The alphas are finally gone, killed or driven out by the combined efforts of werewolves and hunters. Derek was about to crash into his first decent night's sleep in months when Deaton called and absolutely insisted Derek come to the office. Right fucking now. Because some matter of near life-and-death importance has come up.
Needless to say, Derek's not in a great mood when he storms into the clinic.
"Okay, Deaton. I'm here. What the hell is so important that you call me at three in the morning the one fucking night I could finally—"
Derek stops short the moment his eyes fall on the huddled mass in the corner. The beta lying crumpled there is trying desperately to make himself seem as small as possible and cover his most vulnerable areas. It takes Derek almost a full minute to realize who it is and another to realize that he's wearing tattered, blood-stained remains of the clothes he disappeared in over four months ago. The acrid stench clinging to him tells such a vivid story of the atrocities he must have endured while he's been missing that Derek thinks he might be sick.
"Stiles?" he asks in disbelief.
There's no response, but Deaton nods a confirmation.
"The last alphas must have left him behind when they fled. I found him when I got back here after tending to your pack. "
"What the hell happened to him?"
"You know as well as I do that they were keeping some betas in the pack as lackeys and pawns. It seems Stiles fell somewhere in that category."
"Will he be okay?"
"It's hard to say. Physically he seems to be more or less fine, but mentally…" Deaton lets the sentence trail off as he studies Stiles worriedly. "I fear they've been toying with his memory all this time. He doesn't seem to know who he is or who we are."
"Is that something we can fix?"
"Perhaps."
"How?"
"You're an alpha. If you work at your control, you may be able to give memories of his old life. If you give him enough, it could spark a reversal of the amnesia."
"How does that work if the memories have been taken?"
"They're not literally taken, just blocked. It's part of the alpha's power over memories and perceptions of reality. Taking and giving memories is simply a milder version of what Peter did to Lydia."
"You expect me to fix this?"
"I expect you to try. I know it seems impossible, but you can't just leave him like this. At the very least he needs a pack so he doesn't fall to omega. The Hale Pack is the only pack for miles. You need to take him in."
"Hale Pack?" Stiles says quietly, turning his face just slightly toward them.
"Yes," Deaton replies. "Does that mean something to you, Stiles?"
"Are you Alpha Hale?" he asks Derek, voice trembling.
"Yes," Derek replies, recoiling inwardly at hearing the formal title from the familiar voice.
"I have a message for you, Alpha."
"What message?"
"I'm not sure," he replies apologetically, eyes still avoiding Derek's, "but I don't think it's healed yet."
"I don't understand what that means."
Stiles moves slowly, as if he expects to be attacked at every motion. He brings his shirt up over his head and turns his back toward Derek and Deaton. Etched in the pale skin are slowly healing wounds from an alpha's claw, forming the sick message they've instructed Stiles to blindly deliver.
To the Hale Pack with best regards. Enjoy him as much as we did.
Below the words is the Alpha Pack's symbol that serves as a signature leaving no doubt which monsters were behind the broken boy who sits before Derek. He barely makes it out the back door before he's violently ill, bracing himself against the rough brick. He hears Deaton walk out behind him but doesn't turn.
"How the fuck am I supposed to fix this?" Derek asks dejectedly. "I wouldn't even know where to start."
"You owe it to him to try. You're his best bet."
"Then God help him," Derek mutters wearily. He takes a deep breath, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and prepares to go back inside.