3.

"You shouldn't be here," Derek says, tone tight and controlled. His back muscles tense, telling a completely different story from Stiles' vantage point. Stiles frowns and moves to step around him but Derek's arm shoots out to prevent him from doing so. "Stay," he orders, keeping his eyes trained on Peter.

Stiles pushes past him without bothering to conceal his growing annoyance. Derek's alpha male bravado is already starting to rub him the wrong way. "No," he tells him obstinately with a glare.

Peter chuckles at Stiles' blatant disobedience. "Well, isn't this interesting," he hums, gaze settling on Stiles' neck with an obvious leer. "I suppose he is the reason your homely abode smells like—"

"Peter," Derek cuts in dangerously. Stiles glances at him and the malice marring Derek's features makes uneasiness pool in his gut. "Tell me what you've come for and then leave."

Peter sighs through upturned lips. "So touchy," he says with the wave of a hand. "How your mother raised you to be so disrespectful is beyond me."

Derek continues growl, the noise low and rough in his throat.

Peter tilts his head. "Very well," he says, giving in too easily. "She heard you were having," he pauses and flickers his eyes briefly to Stiles before continuing vaguely, "an issue … so she dispatched me to help you be rid of it."

Derek straightens out at that, body going rigid. "I don't need your help."

Peter clicks his tongue. "Oh, but I think you do."

"Mother wouldn't have sent you," Derek says, eyes narrowing. "She would have sent Laura."

"You wound me," Peter says, smiling. "Laura is busy. So you get me. Don't look so thrilled," he mocks dryly. "Besides, I have information essential to your success. But, you're right. You don't need me. I'll just show myself out…" Peter stands and starts towards to door, taking slow and even steps.

"Wait," Stiles calls, stopping Peter's retreat. He turns to peer at Stiles. "Derek might not want your assistance, but I sure as hell do."

Peter's eyebrows rise at that. "Do you now?"

"Stiles," Derek seethes under his breath, "shut up."

"No, do go on," Peter urges with a predacious smile.

Stiles holds Peter's gaze even though the serious creeper vibes coming off the guy make his skin crawl. "What do you know about the Alpha? Do you know what—who—it is?"

"Derek told you about us," he hums, "how curious." Peter's gaze slides to the right, pausing on Derek for a beat. If Stiles thought the guy's smile was creepy before, Peter just managed to up the creep factor by a gazillion with the way he's leering at his own nephew, Jesus.

Derek stiffens. "It was necessary," he says tightly.

"Yeah, after he full on wolfed out in front of me," Stiles offers, hoping Peter will refocus his stare on him because it is seriously pissing him off the way he's watching Derek. Which is totally disturbing in of itself—since when did he start to care how others looked at Derek? He's known the guy for two days, seriously. Stiles pinches his face and rubs his left shoulder with his right hand, fidgeting nervously.

"Stiles," Derek snaps at him, eyes communicating murder.

"What?" he huffs. "It's not my fault you have horrible impulse control."

Peter is grinning now, eyes glowing bright blue and teeth sharping to scary points. "Allow me to extend my welcome," he purrs, stepping towards Stiles with his hand extended in greeting. As he closes in on him, Derek steps in between them, teeth barred.

"Alright, alright I get it," Peter says, hands up and face reverting back to normal as he steps back. "The 'do-not-touch' mark on his throat speaks loud and clear, nephew." Peter doesn't appear at all threatened by Derek, only mildly amused.

"'Do no touch'?" Stiles repeats, smacking Derek on the back. "What the hell, dude?"

Derek's ears flush bright red to Stiles' surprise and he clears his throat awkwardly. "It was for protection," he says deeply, frowning as he avoids looking Stiles directly in the eye.

Peter snorts. Snorts.

Derek glares, growl once again reverberating from deep within his diaphragm.

Stiles purposefully ignores the way his heart rate increases and throws his hands up in the air. "Enough with the growling already," he chastises, patting Derek on the shoulder as he moves to stand beside him.

Heaving a put-upon sigh, Derek spares him an annoyed side eye but makes no move shake his hand off. Weirdly, Stiles doesn't want to stop touching Derek and his chest jumps alarmingly at the thought. He removes his hand so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. Derek doesn't seem the least bit bothered by the loss of touch which makes Stiles' heart constrict painfully. And if that isn't disconcertingly bizarre on so many levels, he doesn't know what is.

