Chapter Text
Stiles opened his eyes.
There was sand between his toes, gritty and damp. There was sand all around him, actually. He was on a beach, one that he recognized.
“Stiles!” a voice called from a short distance away, nearly carried off by the breeze wafting in from the ocean. The teen's stomach clenched. Because he recognized the voice, too. “You'll get sunburn if you aren't careful.”
Stiles turned, throat closing as the source of the voice approached him. “Dad?” he choked when the angel stopped mere inches from him and raised a tube of sunscreen with a patient smile.
“Here, let me help you.”
The teen could barely speak, didn't know what to say. He hadn't been to this beach since he was ten-years-old. And this...memory? This memory was one of his favorites. “Dad, I—”
“All done,” Castiel said with a chuckle. “Go play, Stiles. But not too far. Make sure your father and I can see you.”
Stiles' gaze flicked over his dad's shoulder, finding his pop sitting on a blanket with some sort of car magazine.
“I don't—” His dad was turning away, walking back towards Dean. “Dad, wait!” He reached out, desperate to keep the angel in sight for just a moment longer.
“It's not your dad, Stiles,” a voice from behind him said, and the teen turned, taking a step back as he stared at the stranger. He was short—about Uncle Gabe's height—and he sported a scruffy beard. His eyes were bright, but tired-looking. Stiles could swear he'd seen him before.
“Who are you?” the teen asked cautiously. He'd had enough of people popping up out of nowhere, trapping him in dream-comas, and controlling his every move.
He just wanted to be himself for a change.
“My name's Chuck.” the man said, shoulders hunching like he was apologizing about...himself. “I'm a prophet.”
Stiles' thoughts short-circuited for a moment. “You're the prophet Chuck?” he asked incredulously. “You're Carver Edlund? The author of the Supernatural books?”
Chuck winced. “Yeah. Not my best work, to be honest.”
The teen blinked. Several questions popped into his head, but the most prominent, and possibly the most irrelevant, one slipped out before he could stop himself. “What are you doing here?”
Chuck sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking around with interest. “I'm supposed to talk to you, I think. Answer some questions. I was told you have an abundance of those.”
“I do,” Stiles admitted, shivering as a breeze cooled his sun-warmed skin. He was bare from the waist up, wearing only a pair of blue swim trunks with some sort of cartoon character that had been popular when he was younger. He didn't mind the outerwear; he felt surprisingly comfortable for being half-naked in front of a not-quite-complete stranger. “Am I dead?”
“Um,” Chuck said, shifting on the sand. “You're not not dead. But you're not quiet...dead?”
Stiles huffed. “That's not really enlightening.”
“Yeah, I know,” the other man said with a sheepish smile. “I'm not really that great with words.”
The teen nodded in understanding. “Writing's hard, huh?”
“See? People don't get that!” Chuck said, gesturing excitedly then clearing his throat and waiting for Stiles' next question.
“Can I see my dad?” The young man looked over his shoulder, staring at his parents with longing. “My real dad?”
Chuck sighed again, and the teen turned to find another apologetic look on his face. “Sorry.” He shook his head. “Castiel is in his own part of heaven. You can't...You wouldn't be able to go there.”
Stiles' shoulders slumped. “Why not?”
“You aren't, um...” Chuck looked up over the teen's head as he searched for the words. “Compatible? I guess that fits.” He shrugged.
“I'm not compatible,” Stiles repeated tonelessly, the pit of his stomach twisting. “Not compatible with...heaven?”
“It's not that you aren't a good person,” Chuck was quick to say, holding his hands out placatingly.
“But I'm not, am I?” Stiles said, voice hollow. He felt something in his chest give a sharp, cold pang. “I can't be. I'm evil. I don't belong here.”
“No,” Chuck said firmly, stepping forward and placing his hands on the teen's shoulders. Stiles watched as the man's somewhat nervous demeanor disappeared, replaced by an urgent determination. “Stiles, that's not it. I promise that's not it.”
Tears pricked at the back of the teen's eyes, and his chest shuddered as he took a breath. “Then where do I go? Where does someone like me belong?”
The older man's features softened, and he offered a gentle smile. “You belong with the person you love.” He gave Stiles' shoulders a squeeze, and the teen felt some of his anxiety ebb. “You belong with Derek. Trust me, I know a thing or two about butting into peoples' lives.” Stiles laughed half-heartedly and sniffed, wiping at his nose and feeling very much like the ten-year-old of this particular memory. “You belong with Derek. And Derek belongs with his family.”
