Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean heard it first. It was haunting and loud, and his teeth ached at the awfulness in that voice.

That voice.

Stiles' voice.

“Stiles,” he was able to say before both he and Cas were off the bed and rushing down the hall towards their son's room. Sam appeared at the top of the stairs, hair wild and eyes wide as he exchanged a desperate look with them and ran towards the teen's room as well.

“Pop!” Stiles yelled again just as they reached the room, Dean tumbling in first and nearly tripping over his own feet at the sight of Stiles awake and fighting against Erica's firm grip on his flailing arms and crying.

Crying. God, there were terrible, horrifying sobs ripping themselves from his son's throat, and he couldn't bear it. Before he could stop himself, he was surging forward, ignoring the warnings from Cas and Sam and waving Erica away. Stiles was awake and in his arms and crying into his shoulder and holding him so tight like he used to when he was six and afraid of the dark. And only Pop could make it better.

Make it better, Pop. Make it go away.

“I've got you,” he whispered into the teen's hair, brushing the unruly locks back away from his sweat-laced face. “I got you, Stiles. It's okay. It's gonna be okay.”

“Dean,” Cas said gently, a warm hand caressing his shoulder, and the hunter closed his eyes. Because he didn't want to give this up, not even for a second.

But they had to know.

Reluctantly, he loosened his hold on his son, taking a deep, shuddering breath and plastering a smile on trembling lips. “Hey, buddy. I'm...I'm gonna have Dad look you over, okay? Just for a second. I promise I'll be right here.”

For a moment it looked as if Stiles might protest. His grip on Dean's shirt tightened, and his eyes filled with more tears. But with a shuddering breath of his own, he sniffed and nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

Cas knelt beside the bed, smiling at their son and taking his face in both his hands. “Hi, Stiles,” he said quietly, and the teen managed a hiccough that was probably meant to be a laugh.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles said, his voice rough with disuse and his eyes red and puffy from crying.

He looked...bad. There was another word for it, something Dean was trying to bring to the front of his thoughts. But all he could think of was Stiles.

Stiles, who looked like he had been to hell and back (and Dean certainly knew a thing or two about that). He was pale and thin. His eyes weren't as bright as they'd been before. His bony shoulders were hunched, and his lips looked thin and dry.

Brittle. That was the word Dean had been looking for. His son looked on the verge of breaking to pieces in his arms and scattering to the floor.

Cas closed his eyes, and a collective breath was taken while the angel searched the young man's mind.

Searched for Stiles.

It only took a few seconds, but it felt like a lifetime before Cas resurfaced, a mixed look twisting his features. “It's him,” he said at last, though he still seemed uneasy.

“What is it?” Dean asked, grip on Stiles tightening.

Cas' lips thinned, and he leveled Stiles with a steady gaze. “Stiles...I can't see what happened while you were asleep. Your mind has a block on it.”

Stiles swallowed hard. “What...What does that mean?”

“It means someone doesn't want us to know what happened while you were under whatever sleeping hex you were given.” Cas sighed and tilted his head. “Can you tell us what happened? Where you were? Who you were with?”

Stiles paused, and the silence in the room was deafening. He glanced up at Dean, looking for all the world like he was a child again, like all he wanted was a hug and reassurance that he was safe. “I don't remember.”

Dean frowned. “Are you sure, Stiles?”

Stiles nodded, but it was stilted. He knew something...

His expression changed, suddenly, to something Dean had never seen before. “Pop, I...” He swallowed hard and shook his head, loosing new tears and burying his face in Dean's shirt again. His words were muffled and quiet, but Dean knew.

“Don't, Stiles,” he said, wrapping his arms around the young man and shaking his head. “Don't bring it up. Don't even think about it.”

Stiles pulled away, tear stained face a mess of anger and guilt and terror.

Terror?

“It's all I can think about. All I have been thinking about.” Stiles took a few shuddering breaths. “I said I hated you. I said that, and then we came back and you didn't. And that could have been the last thing you ever heard from me. The last thing you ever heard from anyone. I don't...How can you even look at me?”

Dean couldn't stand it. He couldn't listen to his son doubt who he was and what he'd done. Dean knew he hadn't meant it. Yes, it had hurt, but he'd known it wasn't Stiles saying those things. It wasn't his son...But the words failed him. Hurt and ache clung to the back of his throat, blocking any comfort he could offer the teen.

“Stiles,” Cas said instead, “it wasn't you.”

Stiles shook his head, ready to protest, but the angel placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“It wasn't,” he insisted. “There was a Leviathan. The boy from your school.”

Stiles shuddered and clung to Dean. “Karsen.”

“Was he there with you?” Castiel asked quietly, fingers stringing through the teen's hair and combing through it. “While you were asleep?”

Stiles closed his eyes. “He wanted me...”

“He wanted you to what, Stiles?”Dean asked, holding his breath and praying his son didn't mean what he thought—all the heinous scenarios bulldozing through his head.

Stiles was quiet, and then the trembling began. “He just...wanted me. For himself. He wanted to keep me.”

Dean growled low in his throat. “I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch.”

“He's already dead,” a voice at the door said, and everyone turned.

“Derek,” Erica breathed, jumping up and running to him. He let her crowd in against him, rub at his arms and shoulders. He looked exhausted, beaten.

But he was back. Just like the rest of them.

0 o 0 o 0

Derek felt his mother's arms slip away, felt the warmth of his home leave his body, felt the familiar smells of family fade. And what came crashing back to him was cold, relentless reality. He smelled dirt and grass and damp wood.

He was home.

A different home.

One that he loved no less than the childhood home he'd been allowed to see again for a short time. But one that didn't exactly spur him into wanting it more than the one in Purgatory.

He opened his eyes. He was in the Winchester's backyard, where the entire nightmare had begun. He wondered if Dean and Gabriel had been so lucky to land this close. A deep inhale told him that they had, at least, made it in one piece and were inside.

And so was Stiles, who was screaming and sobbing and awake.

“Stiles!” Derek called, running to the back door and navigating his way through the dining room and the hallway. He made it to the bottom of the stairs before Stiles' haunted words froze him in place.

“I don't remember.”

He didn't remember...?

Derek shook his head. No, that was a lie. He could tell it was a lie. Stiles' heart rate was all over the place. Why wouldn't he want his parents to know? To help? Was he still being influenced?

“You know, you're awfully loud for someone standing so still,” someone said from the living room, and Derek jumped.

“Gabe?” he asked, breathing a sigh of relief and heading into the room. Gabriel didn't stand from the couch, merely moved over a bit so the young werewolf could sit beside him, which Derek did. “How are you doing?”