Stiles clears his throat and focuses his attentions back on Peter. "Well," he begins, "since there's a rogue Alpha on the loose and all—care to tell us what you know oh, I don't know, sometime this century?"

"Cheeky," Peter says, nodding in approval. "I like you."

"The feeling is so not mutual, dude," Stiles replies, crossing his arms and frowning.

Derek almost looks smug.

"Shall we talk over dinner?" Peter asks, gesturing to the four to-go boxes sitting on the counter. "I bought Thai on the way over."

Stiles face brightens at the mention of food. He leaves Derek's side to hover over the to-go boxes. After he peeks underneath every lid, he settles on the Shrimp Pad Thai. He snatches up the box and plasticware before plopping down at the breakfast table with a wide grin. God, he's starving; which is insane because it's only two in the afternoon and he ate a few hours ago. However, he's a growing boy so his excessive appetite it excusable.

Stiles has a mouth full of fried noodles dangling from his chin when Derek slams his to-go box down next to him. "Stop stalling," he snaps at Peter, "and spit it out already."

Peter sits opposite both of them and just smiles eerily. The guy's smiles are seriously disturbing him. Stiles isn't sure what it is about the way his lips curve upwards, but dude, that is freaky pedophile-next-door material right there.

Derek stabs his food angrily. "Well?" he prods, lips twitching with thinly veiled rage.

"You remember Alpha Remus, I assume?" Peter starts lightly, clapping his hands together and leaning forward.

Derek grunts a yes.

"He, along with his entire pack, was killed little over a month ago." Peter's features darken, his lips thin out and his irises flash deadly blue before he composes himself. "At first we suspected hunters but there was something very peculiar about it all. The manner in which Remus had been murdered screamed he'd been killed by another werewolf—yet the rest of his pack lay around his carcass, dead and all accounted for."

"Hun-mph-ters?!" Stiles exclaims as he almost chokes on his food. Because, what?! He looks wildly at Derek who silences him with one of his annoyed not-right-now glares.

"Omega," Derek says automatically, pushing his food away with a grimace.

Peter smirks. "That is exactly what Laura said."

Derek sits back, eyes calculating. "It's the only explanation that makes sense."

"Unless," Peter drawls.

Stiles leans in, eyes bugged out as he listens attentively and gulps down the rest of his meal. "Un-mph-less?" he urges around his mouth full of food.

"We found several more bodies in the surrounding woods. Human. Every single one of them had been bitten, two died from the transformation and the other three silt their own throats." Peter leans back, eyebrows raised. "Now tell me, why would an Omega kill the Alpha's pack, the Alpha, and then try and turn hunters?"

Derek makes a harsh sound in the back of his throat, twists his lips into a grim frown and furrows his eyebrows in consideration.

Stiles swallows the rest of his food in one gulp. "Maybe aliens did it?" he suggests. Derek glowers at him and Peter smirks. "What?" he says, half offended. "If freaking werewolves can exist, who's to say E.T. isn't a homicidal murderer that traveled through space to become a werewolf?" Stiles pauses, wrinkling his brows. "How do you become a werewolf anyway?" He scowls at Derek, who is still glaring at him. "We never got that far in our Werewolves Are Real And The Alpha Wants You In His Creepy Pack speech."

Derek kicks him under the table, the asshole.

"Derek and I were born werewolves. It is in our DNA, the very fabric of who we are. We have never been human," Peter informs him. "However, in order for a human to become a werewolf they must be bitten by an Alpha. The bite either turns them or kills them." He says it so very casually, as if the threat of death isn't horrible at all. Oh no, just regular conversation. Move along, nothing to see here.

"Dude, that is beyond fucked up," Stiles replies, leaning back in his chair uncomfortably and glancing curiously at Derek, who only grimaces back at him in return.

"To you, perhaps." Peter cocks his head to the side and lets his gaze linger on Stiles. He's silent for several moments before he speaks. "The Alpha wants you." It is not a question.

And, great, Derek's back to growling again.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Would you quit that?" he complains, nudging Derek in the side with his elbow.

"No," Derek retorts.