“In the Elysian Fields,” Stiles said as understanding dawned on him. “I'll follow Derek there.”
“When your time comes, yeah,” Chuck said, releasing the teen's bare shoulders. He looked at his hands and frowned, wiping sunscreen onto his jeans.
Stiles couldn't help the bark of laughter than escaped him. “Sorry. Dad always went a little overboard.” The smile on his face waned, and he looked back at his parents again. “I won't ever get to see him again.” Chuck was silent, and Stiles turned. “Will I?”
The older man pursed his lips. “Castiel's time on earth is over,” he said carefully, but the look on his face made something hopeful and warm bloom in the teen's chest. “But if the Winchesters taught me anything, it was to expect the unexpected.”
“Very prophetic,” Stiles said, one corner of his mouth twitching.
Chuck shrugged like it couldn't be helped. “Listen...This probably goes against some sort of prophet code, or something...”
“There's a prophet code?”
“I don't know,” the older man admitted. “Probably. What I do know is that things are going to be a little shaky for a while.”
“I figured,” Stiles said quietly.
“Not because of you,” Chuck assured him. “I know it's going to feel like your whole world is crumbling down—”
Understatement.
“—and that everyone is against you—”
Vast understatement.
“—but I need you to do me a favor and...stick it out.”
Stiles took in a deep breath and released it in a quick gust. “It's gonna hurt. Right?”
Chuck offered a sympathetic look. “For a little while. Loss is always painful.”
Stiles swallowed. “And the part of myself I can't control? That...darkness? What do I do about that?”
“Temptation seems to run pretty deep in your family.” Chuck smirked. “But you're a Winchester. You'll get through it.”
With a nod, the teen looked down at his bare feet, watched his toes dig further into the sand. “Can I ask just a couple more questions?” He could feel something in the back of his thoughts tugging at him, heard the gentle call of his name.
Derek.
Derek wanted him to come back. But he couldn't—not yet.
“Sure,” Chuck conceded, head tilting as if he were listening to a voice of his own. “We've got a little time.”
Stiles nodded. “Why did my dad make me kill him?” Stiles wasn't stupid—he was an idiot sometimes, but he wasn't stupid. He knew provocation when he saw it, had done it countless times to keep his family and friends safe.
His dad had goaded him, the demon him. He'd made Stiles turn his dark sights on himself. He must have known the outcome—that the teen would kill him.
But...
“Why?”
Chuck looked sad, his shoulders falling as he sighed. “That...is an extremely loaded question with an extremely loaded answer.” The older man looked away for a second. “I think he always knew it would be you and Dean that needed one another.”
When Chuck paused, Stiles shook his head. “I don't understand.” Stiles and Dean fought more than they ever got along. Yeah, it was mostly teen-vs-parent bullshit, but Stiles can't remember ever fighting with Castiel the way he had with Dean.
Chuck licked his lips and squinted at the air, like the answer was somewhere in front of him and he needed to find it. “When Dean was gone, and you separated yourself from Derek...how did you feel?”
Stiles frowned as he fought to remember. “Alone, mostly. I mean, I knew my dad was there, but...”
Chuck nodded. “You and Cas, neither of you made that connection that you needed to heal. If things had continued that way, without Dean, you both would have drifted apart.” A thoughtful look crossed the man's face. “Not that he didn't love you, Stiles. Your father loved you very much. Still loves you.”
Stiles' throat clicked as he swallowed. “I know.”
“It's just that...He knew the connection, the bond you needed was between you and Dean. It's stronger. You're both survivors. And you'll need each other to get through the worst of whatever comes.”
Stiles closed his eyes. “He must hate me. So much.”
“He doesn't,” the prophet said with a quick shake of his head. “I know it feels that way, but he really, really doesn't, Stiles. He's just angry. Hurt.”
“But I did that,” Stiles argued. “I'm the reason he's angry and hurt.”
Chuck was shaking his head again before the teen finished his sentence. “Azazel is the reason. Dean knows that. But he has a habit of confusing his grief with hatred.”
“Towards me.”
“Towards everyone. And he'll need you to show him he's not alone.” Chuck studied the teen's face. “Can you do that?”