Gabriel chuckled and shifted with a grunt. “How do I look?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Like shit.”

Gabriel laughed harder. “Yeah, well, don't worry. I feel worse.”

The young man pressed his lips together tightly. “Did you talk to Sam?”

With a tired nod, the angel gave a withering smile. “Yeah. Wasn't pretty. But we'll manage.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You shouldn't be,” Gabe said. “There's nothing to be sorry about. We all made it. Mostly intact.” He gave Derek a curious look. “And how about our friend from the woods?”

One corner of the werewolf's mouth twitched. “My family is going to help her find her parents.”

“Family,” the angel repeated absently. “So I take it you found your alpha?”

Derek leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and linking his fingers. “Yeah. I found her.”

Gabriel nodded like he understood. And Derek certainly hoped he did because the thought of having to explain the loss of his family again was pure torment. “What'd she want?”

Derek swallowed. “I don't think I'm allowed to say.”

He turned and found the angel watching him, eyebrows drawn together. “Does it have to do with Stiles?”

“...Yes.”

“Is he going to get hurt?”

“I won't let that happen,” Derek said firmly, claws extending just slightly and tugging at the skin on his hands. “Ever.”

Gabriel relaxed a little more into the couch and sighed tiredly. “Better get up there before it gets ugly.”

Derek nodded and stood, surprised when a hand wrapped tightly around his wrist and tugged sharply. Suddenly, he was staring into the eyes of an archangel, gaze so piercing and fierce that he couldn't help falling to his knees and gasping at the sight.

“And be sure that you do take care of him, Derek.” Gabriel's voice was different; booming but not loud, fierce but not cold. It was the voice of a herald, the voice of God Himself.

And it was the most terrifying thing Derek had ever heard.

“That kid up there is the most important being on the planet,” Gabriel continued, eyes growing brighter, “and he deserves safety and protection and love...Can you give him that?”

Derek shook himself of the trance he'd fallen into enough to nod and say,” I can.”

“Are you sure?” Gabriel asked, his voice dimming and a bright amusement slowly taking over his features.

Derek breathed deeply and nodded. “I will protect him with everything I am. I will die for him, if I have to.”

Gabe sat back, his exhausted demeanor reappearing. “No need to take it that far,” he said quietly, smiling at Derek's dumbstruck look. “But consider yourself thoroughly threatened.”

Derek nodded again and stood on shaky legs.

As he made his way back to the stairs, he heard Gabriel mutter, “Kid better say yes.”

But there was no time to think on the words. There were voices coming from Stiles' room. They were asking questions, wanting to know who had done this. About Karsen.

Derek's blood boiled at the mention of the name, of the way Stiles sounded so small when he talked of the Leviathan's intentions.

“He's already dead,” he heard himself say, his body nearly shaking with the anger of not having been able to do it himself. Erica was at his side instantly, scenting him and welcoming him home the way wolves did. He looked at Stiles, the teen's wide eyes almost pleading with him. “I took care of it.” The lie felt sour in his mouth, but the relief on Stiles' face was almost worth it.

“So...what now?” Sam asked, looking at Dean like the man had the universe's answers written on his palm.

“Now,” Castiel said when Dean looked to him instead, a sigh escaping him as his shoulders slumped, “we heal.”

Heal.

He said the word like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. Derek knew better than that, knew that their wounds would close, sure, but what about the scars? Both physical and mental?

Yet again, Derek had left his family for Stiles, had given up a life that could have made him happier than he'd been in a while. The only difference this time was that he remembered what he'd given up. And the resentment building in the pit of his stomach seemed, unintentionally, aimed at the one person he (still) loved more than life itself.

Derek shared a lingering look with Stiles one more time before leaning into Erica and leading her towards the stairs. They were out the door, greeted in the same way by Isaac and Boyd, and in the awaiting Camaro before anyone (barring Gabriel) noticed they had left.

All Derek wanted was a hot shower and a cool bed.

0 o 0 o 0

One Week Later

Cas breathed, and the air around him stirred. For a week, they'd been cooped up in their home with very little outside contact. Dean hadn't yet returned to work, and Stiles, who was finally getting some color back in his face, wouldn't be going back to school for another few days. He'd blown through his make-up work in a matter of a couple days and was becoming restless, despite his friends (sans Derek) coming over to the house constantly.

The angel was still worried, waiting for the other foot to fall on their small family. They were getting better, for the most part.

And as Cas looked across the dinner table at Stiles, who was pushing the remaining spaghetti on his plate around rather than eating it, he hoped they would continue to have quiet times like these.

But for now...

“Stiles, why don't you take your plate to the sink and go out for a while.”

The teen sat up straight, eyes sparking with a brightness Castiel hadn't seen for a long while. “Really?”

Beside him, Dean stopped eating, giving the angel a hard look. “Really?” he repeated with less enthusiasm than their son.

“Your father and I need to discuss some things,” Castiel said evenly, setting his fork down and wiping his mouth with the napkin sitting in his lap. “Why don't you go see Derek?”

Stiles shoulders slumped a little at the suggestion. “Not sure if he'll want to see me, Dad.”

“You should try,” the angel insisted, tone attempting to convey some meaning.

Stiles swallowed and stood, taking his plate to the sink and rinsing it. He veered back to the table and wrapped his arms tightly around Dean, which was a new habit they both shared. They'd had more father-son time over the last week than they'd had in a long time, and Castiel was grateful for it.

When the sound of Stiles' keys jingling and the front door slamming closed were little more than an echo in the Winchester home, Dean sighed and dropped his fork onto his plate, crossing his arms.

“Do you really think letting him go out on his own is smart?”

“He's not on his own,” Castiel corrected, placing his napkin on the table and standing to clear their plates. “Scott is watching him.”

“And what's Scott gonna do if some big bad comes for Stiles?” the hunter asked, standing and leaning against the counter as Cas rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. “He's just a kid. They're all kids.”

“Kids who have willingly been protecting this town for years by themselves,” the angel gently reminded him. “Stiles will be fine.”

“And you think he'll be fine after he goes to see Derek?”

“They'll work it out.”

“Cas...”

Castiel sighed heavily and slammed the dishwasher closed with a little more force than necessary. “Dean. We need to talk.”

Dean went quiet. “What about?”

There was a swift rush of air around them, and suddenly Sam and Gabriel were standing in their dining room.

“About Stiles,” Castiel said grimly, pulling four glasses from a cupboard near the stove and filling them with ice and water. Dean helped him carry them to the table, and the four of them sat, Dean and Cas on one side, Sam and Gabriel on the other.