"Whatever, you overgrown man-child."

Derek bares his teeth at him. "You're the child."

"Children," Peter interrupts, "do behave."

Derek and Stiles both glare at him simultaneously.

Peter straightens out the front of his blazer and gets to his feet. "I've a phone call to make," he announces suddenly, suspicious glint in his eyes. "I'll just be moment, no need to miss me."

Derek snorts and—consciously or subconsciously, Stiles isn't sure—leans in closer to him. Peter pulls a cellphone from his pocket and saunters out the front door. The mood without him is surprisingly ambient.

Stiles sighs, darts his eyes from Derek's unfinished meal to his face. "You going to finish that?"

Derek slides the box over without a word.

By the time Peter reenters the cabin, Stiles has finished off the rest of Derek's leftovers and migrated to the couch. Derek had followed him, sitting on the opposite end, grumpy frown in place. If Stiles was disappointed that he'd chosen not to sit down next to him, well, he'll just keep that to himself.

"Who did you call?" Derek asks, glowering at Peter.

"No one of consequence," Peter replies. He stops at the couch, hovering right behind where Stiles is sitting. "Why? Worried?"

Derek's lips twist back into a soundless snarl.

Peter chuckles.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Could the two of you quit your metaphorical pissing contest?" Thankfully, neither of them feels the compulsion to answer his rhetorical question. Stiles pulls his knees into his chest and grumbles to himself. His earlier irritation is back. Leave it to Scott to get him sucked into some sort of freaky supernatural war. Worse still, is leaving him to deal with awkward werewolf family relations by his lonesome. He wants to bang his head against a wall. No, scratch that—he wants to bang Scott's head against a wall. Repeatedly. Preferably while laughing manically.

Perhaps the most awful of all is the way he can feel Peter's demented laser beam eyes boring into the back of his skull. He twitches and turns his body as far away from the other man as possible. His whole body itches and he just wishes that Peter would go far, far away from him damnit. He feels uncomfortable and hot all over. His stomach twists fretfully so he begins to tap his fingers anxiously in an effort to distract himself.

"Stiles," Derek rumbles, his voice greeting Stiles' ears like an old, familiar friend which is weird and doesn't make sense. He stares at him just as Peter is, but his gaze is somehow different. It doesn't set him on edge or freak him out. Instead, it pulls at something inside of him—something he can't quite place—and bleeds the tension from his shoulders.

Derek breaks his gaze to regard Peter with a touch of irritation. "Quit staring," he demands, voice scratchy and deep.

"Was I?" Peter questions offhand. He smirks, the bastard. He knows exactly how uncomfortable his creepy staring was making him.

"Yes," Derek says, tone clipped, "you were."

Peter hums and moves away from the couch, instead choosing to loom in the corner of the kitchenette.

Derek frowns and removes his campaign hat from his head, setting it on the coffee table with a gentle hand. He shifts awkwardly for a moment, looks as if he is going to say something before frowning and sinking back into the couch, expression dour.

It is silent for several uncomfortable minutes.

"Well," Stiles pipes up, "this isn't awkward or anything."

Derek glares pointedly at Peter, who heaves a sigh. "All you two lovebirds had to say was you need a little alone time," he says, making eyes at Stiles while pulling a smarmy grin.

Stiles flushes. "What—lovebirds?!—what—"

"Go find Scott," Derek growls at Peter, interrupting Stiles' sputtering.

"And where would I find your little protégé?" Peter asks lightly.

"Figure it out," Derek snarls as he turns away from him, effectively ending the conversation.

Peter mouths the words at Derek's back mockingly. He spares Stiles a smirk, crosses the room and vanishes through the front door, pep in his step.

Stile shudders. "Is your whole family that creepy or is dear old Uncle Peter just a special basket case?"

"He has his reasons," Derek responds, being purposely vague as usual.

"So," Stiles drawls, "werewolves. Feel like elaborating? Sharing? Maybe? No? Okay. That's fine. One just wants to bite me, possible maim me, it's cool. I'm totally okay with being a scary, growling, glowy-eyed werewolf chew toy. Definitely makes my top ten list of shit I wanted to happen in my life."

Derek rolls his eyes, but Stiles swears he sees an almost-smile. He relaxes for the first time and levels his gaze on Stiles. "What do you want to know?"