Stiles bit the inside of his cheek. “I don't know.”
The prophet smiled. “Your dad knows you can. Just remember that.” He paused, looking thoughtful again. “One last question. What do you got?”
The teen wracked his brain. “Chuck,” he said quietly, staring at the man intensely and building the courage to ask the question his parents and uncles still asked themselves when the subject unearthed itself. “Are you God?”
Chuck laughed and gave him an answer he was sure his pop would appreciate.
0 o 0 o 0
Stiles woke...and screamed.
When voices called his name, he clenched his eyes shut. When hands tried to hold him, he lashed out. When someone begged him to stop, he sobbed and wailed and screamed louder.
Devastation.
He'd been trying to fight his way free so long, he barely knew how to pull himself back together. His whole world had crashed down around him. He wanted—needed—to force all the darkness festering within him out.
“Stiles!” Derek's voice broke through the pained and ruined thing he'd turned himself into, and he wheezed in as deep a breath as his seizing lungs would allow.
“Just let me go,” he pleaded, cried, prayed. “Just let me go. Just let me go. Please, please, please let me go.”
“Stiles,” Derek said, tone soft and kind and awful. “You're out, you're safe. I've got you.”
He didn't understand. Stiles knew he was out, knew he was with his friends and family. But he wasn't free.
Not yet.
He opened his eyes, puffy from crying, and stared at his mate's worried, beautiful, horrible face. “Just let me go,” he said, his voice hoarse and broken. “Let me go, Derek. Let me go, let me go.”
Derek's grip on him tightened, and he shook his head fiercely. “No,” he growled, seeming angry that the teen would even ask him such a thing. “No, I won't. Never, Stiles. Not ever.”
Stiles huffed, his head feeling heavy and unsteady on his neck. Derek tried to pull him forward, to wrap his arms around him, but the teen put his hands up, pressed them to warm, unrelenting skin and pushed. He had no strength, but the older man didn't force him.
“I'm—” Stiles swallowed with a wince, took a shuddering breath, tried again. “I'm not safe. I'm not safe to be around.” His vision swam, but he tried to center in on Derek's face. “I'll kill you.” Tears burned a trail down his cheeks, and he choked on a sob. “I love you, Derek. I love you, but I'll kill you.”
“You won't,” Derek insisted, shaking his head for emphasis. “Azazel's gone. You're safe, he can't get to you anymore.”
Stiles trembled, his head falling forward onto the man's shoulder. “He's still—He's still here,” he cried weakly. “I can feel him, I can feel him, I can feel him.” He raised his head and whimpered, let the waves of dizziness wash over him. “He's too strong. I can't fight. I can't fight him. It hurts so much.” He was sobbing again, his breaths coming in quick, shuddered bursts that made him light-headed. “Just let me go, pleasepleaseplease.”
“Stiles...”
The teen drew in an agonizing breath that stretched his chest to bursting and forced himself to focus on Derek. He looked hesitant, anxious. There was something clenched in his fist, and when he finally opened his hand, Stiles' eyebrows rose.
“That's my ring,” he said, voice small and cracked as he looked up at the older man's pensive face.
Derek swallowed hard. “I asked Deaton to find something that would help you...stay in control.”
“What do you mean?”
Derek rolled the object in his fingers restlessly, glancing towards the closed bedroom door. Stiles saw the shadow of someone one the other side from under it, and he wondered who it was. Was it his Pop? Standing at the ready in case Stiles turned out to be hell-spawn after all?
“There's a ward in the ring,” Derek explained, pulling his attention. “Deaton put it there. When you put it on, one half of the ward suppresses your...demonic side.”
The teen shuddered and sniffed. It couldn't possibly be that easy. “What does the other half do?”
“It adheres itself to you, to your skin. Like a brand,” Derek said. His expression was uneasy. He didn't seem to like the idea of Stiles being branded—at least not without his consent. “Even if you take the ring off, the ward will still be there. Your powers will still be bound.”
“Sounds a little too good to be true,” Stiles said, dark amusement in his tone as he stared down at the ring. His hands shook, and he swallowed nervously.
The older man sighed, letting his hand drop to his knee as he stared down at the small object. “Stiles, if you don't want to—”
“Okay,” the teen said quickly, nodding his head when Derek looked back up at him. “Okay, yeah. I want it.”
“You sure?”