“What do you know about Stiles?” Sam asked, fingers grazing the bottom half of his drink. Water ran in small rivulets down the sweating glass, soaking into the tablecloth.

Dean stared at his brother in confusion, looking to Cas with the same expression, only this one mixed with disappointment. “Cas. What is he talking about?”

Castiel steeled himself. This would not be an easy conversation. And he wouldn't be surprised if this ended everything he and Dean had built together. But the truth was festering in his gut. And it was time to drag that rot into the light and let it heal, like they had been trying to do the past week. “Finding Stiles was not an accident. I knew there would be a boy, another one, born into the prophecy Sam was supposed to fulfill.”

“Azazel's prophecy?” Dean asked, shaking his head. “That died when I killed him.”

“And it resurrected itself when Azazel was brought back from Purgatory,” Castiel said, giving his husband a meaningful look.

Dean's eyes widened, and his breathing quickened. “No. He's not—”

“He is,” Sam confirmed. “And he has been for a while, according to Crowley.”

“How? Who...” Dean's jaw clenched as realization dawned on him. “Me. He rode me out of Purgatory...I'm the reason our son is in danger.”

“Great sum-up, Dean-O,” Gabriel said, his tone holding less amusement than usual. In fact, it was downright chilly, and Cas could see the slow anger starting to build in his brother. “Why don't you and Cassy try for Best Parents of the Century, huh?”

“Gabe,” Sam chastised with a frown.

“No, really,” Gabriel argued. “If these two idiots want to have a pity-party about which of them has screwed Stiles over the worst, then by all means, let them. But I'm not gonna sit here and listen to them whine.” He stood from his chair. “Let me know when you want to come home.” And with that, he was gone.

Sam sighed and rubbed at his jaw. “Sorry. He's been a little...irritable.”

“Is it because of what he had to give up?” Castiel asked quietly, but Sam shook his head.

“No, not that. We talked about it again, and it's just something we've accepted. There's no changing it. It's just a year, and it's so far off, what's there to get worked up about?” The hunter shrugged. There was a sadness there, but no resentment or anger. “He just...keeps looking into Stiles' tattoo, trying to find a way to fix it.”

The group had been more than a little worried when they'd noticed Stiles' protection sigil had disappeared. The teen was basically open season for any demon that happened on him. And Gabriel's attempts to re-ink Stiles were met with a confusing and frustrating failure. They had finally ended up crafting a necklace that Stiles was to wear at all times, day and night. The teen was subject to random checks throughout the day, by Castiel or Gabriel, as well as holy water and iron tests from Dean and Sam.

Stiles, as any teen would be, was fed up with everything.

“He'll figure it out,” Dean said absently, sitting back in his chair and staring at Castiel with a blank look. “How did you know? About Stiles?”

The angel sighed and clasped his hands together on the table. “When Azazel died, any notion that a second child of the prophecy would be born was dismissed. I...I didn't know, Dean. I swear, I didn't know when we went searching for the creature that killed Stiles' real parents that we would find Stiles...” He hesitated and swallowed hard. “But...When I first saw him, felt his power...I knew he was the one that Azazel had wanted.”

“Power?” Sam asked, shifting forward in his seat.

“Dark power,” Castiel said, a cold feeling snaking its way up his spine. “...Demonic.” He still remembers finding a wailing Stiles in his crib, blood spattered on his face and clothes, matted in his thin hair, and feeling...afraid.

“Stiles has demonic power?” Dean reiterated incredulously.

“No,” Castiel amended, huffing once as he attempted to find the words to explain it. “There was...potential, I guess. Stiles' power is dark and consuming and, yes, has the means to be demonic. But he wasn't raised to use his power that way. If Azazel had gotten his hands on Stiles when he was a baby, he would be a force that none of us could imagine.”

“So what's keeping his power from going dark?” Sam asked, looking as if he already knew the answer.

“Me,” the angel answered, his shoulders slumping tiredly. “I bound Stiles' powers the night we found him, made it so they couldn't be influenced, by us or anyone else.” His hands tightened around each other, and his throat constricted as his next thought flowed into words. “But he's getting stronger. His power is breaking the bind I have on it.”

Dean gently rested a hand over Castiel's, squeezing reassuringly and making it easier to breathe. “What happens when the bind breaks?”

Castiel looked up at his husband, fear filling his chest with a dull ache. “He becomes a beacon for every creature out in the world, dark or otherwise. Angels. Demons. They'll all find us. Find him.” He swallowed. “And he becomes the very thing we've tried to protect him from.”

Quiet smothered the room, and Castiel felt a coldness settle in the bones of their once happy home.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles' grip on his steering wheel tightened, and he grit his teeth as he stared up at Derek's complex from his idling Jeep. He could just turn around and go to Scott's, stay up all night playing video games and watching B-rated horror flicks and pigging out on all the junk food Dad doesn't let him and Pop keep in the house. Technically, he'd shown up at Derek's, like his Dad had asked him to...

He sighed and cut the engine, stepping out of the Jeep and making his way towards the building with determined aggravation. Hiding from this was just going to make things worse. And Derek deserved more than that.

The elevator was broken, and Stiles huffed in both annoyance and dread as he eyed the stairwell. Not that he'd lost a whole lot of muscle mass during his extended beauty rest, but he still felt a little weak at the knees climbing just the stairs in his own home. Trekking up three flights was not going to be easy...and it would certainly be an excuse to turn around and leave.

Stiles let his shoulders slump as he moved towards the stairwell, groaning as his calves began to burn halfway up the second flight.

Torture.

He exited the stairwell on Derek's floor, breathing heavily but without having broken a sweat, which was something of a victory he supposed. He'd have to start hitting the gym after school on days he didn't have lacrosse. And, damn, he'd have to sit out on practice and games the first couple weeks back. Coach wouldn't be happy about that...Or maybe he would?

The loft door opened before he was halfway down the hall, and Isaac exited, passing him with a smirk while pulling his jacket on.

“Where are you going?” Stiles asked breathlessly. He didn't mean for the words to sound desperate. But they did.

And Isaac's smirk softened into a knowing smile. “He's waiting for you in his room.”

“Erica and Boyd?”

“I'm meeting them for a movie night at Scott's. We'll probably stay the night.”

Stiles swallowed and nodded. Isaac got a few feet down the hall before he found the words he'd been meaning to say for a while. “Hey. Uh...thanks. You know, for being there.”

“We're always here for you, man,” Isaac said.

But Stiles shook his head. “I mean for Derek.” Isaac's smile disappeared. “I know you guys had every reason to hate me for what I did.”

Isaac shifted uncomfortably. “He was in a pretty bad place.”

