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Derek never thought, not once had it ever crossed his mind, that maybe…. that he might outlive the kid.
Their lastest disaster came in the form of vampires, come on Derek! If there's werewolves there has to be blood suckers, and shit had hit the fan. As usual.
Only this time, there wasn't enough time. There wasn't enough sand left in the hourglass to tick by to spare them the post-humorous realisation that Stiles for once, with all his ridiculous theories and sarcastic syntax, was right.
Derek skid across the bloody floor, slick from spilt vampire blood and clutched the kid close before the severed head of the last creature of the night had even hit the floor. Black blood was splattered across his white wife-beater and the viscous liquid seeped through the denim of his jeans as he knelt. He couldn't do this. He couldn't.
“Scott! Jesus, Scott come it’s Stiles!” Derek yelled from across the room as the True Alpha came storming through the busted doorway only to freeze, Kira stumbling and tripping but not balanced but the usual quick hands of her boyfriend. Falling and catching herself with her hands before she would eat dirt, she looked up and drew a sharp breath at the sight before her.
The screech of tyres registered in Derek’s mind before his tears falling down his face did as Lydia ran though, pushing Scott to the side, reaching for Stiles. Hot tracks cleaned the dust off his face as he looked down at Stiles who had, up to this point, been silent, breathing laboured.
“Lyds, my angel, my glowing stars,” he whispered up at her through bloody teeth as she came into his view, previously glassy eyes focusing on the redhead.
“I screamed, Stiles,” she told him with a quiet sob, “for you.”
“You’re dying.” Derek felt Stiles nod in his lap but didn't move. Doctors couldn't repair the gash that had torn through his abdomenal muscles; tearing into flesh and organ and lung, given by claws wrapped in poison that prevented the blood clotting agents in his veins from working – something the vampires used to keep their victim's blood flowing from wound to mouth, and something they had all missed when researching. Even Stiles.
Scott had finally come to his senses and shook off his girlfriend’s hand on his arm as he strode with purposeful steps towards the trio on the bloody floor.
“Derek, come on there has to be something,” he said. Derek closed his eyes and heart against the wobble in Scott's voice. Alpha or not, but nothing would ever hurt Scott more than the death of his best friend, and Derek thinks that this time, they've run out of luck. “I’ll give him the bite.”
But even Scott knows that's risky and would rather Stiles die human than watch the possibility of the bite warring with the vampire’s poison in his bloodstream. If it didn't turn him into a monster first.
Derek had to wrench his eyes away from where Lydia had taken off her jumper and had started to press it into Stiles' stomach, the bone of his ribs showing and his organs straining to avoid spilling onto the dark floor. Kira was sobbing and for a moment Derek wondered where the rest of the pack was. Ethan, Cora, Malia, Isaac…. He couldn't tell, couldn't feel anything past the grief of his physically closer pack mates and the grief in his heart. He couldn't do this, couldn't watch another person die because of something out of his control. When he looked down at Stiles, he wishes he’d had more time. More time for the affection in his heart to grown into something deeper, stronger. For time to allow him to hold Stiles in a way that wouldn't mean trying to tear him from the reaper’s grasp. But he couldn't and looking into brown eyes he saw skin turn darker and saw Boyd, who’d knelt as he bled and told Derek that it was okay. Brown hair turned blonde as he saw Erica, body long cold and throat torn out by Kali’s claws. He grieved her lonely death and had howled up at the Lunar moon. When he looked at Stiles, he saw in him the strength that was Allison’s even as she shot his betas, even as she gave her last words to Scott and her last arrow to Isaac. When he looked at Stiles he saw his family and everyone who burned with a fire so bright and hot, bones were scorched and marrow melted.
And as Isaac arrived with the others, and Lydia cried tears onto Stiles' face and Scott held his brother’s hand, in every conceivable way but by blood, he couldn't help but think this whole fuck up was unfair.
Stiles had always been the strongest. The lying to his father, Laura’s dead body, Peter, Alpha packs, demon possession and darkness in his heart; it seemed almost inconceivable that the thing that brought him down, and everyone else to their knees, would be sheer dumb luck. Sheer luck that the vampire had escaped iron chains and that Stiles' hadn't dodged even with forewarning. Luck, that the vampire took advantage of a trust the Pack had put in Stiles long ago that he could handle himself. Luck, that today was Stiles' unlucky day.
“Cheer up, Sourwolf,” Stiles whispered up to him even as his unfocused eyes stayed rooted on Scott, asking without words for him to care for his father and promise that one day Scott has to be okay again. Because everyone knows Stiles isn't going to make it out of this alive.
As they all lie there, huddled close to their spark and offering their warmth to a boy whose blood is running cold, Derek wishes that he’d had more time to tell the boy how brave he was, how fearless, how proud his father will be and with a promise that they'll tell him everything. Explain to a widower why his only son is dead, and maybe convince him not to drown his soul in alcohol to wipe away the pain. For a morbid second, and only for the one because both Stiles and Scott would be so disappointed in him, does Derek let himself entertain the idea of letting the Sheriff slip away, because to him, what will be his life without his son? It'll hold no meaning then.
Stiles holds into the people he loves and wishes for a moment he had more time, even as his blood slips from his body and down his sides. More time to just wish things were different.
As blood spills onto the floor, contrasting bright against the black of vampire blood, Derek drew away the hurt before he felt hands reach in beside his to help, black veins taking away the pain, but not heartbreak, as the floor soon matched Lydia’s hair and Stiles' heart rate began to slow. Derek’s breath caught in his throat as the person who meant the most to him, more than anyone else in this moment, started to slip away.
Derek held on tighter; in a dingy, grey walled room, holed up in a desolate warehouse framed with steel on the outskirts of a town that had never given them a chance.
He hoped there was still time enough to pray.