Stiles huffed and did his best to roll his eyes in mock aggravation. “It's like you don't believe me when I say yes. I think three proposals is enough, Derek.”
The corners of Derek's mouth twitched, but the gesture didn't reach his eyes. “I was told it'll be painful,” the werewolf admitted, grief and guilt plastered on his face. “It's temporary. But it might last a while so your body can absorb the ward and bind everything.”
“How long?” Stiles asked, the pit of his stomach twisting at the thought. It wasn't like he didn't deserve it after everything he'd done. But it was still scary, still ridiculously frightening. He hoped Derek would stay with him...
The older man took a short breath and looked down at his restless hands. “A day, I think. Maybe longer, depending on how strong your powers are. Your Uncle Gabe can make you sleep. You won't feel any pain. I promise.”
Stiles sighed heavily, closing his eyes against the feeling and leaning back against the headboard. It wasn't the pain he was entirely worried about. What if they needed his powers in the future? What if some big bad came into town that only he could get rid of? What if Azazel came back?
Were they really sure his demonic half could only be used for evil?
“I know it's a lot to ask,” Derek said, hand sliding into the teen's and fingernails curling into his palm. “But I think it's for the best, Stiles. It'll be safer for you.”
“And everyone else,” Stiles said, attempting to keep the bitterness out of his tone as he voiced the unspoken opinion and failing. The teen was dangerous, there was no doubt. And without this ward, his family and friends wouldn't be safe. Wouldn't feel safe.
“It's not that we don't trust you,” the Alpha said carefully.
“Why should you?” the teen asked, tone clipped as his anger surfaced. “I don't trust me. I could bring this whole town down around us with just a thought. Who the hell even wants that kind of power?”
“Plenty of people,” Derek said bluntly, the statement taking the younger man by surprise. “That's why we have to keep you safe. If anyone gets a hold of you like Azazel did...”
That was...true, Stiles had to admit. It wasn't really about him losing control so much as it was him being controlled. And that was apparently easier done than said.
Stiles drew in a shaky breath. “Let's just get it over with.” He held out his left hand, unable to keep the tremors at bay.
Derek took the teen's hand in his own, drawing in a breath. “Gabe,” he called gently, and the angel appeared at Stiles' bedside instantly, taking a seat opposite the werewolf.
Stiles couldn't make himself look his uncle in the eye, and he bit his bottom lip to keep it from trembling before saying, “I...I'll understand if you don't want to.” His stomach twisted from the lack of reaction from the angel. “If you don't want to make me sleep...if you want me to feel the pain, that's fine. I deserve it, whatever's gonna happen.”
The teen startled when his uncle's cool fingers wrapped under his chin and lifted his head so that their gazes met. Uncle Gabe's eyes were hard, a little more dull than the last time Stiles saw them. But there was a fierce, determined look on his face as well. “Stiles, we don't blame you for what happened,” he said, tone quiet and firm. “You didn't kill your father. Azazel did. None of this is your fault.”
The words were simple enough. Chuck had essentially said the same exact thing. But something about the way Uncle Gabe was looking at him made fresh tears burn his eyes. And then he was falling into the angel's arms and shaking uncontrollably. He hadn't really thought it would make him feel better as much as it did—they were just words, after all.
But they saved him from falling any further into the darkness he could feel inside him. And he could only pray that they were true.
Stiles pulled back from his uncle's arms and concentrated on breathing, feeling Derek lift his left hand. He watched as the older man slipped the ring onto his finger and carefully pushed it down to the last knuckle.
The teen sniffled. And waited.
Nothing happened.
“Are you sure—” A sudden burning stole the words from his tongue, and Stiles arched back, slamming against the headboard as the sensation spread through his body. His eyes went wide with panic and pain, and JesusfuckingChrist it hurt like hell. He wanted to scream, but his voice was stuck to the back of his throat.
The angel grasped the teen's shoulders, holding him down. For a confusing moment, Stiles thought that maybe his uncle had tricked him, had wanted him to feel safe and secure so that the pain was more intense, so that the betrayal was more potent. But Uncle Gabe's soft “I gotcha, kiddo,” before darkness blanketed him quelled his fear, and he fell into warmth and a dreamless sleep.
0 o 0 o 0
Gabriel watched Derek sit at Stiles' bedside, the werewolf running his fingers through the teen's hair over and over. It was almost hypnotic. The angel nearly lost the emotions warring within him. But they surfaced quickly when he remembered himself.
