Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dawn, daybreak had come just as swiftly as its fated departure. In the depths of Beacon Hills’ streets, a two story house was relatively silent within that familiar witching hour. Inevitably, out of the two slumbering individuals that were inside the house, the elder of the home had awoken with the rise in natural lighting that streamed through his window. A grumble followed as he rose from his ruffled bedding, and began to quickly prepare for his day.

Once fully attired in his sheriff uniform, the elder strolled over to his son’s bedroom door. Without much preamble, Noah Stilinski barged into his son’s bedroom as he knocked on the door. A humanoid lump on the bed shifted at the abrupt eruption of noise. The sheriff found himself chuckling with a fond shake of his head. All the while, Noah opened the curtains as he kicked clothing and books out of his walk path. With a huff, he finally addressed his slowly awakening son, Mieczysław ‘Stiles’ Stilinski. “Up you get, Stiles. You’re riding with me, since you're still grounded and all.” The terse grumble and scream into a pillow that followed in response left Noah to chuckle as he left the room. “Breakfast will be ready soon, don’t make me waste good food kid.”

With those final words, Noah had thumped his way out of the room, and subsequently down the stairs towards the kitchen. Stiles, ever the enjoyer of sleep, nearly found his mind’s eye falling into the depths of his darkened dreamscape, yet a sudden shout of his name from downstairs reminded him of the urgency. As if Noah had known his son wouldn’t fully awaken on the first try. Slowly, Stiles' diminutive form rolled onto the floor with a harsh thump. Which prompted Noah to smirk from his location in the kitchen, as he prepared their breakfast. Stiles’ increasingly supple, yet slim, form protested greatly within the depths of his muscles’ tissues with every lethargic movement he made towards the restroom.

Eventually, he had bathed and dressed himself in a form hugging Batman shirt, and jeans that had grown rather tight in recent weeks given that Stiles had gained weight. He frowned as he acknowledged the newfound struggle of putting on his jeans, but quickly went on to finish his morning routine. Although, that morning had been different than usual. The night prior had revealed the very depths of Stiles’ mystical aptitude after another near death experience. A caress of ancient power that had lodged itself within his spiritual body. And whenever he dared to stroke the supernatural power within him, in that moment, a surge of knowledge poured into his mind. He remembered the night before, wistful images of his argument with his father about his activities with Derek and Scott scorched the surface of his mind’s eye. Stiles had been emotionally charged enough to swing a (figurative)sledgehammer successfully, an amount of anger that had somehow unlocked the ‘spark’ within him.

“So.. that’s new. Wicked. Reddit forums, here I come…” The short haired brunette mumbled to himself as his fingertips padded against his pinkened bottom lip in thought. However, before he could even take a step in the direction of his computer, his father had stood in the doorway of his bedroom once more.

“Where are your shoes? You’ve got ten minutes, I forgot to take my medication, so fifteen at most.” Noah sternly mentioned as he made sure to lock eyes with Stiles before he walked off. “And breakfast is ready, also don't forget your meds either, I promise I didn’t cook anything the doctor vetoed..” The sheriff called over his shoulder, which spurred Stiles into dressing entirely after he took his medicine.

The scent of bacon and waffles flooded Stiles’ senses, enough so that he wasn’t able to notice that he was feeling waves of emotions that were not his own. Stiles only knew that the emotional sensation of calm urgency had made sense, due to the expectation of his school attendance. After grabbing a satchel he had recently started using for school, due to his prior backpack being ripped in a regularly occurring supernatural brawl, Stiles jogged down the stairs and swiftly into the kitchen. He loudly plopped his thickened bottom into a chair, and quickly made a plate for himself with the food his father hadn’t eaten.

“Wow, three minutes to spare kiddo, look at that.” Noah teased as he struggled to fasten his watch around his wrist, a sight that left Stiles to stand up from his chair with a roll of his eyes and with bacon stuck between his lips as he approached his father. Stiffly, he gently took over for John and fastened the watch with relative ease. Which resulted in an impromptu hug from his dad, before the sheriff spoke again. “You ready? We should be headin’ out soon.” Noah moved away after a brief moment, which released Stiles to freely gather up the dishes to be placed within the sink.

After he had retrieved his satchel from the back of the seat he’d eaten breakfast on, Stiles jogged after his father, out of the house. The ride to work and school was filled with silence, despite their cordial nature with one another, the Stilinski duo were still in complete disagreement about Stiles’ friend group. “Look kid, you know that I only want the best for you. I just can’t lose you too..” Noah whispered the last sentence as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, a firm tension settled over the atmosphere of the car. In the corner of his eye, Noah could see Stiles’s grip tighten on his satchel, yet the eighteen year old remained silent.

“… I’ll be here to pick you up after school, don’t get a ride home from someone else, and don’t use your own car, Stiles. I meant it.” The sheriff said with a tense tone to his voice, he placed an arm around the back of Stiles' seat and leaned in to appear more steadfast in his assertions. Consequently, Stiles slightly flinched away from him yet nodded quickly before exiting the police vehicle as they stopped in front of Beacon Hills High School.

Internally, Stiles knew his father’s concerns were indeed well placed, yet the younger Stilinski had already committed to the defense of his friends. He was quite literally stuck between a rock, and a hard place. He brushed those thoughts aside in favor of acknowledging the approach of his childhood companion, Scott McCall. “Hey man, good morning. You seen Allison?” Scott questioned without much care for greeting Stiles properly, without a nostalgic handshake. As a result, Stiles merely scoffed with a shake of his head before marching his way towards the entrance of the school.

“HEY! You didn’t answer my question, what’s got you in a mood dude?” Scott continued after he had caught up to his uncharacteristically silent best friend. From Scott’s perspective, Stiles appeared the same as any other day, except that the human wasn’t rambling and the fact that Stiles had gained a noticeable amount of weight in recent weeks. “Come on, Stiles. Talk to me. What’s going on?” Scott questioned as they slowly reached their school lockers.

“Hm?” Stiles hummed in response as the words finally sunk into his psyche. Truthfully, he had been distracted by the growing level of annoyance within his own emotional spectrum. Usually he wasn’t even aware of his emotions after he had taken his medication, yet that day he could feel the very roots of his own feelings. Although, he had never started a school day feeling annoyed, without any provocation. Even the reprimanding discussion with his father hadn’t been that bad. That thought invoked a hum from within him until he was standing in front of his personal locker, with Scott’s worried form hovering just beside him. Stiles had even acknowledged the fact that he was suddenly reflecting Scott’s emotional state, at that moment, given that Stiles found himself worrying about the heated conversation he had with his dad.

“Nothing.. I just.. you know my dad hasn’t been in agreement with our… late night runs through the woods. Especially whenever he continues to find..” Stiles trailed off whenever he felt, not ‘saw’, but felt the very moment Scott’s attention abandoned him in favor of acknowledging Allison’s appearance, and subsequent approach. “Whatever, we’ll talk about it later. Have fun dude, hey Allison.” Stiles quickly grumbled out as he gathered items from his locker quickly, before closing the locker with a soft thud, and fleeing their impromptu love fest in the middle of the hallway.

Without much preamble, Stiles had quickly entered his first period of the day with his head down until he reached his seat. Once within the comfort of his familiar seat, Stiles looked around with amber colored eyes to note that the room was relatively empty, beyond another student he had never spoken with. Even in that moment, Stiles had felt emotions that hadn’t appeared to be his own. Given that he had originally felt relatively calm, free of fear in that moment, yet he suddenly felt afraid of the future. Anxious, a mental state that was more aligned with the jittery student that was drumming their fingers on their desk within the classroom.

For a moment, Stiles cupid bow shaped lips parted in preparation to check on the other student, but he was interrupted by the arrival of the teacher for their chemistry class. Not to mention the amount of students that flowed in after the arrival of the teacher. All of which inspired Stiles to forget about the anxious student, as various emotions flooded his mind and consumed his undivided attention. Ever the clumsy student, Stiles abruptly stood the moment the school bell resonated throughout the building. Twenty sets of eyes fell upon him with haste as he offered a bashful cough into his fist.

“Sorry, sorry. There was a.. bug. Don’t worry, I… I got it.” Stiles lamely lied. His reaction had been a result of the sudden and unprompted amount of twisted anger rolling off of their teacher in methodical waves. At least, that was Stiles' mental interpretation of the sensation he’s experiencing. He couldn’t help but equate his sudden level of empathy to the fact that he had experienced the true depths of his mystical potential as a spark.

“If you’re done interrupting, and behaving like a child, Mr. Stilinski. Then we can begin class.. turn to page three hundred and ninety four, now!” The teacher, Mrs. Jules, tersely shouted as she glared at each of her students. Her attire appeared ruffled, unusual for the usually prim and proper woman. Not to mention the obnoxious coffee stain lining the front of her blouse. A feature that Stiles had trouble ignoring, as laughter had threatened to bubble from within him.

Thankfully, he found the will to remain silent as he followed her instructions. In the midst of each student finding the correct page, an abrupt scream erupted from the front of the classroom. The scream had been loud enough to force everyone to cover their ears. Yet most of their eyes were able to discern the origin of the screech. Mrs. Jules was bent over, clutching her abdomen. A closer look revealed that her nails were ripping slowly into her own skin. That pinching sensation of pain was felt by Stiles, enough so that he deduced he had developed a supernatural ability, similar to Jean Grey from Marvel Comics.

He swallowed thickly as he nervously stood in preparation to go assist the obviously mad woman. Although, the moment his chair’s leg scraped against the floor, her head snapped upwards as she settled her eerie and dark gaze upon Stiles. A sinister cough followed her acknowledgment. With globs of blackened blood seeping from the corners of her lips, which forced the students to scream in terror. Only Stiles remained silent, his apprehension was clear as his foot began to nervously tap.

“Are you alrigh..” Before he could even finish, Mrs. Jules violently leapt forward, as much as her frail body allowed. She collided with a student that had been frozen in a silent scream. Instantly she started to rip into the child’s flesh and clothing with meaty handfuls. At the first sign of blood, Stiles raced forward and attempted to push the woman off of the student, yet he was tackled by another body the moment he touched her shoulder.

A sharp gasp left him, the air escaped his lungs as their combined body weight slammed entirely onto the ground. Stiles groaned, but he hadn’t the luxury of being disoriented as the individual that had tackled him began pulling at his incredibly short hair and favorite Batman shirt. The first bite of pain from each tug ignited the age-old survival instinct within Stiles, not to mention the amount of emotional energy that he was absorbing from the skin contact with the other student. Blindly, he swung his elbow in the direction of their jaw. The blow was surprisingly well placed enough to rattle the tackler’s skull. Which afforded Stiles the opportunity to quickly crawl from underneath the disoriented student.

“Jeez, you’d think that something was in the water..” Stiles whispered with a jittery huff. “Okay, okay. One crisis at a time, first..” The developing empath paused to assess his chaotic surroundings with a bemused expression. “Escape the killer classroom..” Stiles muttered as he scrambled back onto his two feet. His light brown eyes instantly noted the violence that had consumed the once peaceful classroom. Some students had a crazed look in their eyes, similar to Mrs. Jules - their chemistry teacher, of murderous intent. While others were only trying to survive the onslaught. “What the hell is going on?!” Stiles shouted, exasperation decorating his tone.

Amid his slow assessment of the situation, his former tackler rose from the ground as they recovered mentally. Yet before they could attack once more, the door to the classroom burst open hard enough to rip two of the hinges off of the classroom’s door, which left the item to hang hazardously as a figure barged into the room. “Stiles, Stiles, you in here man? I followed your scent and.. shit.. most of the school has been infected with some kind of supernatural mad cow disease dude, let’s go, now!” Scott finished with a firm clasp of Stiles’ bicep, which pulled him away from the danger his former attacker presented. Without much preamble, the werewolf pulled Stiles from the room and out into the equally chaotic hallway.

Allison, ever the combatant, had been easily holding her own whenever they found her in the hallway. Apparently, Scott and her had already been together since the start of the growing chaos. “Good to see you’re still level headed Stiles, just like Lydia and the rest. Come on, we need to move. They don’t appear to stay unconscious for long.” Allison mentioned with a sigh as she had recently finished knocking two of their peers unconscious with a well placed elbow and kick. Scott easily nodded as he released Stiles’ bicep, and took up the lead as they fought their way through the halls until they burst out of the exit.

More chaos greeted them, along with the bright expression of sunlight. Students were attempting to flee the school towards their respective vehicles, only to be assaulted by other crazed students, their peers. “This is madness… do you guys even know what’s happe..” Stiles’ inquiry was promptly cut short by the sudden arrival of Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Jackson, Lydia and Danny. They appear ruffled, though only mildly. Their expressions were wild, albeit not violently so. Before a conversation could spark to life, the familiar reeving of an engine resounded throughout the chaotic scene.

Nine sets of eyes fell upon the familiar Camaro as Derek and Peter stepped out of the car. Stiles dared to feel something akin to relief, yet Derek’s disgruntled and bemused expression told of another, unknown, worry. “You all good?” Derek’s gruff vocals questioned as his darkened emerald gaze assessed each of them. Though he lingered upon Stiles’ supple form, he even scanned him from head to toe before continuing after they all nodded in response. “Good, get to your cars. Peter and I will run defense, no killing.” Derek roughly grunted as he firmly glanced in Peter’s direction.

They were able to easily get everyone into their cars, with the Hales running a strong defense. By the time they were nearly finished, with only Stiles needing an escort, the chaos had grown in strength and numbers. Consequently, Derek took Stiles' decision to drive alone away from him. “In my car Stiles, now.” Derek grumbled, his voice deep and hoarse as he imposed his height and size onto Stiles’ smaller one to easily intimidate the human into compliance.

Stiles offered a defiant glare up at the unfairly suave and tall werewolf, attempting to ignore the blossom of lustful heat within his abdomen that threaded its way onto his cheekbones. “But my jeep, my baby can’t stay.. HEY! Put me down!” Stiles screeched, a most manly screech, as he was suddenly lifted and thrown over Derek’s broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Minutes later found him firmly buckled into the camaro’s front seat, with Peter’s mirthful form sitting in the back seat. “At least I.. got to ride shotgun.” Stiles mumbled with a huff, which only served to make Derek’s veiny forearm clench the steering wheel tightly as Peter’s chuckles filled the car.

“Enough Peter. Stiles, what do you know about ritualistic mysticism?” Derek asked without turning his gaze away from the road ahead. And although he had posed the combination of words as a question, Stiles couldn’t help but shiver as he mentally acknowledged the demand behind those words.

“Ritua.. I can’t say that I know much, beyond that they are probably more binding than a spell that doesn’t require as much.. Wait, wait! You asked that question as if you know the cause of all that chaos back at the school?! And why aren’t any of us bashing each other’s brains..” Stiles' ramblings paused as Derek’s darkened gaze flickered over to him. “Okay, okay. Poor choice of words, sour wolf. But you know what I mean. Why are we still functioning? And what if they kill each other back there? And.. and my jeep?” Stiles whispered the last part, but if Peter’s laughter counted for anything, then he was definitely heard by both werewolves.

“Look kid, relax. All will be explained soon, my nephew and I have watched the whole process that takes place with that level of ‘madness’. They won’t harm each other once they’re all infected within the same mindset.” Peter finished, which resulted in a rough scoff from Derek, just as they pulled into the old Hale’s burnt out home. “Deaton has set up shop inside, come on and I’ll give you a quick rundown before the rest arrive. Derek is going to wait for them, like a good Alpha..” Peter lecherously teased as he exited the car, after Stiles had climbed out. The middle aged werewolf obnoxiously stretched while winking in Stiles' direction, resulting in the mystical human rolling his eyes and leaving Peter behind. Although he threw one last caring glance in Derek’s direction.

The Alpha stood at the edge of the driveway with his back facing their direction, he must’ve silently moved during Stiles’ divided focus. Their relationship, Stiles’ and Derek’s, had been altered ever since Stiles had risked his life for him. A measure of trust that had established a clear pathway for their growing interest in intimacy with one another. Even Scott had teased Stiles about their budding relationship, although he hadn’t pushed them into anything. Which had left their relationship to blossom naturally, even if they hadn’t talked about the silent and mutual pining.

In favor of delving deeper into those thoughts, which appeared wasteful in the eyes of the chaos they had seen that day, Stiles walked into the hollowed home. Once there he found Deaton’s form standing over an old, weathered book laid out on a rusted coffee table. One of his tentative footsteps had resulted in a squeak from a piece of splintered wood in the floor, which brought Stiles’ presence to Deaton’s attention. The veterinarian merely nodded in acknowledgment, although that was before he took note of the way the air and light shifted around Stiles’ every movement. Only a keen, mystical eye could detect the unlocked potential within the spark. Deaton tersely inhaled through his nostrils before he spoke. “I see you aren’t so defenseless anymore, Mr. Stilinski. Do you even know what you’ve done for yourself?” Deaton questioned as he turned to face Stiles fully.

A moment of silence followed the veterinarian’s inquiry. Stiles’ facial features were displaying a bemused expression, confused with Deaton’s level of knowledge about the events that occurred last night in the sanctity of his bedroom. “You know, your mother was mystically imbued too. A trait she, wholeheartedly, passed onto you. Mm, she had her suspicions..” Deaton cryptically finished as he tapped his chin while assessing Stiles’ presence. Tersely, a huff escaped from Deaton’s chapped lips as he turned away from the younger human to retrieve a bag that appeared laden with books. Most of them appeared older than any book Stiles had seen before, an acknowledgment that kept him in a state of quiet respect. Uncharacteristically speechless.

With tense movements, Deaton suddenly plucked a single book from within the bag, as if he had known exactly what to look for. “Here, a journal of your mother’s, a book truly in nature. But she always referred to the writings as a journal. Anyway, I brought these books for assistance in locating a spell that might tell us more about the madness overtaking Beacon Hills.” Deaton summarized as he laid the journal on the burnt coffee table, at an edge that was closest to Stiles’ standing form.

“You.. you knew my mom.” Stiles lamely whispered as his diminutive fingers gently plucked the journal off of the table. And he might’ve said more than that, if he hadn’t felt his mind become engulfed in a sudden rush of information. Which was being mystically transmitted from the journal, and into his psyche. In the depths of it all, he saw his mother’s face. A brief glance into her history that left him with tears and knowledge.

