Inamorato VI
Stiles is a dreamer. It seems that it's one of the few ways he's able to keep his ADHD under control. But something soon starts to make his dreams restless, make them more vivid and panicked. Little does he know that his mate is looking for him. He's caused the leather-clad werewolf out of hiding and would stop at nothing for his inamorato.
Reminding everyone, THIS IS MY FIRST TEEN WOLF FIC.
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Chapter 6: Heart Monitor
The first words out of Stiles's mouth are, "If you get up and leave, I'll tell my dad you're a molester."
It makes Derek chuckle because, well, he's pining over a sixteen year old when he's practically twenty-two. So in a way, he kind of is a molester.
Derek just throws Stiles a glare across the table. "Why does it matter?"
Stiles's mind struggles to formulate an answer. He hasn't taken his Adderall, causing his thoughts to dart around his head at record speeds. "Because you always do that. And then you just magically appear out of thin air and scare the shit out of me."
Derek knows Stiles has a point. "Well, lucky for you, I don't have anywhere to go." He stirs the now mushy cereal in the tan bowl in front of him. His head is resting on his hand as his werewolf hearing focuses on Stiles's leg nervously bouncing under the table.
Derek forcefully pushes from the table and the chair he was sitting in makes deep grooves in the wooden floor. He goes upstairs and retrieves the bottle of Adderall, slamming it in front of Stiles's pop tart. "Now. I can't stand your leg bouncing."
Stiles just calmly watches Derek sit back down at the other end of the table, the older man giving Stiles a daunting glower in return. Stiles slowly takes out two pills and moves his mouth contemplatively, swallowing them down with the glass of milk to his right.
"You know," Stiles closes the bottle of medication, "I'm really starting to hate that about you."
"Hate what? I'm just dealing with the constant annoyance that you bring me.
"Stiles purses his lips. "You're like, an overbearing girlfriend."
And that gets Derek riled up because his mind flashes to Kate. He's on Stiles like white on rice, fisting his shirt and slamming him against the wall, barely avoiding the china cabinet in the dining room. "Listen to me, you little prick. I could really care less about you taking your meds, alright? I'm making you for the sake of my own sanity," Derek snaps, his hand pressing hard into the center of Stiles's chest, "and I need you to be sane so I can kill this thing. After that, you can be a fucking lunatic for all I care."
Stiles blinks and his breaths are shaky, the teen seeming to curl into himself to get away from Derek. Derek lets him go and Stiles brushes the wrinkles out of his shirt. "Jesus Christ. Someone's not a morning person."
"Now tell me what you dreamed about last night." Derek's in Stiles's jeans from the night before, a green flannel shirt adorning his muscular torso, the sleeves scrunched up. Stiles thinks he looks positively delectable. But he's such a dick.
Stiles whips around, staring at Derek in disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Derek's expression is unchanged, even when Stiles gets in his face. "You just—you—slamming someone against a wall doesn't really say, 'Hey, I need your help to stop a goddamn murderer, so can you please tell me what the hell you dreamed about last night?' now does it?"
Defeated, Derek sits, periodically clenching and unclenching his jaw. He's huffing in anger and Stiles is unwrinkling his shirt where Derek fisted it. "Alright, you have anger management problems," Stiles states, slightly wincing in preparation for Derek to lash out again. When he doesn't, Stiles continues, "Now, last night was different."
Derek could sense the fear in Stiles's tone. He could hear the rapid pounding of the teen's heart and the thick metallic scent of terror was washing over Derek in tsunamis.
"It was almost an out of body experience. I saw myself sleeping. And it was there. It was right next to my bedside," Stiles let out a shaky breath, "it was massive and had horns and rows and rows of razor sharp teeth."
"What else do you remember?"
"I remember it killing me, alright? That was extremely unpleasant."
Derek's heart aches and he gets a sinking feeling in his stomach because he has a feeling that these dreams aren't just dreams.
"Stiles, I need to kill this thing."
The teen laughs sarcastically. "Really? I though you were going to take the 'Scott McCall Path' and have a goddamn conversation with it."
Derek starts clenching his jaw again. "I'm not staying here tonight."
That makes Stiles's stomach drop. "W-What? Why not?"
"It won't come here as long as I'm staying. So I'm leaving."
Stiles feels his heart pound in his ears. 'Is Derek using me as bait?' "Derek, you can't—"
"Stiles, it's the only way. I'm not letting everyone die alright?"
"So just me?"
Derek lifts his head and stares at Stiles. "You're not going to die."
Stiles is on his feet now. He's terrified, he can feel the fear wrapping around his chest and licking around his body. "You're using me as bait! That's all I am to you!" He slams his fists on the table. "You're going to let that thing find my weakness. You're going to let it rip my heart out and crush it!"