He hated that he saw both good and evil in his nephew, that he couldn't shake the thought that he was seeing a killer inside someone he loved.
And he did love Stiles.
He really did.
Castiel was dead, and it was hard to fight past the voices that screamed of Stiles' guilt. But he had. And as he stood and watched Derek comfort the sleeping teen, he knew that the werewolf had been a large part of that influence.
“He hasn't been in to see Stiles,” Derek said quietly, and Gabriel sighed.
“Derek,” he said, his voice cracking on the name.
Derek's actions faltered. He looked up, his face drawn and somewhat pale. “He should be here.”
Gabriel rubbed his face tiredly, sighing and crossing his arms as he leaned into the door frame. “He's mourning.”
“His son still needs him.”
“His son killed his husband. I think it might take a while for him to recover,” the angel murmured, unsurprised when the words spurred Derek to stand and face him angrily, teeth bared in a growl.
“You know full-well he was being manipulated,” he argued.
“I do,” Gabriel conceded softly, unable to find the strength to match the other man's anger.
“Dean's known him practically his whole life. How can he for one second think that Stiles would have intentionally killed Castiel? His father. The man who raised him.” Derek began to pace restlessly. “How can he just abandon him like this?”
Gabriel felt his gut twist with guilt. He couldn't exactly deny anything Derek had said. Dean hadn't stepped foot into the room since they'd returned from the loft.
0 o Several Hours Earlier o 0
Derek slipped and slid in his own puddle of blood, a look of horror plastered on his face as he attempted to get to Stiles' motionless body. The teen lay in a heap beside the writhing form of Azazel, who screamed in agony. Blood gushed from his left eye and right temple. The bullet that Stiles had shot himself with had gone through his skull and straight into the demon's. Granted, it hadn't killed Azazel, but it gave Dean enough time to break free of Lawrence, snatch the Colt from his son's lifeless hand and aim it at the demon's head.
He didn't bother with a last line, one last gut-punch to seal the deal. Dean merely pulled the trigger in Azazel's rage-filled face, barely blinking as blood spattered his own face and neck. The demon fell back against the floor with one last jolt, frighteningly still as his blood pooled around him like a halo.
The hold on the other werewolves and Sam fell away, and the group fell to the floor in exhaustion, tired from fighting against it for so long. The Colt dropped from Dean's hand with a loud clatter, and he stared dazedly at the two figures lying at his feet. First Azazel, then Stiles. He sank to his knees, fingers reaching out deftly to clutch at the teen's bare shoulders, coasting down his arms like he couldn't believe he was really seeing his dead son in front of him. When his fingers reached his wrist, he held them there, looking as if he might be praying.
Whether he was hoping to find a pulse or not, no one was quite sure, but the agony that crossed his face as he realized that Stiles was really dead said enough. His hands fluttered up to the teen's face, hovering but not touching. Stiles' eyes were still open, wide and unseeing and deaddeaddead.
Gabriel, suddenly, appeared at Dean's side, a similar look taking his face as his gaze fell over the teen.
“Not him, too,” Dean whispered, breaths coming fast and labored as he looked over his shoulder at the angel. “Not him, Gabe. I can't...I can't...”
Gabriel nodded quickly. “I'll take care of it,” he promised, reaching forward towards Stiles' head. Dean's hand darted out, fingers wrapping around the angel's wrist just before he was able to touch the teen's forehead. They shared a solemn look, Gabriel breaking free of the man's grip easily and pressing two fingers to Stiles' temple.
Almost immediately, Stiles dragged in a deep, awful breath, eyes swiveling madly in their sockets. He shook badly, his body wracked with tremors that became worse with every breath.
“Stiles? Can you hear me?” Gabriel asked, but the teen didn't respond. His fingers curled, his jaw clenched, his body seized. The angel reached out and touched his fingers to the teen's temple again, and Stiles fell slack, eyes closing and breathing evening out.
“What happened?” Dean demanded, glancing just past the angel and grinding his teeth as Derek's weak crawling caught his eye. It really couldn't even be considered crawling anymore, at that point. He was barely lifting himself up a fraction of an inch before falling back down into the same blood-slick spot on the floor. Dean grabbed Gabriel's arm and twisted him towards the werewolf. “Help him.”
