality check when the news of Stiles' abduction reached them. But there was still one obstacle left. His pride.

Admitting his mistakes wasn't one of Derek Hale's good characteristics. So, when Isaac snarled at him about his mistakes, Derek lashed out. He knew it was his fault ("It's your fault, Derek," the whisper in Stiles' voice haunted him). That was why he didn't stop the pack members from leaving.

For days, Derek had wandered through the woods, trying to find out where he went wrong. He was so fixated on the past, he almost forgot about the present.

Derek, sitting on a high rock, looked up at the crescent moon. He sighed wearily.

"Where did I go wrong? Why? All I wanted was to keep him safe."

He wished for his sister, who always knew how to solve any trouble, gave him the best advise to help him.

"I could do with your help, Laura."

In his mind's eye, he could see his sister laughing at him.

"What matters, little brother, is not what had happened. It's not going to do you any good to worry over the past. Instead, learn from it. What matters, Derek, is what are you going to do about it?" The spectre of his sister raised an elegant eyebrow before it vanished.

And so, there he was, standing opposite to Stiles' father, his grief for his son and determination to get him back filling the air.

"I was wrong," Derek began, solemnly. "All I wanted was to keep Stiles safe. I know now the way I went about it was wrong. I should have talked it over with him instead of deciding by myself what was good for him. I should have listened to you, Isaac, when you told me. I should have paid more attention."

Derek scoffed at himself.

"I should have done a lot of things but I didn't. I am not asking you to forgive me. I can't even forgive myself. All I ask is this. Let me help you find him. Let me help you to bring Stiles home. Please."

The Sheriff stared, unblinking, at him, visibly gauging his words.

Next to him, Isaac titled his, listening to Derek's heart and smelling his scent. He could find no lie and could smell only remorse and despair.

"He is telling the truth," Isaac said, slowly, eyes narrowed at his former Alpha.

"We can use his help," Erica said, looking between her Alpha and the Sheriff.

A beat of silence.

The Sheriff gave a curt nod.

A/N: Do you guys have ANY idea how hard it was to write this chapter? Huh?

I was originally planning on writing Derek to be a bad guy (relatively), but before I knew what the heck was going on, I wrote THIS.

Do you know what this means? DO YOU? Well, let me tell you.

It means, once again, I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE ENDGAME IS.

And I swear, if I end up with a fucking LOVE TRIANGLE OF ALL THINGS, I am throwing myself off a bloody cliff!

*deep breath*

Yes, I am a bit hysterical, if you couldn't guess. I was so happy to write Derek as a bad guy knowing that there would be no obstacles for Newtmas, but noooooo. Derek had to throw a bloody big wrench in my plans. Bloody buggering d_ckfaced shuck. *more grumbling*

Do leave a comment. I'd like something to calm myself down.

Thank you for all the reviews, favorites and follows. :)