Summary: An hour has passed, and a choice has been made. And who knew guns were that loud?

Stiles' determination nearly shattered when they dragged Derek into the room.

By now the werewolf's clothes were almost completely shredded, barely more than scraps of bloodied cloth sticking to his body. His dark hair hung lank and sweaty over his forehead, and his skin was an unhealthy pallor. There was blood oozing from several still unhealed wounds.

And he was unconscious.

It felt like an icy hand constricted Stiles' heart. Of course the hunters had made sure the werewolf would not be able to attack them. Of course he'd be rendered helpless so he couldn't resist what was going to happen to him.

Couldn't resist what Stiles would do to him.

There would be no 'goodbyes', no softly spoken words, no last shared looks. No opportunity to apologize, to ask for forgiveness, or be given absolution.

No last kiss.

Stiles watched in silence as one of the men approached him, then proceeded to undo the restraints around his wrists and ankles. After being yanked out of the chair he almost lost his balance, legs gone numb from being forced into the same position for so long.

A strong hand wrapped around his upper arm, steadying him before he hit the floor.

"Don't even think of trying anything funny, kid."

He turned to look at the man uttering the threat, then slowly shook his head. No, he wouldn't try anything. There was no use in trying anything anymore; no use in resisting.

This was it.

The men holding Derek dragged him to the center of the room, then released him. The werewolf didn't utter a sound as he was dumped unceremoniously on the hard floor, crumbling into a heap.

The sight tore through Stiles' heart.

All the times they had fought and battled, and walked away the winner. All the times they had managed to best whatever unspeakable evil had come slouching into their town. All the times they had howled and screamed out their victory.

All the times they had exchanged hugs, and looks. And lately, tentative kisses.

All those times had been for nought.

In the end, they'd lost.

A rough shove against his back sent him tumbling towards what he'd come to see as the leader of the hunters. The man looked at him, then snapped open his holster and took out his gun, slapping it into Stiles' hand.

He looked down at the piece of cold, deadly metal. It felt strange and alien, and a wave of revulsion coursed through his body. This was what he was supposed to use. This was what he was going to kill Derek with.

This was so wrong!

Then again, he knew with absolute certainty that he could never allow the other option, could never allow the hunters to kill Derek. The werewolf had already experienced so much pain in his life, the least Stiles could do for him was try and make his death as painless as possible.

He shuddered.

Forcing himself to turn away from the man, he looked at the unmoving body on the floor, took a few halting steps forward.

"Go on, kid. Get this over with. We haven't got all day."

For a moment, the gruff and uncaring voice caused anger to flare up. They wanted him to hurry up. Wanted him to move on and put this animal out of its misery so they could finish up and leave; go back to their homes, to their wives, to their kids.

He turned around, fist clenched around the weapon.

"What happens if I don't ... if I refuse?"

The leader shrugged.

"Like I said. We'll string the mutt up and experiment some more, see how much his body can take before it gives out." The man looked pensive for a moment. "There's still a lot to be learned about this breed's resilience to pain, to torture." He shrugged again. "Doesn't really matter either way, as far as I'm concerned."

Stiles barely had the chance to breathe a retort before the man jumped forward and wrapped a hand around his throat, squeezing his airway shut.

"But I can promise you that it will be the both of you hanging from those chains. And I know for a fact that a human body can't take nearly as much pain as one of those dogs!"

Stars appeared at the edge of Stiles' vision, the snarling words of the man sounding as if they started coming through a thick fog. He desperately clawed at the hand around his throat, anxious to draw in air.

The next moment he was released.

"I can also promise you that you'll both go out painlessly if you use the gun. Up to you."

The man stepped back, eyes locked on Stiles' as the boy gulped in much needed air, suddenly terrified again. He couldn't do this! He couldn't just shoot Derek, just end his life like the dog these man viewed him to be.

But what other option was there?

He angrily wiped away the tears and snot that had started to accumulate, steadying the gun in his hand. He had this. He did. He could do this. He had to do this.

For Derek.

Turning around, he took a few steps towards the werewolf, then sunk down to his knees. Using his left hand, he gently pushed away the strands of dark hair falling over the face, then stroked the still cheek. He wished he had the chance to see those beautiful eyes again, to be able to share one last look.

But then, maybe it was better this way.

Steeling his resolve, he raised his right hand, placing the muzzle directly against Derek's forehead.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so, so sorry, Derek. But I'm doing this because I lo ... because I love you."

He didn't heed the disgusted snorts behind him, blanking his mind from everything but this one thing he had to do.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again.

He gripped the gun with both hands, steadying it, holding it still against its unmoving target, and took a deep, trembling breath.

The next moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, then pulled the trigger.

The gun's report was deafening.