Stiles' chest tightened. “Yeah.”

“And even at his worst, he never hated you...And we didn't either.” Stiles huffed and gave him a knowing look. “I mean, there was some resentment.” Stiles crossed his arms. “Yeah, okay. A lot of resentment.”

“It's fine,” Stiles sighed, running a hand over his face. He felt old and drained. That wasn't how a teen was supposed to feel. He was supposed to be worried about school projects and homework and college applications. How was he going to get into Stanford with all the school he'd missed? All the work he needed to make up?

“I don't deserve him,” Stiles said. “Or you guys.”

“You do,” Isaac countered, backing towards the stairs. “And he's still waiting for you.”

And then Isaac was gone, his words echoing in Stiles' ears with more meaning than had probably been intended.

Still waiting.

Still waiting.

Still fucking waiting.

“God dammit,” he muttered, dragging his feet to the door and grasping the door handle. His knuckles turned white as his fingers continued to clench.

“Stop being ridiculous,” he chastised himself. “Just...stop.”

He shoved the door open and stared into the loft. A wave of scents hit him—musk and dirty laundry and that floor cleaner that wasn't supposed to have a smell but totally did. It was all so familiar, and yet he hadn't smelled it for so long. His throat closed around the thought, and he made himself swallow painfully around the lump there.

He closed the door and waited, hearing a few creaks from upstairs. But Derek didn't come down, and the pit of Stiles' stomach dropped further. Derek wasn't going to make this easy for either of them—not that Stiles deserved anything easy.

He sighed and made his way up the winding staircase, forcing himself to keep going as he approached the door of Derek's room. “Derek? Can I come in?”

There was a moment of quiet before Derek spoke, his voice muffled. “Yeah, it's fine.”

Stiles swallowed and opened the door. Derek sat on the edge of his bed, hands fidgeting restlessly.

“Hey,” Stiles said, crossing his arms and hunching his shoulders.

Derek huffed and stood. “So you're pretending to know me now?”

Stiles sighed. So this was how he wanted to do this...Fine. “I never said I didn't know you, Derek.”

“But you lied,” the werewolf accused, “to your parents and your uncle. You remember what happened while you were in that coma.” Stiles stayed silent, and for just a second, Derek's features softened. He looked unsure. “Don't you?”

Stiles shuffled to the side slightly and forced himself to keep eye contact with the older man. “I do.”

Derek swallowed. “So you remember what I asked you?”

One corner of the teen's mouth twitched. “I do.”

“...Do you have an answer?”

Stiles dropped his gaze and whispered, “I do.”

“I wish you would stop saying that,” Derek said, voice husky with frustration.

Stiles looked back up, and laughter bubbled up his throat, spilling into the awkward space between them. “I can't,” he said, tears flooding his eyes in what he was hoping was happiness but may have also been desperation and joy and incredulity and pain and a million and one other glorious things he couldn't begin to fathom. “And I won't. Ever.”

Derek's eyebrows furrowed. “You won't...?”

Stiles blinked, and the tears fell. “I won't stop saying it because that's my answer.” Derek's face went blank, his eyes wide and searching for the truth in the words. But Stiles had never been more truthful about anything in his entire life. “Derek, I do. I'll marry you.”

Derek was, suddenly, across the room, arms wrapped so tightly around him that he was afraid he would never breathe again. But if that was what it would be like for the rest of their lives, Stiles would bear that feeling a thousand fold. He loved this man.

He loved this man.

“I love you,” he choked out just before Derek captured his lips in the first kiss they'd shared in several months. It was at the same time the most wonderful sensation and also completely unsatisfying. As they pulled apart, Stiles moaned, leaning his forehead against the other man's. “Derek...the bond.”

“I know,” Derek said, his tone pained and his roaming hands desperate.

Stiles fisted the fabric at the werewolf's shoulders and panted hotly into Derek's mouth. “Fix it,” he demanded, meeting the man's dark, lust-filled eyes with as intense a gaze as he could muster. His thoughts were on fire, his head buzzing and pounding and screaming for all the things he wanted done to him. “Fix. It. Now.”

Each word felt like sandpaper against the back of his throat.

Derek growled low, grabbing the teen's thighs and hitching Stiles' legs up and around his waist. “Don't you dare think we're done talking about this,” he threatened, spinning them both and walking towards the bed.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Stiles said breathlessly, laughing as Derek dropped him onto the mattress and tore his tight t-shirt over his head. Stiles wasted no time, reaching forward and fumbling with the man's belt, button, and zipper.

He offered a toothy grin as his hands delved into the back of Derek's jeans, grabbing his ass and squeezing. Derek laughed and placed a hand on Stiles' shoulder to steady himself as the teen spread his legs and pulled the older man forward.

“Take it easy, Stiles. We have time.”

“You don't know that,” Stiles blurted suddenly, the words leaving his tongue before he could stop them.

Derek's easy smile disappeared, his grip on the teen's shoulder loosening. “What?”

Stiles swallowed and closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against Derek's naked abdomen. “I just mean...We almost didn't make it out of this one.”

He sighed and slid his hands to Derek's sides, holding tight in case this was all a dream—an illusion cooked up by his coma-adled brain. “You could have died in Purgatory. Or Karsen could have let me die. Everything that keeps happening seems like it's cutting it closer and closer.” He opened his eyes and leaned back enough to see Derek frowning down at him. “One of these times it's gonna be too close, and we're not gonna be able to fix it.”

Derek pressed his lips into a grim line and looked up over Stiles' head. “Is that why you said yes?”

Stiles was on his feet in an instant, hands finding the sides of Derek's face and forcing the man to look at him. “Hey. Hey! Absolutely not. Derek Prescott Hale, listen to me.” He grabbed one of Derek's hands and placed it over his heart, holding it there. “Listen.” Derek stayed quiet and held his determined gaze. “I have wanted to marry you since the moment I met you.”

The older man rolled his eyes. “You hated me when you first met me.”

“...True,” Stiles admitted. “But that was only consciously.” Derek huffed. “Sub-consciously I definitely wanted to marry you. And bang you.” The werewolf smirked and shook his head. “Derek, I said yes because I know we should be together. And, yeah, maybe I'm a little scared about how long that will be...” Stiles took a steadying breath. “...but I know I want to be with you. Forever. This life, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, I don't care. If I'm with you, I'll take whatever comes. Because, Derek Hale, I love you, and if I ever make you doubt that again, you have my permission to beat the crap out of me.”

Stiles leaned forward, ready to continue what they'd started. But Derek took a stuttered breath and turned his head before their lips could meet.

“Stiles....”