Whenever he returned to the conscious realm, Stiles was situated on a soft surface that was surprisingly untouched by rot or dust. He sat up quickly, only to be hit by a wave of nausea and pain within his skull. All while his amber colored irises studied the surprisingly quiet room. Derek and Peter were arguing in hushed tones in a nearby archway that placed them within Stiles’ gaze. A sharp creak revealed Deaton’s footsteps returning from another part of the singed house. “Here. Water will help.” Deaton softly murmured as he touched Stiles’ shoulder, and offered the younger human a drink.

Gingerly, Stiles accepted the cup with a slight tremor threading throughout his fingers. The first gulp revealed that Stiles was much more parched than he had previously thought. The second had made him recall the reason he had found himself in that particular position at all. Suddenly a vivid memory of his mother conducting a spell that had imbued the journal in front of him with her wisdom, only the magical signatures that were close to her own could unlock such secrets. That memory revealed that the journal laid on the coffee wasn’t the only one his mother made. “How.. how long was I out?” He paused as he took a few calming inhales and exhales. All the while, he looked around and noted the absence of the rest of their makeshift pack. “And where are the others?”

“Rela..” Peter’s hauntingly suave voice was interrupted by a sharp and enriched growl from Derek. Which forced uncle Hale to raise his palms in surrender, though his infuriating smirk remained in place upon his aged and handsome visage. “Fine.. fine. My dear nephew here doesn’t want me to sugarcoat the situation, so I won’t. You were out for at least twelve hours, your friends were ambushed on the way here. We.. haven’t been able to find any of their scents…” Peter trailed off into a resolute silence as he saw Stiles’ face spiral through various emotions, only to settle upon a focused expression that was laced with tearful eyes.

At Stiles’ sniffle, Derek looked over at the younger with an expression of silently concealed concern. The werewolf desired to comfort him, yet he knew that he wasn’t ready to confront their budding romance. Still, he found himself angered by the fact that someone dared attack his pack and home town, let alone make his future mat-, Stiles, cry. He shook his head to rid himself of such personal motivations. Instead Derek gestured carelessly with his hand for Peter to continue explanations, before Stiles pelted them with questions. “Right, right. Yes, nephew. Anyway we’ve been dealing with this.. ‘madness’ situation for weeks, we thought we could contain the issue without everyone, but obviously, we couldn’t. Some coven of Darachs have set their sights on the power of the nemton, and they’ve heard of supernaturals in the area that are willing to protect the historical location. And we’re guessing they performed a spell that anchored the supposed ‘madness’ to one human.”

As Peter dared to pause, and catch his breath, Deaton quickly took over the remainder of the explanation. “He means that the first individual infected will be the conductor of the chaos. The infection rate in Beacon Hills spiked because of the arrival of that particular human. They must’ve started with your school. The mental infection can only be transmitted through prolonged eye contact with one of the infected. Supernaturals are mostly resistant, though. So, even you Mr. Stilinski, will be fine. I believe their goal with such tactics was to divide and conquer as we try to save our people. Though the humans that are infected appear to have developed agendas of their own. So we have two groups to watch out for.”

With the silence that followed Deaton’s completion of the events that led up to their current predicament, Stiles gnawed on his plump bottom lip as he absorbed the dreary information . Which was only darkened by the aesthetic of his surroundings. Rain had started to endlessly pour outside, along with a darkly colored array of clouds over Beacon Hills. Not to mention the creaking wood - as the wind cascaded through the hollowed home - of the weathered house they had sought refuge in. Still, he managed to stay strong in the face of his own internal darkness, hopelessness. Although the firm pressure of lively magic within the pit of his stomach offered a newfound comfort. He wasn’t just that scrawny human running with wolves anymore. Instead, he had a combination of magic and knowledge that could assist them. “And.. and my dad? How are the police holding up in this?” Stiles asked with a newfound vigor in his tone of voice.

“The police are fine, for now, so is your father.” Derek deeply, and simply, said. Green colored iris locked with amber colored ones, a silent message of trust passed between them. Stiles swore he could even feel Derek’s solemn truth in that affirmation, a sensation that reminded him of his empathic affinity that clued him in to Deaton’s apprehension, Derek’s tempest of anxiety and calmness, as well as Peter’s mirthful tension. Which left him to widely blink up at them all from his seated position, his long and snooty eyelashes fanned his cheekbones as he assessed each of them owlishly.

“Okay, okay. Then we.. we should find the others then.. then meet up with my dad.” Stiles said as he slowly stood to his height of five feet and eight inches, his balance dared to waiver in its integrity. Consequently, Derek was at his side before anyone else could move. A comforting and warm palm pressed against the delicate arch of Stiles’ spine as Derek stabilized his footing. “I.. I’m good, thanks.” Stiles affirmed as he ruefully blushed, one of his hands had unconsciously settled upon Derek’s muscular forearm. The muscles there jumped underneath Stiles’ touch, yet Derek didn’t move or release Stiles until the shorter man took a step away from him.

“Yeah, don’t worry, nephew. Your ma-,” Tersely, Peter’s teasing lilt was cut short by a stiff elbow from Derek. An awkward breath of silence passed over the scene as Stiles bashfully attempted to ignore the blush decorating Derek’s chiseled cheekbones. “Ouch, fuck. Watch out, nephew, someone might think you’re hiding something.” Peter breathed in deeply, his diaphragm flexed as he pressed a hand against the blossoming bruise on his abdomen. He’ll heal, albeit slowly due to his beta rank being weakened in the presence of an Alpha’s strength. A fact that he secretly planned to alter, even though he had already failed and faced death because of such greed.

In spite of his lack of experience, Stiles’ empathic nature grew with every second, along with his magical capabilities, unbeknownst to him. Consequently, he could silently sense the hostile instant wafting off of Peter’s bruised form in slow, methodical, waves. “Derek, can we have a word? Alone?” Stiles stiffly requested with his gaze firmly locked upon Peter’s pacing form. His request was met with varying degrees of approval. Deaton swiftly vacated the living room, with a mumble about going to read the bestiary. On the other hand, Peter appeared in agreement, although he appeared to assume their conversation might be more personal and intimate.

“Don’t let this old wolf stop you, just remember that we could use someone as bait, so don’t go too hard..” Peter grimly suggested as he vacated the living room, possibly to head out into the nearby woods.

However, the Alpha appeared to be the only one that hadn’t outright agreed with Stiles’ request. Instead, Derek merely grumbled as he sat himself on a nearby armchair that was lined with crispy and aged edges, in an effortless display of masculinity, he sat with his legs spread wide, manspreading naturally. A sight that Stiles was forced to ignore as he sat on the cleaned couch once more. The brief silence was interrupted by Derek’s grunt, which left Stiles to make an educated guess about Sour Wolf’s intentions behind the noise.

“Okay, so if my lesson in sour wolf dialect were of any real use, I’d guess you want to know the reason I wanted to speak to you alone…” The abrupt, and slightly comical, rise of Derek’s left eyebrow nearly invoked mirth within Stiles. Yet the slightest hint of enjoyment reminded him of his father and friends, people that needed him in that moment. He stiffly rubbed his hands along his face in order to rid himself of the tear tracks he assumed were there.

“Aside from the obvious, right?” Stiles rhetorically started with a sniffle as he finished rubbing his face, which earned a rueful and deep scoff from Derek. A reaction that Stiles had decided to acknowledge as a win in his own mental playbook. “Well, I wanted to know more about my father’s situation, and how you got that information. Also…” Stiles trailed off, suddenly bashfulness overtook his demeanor as he nibbled on his own bottom lip in thought. “What did Deaton tell you about the reason I was unconscious?”

For a moment, silence consumed the space between them. Derek appeared to be stroking his scruffy beard with an aloof expression. Yet Stiles’ newfound empathy revealed the werewolf was anything but. A level of concealed desire that Stiles knew was not his own, given that his trip down memory lane with his mother revealed their shared magical affinity. That reminder forced Stiles to unconsciously place his skull within both of his palms with a soft groan, his knees dug into his plush thighs all the while. “Stiles?” Derek gingerly prodded as he suddenly stood up, then sat himself beside Stiles.

The werewolf’s body heat was soothing to the magical human, grounding him in spite of the cold and dark atmosphere that surrounded them. “I’m.. I’m fine, I promise. I just.. that was one hell of a power tutorial, ya know? I wonder if my mom meant for that to happen whenever she placed the spell..” Stiles trailed off. His attention was stolen by the sharp erection of fear and concern, which stemmed from the alpha werewolf’s direction. As a result, the developing magic user glanced at Derek with a rather honest expression of worry.

“You should be more careful.” Derek grumbled, his response was rather direct, yet surprisingly cryptic. Stiles was left to frown with a bemused expression decorating his face. Before Stiles could inquire the possible meaning behind those words, Derek continued. “Magic is dangerous. As for your father, Peter and I went into town to find the others. We came across him, and.. he’s fine.” Derek harshly finished as he observed Stiles collect himself from the headache he had momentarily experienced. A quick glance at the werewolf’s face revealed that Derek clearly had more to say, yet the werewolf solemnly said no more.

“We done? Good.” Derek mentioned casually as he stood and swiftly vacated the room.

After his departure, Stiles couldn’t help but to mentally dissect Derek’s reactions. Each one spoke a thousand words. The alpha appeared to have a strong aversion to magical usage. An aversion that undoubtedly came from Derek’s mysterious childhood. Though Stiles could understand the alpha’s point of view, albeit only a little without all the facts, he still felt the necessity of learning about the power his mother had - so graciously - allotted him. Stiles will just have to speak with Derek more later about the impromptu advice he had just been given.

With that thought pushed to the back of his mind, Stiles took a few deep breaths before he stood with a clear destination in mind. Tentative footsteps brought him back into the intuitive presence of Deaton. Apparently, the former emissary had already prepared for Stiles’ approach. Given the fact that Deaton’s darkly colored iris instantly met Stiles’ gaze the moment he entered the room.

“Ah, I see your conversation with Derek didn’t last too long.” Deaton, uncharacteristically, teased with a deadpan expression. Which left Stiles to fumble between a bashful frown and laughter. “Anyhow, I’m sure you didn’t seek my company for mere amusement. You’re curious about your newfound level of magic, yes?” Deaton waited for a nod from Stiles before he continued. “Mm. Initially, you were a spark with the capability of imposing your will onto the world by harnessing any ambient magical energy in the immediate atmosphere. But now, you are magical energy itself, a vessel for the supernatural force of life. I also have a firm belief that you are a powerful empath, like your mother was.” Deaton trailed off as he allowed Stiles to absorb the information.

“That would explain a lot actually. And my emotional breakdown was this sort of.. awakening of my… spark?” Stiles questioned with a slight tilt of his head as he dared to step further into the dampened room. A dark, yet warm, corner of the burnt shell of a home that appeared to presently serve as Deaton’s personal quarters. With opened books scattered about.

“That would be my assumption, yes. Although, sometimes, life decides for us. You may have just been in the right position to change at that time. More information about that night would help, but I won’t press you. I actually require your assistance with another matter. I believe I can find the specific human that is a conduit for the madness within Beacon Hills. Though, I have little idea about the method of incapacitating the human. Best to locate him soon though, perhaps we’ll find the others.” Deaton finished his long winded statement with a gesture towards the center of the room.

In his haste to comply, as Stiles was eager to save his friends too, the younger human stumbled over a book. He would’ve fallen, if not for the sudden expulsion of emotional distress that seeped into his magical essence, which resulted in a discarded chair - telekinetically - jerking into his pathway. Thankfully, he was able to use the top edge of the chair to avoid falling entirely. “There was a uhh, book. H-How did I do that? And shouldn’t these books be on shelves or something?” Stiles grumbled as he took tentative footsteps over the rest of the books in his path. Until he reached a delicately scrawled symbol in the middle of the floor.

Deaton was quiet for a while, which allotted Stiles the opportunity to study the strange symbols that appeared to be drawn in a suspiciously crimson colored substance. He had fallen into a near crouch, hence his slight flinch of fear whenever Deaton’s voice sounded from somewhere outside of Stiles’ peripheral vision. “They’re runes to reflect the magic our adversaries are using. Written in pigs’ blood, so I’d mind my step if I were you.” Deaton paused as he began to throw snake skin shavings along the edge of the symbols. “Come to the edge, follow me. And focus on your breathing, deep and complete breaths will fuel the ambient energy within the atmosphere.” Deaton ordered before he started to chant softly underneath his breath.

Stiffly, Stiles rose slowly in order to avoid smearing any of the blood drawn symbols. With measured steps, he placed himself at the edge of the circle and followed Deaton’s word without much fuss. Usually, he’d offer more commentary, yet he found himself entirely too tired and focused on the safety of his family to offer any. As quickly as they started, the ritual had ended with those symbols glowing a sickly black color that stained the burnt floors as they shifted and grew. Instead of a more fantastical display of information, both of their minds were tersely accosted by the dark energy of their ritual. Visions of dewy grass covered fields, trees marked with blood, and a familiar sign that read ‘Beacon Hills Preserve’.

After they both received the information, they returned to their bodies to find themselves crumbled in a heap on the floor. With Derek and Peter standing near the doorway with apprehension. “Well no need to help us off of the floor..” Stiles sassed as he quickly got back onto his feet, in order to assist Deaton with getting back onto his feet as well.

“Ah, I would’ve, but the sour wolf here hasn’t let me even think of coming near your unconscious body..” Peter was interrupted by a rather vicious growl, Derek had stepped further into the room suddenly and spoke with a deep timbre.

“What did you learn?” Again, Derek may have posed the combination of words as a question, his tone of voice - however - conveyed the command within his words.

Stiles and Deaton shared a silent moment of eye contact. A strong sensation of calmness filled Stiles to the brim with clarity, the veterinarian was pushing his emotions onto Stiles. Consequently, both of the disgruntled werewolves’ emotional states were easier to ignore. Which allotted Stiles a moment of relief as he considered the best course of response. “We found the anchor? Anchor seems like the right word, yeah..” Stiles made the mistake of glancing up at Derek’s gruff facial expression, which left Stiles to hurriedly explain the point. “The human that is spreading and maintaining the madness. We saw him in a vision, at Beacon Hills Preserve. If we leave now..” The rather short human was interrupted by Derek, as the alpha werewolf scoffed at Stiles’ continued words.

“You aren’t going. Neither is he.” Derek said with unwavering confidence as he pointed at Stiles first, and Deaton second. “Stay here in case anyone from the pack shows up.” The alpha gruffly continued whenever he’d seen Stiles disgruntled expression, the human appeared prepared to argue.

“At least..” Stiles started as he noticed that Derek had finished his statements. Before continuing, he - unconsciously - ran the tip of his tongue along his pinkened lips. Two pairs of eyes fell to them in response, both of which surprised Stiles. Despite his blush, he continued after awkwardly clearing his throat. “At least.. take Deaton. I’ll be fine here, and if you want to stand a chance at all, you’ll need someone with some magical mumbo jumbo there.” Stiles said while flailing his arms around with wide gestures.

“He’s right, nephew. My knowledge of the arcane might be formidable, but werewolves hold little capacity for wielding the power itself. I’m sure your mat-“ Peter was abruptly interrupted by an elbow being lodged within his abdomen once again. His features twisted with pain, yet he still chuckled darkly.

“I’d quit while I was ahead, Peter. Even if we are strangely on the same.. page.” Stiles acknowledged aloud with a slight frown.

“Shall we? I'd like to return to my home and office within the next couple of days.” Deaton professionally intervened in their humorless banter. As a result, Derek grunted - a blush appeared to faintly stain his ears - as he swiftly turned around and exited the room. The distant rumble of an engine revealed that Derek was already within the car. “There is a spell in place to deter anyone that wasn’t already aware of the Hale Estate before today will not be able to find the location. However, individuals that were already aware of this location - even our enemies - will still be able to. Remain alert, Mr. Stilinski.” Deaton informed Stiles as Peter exited the room, only for the veterinarian to quickly follow after the werewolves, though not before he grabbed a leather satchel.

Chapter Text

Blood - darkly colored, yet distinctly scented - decorated the familiar sign that read ‘Beacon Hills Preserve’. An abruptly convenient scream erupted from a place deeper within the preserve. Derek’s heightened eyesight readily found the source as the scream faded into silence. A woman was knelt at the foot of a large tree. Her hair covered her face as she softly sobbed. Although, before sympathy could dare to fester within the deep recesses Derek’s closed off heart, he took a deep breath and noted the lack of two scents - sodium or potassium. Which revealed the lack of truth in her demeanor, her lack of tears, inciting Derek’s rise in hostility. An enriched shade of crimson slowly overtook the emerald color of Derek’s iris. And studied their surroundings.

He took a note of his companions behind him first. They had all arrived in Derek’s Camaro several moments prior, yet they had only recently gotten out of the car, whenever the woman had screamed. As Derek had been the first to leave the vehicle. They appeared just as cautious as him, and stayed near the entrance sign as they listened for more people besides the woman. Unsurprisingly - and unfavorably - there are several heart beats hidden within the foliage of the tree line. Derek quickly glanced at Peter, his uncle offered a silent salute as he kept his eyes on the humans across the field.

“Stay. Here,” Derek ordered Deaton, although the veterinarian only offered an uncharacteristic smirk. To which, Derek grunted and took it as an affirmative, or at least an acknowledgment.

With practiced ease, both werewolves were able to venture further along the damp edge of the tree line, the foliage there offered a slight layer of cover. Upon reaching a much closer view point, they both noted that the woman appeared familiar. Her tone of voice and scent conveyed a relation to Allison, the former huntress never failed to stink of wolfsbane. That particular acknowledgment had stopped them both in their tracks. Although the figure shared a clear resemblance with Allison, the woman wasn’t behaving like the huntress at all. Given that they had rarely ever seen the young woman cry. Another thought that forced them to consider a harsh truth, perhaps she has a reason for her distress. Still, they weren’t foolish enough to approach her without checking the surrounding trees for an ambush first.

Quiet and swift footsteps were swallowed whole by the natural sounds of the forest. Before long, the Hale duo found several dirtied humans knelt within a cluster of three or four trees. Derek counted at least six, with none of them smelling anything like their pack members or even supernaturals. Upon further inspection, they both noticed that the humans were wearing torn clothing without shoes or socks. Not to mention the strange items clasped within their hands. Derek and Peter had approached them from behind - both werewolves easily displaying their prowess as natural hunters.

