Suddenly Tyler's Sterek-obsessed: He's constantly texting Dylan prompts, starting furious texting sprees between them. Pretty soon, Dylan's straight-up writing whole scenes, real fanfiction—but like, good fanfiction, you know? Like character-true stuff, not porn. Not that there's anything wrong with porn.
Maybe he writes a little bit of porn.
He keeps that to himself, though, shows Tyler the serious stuff. Stiles and Derek trapped when this brainwashed hunter kid finds them, guns blazing, threatening to shoot Stiles full of wolfsbane. It's a bottle episode, tensions high all the way through. Stiles starts off wisecracking like none of it matters, and Derek starts off being all dark and threaten-y, but he and Stiles both kind of realize that that's not gonna work this time. That this really might be the end of the road. So Stiles asks for his one phone call.
"What?" Hunter asks.
"You're arresting me," Stiles says. "Hey, my dad's the sheriff. I know my rights. You wanna bag and tag me, I get a phone call first."
"You don't have any rights," Hunter sneers. "You're an animal."
"Actually, no, nope, I'm not," Stiles says. "Homo sapien, right here. Human person."
"You got bit," Hunter says. "You didn't die. That means you're a monster."
Derek snarls.
"Heyy, okay," Stiles says, shooting him a stay cool look. "I didn't get bit. I'll prove it," he offers, and pulls out his knife. Hunter tenses, finger twitching on the trigger, but Stiles rolls up his pants leg, cuts a line across his skin. Blood beads and spills down his knee. The wound stays open. "See? No supernatural healing powers. What'd I tell you."
Behind him, Derek's face is murderous.
"You ran," Hunter challenges, but less certainly. He looks over at Derek, who's a magnet at Stiles' side, black ink already running up his arm. "To be with this?"
"You blame me?" Stiles says. "Derek has painkilling hands. Do you have any idea how often I get banged up trying to keep my family alive? Hint: We haven't had sex yet, but I can guarantee his stamina is incredible."
"Stiles," Derek says, ears pinking adorably.
"Don't be humble, honey," Stiles says, patting his shoulder. "He really is, though. Do you know how many times this guy has put himself in danger to save someone else? Like, way too many times. You need to cut it out, I'm serious," he tells Derek. "Scares the shit out of me. And no one ever appreciates it," he adds. "Does he ever get thank you notes? Complementary gift baskets? Even one Edible Arrangement?" He shakes his head sadly. "No, no he does not. You know what he does get? Shot. Stabbed. Poisoned, kidnapped, gutted, kidnapped again, de-aged—"
"De-aged," Hunter says dubiously.
"You don't even wanna know, man," Stiles says. "And that's the abridged list. The extended edition makes Dostoevsky look like a leaflet."
"He's a killer," Hunter says. "So are you."
"So are you, I bet," Stiles says. Hunter doesn't deny it. Stiles fights back a shiver. "See? We're two sides of the same coin, man."
"I don't kill innocents," Hunter says. "I exterminate—"
"EX-TER-MIIN-AAATE!" Stiles blares. "Sorry, old instinct. You were saying?"
"Stiles," Derek says, quietly warning.
"How old are you?" Hunter asks.
"Literally? Eighteen," Stiles says. "Personality wise? Somewhere between five and fifty."
"Just let Stiles go," Derek says, stepping in front of him. "He's not the one you want."
"Are you seriously martyring yourself right now?" Stiles says, grabbing his arm, trying to spin them back around. Derek doesn't budge. "Does nothing I say matter to you?"
"Not as much as you do," Derek says.
Stiles blinks at him. "Well that's... candid."
"I want you to know," Derek says, quietly. "Even if we run out of time."
"That's not gonna happen," Stiles says, trying to bite down on the sudden flash of fear. Derek doesn't talk like this. He doesn't give up.
"If there's one thing I've learned," Derek says, "it's that the people I care about aren't safe. That I'm not safe." His gaze goes from intense to faraway, and back again. "Not for long."
"Don't," Stiles pleads with him. "We always make it through. That's our thing. I'm all doom and gloom, and you're all, 'Shut up, Stiles. We're getting out of here, Stiles. You're gonna be alright, Stiles.'"