The teen's stomach plummeted. “You wanna have that talk now, don't you?”

Derek set his large, warm hands on Stiles' shoulders. “Why did you lie to your dads?”

Stiles pursed his lips. “I don't know. I just had this feeling that if I told them what was really happening, they'd...” Stiles suddenly felt nervous, and Derek's confused look changed to one of worry.

“Stiles, do you think your dads would try to hurt you?”

“No,” the teen said automatically, but his next words clawed their way out of him without his permission. “Not if they didn't have to.”

Derek swallowed. “But if they had to?”

Tears loosed from Stiles' eyes as his hidden fears revealed themselves. “Yes. They'd kill me.”

“I don't believe that.” Derek shook his head. “You're their son.”

“But I'm not,” the teen said with a shrug. “I'm not their son. They don't even know what I'm capable of. They could kill me without batting an eye. It's what they do. They kill monsters, Derek. I'm a—”

“No,” Derek interrupted firmly. “Don't you dare. You aren't. And you never will be.”

Stiles knew Derek's intentions were noble. But his mind wouldn't be changed. He needed a distraction.

“Then fix me,” Stiles said, voice wavering. “Make me believe it. Make me yours, Derek. Please.”

Derek looked stricken. “Stiles—”

“No more talking,” the teen pleaded. “Just...fix this. Fix us.”

He dropped to the bed again, fingers finding Derek's waistband as he continued to keep eye contact.

“Let me,” he begged, waiting until Derek closed his eyes and nodded before tugging the older man's pants down his thighs. His cock was limp, but as Stiles breathed hotly on it, there was a twitch of interest. Stiles wrapped his hand around the warm shaft and gave it a few dry pumps, feeling Derek's grip on his shoulders tighten. The werewolf's breath hitched, and his cock began to stiffen in Stiles' hold.

“Come on, baby,” Stiles whispered, leaning forward and wrapping his lips around the tip. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked lightly, tongue swirling the head and sliding along the slit. Derek cried out, and Stiles felt the small points of claws start to poke into his shirt.

He delved in further, taking more of Derek into his mouth and sucking harder. When he was halfway down the older man's cock, he pulled back, moving his hand up from the base to collect some of his saliva and start a rhythmic pumping motion.

“Shit,” Derek swore, his hips bucking into Stiles hold. “Fuck, Stiles.”

The teen smiled and buried his face in Derek's groin, nipping at the skin and inhaling deeply. He knew that drove Derek insane, brought out his rougher side.

As if on cue, the older man growled low and strung his fingers through the teen's hair. It was getting too long. He'd have to get it cut soon...maybe. He was sort of liking the amount of tugging going on. And speaking of tugging...

Stiles reluctantly unburied himself—he really did love Derek's scent—and brought his attention back to the matter at hand (Ha! Matter at hand. Stiles' double entendre was on fire tonight...even if it was only in his head). Precum was beading in the slit of Derek's cock, and the teen leaned in to lick it away. Derek keened and jerked forward, clock sliding into Stiles' mouth nearly all the way.

“S-Sorry,” Derek stuttered, but Stiles had already relaxed his throat, was taking Derek in further and further until he felt coarse hair tickle his nose. He hummed, and Derek grunted.

“Stiles, I...I think I'm gonna—” He tried to shove Stiles off of him, but the teen grabbed at Derek's hips and pumped him with his mouth several more times before Derek released a guttural noise and came down the teen's throat.

Stiles swallowed as much as he could, but cum still leaked from the corners of his mouth as he sucked Derek down from his orgasm.

“Jesus Christ,” Derek murmured as Stiles pulled off of him and wiped his mouth.

“ 'Stiles' is fine,” the teen said with a messy grin.

Derek chuckled and stepped back, stumbling slightly in his half-down jeans. “You know that doesn't count as mating.”

Stiles' grin widened, and he looked up at the older man through his lashes. “Wasn't really banking on that.” He spread his legs wide and waggled his eyebrows. Derek gave him an exasperated look but shoved his pants down the rest of the way, stepping out of them and sauntering towards the younger man in a way that made his own jeans tight.

“Damn,” he said hoarsely as Derek dropped to his knees at the end of the bed and placed his large hands on Stiles' thighs, slowly sliding his way towards the teen's waistband. “I missed this.”

Derek hummed his agreement, leaning down and placing a kiss on the inside of his jean-clad leg. “Me too.”

“I missed you,” Stiles said, breath hitching as one of Derek's hands began to rub at his crotch with a teasing amount of pressure and the other snapped the button of his pants and tugged at his zipper.

“Derek,” Stiles gasped the name. “I want...Shit! I...I want...”

Derek moved up along Stiles' body until their chests were flush against each other, reaching up under the teen's shirt and splaying a hand over the warm skin there. “Tell me what you want, Stiles,” Derek breathed against his neck. “I'll give you anything.”

Stiles huffed a laugh and craned his neck as Derek began sucking on the skin there. “I want you...to open me up and...let me ride you.”

Derek groaned and bit down on the teen's shoulder. “Gonna have to get you naked before we can do any of that.”

A shiver ran through Stiles' entire body. “Yeah. Yeah, let's do that.”

Derek's claws were out, and Stiles barely had a chance to mourn yet another favorite shirt before the loft's chilly air was hitting his bare skin.

“Why do you keep it so cold in here?” Stiles asked, scooting up the bed while grabbing at the short hairs on the back of Derek's head and pulling him along as well.

Derek came willingly, helping the young man shuck his jeans and underwear as a smile broke wide over his face. “So I can keep you warm,” he said.

Stiles rolled his eyes but pulled the man down on top of him into a deep kiss, wrapping his legs around him. He rutted up against the man as Derek reached blindly into his nightstand drawer and pulled out a bottle of lube. Stiles eyed it suspiciously and snatched it out of the older man's hand.

“This looks emptier than it did the last time we used it.”

Derek shrugged. “Maybe Isaac borrowed it.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Isaac uses scented lube—please don't ask how I know that.”

Derek's eyebrows furrowed like he certainly did want to ask how Stiles knew that, but he refrained. “Erica and Boyd?”

“No dice,” Stiles said. He'd offered a half-used bottle once when Erica had asked for a spare one, but she'd very adamantly refused, saying she didn't want to be thinking about them while she was with Boyd. Which made no sense to Stiles, but werewolves were weird, so whatever.

Derek sighed, head lowering so his face was pressed to Stiles' chest, though the rolling of his hips didn't stop. “I got...lonely.”

“Yeah, I know what that's like,” Stiles sighed, fingers of his free hand burrowing further into Derek's hair.