Amid their careful approach to the cluster of humans, another scream rang out that they knew belonged to Allison. In an effort to ignore the urge to assess her well being, Derek made the first move against the humans. With assured footsteps the Alpha stepped into their circle. He quickly grabbed two of the figures by their skulls with the entire width of his palm, before he slammed them together to render them firmly unconscious. They’ll definitely awaken with headaches later. Unable to focus on those trivial matters, Derek stiffly blocked a blow that was aimed for his skull. Before he could retaliate, Peter had already delivered an audible punch to Derek’s attacker. “Mind your strength, Peter.” The alpha grumbled within the darkened night as rain dared to pour over the dreary scenery.

Peter merely huffed in response, a sassy ‘you’re welcome’ had been on the tip of his tongue, yet his retort was thwarted by the assault of another crazed human. By then, their scuffle had gained enough noise to garner attention. Consequently, ‘Allison’ had risen from her knelt position and she was currently standing at the edge of the cluster of trees. Even within the darkness, both of the werewolves’ eyesights were piercing and able to study every curvature of the figure’s face. Their assumption hadn’t been wrong, Allison was right in front of them. Her entire form appeared ravaged and caked in blood, yet she looked relatively unscathed. Which begged the question, whose blood decorated her complexion?

Tersely, Allison charged at them, full force. In a bid to deal with the - other - remaining three humans quickly, Derek threw his dense shoulder in the direction of the two that weren’t fighting Peter. The combination of his weight and density knocked them both unconscious as Derek tackled them both onto the dampening terrain. Meanwhile, Peter had lifted and thrown the human he had been fighting directly at Allison. Consequently she found her form trapped underneath the dead weight of a human Peter had knocked out. Before they could approach her, Deaton appeared as if summoned by the growing silence, which normally came after a bout of combat.

“She’s infected.” Deaton simply said as he knelt down to assess her pupils with a flashlight, all the while he was forced to avoid her flailing and crazed limbs. “We’ll have to tie her up, if we wish to take her back to the estate. Otherwise, the only cure is finding the anchor for this madness…” Deaton’s vocals were filled with a level of professionalism that conveyed his desire for faster results. Amid his assessment of Allison, he felt a surge of sinister magic originate from nearby. “Speaking of which, the man of the hour hasn’t been found. Though I believe he isn’t far. I’ll stay with her, you two scout ahead.”

At first, Derek appeared ready to debate the order Deaton had just given. Yet the firm scent of roasted human flesh inspired him to merely grunt in response before glancing at Peter. They shared a silent moment of understanding before they both nodded, and followed the scent of cooked flesh.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile, back at the Hale estate, darkness had consumed the very essence of that late hour. Such darkness was only furthered by those dreary clouds that hung over the city’s head. Not to mention the sinister implications of forbidden mystical arts. Stiles had spent the first few minutes after Derek’s departure pacing the room as his newly acquired empathetic nature restlessly sought out other life forces to latch onto. It wasn't until one of his flailing, and exposed, hands struck a collection of foliage - that had begun to grow along the interior of the hollowed house - that he was filled with emotional stability. Ever the comic enthusiast, Stiles made the assumption that his empathy wasn't reserved for humanity alone. A fact that inspired him to fully caress one of the vines. Consequently, he was exposed to a continuous stream of information.

Unexpected and raw images of foreign sensations overtook his psyche. Shivers violently consumed his form as his nervous system reflected the experiences of those haunted woods - the trees and foliage that had encased the old Hale mansion. At first, he merely felt the unwavering calmness and stability that only nature could offer. He felt grounded, that was until impressions of being burned alive took away every pillar of nature's foundations. As if he was reliving the same fire that overtook the Hale mansion, and subsequently, the Hale family. Stiles attempted to pull away from the vines, only to find his limbs heavy and lethargic. All the while, more and more memories were pressured into his mind. Until he felt that he knew more than he should, until there was only a dark dreamscape surrounding his mind’s eye.

For a moment, he believed the onslaught was over. That was until a pair of eyes appeared from within the darkness, every portion of Stiles felt exposed to that haunted gaze. An unseen figure, its form unknown. His breath abruptly caught within his throat, ceasing his ability to function as his physical form mimicked his mental one.

Alone, in a hollowed home, Stiles’ body was spasming on the wooden floorboards. Yet within his mind, he held his breath in fear that any sound could inspire the dark figure to move, or animate itself. It was only as the brink of unconsciousness curled along the edges of his mind, that the eyes suddenly leapt at him within the darkness. And apparently, the figure was weighted enough to slam Stiles' metaphysical form through a floor. Cries of anigush left him as his mind created the sensations of assumed pain from a fall, but at least he had started to breathe again. The eyes were above him, hovering without touching him. Yet Stiles knew that if he were to reach out, he'd feel something. For what felt like hours, he remained suspended in fear. Only the abrupt sound of footsteps breaking through the metaphysical barrier, and invoking Stiles to realize he's been trapped in his own mind.

An acknowledgement that forced him to abruptly sit up from the prone position he had somehow ended up in. In front of his amber colored eyes were those familiar vines, and the edge of a doorframe. Which was suddenly filled by the sight of Deaton, the veterinarian appeared out of breath, yet he regarded Stiles with certainty. “We m-must hurry, t-the others need our help now,” Deaton affirmed as he started moving around the room quickly, gathering items and ingredients into a weathered satchel. Though he abruptly stopped, as if recalling something incredibly important.

The certainty in his eyes startled Stiles into freezing in place, he had just stood up as the vet abruptly approached him. Deaton firmly grasped Stiles wrist before bringing his fingertips to his skull, “Focus, Mr. Stillinski. I'm about to give you the keys to success, or as your generation might say, ‘Cheat Codes’,” Deaton imposed. His actions brought forth a sudden plethora of information into Stiles' mind, lessons and failures with sorcery that were not his own. As if he had studied an entire century worth of information, day by day, in a matter of seconds. The same thing that happened with his mother's journal. “There, your mother gathered information similarly. I just assumed that you might be just as capable, now let us leave,” Deaton imposed as he grabbed his satchel, and quickly vacated the room as if he hadn't changed Stiles' entire life.

Stiles, an awakened spark; Czarownica, stood in place staring at his twiddling fingers in awe. He knew exactly who his mother was, her history came into view just as much as the generational curse that followed her, the eyes he had seen. Though such knowledge was accompanied by the occult, and the type of power at Stiles' fingertips. Deaton was right, he had completely left being defenseless behind last night, or two nights ago? He couldn't exactly remember, much too focused on his new found telekinesis that allowed him to juggle books with no hands. Though his concentration was abruptly broken by a honk outside, reminding him to stumble after Deaton’s cold trail.

Once outside, he was surprised to find Deaton casually seated in Derek's Camaro. Even with Stiles' newfound power, he hadn't wished to see Deaton employ many of the counters to Stiles' magic he had seen in the vet’s mind. That was the reason he quickly jogged over, and threw himself in the front seat, being mindful of Derek's door by closing it slowly. Even though Deaton hadn't hesitated to speed off the moment Stiles was within the vehicle. “Hey!”

“I informed you of the urgency Mr. Stillinski, I hope you'll make good use of those abilities,” Deaton suggested as he kept on a swift path to the direction in which Derek and Peter had disappeared.

“Oh I'm ready, more than ready. I've seen enough of Jean Grey to… HEY WATCH OUT,” Stiles screeched as he sensed the obstruction in the road well before Deaton ran over the large body. The resounding bump, and slick slosh had Deaton pulling over with a grim expression. Stiles was out of the car before Deaton, despite the veterinarian’s grumbled protests. “It's a,” abruptly his mind supplied the next word as if a whispered hint in his ear. “A wendigo? Why would there be a cannibal.. shit it's alive, Deaton we should,” Stiles’ words were cut off by the beast launching itself at him.

Unprepared for the sheer power behind his usage of telekinesis, Stiles shouted in surprise as the translucent wave of telekinetic energy punched the wendigo in the chest. Which sent the beast flying down the road, and Stiles stumbling backwards as if he had used a shotgun.

“Back into the car Mr. Stillinski, NOW,” Deaton shouted.

Unaware of what came over him, Stiles could only think about obeying Deaton’s order. Consequently, he found a new ability as he vanished from his spot in the road. Only to reappear perfectly seated in the passenger seat. Deaton only appeared baffled for a moment before he floored it, pressing the gas hard enough to warrant assumed damage. Yet Stiles refrained from commenting as they zoomed down the deserted road. Soon they came upon some hills, and Deaton muttered, “We're here.”

The ‘here’ must've referred to the barren shack that was barely standing in the middle of a group of hills. An eerie sensation settled in Stiles' bones as they drove through the only entrance into the enclosure of hills. Deaton suddenly parked at the sight of a light fixture in the shack. And before Stiles could question anything, Deaton shook his head before tapping his forehead. ‘We will use your telepathy to communicate from here on out, no better classroom than the real world,’ Deaton projected into Stiles' mind.

The newly formed Czarownica could only nod, his eyes firmly set upon the individual exiting the shack. Unlike before Stiles' download of knowledge, his mind reflexively tuned into the various frequencies of each mind he encountered. It only took a moment, but Stiles quickly deduced the identity of the individual holding a light fixture, “Derek?” Stiles abruptly whispered in spite of Deaton's order. Hence the reason the individual immediately turned in their direction, Stiles could see in Derek's mind the moment he recognized his car. Not to mention the resounding growl that expressed his anger, and resulted in alerting lurkers to their presence.

‘Stiles, we need to run. The pathway is too slick for a vehicle's traction, and I was only able to escape, to retrieve you by foot. Derek, and Peter were too heavy.’ Deaton telepathically sent into Stiles' mind. Which had been troubling information, yet Stiles knew he had to at least try. That was the reason he stiffly unbuckled himself, and followed after Deaton, who had been quick to take the lead.

All the while, beady eyes observed them from the shadows until they were halfway. With Stiles' foot caught in a sinking portion of the terrain, only a sharp - telekinetic - tug freed himself from the hold. Just in time to flee the horde at their heels. Soon they burst into the shack with heaving chests, and lowered staminas.

There, Stiles found a few faces he hadn't expected to see so soon, “Lydia, Allison?! What happened?” Stiles inquired as he quickly walked over to kneel beside Allison's unconscious form. He cast a fleeting glance at Derek, only to get a psychic sense of Derek's affection and relief at the sight of Stiles' unharmed form.

“We, ugh,” Peter paused to grunt loudly as he held his side, which was healing, albeit slowly. “We were ambushed by some cannibals, Wendigos. We found Allison underneath darach control, and left her with Deaton. But Lydia saved us from them, and her screams lead us back to each other. We sent Deaton for you after we took cover here,” Peter finished strongly before he glanced out the window to watch the horde recede. “We don't know why, but they fear flames, it's the only thing keeping us from being overrun, and ripped apart,” His rundown was entirely finished by a growl from Derek.

The guttural sound appeared more animalistic than any before, as if charged by primal energies. Loud enough to result in Allison awakening from her slumber. The young woman jolted upright. A gasp left her throat as she took stock of the scene. Her eyes widened the moment they found Stiles. She appeared disturbed by his presence. Yet her lips remained sealed shut. Only Peter's abrupt cough, and subsequent words, inspired her to look away from the awakened spark. “Sorry, we’ll tell my nephew to keep his growls to a minimum, clearly you need your beauty sleep,” he teased. Only for Lydia to smack Peter's arm with a glare, while her other hand remained curled around her own lips. A continuous - and faint - hum streamed from behind her lips. Yet Stiles couldn't fathom the reason behind her strange behavior. Not until Allison finally spoke.

It was a raspy voice that carried her thoughts. She appeared in need of water, yet she pushed on anyway. Her body heavily leaned against the armrest of a couch. “I.. I know where the others are, I even know their plans,” Allison paused to get caught in one of her fists. Her entire form trembled all the while. She appeared unwilling to look at Stiles anymore after the first moment of shared eye contact. ”They think Stiles is some kind of Messiah, with the ability to revitalize the essence of the Nemeton,” again, another lengthy pause that highlighted her need for slow breaths. “And the madness isn't only going to affect humans,” she trailed off in an ominous tone that foretold a cryptic message. One that clearly has something to do with Derek, if her heavy gaze upon his shadowed form in the corner was anything to go by.

”What do you mean? Messiah?” Stiles inquired in a small voice that betrayed his fears. Derek appeared to grumble at the noise, but remained silently brooding in the corner. Only Deaton paid the question any heed.

Several breaths of silence imposed itself upon them. “I'm sure you've heard of Jesus Christ," Alan replied with a completely serious expression decorating his face. He moved to begin unpacking the items he'd retrieved along with Stiles. “They believe that you are their supposed savior," Alan paused to grunt as he knelt low beside Allison and Lydia. “And much like Christianity, they intend to sacrifice you in order to be saved from their internal torment," Alan gingerly finished preparing a small tray to burn incense on, near the two women. “Mugwort," the doctor responded to Stiles’ unspoken inquiry. “It should temporarily ease the symptoms of the madness consuming her mind, so long as there is Mugwort to burn."

Slowly, Allison's form started to twitch. Each spasm appeared to offer more clarity to shine within her gaze. Eventually, Alan turned to regard Lydia - who had continued to hum. “You can stop humming now, she should be coherent, so long as she remains near the scent. Now tell us what you know," Deaton urged the huntress as he took a seat in an empty chair.

Dark brown eyes settled upon Stiles without much preamble. She looked pained to even remember the much needed information. Stiles clumsily latched onto her psyche with his own new found telepathy. There, he saw the stuff of nightmares. Cannibalism at its highest. Allison had only escaped by covering herself in blood, and sneaking away. She was clearly affected by the ordeal, mentally scarred even. Stiles ripped his mind away as she began to speak. “We were just one turn away from the Hale estate, j-just one second away from rejoining you guys whenever a Wendigo shoulder charged Boyd's SUV off the road.”

She paused to seemingly gather her thoughts as she recalled Scott's face just before they got separated. "Naturally, we all stopped to assist Boyd with the attack, but there had to be at least… ten of those blood hungry beasts,” she replied with a shudder. Her eyes glazed over as she recalled the pain of being dragged through the woods. “We were dragged for what felt like hours," she paused to rub at her back and shoulders while grinding her teeth. “I saw Scott, Isaac, Vernon, Erica, and Jackson get dragged off to another pile in the northern woodlands of the persevere. Near a large bonfire," she paused to release a few shuddering tears and breaths as her body shook.

Ever the empath, Stiles stepped forward - along with Lydia - and together they rubbed her back as soothingly as they could. They were about to tell her she didn't need to finish, but she pressed on anyway. “Me, Lydia, and Danny were dragged here. Left for cannibals to find. The werewolves are bait, and sacrifices, but they want Stiles." She finished with a distinctive him, her body leaning into Lydia's embrace more.

“I didn't think Wendigos followed orders, especially not so many. What have the Darachs done in exchange for such power?” Deaton inquired aloud, albeit he appeared to be speaking to himself.

After Allison settled, Stiles tersely stood. "Well our next move is obvious right? We go and get the rest of the pack. But if Danny was brought with you two, where is he?” Stiles questioned softly as he looked around the small shack, and out of each window. At their continued silence, Stiles turned to regard them with curiosity. There he found his worst fears confirmed. Danny had been murdered, worse even, he had been eaten. "Danny?! No.. n-no, no. He has to still be out there, I'm sure of it,” Stiles attempted to Will that to be the case, but he would soon fight even someone of his stature had limitations. “How could we clear up the pathway back to the Camaro of that strange gunk?" Stiles asked aloud, as he had no idea what could counteract the substance.

“Mountain ash, combined with gunpowder, should do the trick," Deaton replied while wagging two pouches of herbs and minerals. “Someone will have to be brave, and light enough to reach the other end of the tar pit,” the veterinarian gave Stiles a pointed look. But it was Derek's low - thunderous - growl that interrupted their staring contest. Most eyes shifted to fall upon the alpha. Except Stiles, who had already resigned himself to the fate of a sacrificial lamb.

“There has to be another way. We can't send our weakest link out there alone," Derek had never really developed a way with words. And while Stiles - equipped with a newfound level of emotional intelligence - can sense the werewolf’s genius care, the choice of words stung more than they should've.

A scoff fell from Stiles’ beautifully shaped lips. His whiskey colored eyes held a new found anger and strength. “Weakest link? Really?" Stiles inquired. His words barely spoken above a whisper, yet everyone within the room definitely heard him. Even Peter had the sense to appear bashful, while Derek remained stoic. Although - internally - Stiles could sense the werewolf's immediate regret. “Just give me the stupid pouches Deaton, let's get this over with," the empath grumbled, suddenly annoyed.

After a few minutes of silent preparation, Stiles was prepared to make the mad dash. Before he could simply vacate the shack, Derek was beside him, holding onto his bicep lightly. “You don't have to do this, we can find…” Abruptly, Derek found himself cut off by Stiles tersely removing his bicep from the werewolf's grip before turning to make eye contact.

Whiskey met fields of green, of splendor. “We don't have time to find another path, did you not hear them? Danny could be dead because of all this," Stiles whispered scornfully. He could only scoff as Derek remained silent, but the werewolf appeared ready to protest more. Before that could take place, Stiles turned and exited the shack’s door.

Not much had changed outside. Beady eyes still say at the edges of the tar pit. Darkness had consumed the miniature valley. Despite the numerous stars, and waxing moon phase overhead. The soft squeak of aged metal scraping against itself reminded him that there was a lantern hanging just above his head. He took a deep breath before he planted one foot on top of the tar. In the distance, foul grunts could be heard as those beady eyes acknowledged the presence of a possible meal. “You can do this, you can do this," he whispered to himself. Instead of displaying continued hesitation, he threw himself mindlessly into the action. And ran.

He ran until his feet felt stiff, making sure to sprinkle a direct line of the mixture Deaton had concocted. Soon the beasts at the edges charged him, their approach slightly delayed by the tar pit, but they were making ground swiftly. In a bid to save himself as they closed in, Stiles ignited one of the matches earlier by striking it against the match box. He quickly threw it onto the line of gunpowder and mountain ash. The following combustion behind him would haunt his nightmares, not to mention the subsequent flames that started to consume the tar pit. And those Wendigos by close proximity, their screams still sounded hauntingly human. Enough that Stiles had to cover his ears the rest of the way.