Stiles has never smiled so big in his life.

He spends the next couple of hours quizzing Derek on everything that pops into his head, which includes a few choice topics that make Derek's face flush and sputter incoherently. ("Where did you even hear about half of that?" "The internet man, surely you've heard of it?") He learns that in a pack there are Alphas and Betas; lone wolves without a pack are called Omegas. Derek explains that the reason the rogue Alpha is so desperate for willing members is because the bigger the pack, the stronger the Alpha.

So the evening goes, Stiles chatting away while Derek nods and grunts his way through the rapid fire questioning. ("Any superwolf powers I should be aware of?" "Superwolf? Really?" "Dude, you so have some sort of weird wolf superpowers!") Stiles feels at ease as his mind whirls away, absorbing all of Derek's answers with his sponge of a brain. He finds werewolf anatomy especially fascinating. Derek even slices open his palm to demonstrate their accelerated healing which, so cool, holy shit. ("Do it again!" "Stiles.") Eventually they ease into casual conversation and Stiles' questions go from supernatural in origin to simple, ordinary questions you'd ask any new acquaintance.

"Ugh," Stiles groans at long last, "throat's dry." He clears his throat. "Guess I've been talking too much," he admits sheepishly.

Derek smirks at him indulgently, eyes going soft. "You are allowed to get water," he tells him, arching an amused brow.

"Ha ha," Stiles retorts. "I was under the impression I was your prisoner." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and hops to his feet, padding over to the kitchen sink. He shuffles through the cabinets until he finds a clean glass and turns on the faucet. He hums to himself as he watches the glass fill with water. Suddenly, foreign fingers are brushing over the nape of his neck and he jerks at the unexpected touch, glass slipping from his grasp. It clatters into the sink with a jarring clang. The fingers tighten around his neck when he tries to turn around.

"Don't move," Derek husks into his ear, warm breath ghosting over the exposed expanse of his neck. Stiles freezes as Derek pushes in closer, forcing his front to bump against the counter. He feels Derek's body flush against him, solid and warm. He swallows thickly, fighting off his own surmounting arousal as best he can. He loses that battle when Derek leans forward, presses his face into a sensitive patch of skin, and inhales deeply. His hands wind around Stiles' torso, fingers fondling with the hem of his jeans.

Stiles finds his voice then. "O-Okay," he stammers, "care to explain the sniffing and excessive touching?" Not that he's complaining, per se, but damn if he isn't confused. Trust his traitorous body to melt against Derek's like their bodies pressed together is the most natural thing in the world. It's freaking him out how not freaked out he is.

Derek stiffens against him as if suddenly realizing he is shamelessly groping Stiles. Quite enthusiastically, to boot.

"Do I smell like thanksgiving dinner or something?" he asks with a nervous twinge. He gulps, back tracking. "Actually, don't answer that. I don't want to know if I smell like turkey. That would be… weird. Yeah. Definitely weird. I don't smell like turkey, do I? Oh god, I do, don't I?"

"Stiles," Derek groans against his neck and, oh, well, that feels… nice. He swallows again, because yeah, shit, he's already at half-mast.

"Sorry," Stiles apologizes, "I babble when I'm nervous. And you, ah, you make me nervous? So incredibly nervous." His voice increases in pitch as he speaks, heart hammering in his chest like a ricocheting bullet.

Derek grips Stiles' hips hard enough to bruise and mouths at his skin with increasing vigor. "Shit, Stiles," he moans. Moans—for crying out loud! "Your scent is—" he cuts himself abruptly, lurching away from Stiles in one quick (awful, awful) movement. Stiles whimpers at the loss of touch and peers over his shoulder. His cheeks are flushed, his dick standing at attention and Jesus he wants Derek touching him again like right fucking now.

Those thoughts get shot straight to hell, however, when Stiles takes in Derek's expression. His nostrils are flared, his eyes have gone wide, glowing brilliant blue as his ears lengthen to points. His lips slowly rear back into a snarl and he almost looks alarmed. "Derek?" Stiles asks cautiously. "Why are you all… wolfy?"

"Blood," Derek snarls, "I smell blood."

Stiles pales. "What?"

