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Stiles had never fought a feral before.
Protected as they were in the Compound, he’d never actually encountered any werewolves face to face. Of course, they were told how to protect themselves in school. It was compulsory. In practise, Stiles knew the weapons to use, he knew the techniques, but that meant nothing in reality, in the heat of battle.
When Scott had been turned on one of their adventures over the walls, and they’d left together to follow the rumours of a pack of werewolves that hadn’t lost their minds, Stiles had known that things would be different. That this was real, and that it would be like nothing they had ever done before, but at the time, it had seemed worth the risk, to protect his friend - no, Scott was more than that. Scott was his brother. There wasn’t anything that Stiles wouldn’t do for him, including, apparently, leaving his father behind.
But now that they were cornered, Stiles couldn’t help but wish he was back home and safe, and not about to be ripped apart by five snarling beasts, caught between animal and human.
His hand shook as they clutched the gun he had stolen from his dad’s arsenal. He had hurriedly filled the barrel with the wolfsbane bullets that he had shoveled into his pocket, and he pressed his back against the tree. Scott was next to him, breathing heavily and Stiles could hear the breaking of bark as his claws dug in. The threat was making it hard for Scott to keep control - Stiles had done his research - and he was pretty sure that the wolf's need to fight and protect them both was battling against the very human need to run and hide. Stiles could understand that. He wanted to shoot, he wanted to fight, he wanted to do anything to get them as far away as possible, but god, he couldn’t seem to push down on the trigger.
The ferals didn’t...look right. They looked as if they were stuck in the middle of a shift. Human for all intensive purposes. They stood on two feet, and their faces were still mostly human shaped, but warped, the skin stretched. They were battered and dirty, their clothes ripped and hanging off their almost skeletal bodies. Their teeth were sharp and wolf like, hanging over cracked lips and their eyes flashed yellow and blue rapidly, as if with every surge of emotion. Their clawed hands and feet were poised, ready to attack.
One took a step closer and snapped his jaw at Scott, and the scent of blood and filth and rotting wafted towards them. Stiles tried not to gag. ‘Fight Stiles, shoot,’ a voice that sounded suspiciously like his father echoed in his mind and his grip tightened around the weapon. He glanced towards Scott, who looked to him hopefully, as if expecting Stiles to have a plan. God, why was it always put to him to have the plans? He steeled himself before that thought could develop. No. Now was not the time for second guessing or to point the finger. He always had a plan and damn it, now was not going to be one time that he failed.
Okay, alright. He could do this.
“Scott,” Stiles’ voice croaked, “Let yourself transform.”
Scott looked aghast. “What? B-but what if I-”
“Just do it,” he snapped the order back.
Scott stared at him before nodding reluctantly. He closed his eyes and tightened his jaw. Out of the corner of his eyes, Stiles could see the dark hair that was enveloping his body, and hear the cracking of bones as his body changed and morphed into something else. His heart beat sped up, terrified, but he clamped down quickly and forced his finger to push down on the trigger.
The bullet hit the feral directly in front of him, in the shoulder, and it howled in pain before dropping, body weak under the onslaught of poison flooding through the expanse of his body. From there, it was as if the barrier that had kept them amused, kept them entertained, had broken and they were just full of rage and hunger. One, a woman this time, roared at him and swiped her claws at him. He ducked, the claws imbedding in the tree just above his head, and squeezed the trigger again. It broke through the skin in her stomach, blood splattering back across his face, but she kept fighting, ripping her hand free of the bark and making another attack. Stiles made to shoot again but an animal - no, not an animal, because no animal had ever been that big - knocked her away from the right, pinning her between heavy paws before teeth were used to tear her throat out.
Stiles pushed onto his feet unsteadily, eyes on the werewolf in front of him. It had to reach above his waist, which was saying something considering that Stiles wasn’t the smallest of men. It’s fur was thick and a light brown colour with strands of black weaved into the coat. It turned towards Stiles, muzzle wet with blood. In any other situation, Stiles would have tensed, would have panicked and tried to run, even though there was no doubt that this beast could take him down if he wanted to, but he didn’t. Instead, he relaxed. Because he could see the werewolf’s eyes - chocolate brown.
Scott.
“As if those puppy dog eyes were killer before,” Stiles commented jokingly.
Scott whined and bowed his head.
Stiles glanced around them, taking count of the ferals that lay dying or already dead. There were two messes of blood and skin and clothes to his right, and the twitching of the one he had shot was slowing down. One, two, three...four. Four bodies. Of five ferals.