Thankfully, the mystified flames did their job. Cleared a path all the way to the car, while also creating a temporary barrier to keep the flames alive. As Stiles looked back at the corridor of flames, he couldn't help but recall that story of Moses parting the sea. A misplaced chuckle befell him, he was on the brink of hysterics, but the sudden arrival of the rest of his entourage inspired him to swallow down the empathy he felt for not only Danny, but the screaming Wendigos as well.

“We all here? Good, Allison will have to keep that mugwort burning and in her hands. We must not delay," Deaton imposed as he handed the mugwort incense to Allison.

Her fingers curled tightly around the sage, yet she remained silent. That was until Derek moved to climb in the front seat of his car. "No, no. This,” Allison paused to gesture widely towards the Camaro. "Your vehicle will be too loud for a stealthy approach, and we need to approach in silence for the sake of our friends and family,” she paused to let her words sink in. Only Derek looked put off by the notion, although most knew he just didn't want to leave his car here.

As if sensing the budding issue, Deaton stepped forward with confidence. “I'll take the car back to the Hale estate, Stiles should be able to assist you all better than I can. Take this,” the emissary offered Stiles his satchel of herbs and minerals. Alan Deaton went on to take the gruffly offered keys from Derek once more. "She's in good hands, Derek. You all should get moving, mugwort isn't exactly easy to come by in California,” Alan promptly finished by getting in the driver's seat, and slowly peeling away. Derek appeared to watch the scene with anguish, but he valiantly remained silent.

"Shall we? It's not far from here,” Allison grumbled. Her features appeared sharpened, ridged and edged with blood. Further highlighted by the flames behind them. She painted a sinister picture, but Stiles could sense her mental clarity. With all that had happened, everyone simply followed behind her with varying degrees of nerves and anxiety plaguing them. “There," Allison abruptly stated after ten minutes of walking. Her ridged index finger pointed to an open field. It's a wonder that none of them had seen the pillar of smoke lazily drifting into the darkened skies.

Many parts of the Beacon Hills preserve weren't common knowledge. The corner of the woodlands they found themselves in had only been seen by a handful of eyes. And not because the terrain was difficult to navigate, but the stories plaguing the area were enough of a detriment. Souls of the land, those that came before were said to reside there.

“What are they doing?" Stiles whispered, his telepathy and empathy weren't helpful factors at that moment. Given the fact that they were too far, and their minds were too jumbled to read.

Allison hummed, her fingers still tightly curled around the incense. “Waiting for you," she whispered.

An affirmation that bothered even Peter’s cold dead heart. In spite of his uncertainty, Peter decided to speak. “Does anyone else smell that?" the beta inquired as his nostrils flexed visibly. Derek remained silent, but Stiles could sense his agreement with Peter. There was something in the air.

Only a few beats of silence passed before, Stiles too, could smell the scent. Along with Allison, who released a sad hum. “I think it's… bones,” she whispered uncertainly. But all of their worries were forgotten whenever Lydia abruptly pointed at their group of peers. On wooden pikes, around the bonfire, their allies were strung up. That was the last thing they saw, before they all passed out, one by one. Until there was only Allison.

“Shit, I thought they'd be immune," she whispered to herself angrily as she knelt beside Lydia to check her pulse. Only for a strong wind to snuff out the flame burning her incense of mugwort, and she too fell into the depths of unconsciousness. All the while, maddened individuals from the trees came to collect them all, especially Stiles Stiliniski.

Chapter Text

Instead of pitch darkness one might've expected after falling unconscious, Stiles awoke to a new world within. A place that only remained inside the depths of one's genetic memory. Vibrant and red swaths of cloth hung all around the circular room he awoke in. Each cloth had a different symbol upon them, each symbol appeared to match the ones stitched into the rug beneath Stiles’ feet. Only then had he noticed his feet were of a different complexion than their usual pale tone. Instead, his complexion was swarthy - brown.

Consequently, he ran over to a nearby - body length - mirror. There he found himself with bushy curls, a darker complexion, and these amber colored eyes that appear to glow in his reflection. “Todo, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," Stiles jokingly whispered, a verbal expression of his anxiety. Although, he would've been much more comfortable had there actually been a dog named Todo with him. “Or the modern age for that matter," Stiles whispered as he touched an ancient brooch that appeared untouched by the hand of time.

“A fibulae? My mother had one of these in her storage, awfully similar to this design. But hers was barely a full piece, hadn't lasted the test of time,” Stiles mumbled to himself as he scanned the rest of the room. Amber colored iris finally landed on the northern edges of the circular room. There he found no wall, only the steed drop that led down a rocky mountainside. Along with an endless collection of trees, he could even spot a village in the distance. “I wonder where I've landed, none of these trees or birds," He paused to admire a colony of birds flying by. “I should…” Soon he was cut off by footsteps, and the abrupt opening of a large door.

"You should be resting, there will be time for sightseeing after the ritual,” an elderly woman pressed as Stiles turned around to observe the new arrivals. The elder looked horribly aged, as if she had done everything wrong in her life up until that point. She was flanked by three youthful women. Stiles felt an immediate sense of distrust in regards to the woman, as if the body he'd fallen into had a history with her. “Danuta, retrieve the vial,” the elder ordered as she kept her cold blue gaze on Stiles. “Świętosława,” she continued, except that time, her gaze stayed on Stiles expectantly. He deduced that must be the name of the individual he's possessed.

"For too long they have coveted you, sheltered you. Kept the knowledge of your existence from us, from me. Your father had no right to claim you as his royal heir, he knew that our first born would be sacrificed. He knew the curse that has haunted my bloodline, yet his love for you overcame any prior agreement,” the elder, who is supposedly Stiles' - or Świętosława’s mother, ranted. Suddenly Stiles realized the gravity of that genetic memory he found himself in. “But no matter, your age and wisdom will surely only assist in the ritual," she finished as she noticed that her orders had been carried out by her subordinates.

Only a moment to blink, a breath to release passed before he was seized by his arms. Each of three women had positioned themselves around him, two on each side and one behind him. The elder remained in front, but she didn't touch him like the others. “Wait, wait, wait. Sacrificing your own heir? There has to be some sort of law against that in this time period right?" He inquired nervously, but he only received estranged glances in response. They appeared confused by his dialect. Instead of replying, they moved him to the center of the circular room. Once in place they began to change, as the elder suddenly revealed a jagged knife from under her robes.

“Can't we just talk this out? Maybe a psychiatrist could help us.. or a.. what did people use back then? A shaman, maybe? Whatever, the point is, I don't want to be sacrificed!” Stiles screamed as the elder approached him.

The elder chuckled, her eyes gleamed with a sinister promise as she rolled the handle of her knife within her left palm. "What you want is inconsequential, the power within you has decided your fate. Long before your first breath. Remember, blood is thicker than water,” she calmly informed before she took an expert slice at his throat. Swiftly, blood poured from the open wound. Only then had those women released him to fall upon his knees, blood raining from the wound as he landed upon his hands and knees. "But the water of a mother's womb will always hold more weight,” she cryptically reminded him.

There were a lot of experiences Stiles had already done that not many other humans would ever encounter. Running with werewolves, being possessed, and his newfound interaction with magic. But he had never truly died before. The experience was jarring to say the least. He felt like a flickering flame. Each breeze brought him closer to death. Each breath was a step closer to ashes. As his vision blurred, and his arms as well as knees were unable to hold him, he felt something he hadn't expected. Sure he had been angry at being murdered, but his level of emotion seemed inconsequential in comparison to Świętosława’s rage.

An emotional level that rivaled Stiles’ anger the night he had unlocked his mystical potential.

“Shouldn't be long now, and I will have my youth returned," the elder muttered happily, greedily. All while the younger women gave her angered and desperate gazes. “And you'll be given a measure of political power, as well as money too," she affirmed with a sneer on her lips.

Tersely, Stiles’ - well Świętosława - weakening form felt an insurgence of power flood his limbs. He wasn't healing, but there was a newfound strength that hadn't been there. Strength he'd use to extract revenge before the body's untimely demise. With a reckless flick of his wrist flames erupted all around the room, clinging to rugs and curtains with ease. At the acknowledgement of that, the elder woman angrily screamed before she charged Stiles. He had just pulled himself back onto his feet unsteadily, with a hand over his wounded and bloodied throat, as she tackled him. As a result, they both stumbled back, easily falling over the cliff to bash their skulls open and shatter their ribcages. Streaks of warm blood and organs followed the tumble of ripped flesh and broken bones across the stones.

As darkness returned, Stiles was plunged into the depths of his own mind once more. Another ancestral memory dared to seep into his subconsciousness, but the imagery was stolen by the sudden bite of pain in his wrist. He imagined wolves gnawing on the flesh before devouring his entire arm, but he woke to find a blade kissing his flesh. On instinct, he balled his other hand into a fist and struck the assailant in their jaw. The knife’s tip painfully fell free of his wrist, a soft spray of blood followed. He hissed as he covered the small wound. Amber eyes rapidly searched the scene for any clues.

A wall of flames interrupted his line of sight. He was in the center of a chopped tree trunk. “The nemeton,” Stiles whispered reverently. His breath and pain were stolen by the realization of their close proximity. Only then had he acknowledged the slow throb of pressure he felt within his connection to the world around him. The energy within the atmosphere felt charged there. But there was no visible difference.

Soon he started to squint, as the ache in his wrist dulled and he attempted to see beyond the flames around him. He didn't have to squint for long. Strung up on wide poles - pikes, really - were his friends and allies. Even Danny, though he wasn't moving at all. “Danny!?" Stiles called uncertainly, he had nearly dared to reach out to the human. But a deep tone halted him.

“The flames, Stiles," Derek grunted.

Consequently, Stiles pulled his hand away quickly before he could be burnt. Another presence made itself known and acknowledged by their laughter and slow footsteps. “Come now, I thought all the wolves had been drained of life Priscilla," a masculine voice tutted to another figure that Stiles abruptly noticed. A figure that had been watching him the whole time.

“Mm, they are of little consequence now, we have our prize. All we need to do is wait for our companions," a feminine tone, Priscilla, replied softly. Her gaze hadn't wavered once. Stiles was beginning to think the woman hadn't even blinked since she found him. A visible shudder erupted within him, resulting in a small smirk on Priscilla’s icy features. “Besides, Kokuran will want an appetizer,” she finished as her gaze shifted to Derek lazily.

Before she could shift her gaze away from the alpha, Derek had done something unexpected. He had used his weight, and collected momentum to shove himself, as well as the pole he was attached to, forward. Not precise with the trajectory, Derek landed in the fire. But a gap was left for Stiles to escape. One that he didn't even entertain using as he noticed and ran over to Derek's form that was slowly catching fire. Stiles went to untie the ropes at Derek's wrist, but one of the Darach’s telekinetically threw a small spike into Derek’s side. “Excellent aim Phicit," Priscilla praised the underhanded attack.

“I've never been one to miss," Phicit arrogantly proclaimed.

Arrogance that fueled Stiles' anger, anger that burned into rage as Derek started to scream and he remembered Danny's lifeless form. Power was one thing. But Stiles found himself experiencing something beyond that. A certainty that left him breathless and startled as his internal wishes for the flames to cease came true.

The first lick of fire should've terrified him, should've made him stumble backwards. But the memory of Świętosława hadn't left him. The ancient princess had wielded fire as if it was her birth right. Stiles knew flames were not his enemy. Especially as they flew into his flesh, literally flames sank and extinguished within his pores. Until there was only smoke. Until Derek’s screams had quieted along with Phicit's laughter.

Stiles turned to find them stunned. Tear stricken, he collected some of the fire into his palm on pure intention alone. The flames danced between his fingers as he took aim. Before he could release them, Priscilla's smirk had returned, stunting his movements. “You cannot run, Świętosława,” Priscilla proclaimed before she, and Phicit, simply turned and ran. Like nymphs or madmen, they ran into the trees, disappearing into the foliage.

For a few moments, he simply stood there. Frozen in his pose that had been ready to attack. Only a cough from Derek spurred his sluggish movements to turn and regard his broken friends. The pack appeared worse than he had initially assumed. But their wounds were healing rather quickly. In a bid to use his newfound ability, Stiles took the flames to each binding and set of rope ties until they were all free. He sniffled all the while. Especially whenever he reached Danny lastly. He slowly extinguished the flame in his fist by closing it, soon after he knelt beside Danny.

Forced to roll his peer onto his backside, as Danny appeared unresponsive and unmoving, Stiles grunted with a whimper that captured Derek's attention. Slowly the alpha ventured over to observe the scene. Instantly, he felt responsible. It was his fault these young adults were out risking their lives. He felt enough anger to break the world in half, but he remained silent. The alpha's mind attempts to fathom a way to protect them all.

“I…” Stiles paused to sniffle. An exhausted sigh followed before he continued. “I can hear your thoughts. Don't internalize this, this is all on me and my bloodline Derek,” he replied softly as he brushed dirt from Danny's face. Most of the student's limbs were gone with only one leg, and half an arm remaining. They hadn't reached his face, the Darach's must've pulled him away for bait before those Wendigos could finish.

Tears struck Danny's face as the others slowly regained their bearings, and healed. Stiles only had a moment to breathe another sad sob before he was harshly shoved aside. The only person that was shocked was Derek, the others appeared to internally and emotionally agree with Jackson, who had shoved him. Stiles will never forget the sobs that followed. Jackson’s grief was palpable. A weight within the air that pressed upon Stiles’ psyche. Unable to hear the grief, Stiles took off. Though he kept looking back as he exited the field. Derek didn't stop him, but he didn't follow the awakened spark either.

“Let him go, Jackson," Derek grunted as the beta angrily stood up, and prepared to follow Stiles. "We need to bury Danny,” Derek reminded, which resulted in more angered sobs. The rest of the pack knelt with Jackson, helping him to salvage and move what they could of Danny.

After a long walk back to the main road. Stiles had to sit himself on a rock just off a highway. There he took deep breaths, attempting to regain some stamina and strength. And settle his guilty heart. Given that he hadn't eaten or drank water, he was slowly becoming lethargic. As time passed, he knew he needed a way to fuel himself. Consequently, he took the risk of eating a few berries that he'd seen others safely ingest. They appeared fine, albeit bitter, and clearly not quite ripe. And after regaining some measure of strength from barely enough nutrition, he started to walk down the main road.

Sheriff Stiliniski hadn't dared to miss the opportunity to take his young son on a camping trip. Consequently, Stiles had learnt navigation at an early age. He knew his way back home from most directions. And as Beacon Hills’ welcome sign slowly came into view, he knew his father had been successful in raising a self-sufficient child. Soon he took another seat, that time he mostly felt emotionally exhausted. He can't believe what happened to Danny, nor his close connection to the cause. The only thing that drove him at that moment, was assisting in ending the madness that plagued Beacon Hills. He couldn't let anyone else die because of him.

Before he could take another step, an engine roared down the highway until a familiar Camaro rolled into view. The vehicle parked beside him, and simply sat there. Only the engine rumbled certainly as Stiles assessed the vehicle. He could sense Derek had no ill intentions, hell the werewolf appeared to clearly understand his plight. An emotional understanding that inspired Stiles to get off his rock, and plop his fattened rump into the passenger seat.

Derek gave him a raised eyebrow, and a sideways glance. The alpha appeared unbothered, but he knew Derek was a master of suppressed emotions. The alpha felt like a tempest inside. A never ending one that was fueled by the certainty of his reality. “Your father called. He's holding the Mayor in a cell, apparently the crazed people have dubbed him their cult’s leader," the alpha paused, and shifted the car into drive as Stiles completely slid in the vehicle. “Deaton gave me this, said you'd know how to use it on the Mayor. Some mystical crap."

A hum from Stiles was the only response as he took the small ziplock bag of powder. He stared at its contents for several moments before a memory of Deaton blowing the same powder in an unknown individual's face. Consequently, the individual appeared to pass out. The memory ended, but Stiles could sense the matter had been resolved. Although there was an opportunity for error, their eyes must be open. “Got it," Stiles whispered uncertainly.

“Look I know what happened back there was rough, shit Stiles, we lost a pack member today. But you can't blame yourself, they wanted the nemeton, with or without you," Derek, uncharacteristically and simply, said as he drove them towards the jailhouse.

“Tell that to your packmates," Stiles bitterly uttered out loud, unable to filter himself, nor his emotions. Although he felt influenced by Derek's emotions as well, struggling to discern his own. That's why he knew his choice of words hurt the alpha. “That was… a bit harsh, I just… I'm just as lost as all of you,” Stiles whispered, his mind going back to Świętosława.

“And they will come around to see that, once we deal with the Mayor," Derek affirmed sagely. Stiles had always known he was filled with a quiet wisdom.

“We're here, your father cleared out the area somehow, but there are still quite a few of the crazed ones inside with the Mayor.”

An empty parking lot surprised Stiles. Usually the jailhouse had a steady flow of people the entire day. He should know, since he's occasionally snooped through the amount of his father's case load monthly. Still, he didn't hesitate to barge into the building that was bathed in the early morning light. Derek arrived seconds behind him, having to park the car. “Stiles, kid," An all too familiar voice reached him.

"Dad," Stiles replied softly as he ran up, and hugged him. They shared their moment but were quickly interrupted by slow claps.

“A heartfelt moment truly, but we came here to negotiate terms of the city Sheriff. I can't have your officers resisting my influence,” The Mayor confidently stated. His eyes were a strange sight of bloodshot, mixed with a startling level of clarity that left Stiles scared to approach him. “Now, let me out, and we can talk terms, hm? Business does much more for the community than force."

Only his father and Derek's presence kept him from fleeing the scene. Clearly the mayor had to be the first one. His level of insanity and madness appeared to have been refined. Unlike the others in the cell with the Mayor, they appear eager to escape the cage and attack them like rabid dogs. “I sure hope you two have a solution, I'm out of my depth here," the sheriff muttered as he rubbed his balding head.

“Stiles," Derek called as he gave a pointed look at the ziplock bag in Stiles' grasp.

“Oh right, right," the diminutive spark mumbled as he opened the ziplock bag. And took a fist full before quickly stepping up to suddenly blow the sweet smelling dust into the mayor's eye. Before Stiles could stumble away, the Mayor reached through, grabbed him by his form hugging Batman shirt and slammed him against the jail bars. Stiles felt his newfound thickness jiggle before his brain and perspective started to.