Derek pauses, 'His weakness is the person he loves?' His eyes reduce to slits as he stands and clenches his jaw. "I'm leaving." Derek heads for the door but Stiles puts himself in between Derek and the doorknob.
"Stiles," Derek grits, "if you want to live through tonight you'll get the fuck out of my way."
Stiles doesn't budge until Derek's hand roughly pushes his shoulder out of the way, slipping out into the daylight.
—
Stiles approaches the driveway, the house looking a bit rundown, seemingly out of place considering the former Whittemore manor is sitting across the street. There's a lone bicycle on the front lawn and Stiles notes that the wheel is slightly spinning still.
'He just got home.'
Stiles cuts the engine and heads up to the front door, attempting a knock, but the slight force of his fist pushes the cracked door fully open.
"Isaac?"
The house is dark. Broken furniture litters the wooden floor, Isaac's backpack a small heap by the staircase. The only light comes from the sliding glass door on the opposite side of the living room and the incandescent bulb in the kitchen.
"Isaac, where are you?"
Stiles creeps toward the kitchen upon hearing the water start to run. He's clutching the Lahey case file under his arm and he sees Isaac tossing a bloody shirt into the hamper in the bedroom down the hall next to the kitchen.
"Stiles, I could hear you from a mile away. Your jeep isn't necessarily quiet."
And then Stiles knows.
"Derek was here already."
Isaac chuckles. "That bastard's insanely persuasive. I didn't expect to bleed so much before I healed." Isaac's cerulean eyes focus on the file in Stiles's hand. "You came to question me about my dad, didn't you?"
Terrified, Stiles swallows, nodding.
"Well the asshole wouldn't kill himself. He had too much pride for that." Isaac's claws emerge. "I hope he's in Hell. He deserves it after the shit he put me through." He huffs and tugs a shirt out of his closet and slips it over his head. "I need to find Derek."
"Wait!" Stiles reaches out and grabs Isaac's arm before he walks out the door. "Do you know what he's doing?"
"He's making a pack is what he's doing."
Stiles watches as Isaac hops on his bike and pedals down the street in search of Derek.
Stiles purses his lips and heads across the street to the Whittemore manor, now occupied by the Daehler family. A Beacon Hills Police Department car is in the driveway and it looks slightly familiar to Stiles. As soon as the boy is close enough to read 'SHERIFF' on the side of the vehicle, a hand grips his collar and pulls him to the car.
"Hey dad."
"Stiles! What the hell?"
"I was just visiting Isaac. He hasn't been at lacrosse practice so I figured, y'know, I'd see if he was okay." Stiles knows he's a pretty damn good liar but he still prays to Christ that his father can't decipher the lie that he'd just formulated.
The sheriff lets go of Stiles. "Just be careful. We don't know who's killing people."
'Or what,' Stiles thinks, slowly making his way back to the jeep parked in the Lahey driveway.
When he arrives home, he digs out the Daehler file to compare it with the others. Matt Daehler's wounds are consistent with Heather's. A chill runs down his spine, and he feels something in his gut that tells him that these aren't just random killings. Something also tells him that he's more at risk than he thinks.
A knock on the front door jolts him from his thought, Scott not waiting for an answer before he barges into Stiles's house.
"I heard your heartbeat outside."
"Fucking werewolves," Stiles mutters, putting a hand over his chest.
"Where's Derek?"
Stiles scoffs, flipping through autopsy photos. "Not here. Why don't you send him a howl or something?"
Scott puts a hand on his best friend's shoulder in an attempt to calm him. He can feels Stiles's heart thudding quickly under his fingertips. "Why are you so bitter?"
"Because Derek's an asshole and I'm going to fucking die tonight because Derek's an asshole." Stiles stares at the autopsy reports for what seems like hours while Scott rubs his shoulder.
"You're not gonna die. As much as we both hate Derek, he always comes through, you know this." Scott seems the back up a little before sitting across from Stiles at the table. "Speaking of Derek, you reek like him. It's disgusting."
Stiles's eyes shift to Scott and glare at him. He smells his shirt. 'Smells like Stiles.' He smells his arms and his shirt again. "I smell like Stiles."
Scott scrunches his nose. "No, you stink like Derek. Have you—" Scott's eyes widen and a small grin creeps up on his face. "Have you guys been sleeping together? Did you finally get laid? Stiles, I'm so—"
"NO. NO NO NO NO NO. We did not have sex, Scott. Jesus Christ, NO. Can we just—change the subject, please."
"Have you found anything?"
"Yeah, I have. I tried talking to Isaac today but did you know, hey, he's a werewolf now? Fucking Derek's building a pack."
Stiles sees the shock wash over Scott. "Isaac? But why?"