As if on cue, the front door bangs open, revealing Scott who has Peter sagging at his side, arm slung underneath his armpits in an effort to keep him up right. Peter's entire right side is coated in startling crimson and his shirt is torn beyond recognition. His eyes lull back in pain as he groans, the sound of it garbled and horrible. The skin around the wound is frayed and grotesque. Stiles stares a little too long and almost loses his lunch all over the hard wood floor.

Scott lays Peter on the couch gently and Stiles silently mourns the upholstery as he bleeds all over it. Derek is on the other side of the room in flurry of movement, his hand fisting into Scott's shirt as he snarls, "what happened?"

"He ambushed us," Scott rasps, fear rattling in the timbre of his voice. His eyes shine a brilliant gold as he flickers his gaze to Stiles. Suddenly he's tearing away from Derek and stomping over towards him. His hands land on Stiles' shoulder with surprising gentleness. "Don't freak out," Scott says, doing a really horrible job of not freaking out himself. "But there are people and wolves and people who turn into—"

"Scott," Stiles interjects, "I know you're a teenage mutant ninja werewolf."

For a moment, Scott merely gapes at him and then he turns a sharp glare on Derek. "You told him?!"

"Not the time McCall," Derek growls, glaring Scott into submission.

"Dude," Scott says abruptly, staring at Stiles' throat, "what happened to your neck?"

Stiles blinks at Scott, allows his brain to catch up and then flushes in embarrassment. "Uh—I—uh—" he stumbles, eyes darting towards Derek against his will.

Scott follows his gaze and then his eyes widen in realization. "No," he says, face scrunching up in disbelief. And then, "really?"

Derek is burning a hole into the side of his head so Stiles just gulps down the suffocating panic within his chest and manages a small, awkward nod.

"Woah Stiles, I didn't know you were into gu—"

"—as heartwarming as your conversation is… surely it can wait until I'm no longer spilling my insides all over my nephews couch?" Peter interrupts, still managing to be a snarky bastard even while bleeding to death.

Scott has the peace of mind to at least appear sheepish. "Sorry," he murmurs, shuffling away from Stiles and back towards the couch.

Stiles frowns. "Why isn't he healing?" he asks Derek.

"Alpha bites are different," Derek replies stiffly. "We heal slower when wounded by one." He bends down then and presses his fingers into Peter's wound. Stiles watches in wonder as Derek's veins bleed to black, pulsing and throbbing up the length of his arm. His face is pensive, intently focused as he frowns heavily in muted discomfort.

Peter seems to relax somewhat as the haze fades from his eyes. Derek goes to retract his arm but halts when Peter's hand snaps outward to grapple for his forearm. "Thank you…" he croaks, giving a weak squeeze before letting his arm fall back down to his side once more.

Derek nods.

"What did you just do?" Stiles questions immediately. He is barely able to contain his excitement. "'Cause that was wicked!"

"I took some of his pain," Derek responds, flexing his hand and wincing, "he should be able to heal much quicker now."

That is when Stiles notices Derek looks more than a bit ashen. He moves towards him and places a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Hey, you okay?"

Derek relaxes into his touch. "I'm fine," he grunts in reply.

"Really? Because you don't look like you're fine at all," Stiles states. He catches Derek's startled gaze as he shifts to look at him.

Derek swallows as his face tightens. "I will be," he assures, staring at Stiles as if he is something of wonder, something to be cherished. It does funny things to his insides and he has to look away before his heart jumps out through his mouth.

"Guys," Scott says, on the edge of panic. "We don't have time for this! I wasn't able to mask our scents so the Alpha is probably on his way—"

Two distinct howls reverberate from the outside of the cabin.

"—here," Scott finishes with a whine. "Crap!"

Derek's face morphs in a split second, twisting into something more than human: something almost entirely animalistic. Stiles takes a startled breath and steps back in amazement. A quick glance at Scott confirms he has shifted as well, his own face mirroring Derek's in its abnormality. Everything strikes him as so very surreal. Stiles pinches himself just to make sure he is, in fact, not hallucinating.

And suddenly Derek is all up in his face, teeth snapping and eyes boring into him. "Stay here," he growls, reminding Stiles just how inhuman he is. "Do not, under any circumstance, leave the cabin," he grips Stiles' shoulder tightly, "do you understand me?"