Before he could fall, or the Mayor could do it again, Derek grabbed Stiles and freed him from the Mayor's grasp. Soon after, the Mayor fell to the ground unconscious, along with many of the other crazed individuals. Before another second could pass, the sheriff received a phone call. “Really? All of them? What a relief. Yeah,” the sheriff paused to lock eyes with Derek. “Something must've been in the water, I have to go, but I'll get out there shortly to help with cleaning up,” sheriff Stiliniski said before he swiftly hung up.

“Is he alright? If that man weren't the mayor, I'd shoot him right now," Noah grumbled as he assessed the slowly budding bruise on his son's forehead. He looked back at the cell, then at his son, and finally Derek. “What a mess, kid. Wish your mother was still here," he continued softly, but Derek heard him.

"You can put him in my office, on the couch, and maybe explain to me what this all has to do with Stiles, and why he could resolve it so easily. Too easily if you ask me,” Noah Stiliniski grunted as he led the way into his office after a few moments.

As Stiles was placed on the couch, John poured himself and Derek a shot of whiskey. Once they both had their respective glasses, and took one sip, Noah gestured for the werewolf to speak.

"Well you already know about the supernatural I'm sure, given who Stiles turned out to be," Derek grunted. Never willing to give an inch easily.

The sheriff frowned. He met Derek's eye with a guarded look. And he remained silent until after he took a large gulp of whiskey. “I know what you might think of me. Weak for being unable to tell my son his heritage, to prepare him for this. But how could I huh? My side of the family haven't spoken of shamanism or that mystical shit since they left Poland, only Claudia had that immediate potential," Noah grumbled, unbeknownst to him - Stiles had awoken and was quietly listening in. “We… I… I assumed he wouldn't be able to inherit those traits. And I tried to stir him clear of that route, keeping him from you all, but I think… I think I only pushed him further into it,” he finished with a deep sigh, finishing his glass and pouring another. Despite Derek's analytical gaze.

"Well, don't you think he deserves the truth from you now?” The alpha's voice was surprisingly soft.

Noah scoffed. “And what? Tell him that I'm the reason his mom, my wife wasn't able to defend herself?! Because I didn't want her practicing that stuff in our home? That he comes from a cursed line of witches? Yeah, right." Noah shook his head, and moved to take another sip of his glass as the cup shattered. An unknown force has been the cause.

“You knew?! You.. you.." Stiles felt himself losing control, his abilities running rampant as a flame came to life on his father's arm. Before the situation could escape, Derek picked up Stiles, and quickly exited the building before he could do anything he'd regret. "Put me down Derek!” Stiles grunted as he struggled to free himself. The sight of Derek's burnt clothes kept him from using magic, as he hadn't wished to harm the alpha any further.

"No,” Derek replied simply. And he remained silent until he stood beside his passenger door once more. "You're going to cool off, and relax at the loft until you can think straight,” he affirmed as he buckled Stiles into the passenger seat. And clearly the human spark saw reason behind his words, because he stopped resisting him.

Soon Derek was in the driver's seat, and headed to his loft. The promise of temporary solitude was Stiles’ only salvation.

Chapter Text

Smooth leather, expensive and luxurious, gleamed dimly within the vehicle's low, internal lights. A small tremble had embedded itself within every object, every piece of that iconic Camaro. There was a certain peace to its existence. A certain reminder that brought forth memories. Ghosts within their minds. Nostalgia that could calm even a werewolf on the night of a full moon. Accompanied by the distinctive layout of Derek's familiar apartment building, Stiles found some measure of stillness within his racing mind.

“You know," the alpha paused as he shifted the car into park. They had just reached Derek’s familiar and seemingly reserved parking spot. " I've never been good at talking. But, uhh,” almost nervously, Derek struck the car's dashboard with the point of his index finger, repeatedly.

In any other situation, Stiles would've been amused. He would've made a joke about dogs not being able to talk or something. But at that moment, at that moment he sat in the passenger seat looking out the window with a measure of barely concealed anger. An emotion that was fueling a reaction in nature itself. Given the early scent of rain Derek could smell. But there was no physical indication of Stiles' connection to the budding storm.

“Look, you don't have to do this. My lack of control was… concerning, yes. But I– I would never kill my father, Derek,” Stiles replied. His voice barely above the tone of a whisper. "I can, I can go back. Go back to my house, and cool off. You don't have to involve yourself in this,” the awakened spark murmured. There was a slight sniffle to his tone, but both of them ignored that.

A sigh was Stiles' only response. Derek appeared to prepare for the ride to the suburbs of Beacon Hills. But he paused whenever a smaller and pale hand settled on top of his forearm. “But maybe," Stiles paused to take a deep breath as he removed his palm from the werewolf with a blush. “Maybe I shouldn't be alone right now," he admitted with a display of true vulnerability.

Keys jiggled in a form of a more direct response. The werewolf appeared to agree, and actually shared Stiles' sentiments. At least internally. As Stiles' only clue was the sensation of amplified relief. Derek hadn't wanted Stiles to be alone either after such an ordeal. But he would never force the human to stay.

“Here," Derek abruptly filled the silence, only the slight pitter-patter of rain dared to speak before. Within his calloused grasp, Stiles found the dangle of keys. Familiar keys that connect to the loft upstairs. “Go up without me," he pressed until Stiles took the keys gently. “I'll be up soon."

Generally, Stiles would've pestered the secretive alpha until he received some measure of information. But with his newfound abilities, and all that had happened in the past forty eight hours, Stiles accepted the keys without a word. A moment later, Stiles exited the vehicle with a sniffle. By that hour, the sun had slowly started to return. Rays of light that dare to peel over the horizon. But the rain hadn't deterred the rising sun in the slightest.

“Go on, Stiles," Derek grunted as he finally exited the car as well. Their eyes locked, but Derek merely nodded to the entrance of the building.

Consequently, Stiles felt pressured to heed the alpha's commands. Deft fingers wrapped around a rusted door handle. A scent of wax and pinesol. The stench of cleaning supplies and bleach hung vividly in the air. As if someone had been in there, cleaning all night, almost like they were attempting to cover their tracks.

Curiosity pushed Stiles forward. A gentle nudge of interest that brought him into the center of the building's lobby. Unsurprisingly, there wasn't anyone behind the front counter. Only the dimmer noise and light of a cellular phone remained on the desk. As if someone had recently abandoned their post. Truthfully, Stiles had never seen an attendant at the front desk. A startling fact, given the amount of times he'd visited.

Instead of hovering there - needlessly - Stiles quickly went upstairs. His movements were clumsy, as his mind raced. Unable to forget the displeasure of his night. Consequently, he wasn't prepared for the sight of a middle-aged man at Derek's large metallic door.

Reebok shoes weren't ever a good sign in Stiles’ eyes. The company was rather aged, nearly forgotten in the test of time. And every man that Stiles knew, who remained loyal to the brand, had trouble with giving their undying loyalty to false causes. The straight cut jeans and Ralph Lauren collared shirt didn't deter that notion either.

A steady knock, a pound of flesh - in the form of a balled fist - struck the metallic door once more. In a quick succession of the three strikes. He appeared to be slowly becoming annoyed. A sensation that Stiles was only privy to because of his growing level of empathy. Still, with the inability to identify the stranger, Stiles delayed an approach. He hadn't ever seen the man before, but there was a level of confidence to the man's movements that revealed he had been there already.

“Come on, open up Isaac," the man shouted through the door, a Boston accent coated with his words and mannerisms. “Derek isn't even here, I didn't see that shitty Camaro on the way up at least,” the man pressed on.

Unable to remain immune and hidden forever, Stiles decided to approach the man from behind. The disrespect of Derek's car had been a clear motivator. He stopped after there was at least six feet between them, before he spoke. “It's actually a beautiful Camaro. Just an FYI. In case you missed the amount of care that went into it," Stiles had eagerly stressed the word beautiful. His honeyed gaze met a set of icy blue eyes as the middle aged man turned around.

Sure enough, the man's features revealed his age to be well over the year mark of age thirty. The elder male wore glasses, and an infuriated expression until he noticed the origin of the voice.

Stiles had never been terribly tall, nor broad or muscular. But his resting bitch face generally could be used as an intimidation tactic. Or his scathing sarcasm. Both of which were recuperating from the turmoil of Danny's death. But lately, his form has turned out to be even less intimidating. Hips, ass, and his stomach had all developed a thickening layer of fatty tissue. Each meal brought him closer to the visage of a feminine shape. The sheriff had blamed it on Stiles’ medication, and the younger Stiliniski hadn't found anything to oppose the claim. Given that he had recently been given a newer, higher dosage.

“Right, right. I must've missed that," the middle-aged man creepily agreed. His blue eyes traced Stiles with a purpose. One that left the eighteen year old disgruntled. "I'm Jason, and you are?” Jason inquired with an offered palm.

"Oh, you couldn't read my name tag,” Stiles sarcastically grunted as he pointed to an empty spot on his left shoulder. Somehow, his ability of sarcasm had returned. Though only just enough to piss the man off in front of him. "I'm not sure you're aware, but whenever you don't receive a response at the door, the answer isn't just keep knocking,” the shorter male finished with a grin that mocked everything about the middle-aged man.

Before either of them could continue, as the conversation was clearly escalating into hostile territory, Derek's loud and uncaring footsteps reached them. Both of their heads snapped to the stairwell as the gruff werewolf appeared. He had a small bag sling over his shoulder. And as he approached him, scratched his beard without care.

“Get lost, Mike,” Derek grumbled without even looking at the middle-aged man. He merely plucked the keys from Stiles' frozen grasp, unlocked his door, and held the hefty metallic door open for Stiles. Even as Mike dared to sneak-a-peek inside. “Stiles," the alpha grumbled once.

Eager to escape the atmosphere, and Jason - or Mike rather - Stiles quickly entered the loft before the door slid shut in Mike's face. “You know he lied about his name to me? And why was he here? He was looking for Isaac?" Stiles unconsciously rambled. A trait that Derek was happy to see him display, but he made no acknowledgement of the words beyond a stiff grunt.

Unable to be put off by Derek's nonverbal nature anymore, Stiles plopped himself down on the couch in the living room. Idly, his mind raced for something - anything to keep him from obsessing over the death of his friend. Truthfully, he'd been crying the whole ride over from the jailhouse. Tears that had burned their way down his cheeks. Their memory scorched into the surface of his mind as sensations. Caresses of cold liquids.

“Here, not much, but I'll go shopping once things settle tomorrow," Derek' rich voice washed over him as the alpha set a plated sandwich in front of him. The sandwich appeared to consist of peanut butter and jelly. A delectable combination in Stiles' eyes, and his stomach happily rumbled in agreement. Derek heavily sat in a nearby armchair, his voice absent for a few moments as he bit into his own sandwich and chewed slowly. It wasn't until he swallowed that Derek decided to speak again. “It wasn't your fault, Stiles.”

Grief was a funny thing. Its various stages never failed to appear. Stiles had already gone through denial, especially the moment he had heard the news. And now he was confined to anger, to boundless rage that he knew he had to bottle up. At that thought, a vicious and deafening strike of lightning met the ground just outside the giant window of the loft. The force and noise was jarring, enough that Stiles gasped and leapt back onto the couch fearfully. His form shaking with uncertainty as he started to hyperventilate.

Thanks to their frequent - and quite frankly stressful - interactions, Derek already knew the method to calm him. Swiftly, the alpha placed his plate on the coffee table besides Stiles' unbitten sandwich. He then sat himself gingerly beside the shorter male that had curled into a ball, breathing shorter and shorter breaths. With the usage of his supernatural strength, and memories of care, Derek shifted Stiles' curled form to lean against his chest. He placed the awakened spark's toes on his muscular thigh as he started to rub Stiles’ trembling back.
“One," Derek began softly.

The start was so soft that Stiles wasn't sure he heard the alpha until the next number, which was said much louder than the first. “Two," Derek firmly continued. His soothing rubs, and confident demeanor expertly slowing down Stiles’ racing heart.

Enough so that Stiles softly repeated the number to show he's present - mentally, and listening to every word. “T-two," the tiny empath repeated as his fist unconsciously curled into a ball on top of Derek’s chest. Slightly bunching up the fabric of the muscular werewolf’s Henley shirt.

“Good, three," Derek continued. He wasn't willing to give Stiles a reprieve just yet. Usually they made it to five before Stiles made any sarcastic remarks. Yet at that time, they hadn't even made it to three before Stiles' heartbeat had calmed considerably. Green eyes fell down to a freckle speckled face to find Stiles asleep. “Hmph, you'll have to eat later," Derek grumbled as he scooped up the ignited spark, and took him to rest in Derek's own bed.

Given the lack of other accommodations, Isaac's bed belonged to Isaac. And the other rooms were without a bed at all, Derek decided he'd take the couch. Stiles deserved comfort after everything that had happened. Derek couldn't believe the sheriff had been aware of the supernatural the entire time. He scoffed as he returned to his seat on the couch, watching the storm. A rage of winds that had settled alongside Stiles’ aching heart for the moment. Still, he made no correlation between the two. His mind was preoccupied with all that had taken place.

Danny, or Daniel Māhealani, was a terrible loss. The young Hawaiian had so much to live for. Derek thought back to the death of Laura, all the promise of life she had. Not to mention all the young Hales, and his parent's golden years that had been stolen. One thing Derek understood intimately was death. Alongside undeniable accountability, Derek was almost able to see within the depths of Stiles' mind at that moment.

The werewolf wished to blame himself for everything. To be the one holding the brunt of responsibility - as he so usually did. But he couldn't. The facts were laid bare for all. Everyone knew exactly who the Darachs were after. And if Derek could be honest with himself, Stiles wasn't at fault. But that brought forth the uncomfortable truth that Derek wasn't at fault for much of the things that had gone wrong in his life. A truth he wasn't ready to accept, he had never completed his stages of grief. Much like Stiles.

With a sigh, he scrubbed his face angrily. The thought of a shower eased his tension somewhat. There was just too much to think about. Mysticism, death, and deceit. He knew someone had to have Stiles back in all this, since even the sheriff had failed the spark. With that affirmation in mind, he quickly rose from the chair and went to take a long steamy shower.

Much like tears, raindrops fell without thought. Their trajectory was unknown. Only the certainty of their presence in the wake of tragedy. A storm had gathered over Beacon Hills. Rumbles of thunder that resembled a drunken god that had taken a nap. Accompanied by a gray atmosphere that clung to every surface. It was almost tangible, the sorrow.

Along with the pitter-patter of raindrops, broken sobs decorated the surrounding atmosphere of the Hale estate. Much like Laura, Danny was given a proper burial beside the Hale’s mansion. Jackson had done most of the digging, he had insisted. The others simply stood guard, mourning along with Jackson. Yet they had to remain alert in case those Wendigos returned. Although most of them hadn't remained. Scott took Allison home the moment she had awoken without madness in her eyes. Lydia, Boyd, Isaac, and Erica remained. They did their best to console Jackson, but they were grieving too.

At that moment, Jackson was kneeling in front of the spot they had just finished reburying the dirt. They hadn't even been able to find the rest of Danny's body parts. A sick realization that had forced Jackson to puke mindlessly, a few times. After Derek had left, Deaton followed but not before he said comforting words about Daniel Māhealani. That had been a surprise for Jackson, but he had appreciated the veterinarian's words. By now, Jackson had been kneeling for at least an hour. His clothes were soaked through, his head hung sadly. Only short hiccups escaped him.

They knew he'd remain there for far too long if they let him. Consequently, Lydia decided to break the dreary silence. “His parents, his parents should be told,” she whispered in an effort to softly guide Jackson into leaving the scene. In response, she received a withered sniffle. Jackson appeared rooted in place. His continued silence weighed upon them all. There were no distinctive words of comfort that could soothe such grief. “Come on Jackson," Lydia continued to softly urge.

Although they've had plenty of time to sit there, and mourn. Jackson appeared to think they hadn't spent enough. That there wasn't enough time to commemorate Danny's memory. But he knew they couldn't remain there forever. And someone needed to tell Daniel's parents, Jackson wasn't sure he could face them. But he surely wouldn't do it dressed in mud and shredded clothing.

“I could…” Boyd's abrupt sentence was snuffed out before he even began, as Jackson cut him off.

A shook head, grunts of anguish, and Jackson rising from the dirt all interrupt and signify his immediate disagreement. “No, this is no one's responsibility but mine. I shouldn't have let him come with us,” Jackson managed to stutter out with broken breaths.

"You can't blame yourself for this, Jackson. We were all unprepared and surprised, even Stiles,” Lydia asserted. Despite a few pack members feeling the need to blame Stiles, Lydia hadn't fallen into that belief. At a soft scoff from Jackson, Lydia pressed on. "Yes, even Stiles. Don't you all remember your demons? As a Banshee, I can't forget mine.”

A heavy silence descended after that swift acknowledgment. Each of them in attendance appeared to self reflect in silence. Lydia was right, they had each gone through horrific trials of hell just to stand as themselves. But it was clear Jackson wasn't ready to see that, his grief had picked an enemy. Regardless of their former relationship as allies, Jackson found himself falling into misconceptions about Stiles’ character. Especially with the death of his best friend.

That moment of silence was ripped apart by a sudden flurry of noises. At first they heard a strange clicking noise, then the rustle of quick footsteps through beds of leaves, and finally a soft - yet weighted - plop of something heavy.

Each of the pack members looked at one another. They appeared to be recounting who had remained within the vicinity. Everyone appeared accounted for. With Erica and Boyd pressed together against the side of the Hale house. Lydia stood right behind Jackson, both near Danny's makeshift grave. And Isaac sat at the edge of the front porch, just on the last step. As a result of finding everyone, they turned to other assumptions. Each of their gazes connected with shared looks of tension.

Only Boyd had decided to move. His hefty footsteps brought him closer to the noise, given that each werewolf's heightened sense had already pinpointed the noise. Which had brought Boyd to stand behind the Hale estate. The back porch was relatively untouched, the infamous fire that consumed the home all those years ago hadn't gotten back that far. Their backyard was huge, but the treeline has grown incredibly close to the shell of a home. That was the reason Boyd didn't immediately notice the crouched figure in the trees that watched him. His brown eyes were more focused upon the sight of severed a limb.

Vernon Boyd wasn't a stranger to cruelty. He knew thy name well. But he had never been exposed to such gruesome acts.