The angel gave Derek a weary look, standing and walking towards him quickly before crouching at the dying man's side.
“Stiles,” Derek wheezed, choking as his vision began to tunnel. “St—”
“Calm down, lover boy,” Gabriel murmured, fingers fixing themselves to Derek's temple. It took a moment longer than it might normally, but the angel was exhausted. Having to deal with his brother's body, bringing Stiles back to life. He wasn't full of an endless supply of mojo.
Derek gasped as the pain left him, allowing himself only a moment of awe before scrambling to his feet and finding his way to Stiles' side. He scooped the teen up in his arms, holding him against his chest and breathing in the beautiful scent that was only Stiles.
With desperate eyes, he looked at Dean, then to Gabriel. “What's wrong? What's wrong with him?”
Gabriel's shoulders slumped, and he rubbed tiredly at his face before leaning down beside them. “He's not there,” he said softly, holding up a hand as more questions filled their eyes and taking a shuddering breath. “He's alive. But he...He isn't back.”
“That doesn't make sense, Gabe,” Dean ground out, and the angel gave him an aggravated look.
“I know it doesn't,” he said, “but I can't do anything about it. Right now, Stiles' body is alive. But his soul—who he is—just isn't there. And where ever he is, I can't reach him. He has to come back on his own.”
“So what do we do?” Derek asked, breathing harshly as he squeezed the teen closer to himself.
Gabriel looked down at his nephew, eyebrows drawn and lips pursed. “We wait.”
0 o Several Hours Later o 0
“He's scared,” Gabriel said simply. “We all are. Castiel is dead, and Stiles almost died. Probably still could, for all we know.”
Derek forced his shaking fists to open, placing his hands on his hips and looking at the ground. “Do you know,” he said through clenched teeth, “what my mother asked of me? What I had to do to get out of Purgatory?” He looked up, his eyes their normal color but full of fire. “I had to promise to protect him. I had to promise to give up my own life to keep him away from harm. I thought—” He stopped abruptly, a bitter laugh bubbling up his throat. “I thought I got off easy, with what you and Dean had to give up. I thought I was lucky.” He shook his head, bottom lip trembling as he sucked in a shaky breath. “But here I am, having to protect him from his own fucking family.”
Gabriel frowned. “Derek, that's not fair.”
“I don't care,” Derek interrupted, tone just as suddenly despondent. “Dean can sit here and stew in his own hatred. As soon as Stiles wakes up, I'm taking him out of here and away from all of this.”
Gabriel's throat closed up, fear and panic taking hold. “Please, Derek...” The angel knew how resourceful the small pack could be. If Derek took Stiles away from them, away from Beacon Hills, there was very little chance they would ever be able to find them.
Gabriel felt a presence at his shoulder and turned just as Derek's attention shifted. “Dean?”
“No one's taking anyone anywhere,” the hunter said evenly. He looked tired. No, he looked weary. It had barely been a day since Cas's death—the sheriff's department hadn't even discovered the accident that Gabriel had set up with his brother's body—and already Dean looked older. Was that more gray in his hair? Were there more wrinkles around his eyes?
“I'll take him if I have to,” Derek threatened, stance going rigid. “He's my mate.”
Dean's jaw tightened. His next words were quiet and unexpectedly full of what Gabe could only describe as sorrow and desperation and...love. “He's my son.” He looked at Gabe with hard determination. “He's our family.”
The angel felt the same determination flood his veins, flush out the anger and doubt and guilt. As much as Gabriel loathed to admit it, Dean had always been the anchor in their dysfunctional little family. He had an immense persuasive power. And while they tended to disagree (often), Dean's sole and best interest was family. It was hard to remember that sometimes when rage and blame flared amongst them.
Gabe could see now why Stiles had been so drawn to Derek—like Dean, he was family-oriented, put his pack's (and mate's) needs before all else.
“And so are you,” Dean continued, gaze centered on Derek, who looked a little taken aback by the words. “If Stiles wakes up and wants to leave, that's fine. It's his choice.” He lowered his chin, giving the werewolf a firm stare. “But he decides. Not you. Understood?”
Derek swallowed thickly and nodded. “Understood.”
Dean nodded once, then looked at Stiles again. Gabriel could see he was torn. Despite the hunter's words, there was still hurt and a small amount of fury in his eyes. Dean almost took a step towards Stiles' bed but faltered at the last second and turned to leave.