Stiles scoffs, indigent. "You think you can order me around?" he challenges. Not that he's going to play the hero, cause let's face it, he isn't one. He isn't particularly brave either, to be quite frank.

"I'm serious," Derek snarls, shaking him with more force than necessary.

"Right. Human, squishy and breakable. Gotcha," Stiles grumbles to himself.

Derek walks away from him in a huff, turns to face Scott and signals towards the front door. Scott nods in agreement. Derek throws out his arms dramatically (Stiles just barely holds back a snort) and his nails grow into sharp, dangerous points. He throws Stiles once last glance before stalking out of the cabin with purpose.

Scott goes to follow suit, briefly stopping before Stiles to say "don't be a dumbass," and then he's flying out the door, his own claws extended.

"Great," Stiles mutters, glaring at Peter. "Guess I'm stuck with you?"

Peter gives him a toothy, pained grin. "I didn't take you for one to give up so easily."

That gets Stiles' attention. "Well, unlike you, I actually rather like my insides to stay on the inside my body," he counters.

Peter chuckles at that and casts his gaze skyward.

Stiles' body tenses when he hears the first signs of a fight erupting just beyond the thin wooden walls. The sounds are chilling, all scrapping noises and growling; howls of pain, roars of vengeance. He curls both hands into fists, nails digging into the soft flesh of his palm. He closes his eyes and tries not to think of Scott being torn to pieces or Derek writhing in pain as a freaking rogue Alpha tears out his throat. He can feel the panic building in the back of his throat, the ever present reminder that no one is immortal. That someone he values, loves, can be torn away from him with so little effort.

He opens his eyes with a gasp and suddenly the world is exploding in a rush of violence and shattering glass. It is as if times ceases to be tangible and the timeline slows, happening in vicious bursts of action. He sees the man before him, comprehends that he isn't human, that he is a werewolf and he should be terrified of the blood dripping from its mouth, of the way its golden eyes narrow with malicious intent. But he can't move; he's frozen. His heart slows and his fingers twitch. And then everything just moves. His legs fumble without his permission, dragging him towards the fireplace to his immediate right. His fingers are curling around a fire iron and then he's swinging with everything he has. The iron makes contact with the werewolf's head and a sickening crack! resounds.

Stiles drops the fire iron in surprise as pain blasts in rough bursts from his wrist. He notes absently that it's probably broken as he watches the werewolf stumble back a few paces, looking momentarily dazed.

Peter is there in front of him suddenly. "Go!" he shouts and Stiles doesn't think twice, he bolts through the gaping hole in the wall. He only just keeps from tripping all over himself, arms flailing as he steps outside into the fading light of sunset. He sees Scott, registers that he's unhurt and he scans for Derek, stumbling his away towards his regulation vehicle, head buzzing and wrist throbbing. As his sight fades in and out of focus, he spots the gun rack on the back of Derek's truck, sporting one glorious shotgun. He swears and prays to God it's loaded.

He skids to a stop next to the truck, feet sliding through the snow. He grapples for the gun, his working hand stiff and numb from the cold. He fights with the gun for a moment before pulling it free and stumbling backwards, damn near shooting himself in the face. He hears the sounds of snapping teeth and ripping skin; it chills him more thoroughly than the cold ever could. He snaps around, fighting with the gun, checking hurriedly to make sure it's loaded. He almost cries in relief when he sees that is. Two shells. Double barrel. He's got this.

"Stiles!"

Derek.

Derek is shouting his name.

He looks around wildly and sees why there was so much fear in Derek's voice, so much terror and pain and anguish. The Alpha's bright red eyes are trained on him and its lips are drawn back into a blood chilling snarl. Its claws dig into the grass and it leaps for him, all raw power and taunt muscle. It's quick, but he's quicker. He brings the shotgun up, aims, and fires.

The pellets strike the Alpha in the face and it jolts back in pain, blood spurting from is face as it lets out a growl of pure anger.

He finds Derek at his side immediately, all hot rage and panicked concern. "Are you an idiot?!" he roars.

Stiles feels quite offended because he hit the bastard werewolf right in the face, damn it! That has to earn him some 'you're a good human' points I mean c'mon. "What?" he snaps as Derek grips him by the arm hard and hauls him across the lawn, away from the temporarily blinded Alpha. "At least I hit it?! What more do you want from me?"