A white running shoe. Part of shredded khaki pants. And a mud soaked soak. Each aspect that Boyd used to ignore the bone and sinew hanging from the top of the severed leg. It was a left leg. And given Boyd's impeccable memory, the leg belonged to Danny. The fellow student had worn those exact articles of clothing - not even a day prior. Boyd covered his trembling brown lips, a quiver shuttered through him as he sniffled accidentally and fully scented the rotten leg. Bites, small pieces that look like they'd been pinched out, littered the exposed portion of the leg. Only Erica's sudden arrival had saved him from nearly throwing up.

“You good, Boyd?" She murmured with a dreary tone. Though she froze the moment she discovered the object of his attention. Unlike Boyd, she turned her gaze all around wondering what would've brought the severed limb to that exact spot. A spot they could all sense had been empty beforehand. Eventually, her gaze found a crouched figure in the trees. She couldn't see its entire visage, but its shape appeared grotesque. “Boyd," she whispered urgently, catching his undivided attention. She gave a pointed glance to the treeline before their gazes met once more.

Instead of a verbal reply, he nodded mutedly before grasping her hand gently, and venturing back to the front of the hollowed estate. As they passed the trio, Boyd knew they needed to be informed, and offered a ride. But he was still internally shaken from the sight of Danny's leg. As a consequence, Erica spoke up for them. “We're leaving, some sick fuck left Danny's leg in the back, and… and they're watching us.” Erica hissed as she glanced back at the treeline. "I don't know about you three, but we're leaving. Now. If you want a ride, come on,” Erica urged.

Yet another reason their relationship was so fruitful. Erica took charge whenever Boyd became reserved, and vice versa. He was internally grateful for her interference as he headed to his parked SUV. Thankfully, it was still intact after all that had happened. Although there was a dent he noticed as he helped Erica into the car. And just as he climbed into the driver's seat, after Erica had settled into the passenger side, Isaac climbed in. But he had to scoot over for Lydia, and surprisingly Jackson.

Before anything sinister could interrupt their leave, they swiftly drove away from the Hale's estate. All the while non-existent eyes watched them go.

By then a whole twenty four hours had passed them by. Beacon Hills was slowly recovering from the estranged madness. They had the news calling it ‘A Time of Forgetance’, since most of those who had gone mad didn't remember much from the last few days. Even before the madness had claimed their hometown. Businesses and government jobs took priority. Many returned to work as soon as they could, but school - for all ages - had been cancelled for the next week. Stiles had awoken to the news, grateful. But that only meant he had more time to grieve, and blame himself.

At that early witching hour of the next day, he stood near a window. Just observing the shift of nature in the wind. Each breeze appeared like a cold reminder. Nothing was infallible, even the undeniable might of nature. Energy is taken, where energy is given. Stiles doesn't remember being so… existential before awakening his spark. But he wouldn't deny the newfound beauty he's discovered in empathy.

Although there was a darkness to that level of unrestricted knowledge. Such as the fact that he knew just how deep Derek's emotional turmoil ran. He knew every blow Isaac - who had returned while Stiles was asleep - had endured from his father. All from simple prolonged close proximity. Honestly, Stiles wasn't sure he could continue to take the level of emotional intelligence he's been exposed to. Somehow Derek understood. The werewolf didn't ask questions, or force Stiles to do anything besides relax. A welcomed reprieve, although he still worried about the eating habits of his father.

He knew he needed to go home. At least to collect a few of his personal belongings. He couldn't stay with the man that was essentially responsible for his mother's untimely demise. And he had grown old enough to make such decisions, even if the sheriff greatly disagreed. A fact that was confirmed by all the angered texts and calls he received from the elder Stiliniski.

For the time being, he was grateful Derek had given him sanctuary. The alpha had even gone as far as to allow Stiles to wear his clothes. And while Stiles initially assumed he was burdening the werewolf, Derek's emotion leaked into Stiles' psyche. Sensations of pleasure and desire mixed with concern accompanied the werewolf each time they interacted. Especially after Stiles started wearing the oversized clothes.

“Still daydreaming?" Derek grunted as he entered the room. He clearly had just returned from a workout, if the sight of sweat and athletic clothing were anything to go by.

A peek over the shoulder revealed all of that to Stiles. “If that's what you call bird watching then, yes," the pudgy spark mumbled. Sarcasm coated his tone.

A snort and disgruntled glance was all Stiles thought he'd receive in response. Except Derek's slow timber of a voice returned, “Deaton is coming over,” Derek grumbled. As if he disagreed entirely with the upcoming visitation. He hadn't looked at Stiles, but he could sense his tension and worry for him. “He said he needed to speak with you. If you don't want him here, he won't be here," the werewolf continued as he started an old movie for them to watch.

Amber eyes drifted to the television out of sheer curiosity. ‘The Wiz' - movie starring Michael Jackson and Diana Ross - played its early scenes. Stiles felt a childlike peace unfurl within his heart before he turned to glance at Derek. He found the alpha watching the movie with a lowered gaze, arms crossed over his chest as he relaxed on the couch. Amused, Stiles sat in the large armchair that had a butt shape of Derek, but soothingly envelopes him.

“Guess I'll… wait for him then, anything to take my mind off all… this,” Stiles mumbled. And his words were true. He wasn't interested in sitting there without something to preoccupy his ever racing mind, especially as he hadn't taken his medicine in at least forty eight hours. "I didn't know you liked this movie," Stiles teased through his dreary expression.

Derek merely huffed, a shrug followed but he said no more. They remained silent until the halfway mark of the movie, whenever they met the lion, and Deaton’s form knock resounded at the door. The pair - Derek and Stiles - shared a look. Stiles' was filled with uncertainty, but Derek appeared pained. Tension threading itself into the alpha's bushy eyebrows.

Before either of them could move, they heard the metallic door slide open. Followed by Isaac's curious tone. “Deaton? Why are you carrying a cat?"

“Isaac," Deaton's voice replied with a level of confidence that had Stiles peeking over the top edge of the couch to observe their interactions. And sure enough, Deaton held a cat within his grasp. Pressed against his chest. "And I'm not sure, I just felt this urge to bring them in. They were outside your door,” the vet said as he waited by the door. He appeared to be suddenly uncertain.

“You can bring em, they leave with you though," Derek grumbled as he played the movie he had pissed to focus on the conversation between Isaac and Deaton.

The veterinarian hummed, but said nothing further. His quiet, and well placed, footsteps brought him into Derek’s and Stiles' direct periphery. Deaton didn't hesitate to kneel beside the coffee table, closest to Stiles, and release the cat that instantly jumped onto the spark's lap. Derek growled loudly, suddenly, that everyone looked at him. Even Isaac poked his head in with a piece of bacon hanging from between his lips.

Ever the jumpy individual, Stiles leapt from the cat's weight, and Derek's subsequent growl. So twice, two jumps of fright occurred. Consequently, the frightened cat was plucked from Stiles' lap, and placed on the floor. “I should've remembered this is a dog's house,” Deaton joked. In a deadpan expression that only served to - surprisingly - amuse even Stiles.

"Anyway, that's not why I came here," the veterinarian continued. “I came to ask for a favor," Deaton hesitantly inquired as he pulled several strange, and ancient items from his duffle bag.

“Any time you change your mind, let me know, Stiles," the alpha grumbled with a pointed glance at Deaton, but he eventually left the room. And had obviously paused the movie to be continued once the veterinarian left.

“Magic is generally finite," Alan cryptically began as he placed several candles in a circular fashion on the coffee table. “The usage of sheer will require a source of energy, a transference,” he continued slowly. His hands carefully placed a strange board onto the table. “Druids like myself require the usage of nature, herbs. Darachs, sacrifices. But you, you, Stiles only need your mind,” he finished his words as he placed a lock of hair in the center of the board.

The combination of such items left him to frown. The candles haven't been lit yet, but the atmosphere was already coated. Themed in a way that couldn't be ignored. "What is the favor, Deaton?” Stiles inquired firmly, his calves were tucked underneath his thighs as he leaned heavily on one of the armrests.

“I need you to summon the dead," the vet bluntly revealed. “There is someone I need to speak with that could help us identify the leader of the Darachs," Deaton urged. But he didn't reveal the lock of hair was someone important to him.

The awakened spark frowned. His gaze jumped between the display and Deaton's face, but he couldn't discern much deceit. Only patient insistence. “What, uh," Stiles paused to cough as he slid onto the floor beside Deaton. “What do you need me to do?" He inquired as he licked his lips.

Deaton merely tapped his skull, as if to signify the usage of Stiles' own mind. The memory of that newfound hum of energy beneath his flesh flashes in the front of his mind. Stiles decided to simply concentrate, but whenever nothing happened he glanced at Deaton uncertainly. “Try again, this time. Remember that because you are a well of magic, you shape it. All you require is intention," Deaton pressed.

A deep breath, and slightly annoyed sigh later, Stiles focused again. But that time the candles came alight with fire on their own. Tall flames that would've worried Stiles, if he wasn't focused on the sight of that hair follicle melting into a liquid that was slightly acidic. The material of the board slightly eroded as the flames died down. Everything fell strangely silent until fist pounds that rattle the metallic structure of Derek's door.

Stiffly, one by one, everyone within the loft ended up by the door as Derek slid the door open to reveal a most unwelcome face. But before they could start a round of insults, the slightly familiar face started to shout at them.

“Derek?! Isaac? Stiles, oh my god Stiles, have you seen Jackson?" The face that wasn't anyone who knew Jackson, not Stiles' name shouted. They all kept observing the man quietly, all with varying degrees of confusion. “Why are you looking at me like that? It's me! It's Danny, Danny, you know the one that gave you a shirt?" The face that clearly belonged to the one Derek had called Mike, said while looking pointedly at Derek.

“Dan-Danny?" Stiles stuttered out in a whisper, at the same time someone else said a name.

“Michael?!" Isaac stuttered out in sync with Stiles. Amplifying their shared bemusement.

Chapter Text

Magic - the unseen act - held possibilities one could only imagine. Even those born with knowledge of the art couldn't hope to experience its full might. Nor all of its forbidden secrets. Consequently, many were left in the dark about their expected results. And Stiles will admit he should've asked more questions about Deaton's expectations. That might've saved him the current headache daring to consume him.

Empathy be damned. Stiles hadn't expected emotion to outweigh his conscious thought. The new depth he felt of emotion was startling, overwhelming at best. There, within the doorway of Derek's loft, Stiles found himself nearly falling over. But the loft’s owner had quickly moved to support Stiles’ weight. Unable to ignore the taste of being a burden, Stiles took a shaky breath. He shoved down his emotional turmoil. Consequently, a strike of lightning took place just outside of Derek's window. In the exact same spot.

“Once is a coincidence," Stiles cryptically muttered to himself. All the while, their collective attention had shifted to the storm slowly building outside. “Uh, thanks, dude," the short male muttered with a forced smile. He shifted his weight onto his own feet.

A grunt resounded throughout the area. Almost guttural, a grunt that was accompanied by an emotional projection of hurt. “Don't call me dude, and someone want to tell me why our dead friend is in the body of Isaac's sugar daddy?" Derek inquired - demanded - in a dead serious tone.

Although the days ahead looked dreary, more than the ones they had already left behind, Stiles found it in himself to release a reluctant chuckle. A few eyes glanced at him nervously, but their attention returned to Danny - or Michael rather.

“You must've been focused on Danny's memory, Mr. Stiliniski. That lock of hair…” Deaton paused. He appeared to be internally scanning his memories. "Didn't belong to Danny. An oversight on my end. I should explain this all, inside," the druid urged them to let Danny in Michael's body walk into the loft. He then directed them all to the living area.

Once everyone had made themselves as comfortable as possible - given the situation, Deaton focused on Danny - Michael. Just as the veterinarian inhaled in preparation to speak, Isaac cut him off. “He's not my sugar daddy, Derek," the beta grumbled.

"Right now, he's not anything besides Daniel Māhealani. I believe the small ritual I asked Stiles to conduct focused more on his intentions than my own,” Deaton continued, smoothly. He knelt beside the coffee table, and started to collect the snuffed out candles into his bag. “Daniel's spirit must've been following you around. Honestly I think it has to do with your spark, Mr. Stiliniski.”

A breath, an exhale of tired curiosity. “So… I'm at fault? Again. Maybe if this whole magic thing came with a guidebook. You're the one that suggested this Deaton, I have the memories of you, my mother, and..” Stiles paused as he considered informing them about Świętosława. Eventually, he decided against it. He wasn't even sure those memories - or dreams rather - were real. “And it's just not enough. I still feel out of my depth here, Deaton."

"And I empathize with you, that is the reason I brought these,” the druid paused after he had cleaned off the coffee table. A moment later he started to reveal books from the depths of his messenger bag. “You left your mother's journal at the Hale estate, but I brought it. These two are different, however. This one is the bestiary to help you navigate the supernatural. And this one is a grimoire that belonged to my great grandmother, she was a spark too." Deaton appeared misty eyed as he placed the books on the table.

“You.. you don't have to give me your family's grim-," the younger human was interrupted by the elder.

Alan Deaton wasn't sentimental. He couldn't afford to be. And perhaps, if the books helped Stiles catch up to speed, then maybe Deaton will have a break from the struggle of being a Hale emissary. He had other ambitions, after all, and this was a small sacrifice to pay. “I've already memorized the book, page for page. And while some of the information was helpful to me, this book is more suited for you," Deaton affirmed.

Unable to find words, Stiles glanced around the room. He found Derek with a carefully blank expression, but he could sense the werewolf was bothered by Danny's unique resurrection. Isaac was more visible with his distaste. As he wore a sneer that was aimed at Michael. And the cat was… somehow still present despite all the strangeness. There was an aura of mysticism that followed the small feline. A black coat with green eyes that met Stiles' own with a haunting level of awareness in them. The empath swore he could even sense an emotion of acknowledgment within them. Their staring contest was broken by Derek's gruff voice.

“Look Stiles, I'm fine with you being here. But magic…” The alpha trailed off with a strained expression. Clearly there was a history with the unseen that Stiles wasn't aware of. "Tone down the magic," Derek grunted before he got up to venture into the nearby kitchen. Stiles could still see him, but he did his best to not allow his gaze to linger.

“I will make a note to conduct our lessons, and meetings, at my clinic next time,” Alan affirmed to Derek whenever he sensed the budding tension within the loft. "Anyhow, with Danny's spirit here, we can ask a few questions. Maybe he saw something before he-,” Deaton was interrupted by another bout of lightning that struck the exact same spot. That time, the veterinarian knew the lightning was abnormal. Instantly, his eyes fell on Stiles. Alan's grandmother could influence the weather, but not to that extent.

“Look, as ‘cool’ as all this magic shit is, why the hell are you bringing our dead friend back to life!?” Isaac exploded with sarcasm as he suddenly leapt up from the couch. “And in the body of a guy I was interested in? What kind of bad luck is this?" The beta grumbled as he paced, his nails extending as his eyes flickered that fluorescent hue of blue.

“I'm dead?" They all heard Danny - well Michael - whisper.

And although his voice was small, everyone heard him. The tension came to a screeching halt as they finally processed the morality of what they'd done. “Fuck," they all heard Derek exclaim followed by a wall being punched through. Debris littered the floor as their alpha's fist completed the strike that had gone entirely through the wall.

Instantly, Stiles ran over and grabbed the much larger hand in his small ones. “Derek!? Are you alright?" The empath asked as he attempted to assess the alpha's hand. And while there was blood, skin ripped open from being grinded between concrete and bones, Derek was swiftly healing.

“I'm fine," Derek grumbled. But he didn't pull away. He wasn't afraid of Stiles, nor magic. He just didn't appreciate the unpredictable nature of mysticism. “Magic isn't some toy. I see Deaton hasn't explained that yet," the alpha slyly mentioned as he stared down his nose at Stiles.

The empath frowned, clearly insulted by Derek's words. But Stiles didn't say anything, he merely moved away with a pained expression. And even if the alpha followed his body heat momentarily, Derek hadn't dared to apologize. Or even take back the presumption that Stiles had treated his new powers as such. Especially in regards to Danny's life.

“Another oversight, one I shall rectify when you bring him to my clinic tomorrow," Deaton started, as if he was preparing to leave after his little speech.

But Isaac interrupted before that possibility could gain any real strength. “You're not just leaving him, or them whatever, like this are you? You have to release Danny from whatever shit you two did,” Isaac stressed. And while Stiles was sure the beta cared for their dead companion, he was also sure Isaac cared for the middle aged man named Michael.

Which, in truth, should be alarming - given Isaac's age. Most of their group were seniors, nineteen and above. But Isaac, and Stiles, were eighteen. The spark wasn't against age differences between two adults, but he felt that Isaac was trying to fill a void. Isaac had never looked at someone that was Michael's age. And last Stiles checked, the beta had been interested in Scott as well as Allison.

“You're right, we can't leave him this way. However, we must ask a few pertinent questions before his spirit is released," Alan pressed. And Stiles had to hand it to the druid, the elder had yet to flinch in the face of Isaac's rage and Derek's solemn glare. “So, Danny, what do you remember? Most recently, in your memory."

Though most were reluctant, all eyes eventually settled upon Michael's form in expectation for Danny's reply. The possessed individual frowned even deeper, he had been mostly silent. Apparently listening to their back and forth. But his eyes had slowly begun to fill with tears. Michael's eyes bounced around nervously before they settled upon Stiles. "I.. I can't remember much, honestly. I didn't even know I was dead,” Danny - or Michael - paused to sniffle once. "Everything is blurry, but I remember… I remember…” Abruptly, Danny started to hyperventilate with Michael's form. The body fell over, onto the floor - nearly crushing the cat. Everyone rushed to cushion the fall, but no one was swift enough.

A sickening thud of a skull meeting hard floors resounded throughout the loft. Stiles covered his cupid bow shaped lips as if he was about to puke. Meanwhile, Isaac shifted Michael's fallen form into a more comfortable sideways position as he shook. "What's he remembering?! This shit is demonic. Are you sure you should be playing God like Deaton, Stiles?!” Isaac roared in anguish. His form nearly completely shifted, taken over by extra bits of hair.

“I… I…” Stiles, who could barely keep track of the situation, nervously glanced at Deaton. The empath found Alan staring at the scene with a detached expression. As if apathy had torn the veterinarian’s heart apart. With everything that had happened, Stiles was beginning to think it was all too much. Consequently, he shouted, "Enough.” A single word, backed by his intention and emotional turmoil, silenced the chaos like a snuffed out flame.