Stiles tensed. “Wait, where’s the-”
There was growling behind him, and he spun around quickly, stumbling back. Scott was an imposing form in front of him, lips drawn back in a snarl. Stiles fumbled with the gun.
Then a howl broke through the heaviness of the woods, making the three of them stall. Stiles looked worried, Scott defensive and the feral almost...scared. More werewolves were coming. More ferals. Stiles wasn’t sure he had enough bullets for this.
And then a body broke through the trees and tackled the feral to the ground. They were shielded by leaves and bushes, but Stiles could hear the thumping of paws against the ground, the aborted noises, a gutted sound - and then silence. Scott let out a low rumble of warning, bending low to the ground, and Stiles licked his lips, his ears pounding dangerously in his ears.
The branches rustled and he poised the gun, ready to attack. He’d never heard of feral on feral violence, but he guessed it couldn’t be ruled out. They were in a world where fighting for food was a necessity and ferals ran on animal instincts. If you were hungry, you searched for food. It was that simple, and while Stiles understood the plight, he had no intention of becoming werewolf grub.
But it wasn’t a werewolf that stepped out of the dense woodland, neither feral or fully transformed. It was a man. A very much naked man. He stalked towards them without any shame, shoulders tensed and hands clenched at his side. His jaw was set in a hard line and his eyebrows were drawn down towards the bridge of his nose. He looked like as if Stiles and Scott were the reason for his pain and that death was the only way to escape it, and what was it that he said about werewolf grub? Still, Stiles couldn’t really help the way his eyes flitted downward, tracing the lines of muscles and definition, before landing on the rather gifted cock in between his legs. Realising what he was doing, Stiles flushed and purposely kept his eyes away. Now, really wasn’t the time, he knew that, but he chalked that up to being a teenage boy with needs from a town where there was no one who looked this sinfully good.
“You aren’t supposed to be out here,” the wolf scowled, his voice higher than Stiles had expected.
“Trust me, it’s not as if I’m here by choice,” he frowned back.
Scott growled threateningly, and the strange man’s eyes dropped to him consideringly.
“I’m not going to hurt you, but you’re going to need to come with me.”
“Why do we have to do that?”
He arched an eyebrow. “What, you think you can last out here on your own for any longer?”
Stiles thought back to their meager supplies that were probably lost by now considering how far they had been stalked by ferals, and the limited number of wolfsbane bullets in his pocket and couldn’t help thinking that maybe there was a point there. Not that he was ever going to admit it.
“What makes you think we can trust you?” he asked instead.
“Because it’s either me or the ferals.”
“The ferals are looking more and more tempting by the minute...”
The wolf glared darkly at him and Stiles guessed that he wasn’t really the humorous type. He supposed though, living out here, who would be?
“Where would you take us? Why would you even want to?”
He didn’t answer straight away. He kind of just...stared at Stiles, as if trying to figure something out, before opening his mouth. “Because I’m not one to willingly let teenages die if I know there’s something I can do. Besides, you and your friend came out here for a reason.”
“We were looking for help,” Stiles responded quietly, gesturing towards Scott. He still hadn’t relaxed his guard and Stiles couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t transformed back already.
“You found it, so are you coming or what?”
Stiles glanced at Scott uncertainly. He knew there was no other choice, but following a complete stranger - a werewolf - into the woods to god knows where didn’t seem like a sure fire way to stay alive. Scott looked at him with a similar amount of suspicion (which was really a testament to how much time they spent together) but begrudging acceptance. Maybe this man didn’t seem like a threat, even if Scott didn’t like him.
The wolf was still staring at him when he looked up, arms folded across his chest.
“I’m Stiles and wolf boy is Scott,” Stiles introduced, “What should we call you?”
“...Derek,” he responded, abet a little reluctantly. A howl echoed once more. Stiles tensed worriedly, Scott gritted his fangs and Derek tilted his head towards the noise passively, before straightening up, “Come on, it’ll be dark soon. You won’t want to be out here when the sun sets.”
“To be honest, I don’t want to be out here now,” Stiles said honestly. He took a few steps forward.
“Keep that gun out,” Derek instructed, crouching down, “And keep up. I’m not going to be late because of you.”
And then the wolf was back, black with red eyes, glowing in a way that made Stiles’ heart do a panicked conga. An alpha. Fuck. Derek inclined his head behind him and then began to run, disappearing into the wilderness.
“Why do I get the feeling that this could go either really well or be utterly horrifying?” Stiles questioned.
Scott sniffed and then trotted off in front. Stiles sighed, double checked the bullets in the barrel of his gun, and then made to follow. It wasn’t as if there was anywhere else for him to go, was there?