"You don't shoot a werewolf," he growls in reply, "It's only going to make him more angry!"

"Oh shit."

"Exactly, 'Oh shit'!—fuck, fuck, run!" Derek's pushes him to the ground just as the Alpha closes in on them, rearing its ugly head and sinking its teeth savagely into his shoulder. Derek screams in pained rage as Stiles can only stare helplessly in shock. He hears Derek's bones crack and crunch, watches as his face contorts in agony and it makes his chest ache in the worst way. Derek's eyes flash blue as he tries to rip himself out of the Alpha's clenched tight jaw. "GO!" he cries, looking at Stiles with a pleading expression, one so broken and raw it makes Stiles' chest seize up.

Scott swoops in like a prayer, brandishing his claws and stabbing them into the back of the Alpha's neck. It lets out a surprised roar and releases Derek from it's jaws. He stumbles forward and falls straight into Stiles' waiting arms. Scott leads the blind Alpha away from where Derek and Stiles lay in a heap on the ground. Stiles loses focus then, everything bleeding into the background because he can't breathe. Derek's dying and he can't breathe.

Derek wheezes in Stiles' arms and makes a whining, blood bubbling noise in his throat. "Oh my god," Stiles whimpers as he pulls Derek in closer to him. His hands become so smeared in blood it makes him want to vomit. His own pain dissolves into the background, his broken wrist forgotten. And oh, god they are so fucked. So incredibly fucked it really isn't funny. "C'mon Derek," he groans into his wet and matted hair, "you can't die on me yet. I mean, that would be extremely unfair. We have this whole unresolved sexual tension thing going on, and your weird smelling thing, which I honestly don't mind as much as I probably should, so you just can't die, not until I've at least gotten a taste of your lips, I mean seriously," he babbles, grip tightening around Derek's torso, "god, this is so messed up."

"Stiles," Derek croaks into his neck, "please be quiet."

Stiles laughs hysterically because Derek is talking which means he hasn't bled to death. Can that even happen to werewolves? Can they bleed to death? Cause he sure as hell doesn't know!

He looks up just in time to see Scott force the Alpha to shift into an older looking gentleman. He presses down on his neck and forces the man to his knees. "Who are you?" Scott yells at him, demanding.

The man's face is all kinds of misconstrued; his eyes are red from the copious amounts of blood dripping down his cheeks and his nose hangs loosely to one side, ripped up and fleshy. His lips, however, curl up into a nasty smile. "I'm your future."

That sends chills down Stiles' spine.

The unknown man chooses that moment to twist out of Scott's grip, kick him to the side and haul ass into the forest. Scott snarls and looks as if he is going to chase him when Peter's voice breaks through all of the chaos, "let him go, Scott. I know who he is."

Stiles looks towards Peter who has the werewolf from before by the neck. He is gangly and looks sacred out of his mind; Stiles almost feel sorry for the guy. And then Peter's eyes go cold, his face turns vicious and he snaps the werewolf's neck in one swift and final crack. He drops him on to the ground like discarded garbage and steps over his corpse as if it were nothing.

Stiles doubles over and retches into the grass. When he finishes, he wipes the excess vomit from his mouth, accidentally smearing Derek's blood across as he does.

Peter peers at him curiously.

Scott balks. "What the fuck did you do that for?" he seethes angrily, shaking in rage.

"He was a complication," Peter says flippantly.

"You can't just murder people!" Scott screams.

Stiles' throat burns from the acid of his own vomit, but he can feel Derek breathing against his neck so he focuses on his warm puffs of breath instead.

"If you want to blame someone for his murder," Peter says, "you can thank Gerard Argent, the man who you previously had kneeling in submission at your feet."

Scott inhales sharply. "Argent?" he repeats, looking lost and grief stricken all at once.

Peter ignores Scott and strides towards where Stiles and Derek rest, crumpled into one another.

"Shall we go inside?" Peter asks, gently extracting Derek from Stiles' grip and hauling him up right. "There's been enough excitement for today."

Stiles nods and follows him inside, cradling his injured hand numbly.

Thanks for reading! Reviews loved, concrit welcome.

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I should update within the week.