"You will," Derek says. "You have Scott, and your dad. The pack. You'll take care of each other."
"Stop it," Stiles says, tears beading in his eyes. He rubs at them, sniffs. "You're not—I won't let you."
"I'm not giving you a choice," Derek says. He pushes Stiles behind him, stands tall. "I'm a werewolf," he says. "I'm what you want. He's just a kid."
"You're an asshole," Stiles says shakily, but Derek doesn't respond.
"He's just a kid," Derek repeats. "An—animal rights activist." Slightly sardonic, despite himself. "He doesn't know what he got himself into."
"He's eighteen," Hunter says. "He's an adult. Legally."
"I get a phone call, jackass," Stiles bursts out. "Legally!"
No one pays him any mind.
"Just let him go," Derek says. "I'll come peacefully. As long as he's safe."
He steps forward. The gun goes off. Derek roars, launches himself into the air and lands on top of Hunter, wrestling the gun from his hands and throwing it across the room.
"I really don't enjoy killing," he says, matter-of-factly. His eyes are halogen blue; he's hunched over Hunter like he's easy prey. Dead meat. "But you and I, we understand. When it comes to your family, you can't let that get in the way."
"Please," Hunter says. Without his weapon, he's a scared kid, trembling. "Please, don't."
"Why not," Derek says. Under sharp yellow light, eyes shining, he looks almost feral.
"B-because you don't hurt innocents," Hunter stutters.
"You're not innocent," Derek says.
"I—I could've killed him!" Hunter says desperately. "I could've shot him coming through the door. I didn't. I hesitated."
Derek looks at him, considering.
"I kept hesitating," Hunter says. "He pulled a freaking knife, man. I didn't fire. Don't you think maybe there's a reason for that?"
"I think—" Derek says, and looks down.
His shirt is dark with black blood.
"Cliffhanger," Tyler says. He nods, impressed.
"I was thinking Stiles could remember the wolfsbane cure thing, you know, from season one," Dylan says. "Kind of a nice reminder of how far they've come. And how it was kind of there from the beginning. Like, it just made sense. Right away. The banter, and the humor, and the high-stakes emotional stuff."
"I always liked the car scenes," Tyler says. "The Jeep, or—Those were always really fun."
"Bashing my head on the steering wheel," Dylan says.
"'You know what you did,'" Tyler paraphrases.
"Pimped you out," Dylan says, laughing. "We didn't know all Derek's issues yet, we just thought it was funny."
"I still think it was funny," Tyler says. "Just—dark humor."
"He just keeps getting used," Dylan says, tsking. "Even by the good guys, they can't resist. Revictimizing."
"Derek's used to it," Tyler says. "That's his life."
"His awful, depressing life," Dylan agrees. "Poor guy can't catch a break. Not even when we write him."
"I think things are looking up," Tyler says. "He found his sister, he's comfortable with who he is."
"He's suicidal," Dylan says.
"Not actively," Tyler says. "Only if he can save someone. I'm not suicidal, but I would still try to—"
"What, take a bullet for someone else?" Dylan says, eyebrows high.
"Maybe," Tyler says. "If it saves a life? I don't know. If it saved you?"
"Don't," Dylan says, going cold. "That's—don't be stupid."
"I'm selfish," Tyler says, too easily, too calm. "I love you. If I could—"
"Shut up," Dylan says. He shakes his head, tries to blink the sudden fog away. "Shut up, shut up. You can't say shit like that. That you'd die for me, you can't—I'm gonna start having nightmares again."
"It'll probably never happen," Tyler offers.
"See, why am I not comforted by that," Dylan says. "Like, at all."
Dylan would definitely take a bullet for Tyler, probably. If he wasn't busy shitting himself with panic. But that signoff scene? He'd be a mess. Like, no love, no dignity. Probably screaming like a woman giving birth, or rambling about something idiotic and embarrassing. Then his famous last words would go down through history: "I literally just shit myself." There's a nice family anecdote.