Derek suddenly lifted his head and looked at him almost accusingly. “Do you?” he asked, his words holding a bite. His eyes flashed, and Stiles bit the inside of his cheek to keep from showing any fear. He wasn't afraid—not entirely. He trusted Derek, knew he had control, even if his anger bled through just a little.

“You left me,” Derek said, his voice breaking on the words. His fangs elongated.

Stiles nodded, swallowing hard and letting the backs of his fingers gently brush the stubble on the older man's cheek. “I did.”

“You let that...thing influence you, tell you we didn't belong together.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I don't want an apology.” Derek's clawed fingers scraped down Stiles' side, causing no marks but leaving a sting in their wake. He leaned forward into Stiles' face, breathing hard and hot. “I want to know you're mine.”

Stiles nodded, fingers ghosting along Derek's stubbled jaw to the back of his head and threading into the small hairs there again. “I am.”

“Marry me,” Derek said, his fangs and claws receding.

“I already said yes,” Stiles reminded him, but the werewolf shook his head.

“But I didn't ask you here, for real.” Derek pressed their foreheads together. “Stiles,” he breathed, the words barely there between their lips, “will you marry me?”

Stiles smiled oh-so-wide and laughed, kissing Derek hard. “Yes! Oh my God, yes! How many yes's do you need before you believe me?”

Derek smiled, too, and it was more relieved than any he'd given so far. “I love you.”

“Come here,” Stiles said, gently tugging and rolling them until Derek was situated on the bed beneath him and he was straddling the man's hips. Derek reached for the lube that was still in Stiles' hand, but the teen shook his head. “I changed my mind. I just want you to watch.”

Derek nodded, and Stiles popped the cap of the lube, squirting a generous amount on his hand and reaching behind himself. He gasped when the first of his fingers breached the tight ring of muscle, resisting the urge to close his eyes. Derek's gaze was on him, hungry and dark and wantwantwant. He didn't want to miss any part of that.

“You...watching?” Stiles panted, smirking when Derek's head jerked in a nod.

“Definitely.”

Stiles sat back just slightly, his hand grazing Derek's renewed interest. “Good.” He rolled his hips and pushed his finger in deeper, groaning at the feeling and wanting— “M-More.” Derek reached around him, squeezing his ass and spreading him wider. Stiles' mouth fell slack, and he slid another finger into himself, crying out when Derek grabbed his hand and shoved hard.

“Sorry,” Derek said, though he didn't quite look it.

The teen smirked. “That doesn't feel like just watching.”

“You're the one that asked for more.”

With a laugh, Stiles rolled his hips again. “You gonna deliver, then?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Ye—Ah!” Before Stiles could say yes, Derek had pushed a finger inside of him alongside Stiles' own. “Fuck, when did you put lube on your finger?”

“You're very distractable.”

Stiles huffed, his retort lost on his tongue as Derek surged up to capture his lips. He grabbed at the man's shoulder as Derek's finger moved inside him, stretching and going deeper.

“Do you want another?” Derek asked him, smiling as Stiles considered it.

“Next time,” he decided. “Right now, I just want you.”

Derek nodded and kissed him again, extracting his finger and grabbing the lube in a fumbled haste. As he slicked himself, Stiles removed his own fingers, wincing at the empty, cold feeling.

“Ready?” Derek asked, and Stiles nodded, wiping his slick fingers on the sheets beside them.

“You go back to watching,” Stiles insisted, pushing the man back down on the bed and raising his hips. He wrapped his fingers around Derek's fully-hard cock and positioned the tip at his entrance, sharing a look with Derek and kissing him hard as he seated himself fully.

He and Derek groaned together, Stiles pressing his palms to Derek's chest to steady himself. The burn was immense and blinding and beautiful all at once. Stiles nearly cried out at the pain but managed to hold the noise in, biting his bottom lip and breathing deep.

“Fuck,” the older man said, head thrown back and claws ripping into the bed sheets as Stiles clenched his muscles around his cock. “Stiles...I don't know how long I can just...watch.” He shuddered and swallowed, looking up at the teen with a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “I really, really wanna fuck you.”

Stiles straightened up with a toothy smile, leaning back and resting his hands on Derek's thighs. “Be a good boy and I'll let you finish that way.” He raised himself up and pushed down again roughly, hissing at the sensation as Derek moaned and grabbed at the younger man's hips. Stiles snatched at his hands before Derek could take control, tsk-ing and shaking his head. “Look but don't touch.”

He took Derek's hands and moved them up to the headboard, making the older man grip it tightly before he sat back again and raised himself slowly.

“Stiles,” Derek ground out. The headboard cracked under his grip, and Stiles laughed, moving down again just as slowly. “I'll take over if you don't move faster.”

“I just want to take my time with you,” Stiles admitted, letting something slip into his voice he hadn't intended.

Derek didn't seem to notice. “We have time,” he insisted. “But we haven't fucked in months, and if I have to wait any longer, I think my dick is going to have an aneurism.”

Stiles snorted. “I don't think that's medically possible.”

“It is,” Derek said, moaning again at the aggravatingly slow pace Stiles had set. “Trust me. It is.”

“I want this to last.”

“It can't last forever.”

“Sure it can,” Stiles said conversationally. The muscles in his arms were starting to burn from holding himself at that angle, but he kept his pace slow. “It's called tantric sex.”

Derek shook his head and groaned. “It sounds horrifying.”

The teen tried to laugh, but it came out rough and desperate. Derek opened his eyes and blinked a few times to orient himself.

“Stiles?”

“Derek,” Stiles pleaded, shaking his head and willing the man to shut up. “Just let this be real.” Derek tried to sit up, but Stiles leaned forward, pressing him back against the mattress. “Just for a while longer, let me think this is real.”

Derek's eyes widened, and he grabbed Stiles' hips, stopping his now frantic thrusting. “Stiles, stop!” He sat up, holding the younger man against his chest. “Look at me.”

Stiles couldn't.

“What isn't real?” Derek asked, shaking him when he didn't answer. “What isn't real?”

Stiles suddenly felt afraid. If he admitted it wasn't real, would it disappear? Would Derek and his illusion of a life together be gone? Would Karsen be waiting for him in that dark prison? Or worse...Azazel?

“Stiles!” Derek said loudly, and Stiles realized his breathing was short and labored, his head swimming in a dense fog. “Breathe, Stiles! Just breathe with me. It's okay. You're okay.”

Stiles closed his eyes. He was cold, his body trembling uncontrollably. He rested his forehead against Derek's shoulder and dug his fingernails into the werewolf's biceps.

Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.