As a result, Stiles fell over. Although Derek had been swift to catch him, having already moved closer as the situation started to escalate. But as he lost consciousness, Michael appeared to regain his. And the most unexpected event occurred.

Instead of a mere grumble about a headache, Michael's form woke up with a roar. Claws that were as big as a finger, forearms that put even Derek's to shame, and fangs that curled inward all reveal an unknown fact about Michael. “A werebear," Deaton whispered. As if more astonished than afraid. “I suggest we-," again, the vet was cut off by Isaac.

“Fuck that Doc, we aren't taking any more of your suggestions," Isaac grunted as he did a back roll to avoid the first swipe of those giant claws. "I should've known that scent.”

"How could you have? This is the first one we've met," Derek grunted as he maneuvered Stiles to rest against his chest. One arm underneath his thighs, and one underneath his back. “We need to move. Lead him away from the loft," the alpha urged Isaac, and Deaton.

The druid went first. Alan's footsteps were surprisingly swift, and he made it out of the building without much trouble. Yet Isaac was locked in a vicious game of bob and weave. The partially shifted bear had already smashed their television, thrown their couch at the refrigerator, and shattered their coffee table. Isaac didn't have a scratch on him, he was acrobatic and nimble. His added strength assisted him in flipping over strikes.

“You first, Isaac," Derek valiantly ordered as he positioned himself beside the loft’s exit. He had a plan to kick the fire alarm, and disrupt the werebear’s senses. “Now, Isaac."

Unable to resist the alpha roar Derek put into his voice, Isaac ran out of the loft. And just as the werebear got close, Derek kicked the fire alarm hard enough to break the device entirely. But at least that kick started the sprinklers and alarms. Consequently, Michael covered his sensitive ears as he started to become soaked. Derek used that time to quickly exit the building, racing down the building’s fire escape with Stiles in hand.

Once outside, they were quick to notice the presence of a few humans that shared the building with Derek. They were looking at the building nervously, so none of them paid Derek and Stiles any attention. Instead of standing around, Deaton directed the two werewolves into his Cadillac. Derek took the backseat with Stiles, while Isaac begrudgingly took the passenger side. Alan didn't hesitate to carefully leave the building's parking lot.

But just as they were nearing the turn exit, Micheal exited the building. The werebear had returned to his original form. And there was a level of awareness in his eyes that started the trio, since Stiles was unconscious. “He doesn't look remorseful. More so… aware, analytical almost. As if he's hunting,” Deaton mumbled as he watched Michael's eyes eventually find them. Only a moment passed before Deaton swiftly pulled out - into the streets of Beacon Hills.

“Where are we going?” Derek demanded to know as he assessed Stiles' unconscious form.

Deaton hummed, not electing to say anything further until Isaac mimicked the hum. “Oh, to my home. You can wait out the werebear there. And I can assess why Stiles fell unconscious," Alan finally answered as they neared his humble abode.

The structure was quaint. A home that had clearly been around since before the reconstruction era. A few improvements had been made, but overall the two story home appeared to look like a moment of displaced time. As they all stepped out of his vehicle, a distant growl of curiosity could be heard before excited barking erupted.

“He doesn't bite," the veterinarian made sure to affirm as he unlocked the door, and led them inside. “Place him there, on the couch. I'll be back shortly, feel free to make yourselves at home," Alan hospitably said before he vanished through an open door that looked like it led to a kitchen.

“What a mess? Can you believe this, Derek? Why should we even trust him? He started all this,” Isaac grumbled as he paced, subtly gesturing in the direction Deaton had disappeared in. "And Stiles,” that was where a deep growl cut him off.

"Stiles,” Derek stressed the name as he looked to the unconscious individual in question, before he returned his gaze to Isaac. “Stiles is just as innocent as you. He wasn't fully aware of Deaton's intentions. Just like you weren't aware of Michael,” the alpha cruelly reminded.

Isaac's responding silence shouldn't have hurt. But Derek couldn't ignore the guilt he felt. Although the alpha disagreed with Isaac's choice of a life partner he barely knew, Derek also remembered Isaac's smile every time Mike dared to visit. “Look I'm…” Derek trailed off. He was clearly struggling to find the most simplistic word of them all. An apology.

Sadly, Isaac wasn't really in the mood for patience. "Save it. I'm sure Stiles could use all the emotional support you can give. I'll be outside,” Isaac grumbled as he left the house in a flurry of motion. Just as Deaton returned to the room. The veterinarian wisely didn't comment, even if his eyes did follow after the young beta.

"Well, I'll need a few minutes with him,” Alan pressed. He clearly wanted Derek to leave the room as well. However, the alpha merely observed the veterinarian with a frown. He only moved away just enough to allow Deaton into Stiles' space. "Alright then,” his monotone voice continued with a sigh. Soon he knelt beside Stiles' from on the couch, he had a bundle of unknown spices in his grip. A bundle that he lit on fire before hovering the smoke just under Stiles' button nose.

Derek grunted. Obviously he didn't enjoy the close proximity of fire. But he withheld a physical intervention in favor of watching Stiles. For a while, nothing happened. That was until Stiles' pinky twitched, but he didn't fully awaken. Just as Derek’s patience wore thin, his phone rang within the confined space of his pocket. Destin glanced over at him silently until the alpha sighed, and answered the device.

“Hm?" Derek sounded as he acknowledged the caller’s identity and voice. Deaton could hear urgent voices shouting on the other end of the phone, but he couldn't make out their words. “On my way," the alpha eventually replied with a tired sigh. He hung up before he returned his uncertain gaze to Stiles.

"He'll be safe here, there is mountain ash. In case I need to seal the perimeter myself,” Alan affirmed.

The alpha appeared to hesitate before he eventually nodded silently, his green eyes gaze watching Stiles with concern for another moment before he left. Deaton heard a soft conversation between the two pack members outside before everything fell silent once more.

Many weren't aware, but Alan had a sister. Her name was Marin. And much like Deaton, she had been born with an affinity for nature and mysticism. Their stark differences were in the choices each of them made. Deaton had chosen the path that preserved nature, as an emissary for a healthy pack. While Marin, Marin chose to serve the possibility of power. And she had died for her greed. Murdered by a man known as Deucalion.

Before she had died, Marin had assisted the alpha of alphas in gaining the power to break apart other packs. An act that required the sacrifice of a Darach. Consequently, Marin made herself a target and played into the role of being Deucalion’s scapegoat in the act.

She had been the one Deaton had wished to summon. Yet they were given Danny instead. Consequently, they still had no clue about the identity of their enemies’ leader. And they were losing ground fast. Not to mention the sudden, and surprising arrival of a werebear. Alan chuckled tiredly, still waving the burning herbs in Stiles' face. Thankfully, a particularly sharp inhale resulted in Stiles snorting the scent into his nostrils deeply. He woke up soon after.

“Der.. Derek?!" Stiles shouted as he jerked awake. Though he only found Deaton's carefully blank features. “Oh," the empath deflated with a frown. He soon realized they were not within Derek's loft anymore at all.

“Don't look so excited," Deaton said with a deadpan face as his hand with the burning herbs withdrew. Somehow dragging an unwanted chuckle from Stiles’ frowning features. “You passed out after banishing Danny's spirit, I presume. Michael turned out to be a werebear," the vet bluntly revealed everything Stiles had missed.

A spirited cry of surprise left the suddenly flailing teen. “You have no sense of sugar coating things, do you?” Stiles inquired. He abruptly sat up entirely, swinging his legs to hang over the couch instead of laying down. “Where are Derek and Isaac then? Don't tell me they stayed to deal with the were… werebear?! What even is that? Do those exist?? It's one headache after the next,” he groaned.

“They're real. And you should know to expect the unexpected, Mr. Stiliniski. That is why I brought you the bestiary, you'll have to retrieve the book eventually," Alan informed him as he stood up. He moved to leave the burnt herbs on a nearby tray. The scent of sage lingered. “I actually thought we could go over a few aspects of your magic, specifically. With your spark awakened, you are capable of many things. But they can be used against you, if you lack control,” the druid continued.

A nod. A frown. And then a silent shudder revealed Stiles' struggle to truly absorb all that had happened. He was beginning to regret the power that had found him. Still, he knew he couldn't simply ignore all that had changed. There was a newfound level of responsibility on his shoulders. Suddenly his mind flashed back to Scott's first months as a werewolf. The chaos then was fun. Enjoyable because Stiles wasn't at the center of everything. Now he could empathize with Scott more than ever.

“Mr. Stiliniski, you will have to get a grip. And fast, your empathy has been affecting the weather for days. It's time you acknowledge the importance of self control,” Alan firmly said. He turned around to study the spark with a clinical eye. "Your magic is based on emotion and intention. Without control of either you risk creating monstrous outcomes. I empathize with your situation, but you will have to overcome,” he bluntly finished.

Any other time, Stiles might've screamed or shouted. But he knew that Deaton was more than correct. And if he could learn control, he could perhaps end this madness. He could perhaps even end the tyranny of the Darachs’ hidden hands. Consequently, he swallowed his anguish in order to nod. He would do his best to adapt, much better than Scott had done.

“Let's start now, as simple as informing your fingers to curl into a fist, or extending them. Inform your magic, your mind, to seal yourself off from the emotional energy within the atmosphere," Alan coached as he recalled the lessons he'd conducted with Claudia Stiliniski neé Gajewska. “Take a deep breath, truthfully, it shouldn't be difficult. Magic responds to you readily now," he went on to affirm.

Stiles released a shaky breath of annoyance. He wasn't entirely angry at Deaton, in particular, but the veterinarian wasn't pulling any punches. The animal doctor had an expectation in mind, and he looked at Stiles as if he should simply perform. Instead of focusing on his annoyance, Stiles focused on erecting a metaphorical shield around himself. A psychic one. Soon after, the rain outside finally ceased. And even Deaton appeared to relax as Stiles reopened his eyes - he hadn't known he had closed them.

“Good, now it's time for an example of your abilities. I've seen you do the skills of most witches. Empathy, telepathy, telekinesis, and even fire. But you are still limiting yourself, use your imagination," Deaton pressed on expectantly as he stood directly in front of Stiles.

The shield hadn't been terribly difficult to create. Truthfully, Stiles didn't even feel winded from exercising the power. But there was a sense of being watched that washed over him. Every time he used his abilities. As if those haunting eyes he had seen in the shell of the Hales’ mansion were haunting him. He shook his head to remove the image. Instead, he focused on exerting his imagination. A thought of superpowers, of Mystique from X-Men, resulted in his form fluidly taking on the appearance of Deaton. Soon they resembled each other identically, except Stiles’ Deaton had on much too tight clothing. “Well? Pretty imaginative," Stiles creepily said with the usage of even Deaton's voice. As he slapped his own cheeks.

“Nice to see your sense of humor hasn't died," Alan's words were sobering, cruel in a way that silenced any peace Stiles had momentarily found in a new experience. “Either way, well done. You seem much more powerful than I, or your mother predicted. But don't forget, you're still very much a small teenage human. You can be killed just the same as your friend," that time, that time Stiles couldn't simply swallow the cruel words and move on.

“And you think I needed a reminder? I thought doctors didn't give advice that was out of their scope of practice,” Stiles hissed back. Although his retort was much less acknowledged or felt, as Alan was much older and wiser. "Just tell me where Derek went, I don't want to spend any more time here. I've passed your little test, and we've done enough harm today to try anything else. I wish you would've told me the lock of hair didn't belong to Danny,” the spark pressed as he slowly allowed his form to shift back into his own smaller physique and facial features.

Deaton shook his head once, but he gave no other physical reaction of a judgement. "I know that you're young. And power can make you feel invincible. But there were ways around your power, charms and sigils that could nullify your affect. I just wanted to inform you before your newfound control gets ahead of you,” Alan firmly replied. "And I cannot tell you where Derek went, because I do not know.” Deaton slowly went over to turn on a nearby television that had been left on the local news. “The hair didn't belong to Daniel," the vet trailed off without another word. Soon the druid took a seat on a nearby armchair.

Angered, Stiles prepared to berate the elder for his unwillingness to share any more information. But just as he planned to walk out, he turned and found two slightly familiar faces on the television. Kaleo and Leilani Māhealani. Danny's parents were giving a tearful interview that begged for any information about Mieczysław ‘Stiles’ Stiliniski. They were accusing him of the murder of Daniel ‘Danny’ Māhealani, with Jackson standing behind them on the scene as emotional support.

Tears fell before Stiles' shield. But the resounding crackle of thunder overhead revealed the shield had swiftly followed. Distantly, he heard Deaton speaking to him. But he was much too focused on the words falling from Leilani's quivering lips.

“...son. I thought they were friends, family even. Stiles came over a few times to even speak with us, and visit our little Danny. My sweet boy," she paused during a particularly harsh sniffle. “If anyone has seen Stiles, please tell him we are looking for him," the sheriff wasn't in sight. But Stiles could just sense that his father was already hunting him down silently.

Soon, his phone had begun to ring insistently.

Chapter Text

Much like rain, consequences were persistent and reliable. A reaction of cause and effect. Each aspect of life itself held the potential for change. Only the interpretation was left to chance. As the mind's perspective had always been the true beholder of reality at large. Able to alter the potential of consequences based on physically exerted will.

But Stiles Stiliniski didn't require any external forces to shift his situation. Only the might of his mind. Yet that same power eluded him in the same breath. The internal integrity of such power was limited by Stiles' own growing level of inner turmoil.

For the past two minutes, as rain poured throughout Beacon Hills, he had been staring at his phone in fear. ‘Pops’, better known as Sheriff Stillinski, had been calling him incessantly. Originally, he had retrieved the device from his pocket to answer the call. But his bravado died within the face of accountability. Instead, his gaze wandered as the phone buzzed softly within his grasp.

Pictures of the Deatons lined almost every shelf. Along with the numerous examples of their higher education, Stiles could discern their values. They enjoyed information. Relished in the exposure of new ideologies. There was also a layer of incense that hung in the air. As if there was an invisible pressure of smoke within the home’s atmosphere.

Eventually, his honeyed gaze found Deaton's face once more. The dimly lit room highlighted the ridges and arches of the man's face. Which painted a haunting visage, in spite of the concerned expression Deaton wore. It was during that assessment he realized the veterinarian had been speaking to him for sometime.

“... hallucinations. Prolonged exposure to grief or strong emotions will consume you, Mr. Stiliniski. Let's try to breathe in time with one another," Deaton pressured as he sat in his armchair and stared the teen with scrutiny. “One…”

While many had found out about the way Stiles calmed himself, not everyone had the ability to soothe him. Deaton was one such individual. That was the reason a nearby vase - with sunflowers in the jar - exploded abruptly. An example of Stiles' emotional power. “Stop. Fucking. Counting," Stiles urged in a deadly soft voice. He had his eyes closed, but he could sense that Deaton displayed no reaction to the destruction.

After several moments of silence, Stiles dared to open his eyes. He found Deaton staring at him. The veterinarian’s expression was as he had guessed, impassive. But there was a level of awareness within Alan's eyes that went beyond reproach. As if the animal doctor had decided Stiles was near the threat level of a feral animal. One that Alan assumed ached to be put down.

But internally, internally Stiles could sense an empathic reaction. Clearly the veterinarian wasn't as cruel as Stiles’ assumption, and still cared for the teen. Despite the momentary lapse in Stiles' emotional control. And with his newfound power, Stiles was forced to acknowledge that fact.

The small, and slightly curvy, teen released a sigh as he ran his hand through his short hair. “Look, I'm sorry. This all has been just… a little too much for me,” Stiles stressed.

“And I understand your frustrations, Mr. Stiliniski. But if you lose control, you aren't just a threat to yourself, but the people you love as well," the animal doctor slowly replied. The elder's words weren't said in a scolding manner, but in a manner that invoked Stiles’ morality. "You should-," Deaton's continuance was short lived in the wake of a soft buzzing noise. They both looked to Stiles' trembling hand to find the source. “Maybe allow me to speak with your father. While you, take a moment."

Just as the veterinarian finished, he groaned softly as he stood up from the comfortable chair that once held his grandmother, regularly. The doctor took the device from Stiles' shaky grasp, before he calmly patted the teen on the back in a physical display of emotional support.

Only then, after Deaton had vacated the room, Stiles took note of himself. He felt like a mess. With clothes that barely fit him, and belonged to Derek. Without any shoes on his small feet. And the sight of broken glass at his feet, right in front of his pinky toe. “Shit," the teen grumbled as he slowly descended into a squat.

In the midst of his preparation to pick up the glass, a clear desire for a way to retrieve the glass filtered through his mind. The result was a single piece of broken glass transforming into a plastic container. Startled by the sight of his own magic - and desires - at play, fell back on his plump bottom with a soft thud.

Distantly, he could hear a muffled voice from the kitchen. Deaton appeared too preoccupied to notice Stiles' bout of accidental magic. Although, Stiles knew the animal doctor wasn't one for supervision. Alan Deaton was more like a reckless mentor. One that let the cards fall where they may. Flashes of Scott's rudimentary training moments with the elder scorched the surface of Stiles' mind, before the images vanished.

With the reminder of a necessity to pick up the glass, in the form of a small prick of broken glass at the bottom of his foot. “Ouch," the teen hissed softly as he jerked away from the painful sensation. “Still human after all," Stiles whispered. Soon he returned to the task of collecting the pieces of glass. And just as he had nearly finished the task, a hefty knock shook Deaton's solid door in its frame.

That was the motivation for Deaton to return, his gaze found Stiles first. With the teen knelt beside his armchair’s end table. The veterinarian didn't dare to speak, but the elder had enough confidence to approach the door.

Before magic had leaked from his very soul, Stiles had known the sensation of a gut feeling of danger. And while he felt that - at that moment, he also felt a new sensation. A bright burn of information seared his mind - forcing him to clutch his skull, as he observed the door nervously. Even before Deaton looked through the peep hole, and turned to warn Stiles to remain silent, the teen knew to be quiet. Although, the information he received about the visitor revealed their efforts to be silent were in vain.

“I can hear you breathing," a deep voice rumbled through the door. They sounded amused. Excited almost. “Actually, I can hear your heartbeat. Open the door, tell me the location of Derek Hale, and I won't rip you both limb from limb," the guttural voice continued.

More magically obtained information poured into the teen’s mind, without prompt. But he was more focused on the familiar voice he had already memorized. “Michael," the teen whispered in confusion. His amber gaze met Deaton's earthy one, the elder was clearly reprimanding the teen for speaking out loud. But the damage had already been done.