The worst part of that is how sure Dylan is that Tyler would be the complete opposite. You know, stoic, holding him through it, and like, the epitome of every romantic hero cliché. Like, strong and soothing till the end, then rocking back and forth, sobbing, refusing to leave the cold body—and what, what the actual fuck is this train of thought? This is, like, a prime example of why Dylan needs to carefully curate his public self. And never get drunk ever again, or go outside, or interact with another human being. He's enough of a social disaster as it is.
His face is literally emitting heat, pulse thumping in his throat. And seriously, Dylan needs to get hold of himself. He's hurting Hoechlin, turning him into real-life Derek with all these traumatizing moments. He's basically Kate Argent, right now. Or, or worse, Jennifer, love-spelling the guy somehow and just tearing his life apart, sucking the will to live right out of him. And Tyler just looks him right in the oozing, evil, raw-bacon-fat face, and says, "I love you. I love you. Why can't you believe me?"
He lost Terminal. Dylan lost Tyler Terminal, being so moody and weird Tyler couldn't focus on anything else. He's, he's got work right now he's missing just to sit here, check his phone for the millionth time, try to Sterek Dylan into being normal again. Posey went back to work days ago. Apologizing, but it was obvious. He couldn't wait to get out of here, away from this, this train wreck Dylan's become.
Even the people who love you can only take so much, you know?
And they'll be supportive, they're always supportive, but it's obvious: your time's ticking down. Any minute now they're gonna throw their hands up, say, Some people just can't be helped. And then they fuck off, or just—check out. Or keep faking it, but grow to resent you so much you just hear all their silent little judgments over every nice thing they try to do for you, on a loop, forever. And all those sweet gestures just add up into this debt you can't possibly repay, and your head fills up with all this self loathing crap in their voices. And you just wanna fucking die. Put them out of their misery, give them their lives back.
Dylan's never actually gone through with it. Not seriously, not in any foolproof way. He's too chickenshit to actually jump off a bridge, or something, something definitely irreversible. He just... rolled the dice a few times. Baby steps.
And that was years ago, that was back in freaking middle school. That was supposed to be just some bad memory, just some motivation to go out and do shit, not get swept up in—whatever this is.
But now Dylan can't leave this bed, he's trapped here. Wired up to these machines, mind just going and going, right off the edge of a fucking cliff.
But Tyler loves Dylan, he loves him. He keeps saying it, now, like that's the key to all of this, click your heels three times and say "I love you, I love you, I love you," and wake up from this crappy existence. Go back to when Dylan was just funny—haha funny, not fucking funny in the head. Not the kind of funny where you're just laughing because if you don't, there's just silence. Just this massive gaping black hole of silence, and blank faces, watching, waiting, for the moment when the tension finally breaks. And the joke's just going on and on, no end in sight, until the tension becomes all there is. And people just start leaving, changing the fucking channel, moving on. Still laughing nervously, like, Did that really just happen?
Sure, Ty, die for that. For some supposed moral obligation, what would Jesus do? Probably fuck off, honestly. There's only so long you can spend curing lepers before you go back to schmoozing the prostitutes.
But that's religion for you, new religion, all idealism and being a bigger person, not giving into vices, much less genocide this time around. Not—not no genocide, don't get them wrong, but definitely less. And guilt trips keeping you trapped in unhealthy marriages, or forgiving shit that shouldn't be forgiven, because god forbid you not be miserable for five seconds, just taking and taking it.
Tyler deserves someone who can actually be a person, you know? A real person, with normal reactions. Stiles and Derek, it makes sense; their traumas kind of fit together, complement each other somehow. Tyler's too pure. Which is why he should be running for the exits, before that changes. Before he actually starts to understand.
Dylan goes back to the Sterek scene. Derek grabs the gun, empties the magazine. He's already trembling, poison circling through his bloodstream. He breaks open a bullet, waits. Stiles is striking matches on the side of the box, but nothing's catching. His vision's clouding, heart pounding out of control. Failure, he's failing. Derek's going to die with the cure right in his hand, all because Stiles couldn't get it together.
He closes his eyes, tries to breathe. Belief, what ever happened to belief? Being a fucking spark. What kind of goddamn spark can't light a fucking match?