“Hey,” Derek said, hands wrapped around him but not squeezing, not forcing. Just...there.

“Tell me this is real,” Stiles whispered, and Derek went absolutely still. “Tell me this is real, Derek. Please tell me this is real.”

“Why wouldn't it be real?” he asked, and the teen shook his head.

“I don't want you to disappear.”

“I'm not going anywhere. Stiles, tell me why you think this isn't real.”

Stiles grit his teeth. “Karsen. He made you disappear. I thought it was you, but it wasn't.” His breath hitched, and he wrapped his arms around Derek's shoulders, memorizing the shape of them just in case. “I closed my eyes for a second and then you were gone and it was just him. I can't...I won't make it if this is just another trick.”

Derek was quiet for a long moment, letting Stiles breathe himself back into a calmer state. His heart was hurtling against his ribcage, but the pain was good. Pain was something real. “Stiles, please look at me.”

Stiles hesitated but lifted his head from the man's shoulder, slowly letting his eyes travel up the familiar stubbled face. It was Derek.

“This is real,” Derek promised, green eyes wide and earnest.

The teen nodded. He knew, deep down, that this wasn't just a trick. It felt different than when Karsen had trapped him in that place. This was Derek. This was where he belonged. This was real. “Show me,” he said, breath stuttering as he rolled his hips.

Derek's eyes went dark again, and he only waited a moment before flipping them so that Stiles lay underneath him. His hot, ragged breath ghosted over the teen's face, his gaze searching, needing to know this was what Stiles really wanted.

“Derek, I need you,” Stiles whispered, arching under the man and closing his eyes. “I need you to get rid of him.” He heard Derek growl, felt the press of bared teeth against his throat. “I can still feel him.” His voice was small, broken. “Please, Derek...Please.”

It was all the incentive that Derek needed. Stiles felt the first snap of the werewolf's hips shatter Karsen's invisible hold on him. The second stirred a warmth in his chest he thought he'd never feel again. And every frantic thrust after claimed Stiles' body, made sure that no one would ever touch him again.

Derek pulled out, suddenly, and Stiles' eyes flew open, seeing the dark red tint just around the man's irises. The older man was still in control, but this was what Stiles had come to know as claiming mode. He flipped Stiles onto his stomach, and the teen barely had enough time to grab hold of the headboard before Derek was pounding into him again.

“Fuck!” he yelled, the angle opening up a whole new wave of pleasure. He moaned out with every thrust of Derek's hips, biting into the pillow beneath him when he felt a hot warmth coil in the pit of his belly. Derek grunted with every snap of his hips, each thrust harder than the last. His grip on Stiles' hips was near bruising. Stiles tried to grab hold of his own straining cock, but the older man quickly snatched his wrist, holding it tightly behind his back as he continued.

Stiles groaned. “Not fair,” he said.

“Gonna make you come,” Derek said, voice husky and deep and jesusfuckingchrist rough. “Just by fucking you, Stiles. Gonna make you see stars.”

Stiles clenched his eyes closed. He was already starting to see something. Bright and hot and white behind his eyelids. “Derek,” he said, breathing in raggedly and moaning on the exhale as Derek's knees spread his legs open wider, as his hips stuttered in their rhythm. “Fuck, Derek. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He started chanting the word and Derek's name like a mantra until suddenly his stomach clenched, his balls tightened, and he was spurting all over the bedsheets beneath him. The light behind his eyes surrounded him in warmth and satiated pleasure. He barely registered Derek finishing a few strokes later, burying himself in Stiles with a shout.

Stiles felt...not completely healed. But better. Something in his chest expanded, allowed him to breath more deeply.

He was whole again. Mostly.

Why did something still feel...off?

Derek sagged over him, breathing hotly into the back of his neck for a minute before carefully pulling out of Stiles and sinking to the bed. He pulled the teen with him, pressing his warm chest to Stiles' sweat-laced back and wrapping strong arms around him. “Are you okay?” he asked absently.

Stiles breathed. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Yeah, definitely.”

Derek ran a hand along Stiles' jaw, turning his head until he could see him. The older man's eyes were still dark and lust-blown, but they were attentive, searching. “You sure?”

Stiles closed his eyes and sighed, leaning his forehead against Derek's. He settled on, “I'm better than I was,” before pressing a kiss to Derek's lips and turning back around. The werewolf pulled the comforter around them both and strung fingers through the teen's hair soothingly.

Long after Derek's breathing deepened, Stiles lay awake. The emptiness in his chest that he'd thought was gone was growing again, pulling him in like a black hole. He brought his hands up, clung to Derek's arms and shivered, trying his best to hold on.

Just hold on.

But a voice at the back of his head, one that sounded frighteningly like Azazel, whispered, Let go. Let go. Let go...

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles sat at the breakfast bar of the loft in a pair of borrowed boxers and one of Derek's t-shirts, staring down at his left hand with wide, unseeing eyes. He'd woken up with a ring on his finger. It was beautiful. Nothing too gaudy or flashy. Just a thin, silver band with a triskelion engraved into it. Derek had been watching him as he discovered it, a hopeful, bated look on his face. Stiles had done his best not to disappoint by showing his enthusiasm.

Very. Appreciative. Enthusiasm.

The feeling of their bond had warmed him again, as it had last night, but as Derek had left him to go shower—Stiles foregoing the offer of joining him in lieu of needing coffee—that cold, empty feeling had slowly started trickling back into his veins. Was something wrong? Was the bond not strong enough to take hold? Were Stiles and Derek just not suited to be mates anymore?

Stiles sighed and set his head on the counter beside the now luke-warm mug.

Agony.

The door to the loft opened, and Erica's brash voice echoed throughout the space. “God! It stinks in here! How many times did they fuck?”

“Not really our business,” Boyd monotoned. “Maybe we should come back.”

“I'll meet you guys downstairs. Gimme a minute,” Isaac said, footsteps sounding on the steps and the floorboards.

“Tell them to open some windows,” Erica called before the loft door closed.

The kitchen door opened and Isaac took the seat to Stiles' right. “Stiles? Everything okay?”

Stiles lifted his head and sighed. “Yeah, it's fine.”

“Are you feeling all right? Where's Derek?” Isaac looked around the kitchen as if Derek might be hiding on the floor somewhere, ready to pounce up and make them breakfast.

“He's in the shower.” Stiles ran his left hand through his hair, and Isaac caught his wrist, pulling it down to stare at the ring.