Gabriel and Derek fell into silence. Now all they could do was wait.
0 o 0 o 0
It was nearly a day later when the doorbell rang.
Derek and Dean stood in the kitchen sharing a quiet moment with mugs of coffee. The werewolf tensed just before the bell sounded, and Dean's heart stuttered.
“It's the sheriff,” Derek murmured, placing his coffee on the counter. “A couple of deputies, too.”
Dean nodded solemnly, taking another sip of his coffee. He had to fight to keep it down. “They found Cas.”
Derek focused on a spot on the counter. “What...How did Gabriel..?”
“A car accident,” Dean said numbly, dredging up the story he was supposed to use. Cas had been heading to a conference in Santa Monica. He hadn't called, but that wasn't unusual. He was a very focused individual, took his work seriously. “Car veered off the road, rolled into a ditch out of sight of the highway.” He took another sip of coffee, ignoring the tremor in his hand. “Surprised they found him so fast. I was planning on having to put in a missing persons.”
The doorbell rang again, and Dean sighed, contemplating whether or not he should take the coffee with him. It gave him something to do with his hands, he decided as he stepped away from the counter and started towards the hallway that lead to the front door.
“I'm sorry,” Derek said just before the older man stepped out of the kitchen, “that you have to do this. Deal with his death all over again.”
Dean placed a hand on the door frame and leaned into it, closing his eyes. “It's what we do.”
“It doesn't seem fair,” the werewolf admitted, voice strained. “All the good you and your family have done, and you suffer the most for it.”
Dean swallowed and opened his eyes. “Didn't sign up for 'fair,' kid.”
“Didn't really sign up at all, did you?”
Dean looked back at Derek blankly, forcing himself to smirk. “Sure didn't,” he said gruffly, shuffling down the hallways towards the front door. He let his hand rest on the doorknob for a moment, schooling his features as he'd taught himself to do so many years ago.
And with a tired huff, he twisted the knob and opened the door, giving the officers on the porch a squinty-eyed grimace. “Sheriff. What can I do for you?”
0 o 0 o 0
Stiles woke, and it was dark.
He could tell something was off. The ring finger of his left hand throbbed dully, and he felt...weird. Not in pain. Not significantly changed. Just weird. Like there was something bubbling under his skin that needed release but couldn't quite find it.
He lay still until his eyes adjusted, finding that the darkness wasn't because he'd been hexed or in some sort of coma or trapped in his own mind while he watched himself do horrible, awful, terriblebad things.
It was dark merely because it was night. The middle of the night, from what his alarm clock said.
Stiles breathed in the scent of his room, dust and books and that aerosol that his dad liked to spray everywhere.
...Used to spray everywhere.
A painful sting in his chest made him gasp, and someone shifted beside him.
“Stiles?” Derek's sleep-rough voice asked, and the teen shuddered in relief.
“Yeah,” he whispered, shivering as warm arms wrapped around him.
“How do you feel?”
Hollow.
Hurt.
Alone.
Angry.
Helpless.
Exhausted.
“Fine,” Stiles sighed, burrowing his face into Derek's shoulder. “I'm fine.”
“Do you need anything?” Derek shifted so that they were pressed against each others' sides, making himself available to get up, if need be. Stiles didn't want him to get up. He didn't want to leave this warm comfort. Ever.
But before he could say as much, his stomach rumbled in protest and hunger (and betrayal—rude).
“Guess I'm hungry,” the teen said after Derek chuckled.
“I'll get you something to eat,” the older man said, starting to get up.
Stiles clutched at Derek's sleeve. “Can I come with you?”
Derek paused. “I'll only be a few minutes.”
The teen swallowed hard and drew in a shuddering breath. “I don't want to be alone.”
There was a tense silence before Derek sighed and nodded. “Okay. But we take it slow.”
The werewolf helped him stand, and besides an initial wobble and a steady stiffness in his limbs, he felt no physical abnormalities. He was wearing a pair of baggy sweats (his) and an old T-shirt (Derek's). He breathed the smell in, letting it fill him, relax his muscles.
“You all right?” Derek asked apprehensively.
Stiles quirked one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I'm good.”
And he was. Until they reached the stairs. Derek offered to carry him, but Stiles was quick to refuse.