"Ask sourwolf," Stiles flips through some photos and comes upon Heather and Matt. "These two. Same injuries. Lahey, totally different." Stiles wracks through the information floating around in his head. "Hey, Scott? Was Matt a virgin?"
And Scott nearly chokes on the water he's taken out of the fridge. "W-What? Why would you ask me that?"
"One, you talked to him more than I did. That kid just radiated evil." Stiles grimaces, searching through the pile of papers on the table. "Two, I figured Allison may have told you. Y'know, when you two went through that rough patch and she dated him and they—"
"I get it," Scott grits out, claws beginning to emerge as the thought enrages him.
"And three, can't you smell it? Did he ever smell like virgin? I don't even know if virginity has a smell. Did he smell virginly, holy, pure?"
Scott throws him a glare.
"I'll ask Allison then."
"Yes," Scott stops him, "yes. He was a virgin. Allison said he never tried anything on her because he wanted to keep his virginity. Satisfied?"
It all starts to click, the gears turning in Stiles's brain. "Heather was a virgin, too. I remember going to her birthday party a couple months ago. She'd brought me to the wine cellar and told me she didn't want to be a seventeen year old virgin. I wanted to help her, Christ knows I did, but I couldn't. I had to tell her. She seemed a bit disappointed at first, but then she smiled and was rambling about how I'd be her best friend."
Stiles sighs. "I think I know what's happening."
—
Stiles storms into Hale manor. "Derek?" He glances down at his watch, the white face reading 6:57. The sun was setting and the woods were starting to grow darker by the second. "Derek, I know what's happening."
The dilapidated shutters on the window bang against the side of the charred house as the wind starts to pick up. It sends a chill up his spine, the way the night is creeping up on the Hale house.
A growl startles Stiles, sending him into the decaying wall behind him, away from the staircase. His heart feels as if it's going to pound out of his chest. He turns his head away from the red eyes stalking toward him and his shoulder is dusted with a purple powder, the sweet scent fills his nose. 'Wolfsbane.'
Another growl draws his attention to Derek, in full alpha form, snarling and gnashing his teeth.
"Remember when I said teeth gnashing gets you nowhere? Well, that was a lie. This is pretty fucking terrifying." Stiles gulps and bares his throat to Derek, sinking to his knees and submitting to the alpha. 'I hope this saves my life.'
Stiles feels the moist breath of Derek huffing over his jugular, the growl resonating deep in Derek's throat vibrating Stiles's bones.
Derek catches the scent, it smells like mint and rain and one second he's looking at her and the next he's looking at him. He isn't sure what's real and what's fake, but whoever it is is bearing their throat and Derek doesn't know whether to tear it out or kiss it. He's growling and he isn't sure why. He feels out of control, like his body's not his anymore.
"Derek," it says, "it's me." The voice is soft and masculine. But then, it's feminine and it's got Derek growling again. "Remember all the hot sex we had?" Derek practically feels her tongue dragging its way up his abdomen and he snarls, closing in on the figure.
"Derek, it's Stiles. The annoying one you hate so much?" And Derek sees the honey brown eyes in front of him, the terror in their pupils before they turn hazel, demanding and fearless. They glint with mischief.
Derek doesn't know what to do, but then the smell makes him cringe. It's a scent of rotting flesh, of maggots and decay. He hears it before he sees it. Its body is heavy and causes each of its steps to thud against the ground. It reeks of dirt and garbage, and Derek sees Stiles's eyes locked on something with sheer panic in his features.
Shifting to his half form, Derek turns and is tossed to the stairs as the Erchitu's claws drag across his stomach.
"Run, Stiles!"
Derek picks himself up and roars before grasping the beast's arm, sinking his canines into it and swinging it into the floor. Stiles races out to his jeep and has trouble before the ignition catches.
"Derek!" he screams, hoping the wolf is paying attention, "Stay out of the house! It's laced with wolfsbane!" Stiles floors it, the jeep's tires skidding on the dried leaves before swerving around a few trees and disappearing in the forest.
Derek pushes the monster outside and into the base of a tree trunk, leaves raining down onto the forest floor. The tree gives a groan before the Erchitu gets up, huffing before it regains its balance and roars at Derek. The alpha dodges the lumbering creature and it reaches out, clawing Derek across the thigh.
The alpha howls, tumbling onto the ground. He doesn't feel himself healing, but picks himself up. It stings, a searing sensation ripping through his stomach and his leg. He can hear the creature approach and Derek looks up, eyes flaming, ready to attack when a claw tears across his right cheek and down his shoulder. It digs into Derek's arm, tossing the wolf into a tree trunk. His body limply falls to the ground and everything starts to get fuzzy, his wolf vision fading in and out. He can hear the Erchitu huffing faintly before blood spews out of his mouth, his lower abdomen punctured by the two large horns on top of the monster's head.