“I remember that voice. The cute and scrawny spark. God this town has too many notable lineages," Michael grumbled. He appeared to be toying with them, as they both knew a werewolf could rip open a door. The feat shouldn't even be a footnote for a werebear. “Not my problem really, just came for one. Tell me the location of the Hales, and I won't snap your pretty neck. How does that sound?" Michael continued.

Deaton appeared to insist that he and Stiles retain eye contact. He could sense the emotional charge within the teen rise at the mention of Derek. And the elder didn't have time for the consequences of youthful love. Alan silently motioned for Stiles to remain silent. But that wouldn't help their case forever. Consequently, the veterinarian left his spot to search for the pouch mountain ash he had mentioned to Derek.

“Footsteps? Don't tell me you're walking away from me. Do you know what that does to a bear?" Michael rumbled in an inhuman tone. A tone that shook the very foundations of Deaton's door frame. “How about I show you? My patience has run thin," that was the last they heard from him before chaos erupted.

First, the door was kicked in. Its hinges and locks were completely ripped free from the wall. The force of the kick sent the door spiraling into the living room. There, the hefty piece of wood struck the antique coffee table that had been made of glass. A spray of glass erupted in all directions, almost appearing in slow motion. Piece after piece scraped anything they touched. Especially the supple surface of Stiles' flesh, as the teen covered his face with his exposed forearms.

The bite of glass was nothing compared to the bite of fear he experienced at the sight of Michael's partially shifted form. Somehow, the sight wasn't cool or intriguing like a werewolf's visage. Instead, there was only fear. Especially with how easily the werebear had kicked the door into a wall, and lodged the wooden slab there.

“You see. Your unwillingness to cooperate, to listen, won't save you,” he rumbled as he stepped into the room.

Deaton had calmly returned at the sound of his home being broken into. The elder carried a sawed off shotgun in his grasp. A sight that was rather jarring for Stiles, as he had never seen the veterinarian brandish a weapon before. “Behind me, Mr. Stiliniski. At once," Deaton ordered.

Sharp and stiff clicks erupt as Alan cocked the weapon. But as Stiles stood to his full height, after he had dropped the bowl of glass, a deep chuckle chilled his bones. Even the light closest to the werebear appeared to shudder in place. Yet the teen soon realized the lamp was actually moving, shifted by the continued movement of Michael's booted feet.

"You fucking think a shot gun will stop me? I hope the bullets are at least a little mystified,” Michael teased before he took another hefty and menacing step into the house. Splintered wood beneath his boot broke underneath the werebear's weight with ease. Stiles, internally, hoped that meant Michael’s movements were slower than a werewolf. “Who wants to be interrogated first?" The werebear playfully inquired before he abruptly ran at Deaton.

Stiles had heard gunshots before. Hell, his father used to religiously take him to the shooting range. But that time felt all too realistic. All too uncomfortable. A deafening bomb that ruptured the air itself. The teen screeched - a not so manly screech - as the bullets met Michael's chest. Swaths of cloth and small speckles of skin erupted as bullets met the werebear's sturdy chest. Unsurprisingly, Michael continued to charge.

“My best advice is to run, Mrs. Stiliniski," Deaton advised without sparing the teenager a glance. His eyes were locked on Michael's approaching form, the wound of the mountain ash coated bullets appeared to be healing in spite of Deaton's efforts.

Unwilling to leave the man to die, urged to protect Deaton by the reminder of Danny's death, Stiles spoke. “Ya know, I thought bears preferred a challenge. You'd rather fight an old man, than me," the awakened spark challenged. Even though his own mind was screaming that his taunts were a bad idea, there was a sense of some unknown force guiding his actions. “I… I know where Derek is,” Stiles continued whenever he saw the werebear ignore his taunts.

Consequently, Michael stopped in his tracks. The hefty shape shifter cocked his head to the side before he turned to face the teenager with an eerie smirk. A strange and haunted expression, given the large and curved teeth within Michael's mouth. "I bet you do, don't worry, you're next. And I plan to take my tim-,” the werebear was cut off by a small glass vial striking the side of his face.

Deaton had thrown a strange liquid at the beastly man. Consequently, acid burned away the extra bits of hair there. Eventually eating away at the flesh of Michael's face. The werebear hissed before his took a leaping swipe at Deaton. Stiles watched - in slow motion - as the werebear's claws to descend upon Deaton's right forearm that blocked his face from the upcoming blow. The teen even attempted to call for his newfound power to telekinetically push Deaton away from the attack with a raised hand. But his fear had consumed him. Froze his ability to manipulate the world at large. A startling realization that offered more humility than he needed.

The room appeared to hold its breath, along with Stiles. Both mere bystanders to the upcoming violence. Unable to flee. They were left to inhale a shaky breath as claws cut through flesh, ripped apart bones. Until most of Deaton's right arm had been severed. “DEATON," the fearful call was drowned out by the elder's haunting scream. A sound Stiles thought he'd never have to hear anyone make, let alone Alan Deaton.

Fear gave way to fierce anger. A devotion to the protection of others with a power he'd been cursed with. A power that had only seen to the endangerment of his loved ones. He released a telekinetic pulse of energy that slammed into Michael's side. Strong enough to push the werebear through a wall, and directly into the kitchen’s stove. An ancient method of food preparation that still used gas lines. Unbeknownst to everyone, they had just ruptured a gas pipe. But there was no spark yet.

“Ugh, forgot how much I freakin’ hate magic. Fine, you want to die first? Be my guest," Micheal huffed as he stood up from the crater his thrown body had made into the wall. "Only fitting his love dies before him, just like mine,” the werebear passionately rumbled before he charged Stiles.

In a foolish effort to run out the door, and hopefully lead the beastly man away from Deaton, Stiles took off towards the exit. Yet his small form was easily tackled into the cushions of the couch. Their combined weight forced the furniture to slide, and slam into the wall behind it. Stiles only had a moment to groan before he was being manhandled, his face shoved deeper into the cushions easily.

"Come on, just tell me where he is, and I might let you live,” Michael rumbled as he leaned down to sniff along Stiles' neck, in a creepy fashion. "Not that you'd stand much of a chance without him. You're on the radar now,” he cryptically grunted into Stiles' ear before he backed off. But kept his hands around Stiles' throat. “Now tell me-," again, Michael was cut off by Deaton.

The heavily bleeding elder had somehow managed to groan out a single word. “Gas."

Without much else to go on, Michael ignored him as he returned to Stiles. The werebear raised one of his hefty paws in preparation to strike the teen, but a flame erupted on Michael's wrist. Stiles’ fear had fueled the accidental magic that time. Consequently, the presence of a flame soon met the gasoline in the air Michael's wrist as the werebear shook his arm in an attempt to snuff out the flame.

As expected, a small combustion took place. Michael was thrown backwards, off of Stiles, onto the floor. The teen rose up from the depths of the cushions to take a deep breath. Yet he received smoke, instead of a healthy inhale of oxygen. A cough followed his inhale, drying his throat. Amber eyes opened to find Deaton's kitchen in flames, fire that was slowly crawling into the room they were in. In survival mode, Stiles stumbled back into his bare feet. He took a moment to gather his composure before he slowly made his way to Deaton’s passed out form.

It was obvious the animal doctor had passed out from a loss of blood. A thick liquid that clung to the bottom of Stiles' bare feet. Tears fell from his eyes as he started to feel overwhelmed. Still, he pushed on. Given that he knew Deaton's life was on the line. He firmly avoided the severed forearm that belonged to Deaton in favor of latching onto the animal doctor’s shoulders. The man was hefty, and Stiles struggled to even move him an inch. With a whimper, Stiles looked around for aid. Instead of assistance, he found Michael standing in the doorway, already watching him.

The werebear shook his head, but he didn't attack them again. He merely took off into the rainy night. Michael appeared confident that Stiles couldn't get himself, and Deaton, out of the burning house. A fact that had Stiles chuckling hysterically for a moment in the middle of the burning house. Flames crawling towards them with an insatiable hunger on all sides. And just whenever stiles felt that all hope was lost, a withered old palm was offered to him out of the corner of his peripheral.

With a gasp, Stiles stumbled back to find an elderly woman that had a complexion and deadpan expression which resembled Deaton's face. “Well come on baby, this ain't no place to die,” the elder Deaton pressed as she offered her hand again. Unable to ignore the sincerity and surprise of her presence, Stiles reached out. Somehow, he met flesh. A solid form, yet he could tell she wasn't alive. Given that one of her feet harmlessly sat in the fire.

Still, her spirit appeared solid to the touch for him, alone. She even managed to soothe his deadly levels of anxiety. He was gifted with a calm perspective that allowed him to use his magic to gently levitate Deaton out of the door, and onto the large lawn of the burning home. He, and the eldest Deaton's spirit, soon followed.

“You know, my Alan ain't never been one for the basics. Skipped primary school and all that," She said in a jolly tone that didn't suit the dreary atmosphere at large. They both sat beside Deaton in the wet grass, Stiles was beyond carrying about his bare feet meeting mud. “But we can't all be like him. Like you, I had to start with the basics. Best way ta navigatin’ the mystical. Read that book, my grimoire, my grandson gave you. You'll be alright," She pressed as she pulled him into a side hug that felt awfully similar to Stiles' own mother.

“But… but who-,” Stiles was cut off by the distant sounds of police sirens. A calling card of his father's approach.

“Don't worry ‘bout that. Worry ‘bout that old enemy on ya shoulder. Do ya genealogy, and ya will know thy foe,” the woman sagely offered in reply. She was fading the closer those sirens came. Until she had vanished with a soft, “And don't let my grandson die."

With that reminder, Stiles' mind attempted to swiftly heal Deaton's blood spurting appendage by imaging the limb regrowing. But only a soft and sealed nub happened. The wound had closed completely, as if it had already gone through months of healing. But the limb didn't return. Stiles didn't have time to contemplate the fact before his father had swerved hazardously into the driveway.

“For God's sake kid. I don't see you for three days, and this is where I find you? In front of a burning house, with Deaton half dead, and a warrant out for your arrest," Noah grumbled as he loaded Deaton into the backseat - to be taken to the hospital. Before he turned to Stiles, and gestured for the teen to get in the passenger seat. "Gotta be some new kind of record, get in. Now, Stiles,” the elder Stiliniski urged with a grunt whenever his son didn't move from the wet grass. Soon, they drove off to deal with the numerous problems Stiles had recently created, or been a part of.

Meanwhile, with Derek, he couldn't believe he had rushed over to the Agent’s home to be interrogated. At gun point. And with one of his own pack members on the side of humans. Truthfully, he struggled to comprehend Scott's infatuation with the family. They had tried to kill each of them, collectively and individually. Chris Argent didn't even like the kid for moon’s sake. Yet there Scott stood, right beside the supposed love of his life's father.

Derek couldn't help but scoff internally. He remembered feeling the same for Kate. Even if Allison wasn't the same woman, and had assisted them on occasion, Argents weren't known for their love of lycanthropy. And Derek wasn't a fool, he knew the scent of fear all too well. Chris didn't entirely trust Scott, and the beta had yet to learn that.

“...Tell me what the fuck happened to my daughter in those woods? I've already questioned your pup,” Chris Argent hissed with a curled lip. After the early death of his wife, he had grown to hate werewolves. He only tolerated Derek out of respect for the alpha's danger, and Scott remained because of Allison's foolish infatuation, in Chris' opinion. "Now, or I'll pump your head full of aconitum, WOLFSBANE,” the human hunter finished with a shout.

Calm green eyes met Chris’ gaze over the tip of the gun’s barrel. The scene behind the man was wild. As if a boar had charged throughout their home, leaving no furniture unflipped. They were standing in the doorway of Chris' home, they had been for at least twenty minutes. Rain had settled deeply within the grooves and crevices of Derek's clothing, but neither Scott nor Chris appeared to care.

The chill wasn't bad. But Derek was getting bored of playing docile after he had been the one asked to come assist Scott. “I'm sure Scott told you, Darachs and Wendigos took them. Allison was mentally infected with a madness we thought Stiles had cured," the alpha finished with a grunt. His nostrils twitched from the scent of wolfsbane drifting out of the depths of the gun that was aimed at him. “Apparently, we were wrong," Derek finished.

The responding huff of irritation and anger inspired Derek to preemptively duck, just as Chris fired the weapon. A resounding gunshot that echoed throughout the neighborhood, drawing unwanted attention.

“Chris, Allison wouldn't want you to shoot him. And he could help us,” Scott paused as his enhanced eyesight easily saw a woman peeking out of her curtains from eighty or more feet away. “Actually, let's go inside before someone calls the cops on us," the beta urged the two men as he stepped back to give them room to enter.

Both nervously moved deeper into the home, shutting the door behind them. A tension lingered that dared to spark as Chris kept the gun aimed at Derek's face, even though he had missed. “So you were wrong huh? Just one of those things?! This is my daughter's life Derek, tell me why I shouldn't shoot you and just hunt down Stiles myself,” the hunter grumbled as he lowered the gun, and picked up a glass of whiskey to down.

"Maybe because that would me murder and kidnapping?” Scott helpfully supplied the obvious.

Surprisingly, and in sync, they tell Scott, “Shut up."

“Look, I'm not out to make enemies right now. Just help me calm down Allison, and I'll help with the Darachs. As much as I can," Chris grumbled to the alpha tiredly. He, too, had a hard last few days. “Although, I'm not sure how much help your little human friend will be."

“Stiles has helped a lot alread-," Derek was cut off by a disbelievingly scoff from Scott. “Something you want to say?" The alpha asked as he folded his arms over his chest.

Scott made a sour expression that annoyed both Derek and Chris, alike. “Stiles caused all of this, the Darachs are after him. And while I can see that it's indirect, he should've never awakened that spark in him. Or whatever the hell Deaton called it,” Scott finished with a loud grumble, throwing his arms up in the air as he started to pace the room.

“Is this true Derek? I mean we've heard tales of a spark, but witch hunting was never my family's forte," Chris inquired deeply. He met the werewolf's gaze in search of any lies.

Derek returned the stare without an ounce of fear in his scent. “Yes, but Stiles isn't to blame. You should know that better than anyone Scott, unless you forgot about the first months after your bite," Derek grumbled, easily humbling the beta into silence.

“I see your point. Besides, unlike lycanthropy, magic is only passed down through genetics. His parents should've prepared him," Chris grumbled, firm and absolute.

Derek grunted in agreement. Which resulted in Scott rolling his eyes at the both of them, his face slightly red with concealed anger.

“But my point was the fact that he's got a warrant out for his arrest. Issued by his own father, for homicide. Daniel Māhealani was murdered, and the family seems to think Stiles is involved,” Chris informed them.

The two werewolves shared a shaky look. They knew that death hadn't been Stiles fault. But they also knew that there was little evidence to say otherwise. Without even guessing, they both knew that Jackson had to be involved somehow.

“I'll get Stiles, we'll come here and check on Allison," Derek affirmed as he started to head for the exit. Only to be stopped by Scott.

“I'm coming too, hopefully we can talk to the sheriff," Scott suggested. With a puppy dog look Derek couldn't stand. “What? He can be reasonable, sometimes," the beta pressured as Derek shook his head, and left the house. With Scott scrambling to follow behind.

Back with Stiles, a family feud had broken out in the front of a cop car. Thankfully, they were on the road after leaving Deaton at a hospital. But even with their argument somewhat less public, they still managed to garner attention as they rolled down the road. They shouted at each other.

“...how am I supposed to feel, huh?! Whenever my kid is running around with a known convict-," the sheriff was cut off by Stiles screaming ‘ex-convict’, but the elder Stiliniski pressed on. “And has been at several crime scenes before the arrival of police enforcement?! I mean, Christ kid, do you even know how that reflects on my career?!" Noah shouted as he struck the driving wheel with an open palm..

“I don't know Dad. Maybe if you'd listen to me instead of searching for Mom at the bottom of any whiskey bottle you get your hands on, you'd already have the answers you're looking for," Stiles cruelly sassed as he neared the jail house. The teen was still struggling to understand his father's perspective. “I mean you knew, you knew this whole time. And you said,” Stiles paused as his voice cracked and rose an octave. “You said my mother could've saved herself, had she felt comfortable enough to practice her craft. Do you know what that means?!” The teen hysterically shouted. He was surprised the car hadn't blown up with how deeply hurt he felt from his father's actions.

Noah had the audacity to look ashamed. His frown was easily noticeable despite the numerous wrinkles of age. Surprisingly, the man kept silent as he pulled into the parking lot and took his marked space. He sat there for a moment, not looking at stiles until he sighed and got out of the car. Slow footsteps brought Noah around to the passenger side of the police car. He opened the door with a frown before he spoke. “Come on, kid. You know the drill," Noah grumbled. Unable to meet his son's gaze during the forced interaction.

Soon Stiles found himself in handcuffs. Escorted into the building, walked by people he knew as a child that had helped babysit him, and sat in a jail cell. “I can't believe you'd blame me for this. After all you did to cause Mom's death," Stiles whispered through the jail bars. His words have the desired effect of stopping Noah from leaving. Except the sheriff had never planned to leave at all.

“Do not disturb me in this room," Noah shouted into the hallway without looking away from his son. Soon he shut the door with a deafening thud that echoed softly. “You have no idea what you're talking about. My choices have always been to protect both you and your mother,” the sheriff continued as he brought a chair to seat himself in front of Stiles' jail cell.

"And look where that's gotten us. Why can't you just admit that you fucked up? That you made a decision that wasn't for the best of my mom, or myself.” Stiles hissed through the bars. Even though the teen appeared soft and meek, he retained Claudia’s heart stopping glare. "I bet she even trusted your judgement,” the empath cried as his emotions became heightened, daring to rip him apart. His composure had only been kept by the desire to retain at least one parent, his own family in all of the Americas.

Clicks and scraps of metal kissing metal drew Stiles' attention down to the elder's hands. There he found a small revolver, being filled with rounds. “You know," the sheriff had begun slowly, licking his dry lips slowly. “I had always planned to tell you," he whispered, ever so softly. “You were going to be sixty, with me rolling up on my nineties,” Noah paused, again, to release a wet chuckle. “Both of us would've been too old to stress about it. But now…” the sheriff trailed off with as sight as he finished loading the gun, and cocked it. “Now, I don't know anymore."

Stiles barely managed to whimper out, “Dad?" As the gun was slowly raised.