“He asked you?” the werewolf said excitedly. It wasn't surprising that he knew about the ring. Isaac was easy to talk to. Derek had probably shown it to him the moment he picked it out. Hell, Stiles wouldn't be surprised if Isaac was the one who picked it out for him.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his tone not quite as animated as it should be. “Last night.” Technically while he was in a coma, but he hadn't really answered him before he woke up, so Stiles wasn't sure if that counted or not.

Isaac waited a beat before raising an eyebrow. “So...I mean, you obviously said yes.”

“I did,” Stiles confirmed.

“You don't seem very Stiles-like about it.”

Stiles snorted at the notion of his name being used as an adjective. “I'm just tired. It was a long night. A long week, really.”

Isaac released his hand. “I guess so.”

Stiles glanced towards the door to the kitchen and back down to the counter. For some reason he just couldn't look the other teen in the eye. “I don't know. Something just feels...off.” Stiles sighed and rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck. “I mean, we definitely re-established the bond...I guess.”

“Okay,” Isaac said, the apples of his cheeks turning pink. “You guess?”

Stiles squirmed on his seat. “It feels weird. Wrong.” He rubbed at his chest, the cold feeling still there—though less prominent than the night before. “Not like it did the first time.”

“Why don't you tell him?” Isaac said with a shrug. Simple. To the point.

“I don't want to ruin this,” Stiles admitted quietly. “I put him through so much shit the last few months. I don't want him to think he had this again and then rip it all away.”

“Do you want to be with him?”

“Duh,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes.

“Then stop being an idiot and communicate.” Isaac demanded before standing from his seat. “Hey,” he said as he reached the kitchen door, “do you mind if I tell the others? About Derek popping the question?”

“Go for it,” Stiles said, one corner of his lips quirking. “Just, you know, don't tell my dads.”

Isaac huffed. “Obviously.” He smiled, wide and happy. “I'm really excited for you, Stiles.”

Stiles smiled as wide as his stone lips would allow. “Thanks, man.”

Isaac left, and Stiles let the smile drop from his face, building the courage to stand and head back up to Derek's room. It took a long few minutes (that felt like hours, dear Lord), but he was finally at Derek's bedroom door, pushing it open. Derek was coming out of the bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips and water dripping everywhere as he used another towel to dry his hair.

Damn.

Like hot damn.

“Hey,” Derek said with an easy smile.

“I can't do this,” Stiles blurted, his heart stuttering as he let the words fall off his tongue.

Derek's smile vanished, and he looked suddenly very vulnerable. “Can't do what?”

Stiles swallowed, his mouth feeling full of sand. “Pretend like I'm okay.” He bit his lip and shook his head. “Because I'm not. I'm so, so not, Derek.”

Derek nodded but didn't move. “You changed your mind,” he said solemnly.

“Changed my...?” Stiles watched the other man's gaze fall to his left hand—the ring. Derek thought Stiles was changing his mind about the proposal. “Oh. Shit. No! No, no, no! That's not what I meant!” Stiles held his hands up. “My answer's still yes. Definitely still yes.”

Derek's shoulders slumped. “Okay, then...what's wrong?”

Stiles opened his mouth, but the words froze in his throat as a sudden chill ran through him. “I...” He rubbed at his chest and swallowed hard. “The bond...I don't think it...”

Derek raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

“It just hurts,” Stiles finally said, feeling some of the pain lessen with the admission. “I want it to stop, and I want to feel like yours again. I want...I want you.”

The werewolf sighed and held out his hands. “Come here.” Stiles did, and Derek wrapped him in a warm, albeit somewhat damp, hug. “Stiles, our old bond is broken. We can't fix it. It doesn't work like that.”

“But—”

“But,” Derek interrupted, “we can build on this new one, make it stronger.” He took Stiles' arms and pushed him back a step so that they could look each other in the eye. “A new bond doesn't make the pain go away. The old one will need time to heal.”

Stiles felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. That wasn't fair. He wanted their old bond, not some new one. What they'd had before...They couldn't remake that? How did Derek even know they'd feel the same way with this new bond?

“Stiles, stop.”

Oh. He'd been thinking out loud again.

“Sorry.”

Derek shook his head. “Don't be sorry. This isn't our fault. Karsen did this to us.” Stiles felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the mention of the Leviathan. “But if we let what he did come between us, then he really did win.”

Stiles nodded, and the older man took a deep breath, releasing it in a shuddering gust and letting slip a look of uncertainty for just a moment. The teen took his hand, squeezing and smiling as best he could.

“We can do this,” he said, the ice inside him warming just a bit when Derek smiled back.

“Yeah. We can.”

Derek tugged him into a kiss, and Stiles reveled in the feeling.

Real, he thought to himself. So, so real.

“So what you're saying,” he murmured as they broke apart, “is lots of sex.”

The werewolf laughed and shoved him down onto the bed. “It couldn't hurt.”

“What if I want it to?” Stiles asked with a lecherous grin.

Derek growled and let the towel around his hips drop to the floor. “If that's what you want.”

Stiles licked his bottom lip and nodded, eyeing his fiance (and fuck if that wasn't completely and utterly satisfying to think) up and down. “That's what I want,” he said breathlessly, closing his eyes as the older man forced his legs apart. “If it's with you, that's definitely what I want.”

Their fingers tangled, their mouths met, and their tongues collided. Warmth spread through Stiles like a wave, and he smiled against Derek's lips.

On the nightstand, his phone buzzed angrily, an ignored text from Scott screeching, “u and derek r WAT?!?” Stiles wouldn't bother with it for another hour or so. Because right then, things were pretty—

Perfect.

Perfect.

Fucking perfect.

0 o 0 o 0

“His power is greater than we expected.” The man who stood before Azazel shook with nerves. He was once Karsen's right hand man, had expected to die along with the Leviathan. Yet here he was, in the presence of the demon who was destined to rule the world.

“Yes,” Azazel agreed, a grin splitting his face as he stared out the window of the loft that sat a mere two floors above the one where a certain prophesied boy was moaning into his betrothed's bedsheets. “Isn't it wonderful?”

“He'll be ready soon, you think?”

The yellow-eyed demon pursed his lips as he thought. “Perhaps,” he mused. “His destiny would come along a little smoother if his parents would stop interfering.”

The man swallowed hard and took a shallow breath. “You would like me to take care of them, my lord?”

“No.” Azazel shook his head, tracing patterns into the fog on the window pane with long, slender fingers. “When the time comes...Stiles will take care of them for me.”

The patterns on the window faded, and the demon blew warm air on them to bring them back to life. He would bring the world back to life. Stiles would be the warmth that spread over the fading, shriveled earth. He would be hope and faith and liberation to those who had suffered far too long.

Azazel would bring about the end of all things.

And Stiles would breathe life into a new wave.