Derek's mouth opens to scream but no noise comes out. A gurgling in his throat brings a taste of copper pennies across his tongue. The monster drops Derek on the ground when the alpha gathers all his strength and slashes across the Erchitu's eyes. It roars and blindly charges into the woods, leaving Derek spitting out black, his body aching and burning.
—
Stiles is in front of his computer, furiously typing away on the MacBook. His mind is whirring a mile a minute and his chest is heavy because something doesn't feel right.
He knew leaving Derek in the forest was a bad idea. He's been kicking himself ever since he drove away. That thing was huge, it's entire body covered in hair. The horns on its head were massive, looking about two to three feet, pointed and ribbed.
He's writing down everything he remembers so he knows what to expect. He's trying to match the creature to the murders. He knows what's going on.
Stiles practically jumps out of his skin when he hears something bang against the roof, his heart fluttering in panic. He goes over to the window and a bloody hand reaches out against the glass, Derek's face inches behind it. Stiles shoves the window open and grabs the shreds of Derek's shirt to pull him inside the room before his exhausted body rolls off the roof.
Derek's wheezing, his mouth stained red. Blood trickles from a wound on his head and from his mouth, trails leading under his chin and down his neck. He has marks slashing across his stomach and down his shoulder, the blood starting to turn black.
"Oh my God," Stiles whispers, pulling off the shredded flannel.
"How bad is it?" Derek manages to breathe out.
Stiles examines him. He's fixed up Scott before but Scott's never had anything like this happen to him. "The 'oh my God' would've been for your incredible physique, but it's now for the fact that you're bleeding black blood," Stiles remembers the last time he saw the black blood. "Fuck, Derek, you're not dying, are you?"
Derek's body lay still on the floor.
"Derek?"
The alpha's head seems to bobble to the side, incoherent and fading.
"Derek, stay with me."
Stiles's heart thuds heavily in his ears, seeming to echo in his skull. He can't tell if Derek's breathing so he leans down to Derek's chest, listening for a heartbeat.
It's faint.
The teen reaches in his pocket and dials Deaton, getting voicemail. He tries again and again, becoming more frustrated, before he gives up and yells in rage, jolting Derek awake as the phone is thrown against the wall. Derek's head lolls to the side and his chest heaves before rising and falling slow and faint.
"Shit," Stiles reaches underneath his bed to pull out the first aid kit he keeps stashed under there, "I better still have fucking gauze."
He opens the kit and finds everything but gauze. "Fucking Scott," he mumbles, eyes trained on Derek. His clothes are dusted with purple and soil, leaves sticking to his jeans. The alpha stirs, coughing up blood, just as he did when he was shot in the forest a few days prior. "Shit, Derek. What've you gotten yourself into?" Stiles runs his fingers through the matted black hair on Derek's head before sprinting to the bathroom to run a bath. He turns both faucets and listens to the water pour into the tub before he hoists Derek to his feet and drags him to the bathroom.
Stripping Derek of his clothing, he lowers the wolf into the warm water with hopes that a little care would heal the wounds.
His heart beats terrifyingly fast as his hands reach for a washcloth from the cabinet under the sink. Stiles is shaking from nervousness as he turns the water off and starts dabbing at the wounds on the alpha's face.
"Derek," Stiles whispers, nausea washing over him in realization that he was losing Derek, "please don't die. Don't you dare leave me."
—
The bell rings faintly in the small clinic and Deaton's voice comes from the exam room. "We're closed."
Deaton senses that the person hasn't left and rolls his eyes, making his way to the front of the clinic. He sees the man standing next to the counter, dripping blood on the pristine tile floor.
"I need you to fix me up," he says, his voice without fear and thick with anger.
"We're closed," replies Deaton, his tone steady and unchanging.
The man chuckles, his white hair matted down with dirt and sweat, black blood dripping from a bite mark on his forearm and from his nose. A gash above his eyes dripped blood down his face.
"If you haven't noticed, this isn't a hospital. It's a veterinary clinic," Deaton continues, staying bolted to his place on the ground.
"Lucky for me then," the man's slight Canadian accent appears in his words and upon stepping into the ray of moonlight, he looks about in his sixties. He looks familiar to Deaton, but he isn't able to determine the man's identity. "Because I'm not human anymore." His eyes flash scarlet before horns start to sprout from his head, the bones in his body shifting until he's twice his original size. He towers over Deaton, huffing and roaring like a bull.
Deaton sighs, knowing full well if he doesn't help, he's dead. He pushes open the gate and the creature transforms back, the man smirking.
"It's been a while, Allen. Last I'd heard, you'd retired."
And Deaton immediately knows who it is. "Last I'd heard, you followed a code of conduct."
The man laughs a menacing laugh. "No code, not anymore."
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