What does fire look like? Remember it. The way it flickers, bends and dips like a dancer, see it in your mind. And smell it, sharp, that sweet-acrid smoke filling the air.
"Stiles," Derek says, quietly. Stiles shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut harder. Really feels it. How your hand heats up around it, without even touching it. The flame chewing its way down the match, the wood going black and thin, disintegrating into nothing.
"Stiles!" Derek says hoarsely. Stiles opens his eyes.
His hand is on fire.
Not catching, but sheathed in flames, his skin unsinged. For a long moment he just stares, and then Derek chokes, black blood on his lips, and Stiles bounds forward, takes Derek's hand in his. Drags his shirt up, and presses it to the wound, Derek's poison and Stiles' flame.
Derek shudders, seizes, retches black blood, and goes still.
The music drops out—or would, if this was a show, if it had been some intense instrumental all this time, echoing Stiles' frantic heartbeat, a little bit of epic orchestral stuff when he opens his eyes and we pan down, see the smoke curling through his fingers.
And all of that lasts maybe a few seconds before he realizes what he's done, what he's doing, and his face goes from epic bad-ass to frozen shock, and the flame snaps out.
But now he knows what he can do, his stance changes; he's standing tall, eyes dark with determination, focus. A vein jumps in his forehead; the lights blow out with a shattering pop, this massive column of fire rising from his palm. Smoke curling around him, blurring the room behind him into hazy shadows.
One of those really great instrumental pieces, as the fire rises—Dylan's thinking of the one from the season 3A finale, the three sacrifices. As Derek chokes, and Stiles runs to him, just the slightest hint of slow-motion, drops to his side and takes his hand. Drags up his shirt and applies the cure, keeps his hand there. And Derek shudders, goes still.
And the music drops out, as the whole scene becomes this held breath, Stiles cradling Derek, tears in his eyes.
Hunter bolts then, tries to run; Stiles raises a hand in warning. Hunter stills, sinks back to the ground.
"C'mon," Stiles says, his hands on Derek's wrist, his neck. "C'mon, c'mon, please—"
And Derek jerks to life. The music comes back, nothing too dramatic, just a soft relief, a caught breath. Stiles' head dipping as all the oxygen rushes back into the room, leaning his forehead against Derek's, just breathing.
The tender moment breaks about a second later, Derek turning his head and retching black blood, wiping his mouth with a palm. Making a face, like that all of that was just a bad taco. That dude has faced down death too many times to be fazed by it. Besides, he's just that much of a bad-ass.
But he sees Stiles, takes him in, how bad he's doing, coming down off the adrenaline, going into shock.
"Thank you," he says, helping him to his feet. His hands linger on Stiles' shoulders just a little longer than necessary.
Stiles waves a hand dismissively, swipes at his streaming eyes. "You know how it is. Could've just used the normal stick-plus-friction method, but—Go big or go home, that's how I see it. Why do anything halfway, am I right?"
His voice is just trembling, but growing stronger, getting back to normal with every word.
"So," he says. He tips his chin up at Hunter. "What do we do with him."
"Let him go," Derek says.
Stiles gapes at him.
"We're not killers," Derek says. "We defend our territory, same as him. You can take that back to your bosses," he tells Hunter. "How the monster let you go with a warning. And it is a warning," he says, his voice going low, dangerous. "You won't get another chance. You, or anyone who endangers my family."
"And that includes Scott," Stiles says. "The McCall pack. My dad, his mom. The whole extended mishpacha. Lemme hear you repeat it back."
"I think he gets it," Derek says. He fixes Hunter with an iron gaze. "Do you?"
"Whoa," Tyler says, finally looking up. "That's intense. But really good."
"Yeah?" Dylan asks, stupidly shyly. It's not that he's not proud of his work. He's just not exactly impartial, here. For all he knows, it's cheesy, trope-y shit, and he's patting himself on the back for a story that only plays out right in his head.
"Of course," Tyler says. "You ever doubted it?" His gaze is warm, unfaltering. Like even now, he still sees Dylan as something impressive. Something you'd have to be crazy not to be in love with.
Basking in it, Dylan almost believes him.