“They're just stairs, Derek,” he sighed, taking his time as he reached the landing and concentrating on his slow but steady pace.
As they rounded the corner to the second set of stairs, the dining room came into view, and he paused. His uncles sat at the table, Uncle Sammy with his laptop and Uncle Gabe with a mug of coffee (more cream and sugar than actual coffee, the teen guessed).
They stared for a long moment, and Stiles' gut clenched. He wanted to go back to bed. He wanted to curl up in Derek's arms for the rest of forever.
And that was when Uncle Gabe took an extremely loud sip of coffee and smiled at him over the rim of his cup. “Hey, kiddo! Hankering for a midnight snack?”
The air in Stiles' lungs whooshed out in a gust of relief, and he smiled. “Yeah. I could definitely eat.”
He made his way down the remaining stairs, Derek a constant presence behind him, and sat in the chair that his Uncle Sammy scooched out for him with a smile.
“What'll it be?” Uncle Gabe asked, rubbing his hands together as Derek took a seat beside him, fingers entwining with the teen's and squeezing reassuringly.
Several things came to mind, but Stiles decided that he just couldn't decide, and he shrugged. “Surprise me.”
Uncle Gabe grinned happily, and Uncle Sammy rolled his eyes with a huff as the angel raised a hand and snapped his fingers. The dinner table suddenly filled itself with sweets and desserts of several different varieties.
Stiles was definitely not surprised.
But he also definitely did not care.
0 o 0 o 0
Stiles managed to avoid his pop for another couple of days. Mostly because the teen slept all hours of the day and kept himself locked away in his room during sleepless nights. And also because his pop seemed determined to avoid him as well.
The first time they even saw each other since Stiles had woken was the day of Castiel's funeral.
Stiles stood in the bathroom, cursing as he failed for the fourth (maybe the fifth) time to get his tie straight. He hated formal wear. And he hated funerals. The fact that the two were mutually exclusive really didn't help his mood any.
He would be attending a ceremony where half the people would know his father was dead because of him, while the other half tried to console him over the sudden loss. It would be painful and unbearable, and Stiles really didn't want to do it.
He could feel beads of sweat start to form on his forehead, and he placed his hands on the edge of the sink, closing his eyes and forcing a wave of dizzy nausea down.
“You okay?” his pop's gruff voice said, and Stiles sucked in a tight breath, eyes snapping open. The older man stood in the doorway of the bathroom, fingers absently messing with the cufflinks that Stiles recognized as ones that his dad had picked out for him. His suit was sharp and dark and form-fitting, nothing like the suits his Uncle Sammy had described to him—the second-hand ones they'd found in thrift shops to pose as FBI agents and the like. The teen's gaze stopped just short of his father's face. He couldn't bear to look him in the eye and see the anguish he knew mirrored his own.
“My tie's crooked,” he said meekly, and the words sounded childish and stupid.
But his father stepped into the bathroom and reached toward him. “C'mere.”
Stiles obeyed without hesitation, turning and raising his chin while Dean untangled the mess he'd made his tie into. “Your father wore a tie practically everyday from the moment I met him,” the older man said softly, fingers folding and twisting the fabric delicately. “Always tied it crooked. I had to fix it every time.” Stiles caught a smirk on his pop's face as the man shook his head. “I got angry one time, asked him why he couldn't just tie his damn tie the right way.” The smirk softened into a sad smile. “He said he just liked the way I fixed it.”
Stiles felt tears sting his eyes, couldn't stop a few wayward ones from escaping. Dean finished his task and set his hands on the teen's shoulders. The grip was awkward, and he looked immensely uncomfortable with the contact, which made Stiles tense.
The hunter took that as a cue to let him go, and he stepped back, turning into the hallway. “The service starts in a couple of hours,” he said curtly before disappearing down the stairs.
Stiles wiped at his face and sighed, staring at his neatly-done tie in the mirror.
0 o 0 o 0
The funeral was...nice.
The pastor said nice things. The people who attended (which was many more than they'd been expecting) had nice stories to tell. The church and the flowers and the cemetery and the plot and the headstone were nice.
The funeral was nice.
And as Castiel's nice casket was lowered into the ground, Stiles wanted to vomit.
0 o 0 o 0
Stiles made Derek stay at the loft that night. The werewolf hadn't been overly happy about it—they'd spent the past few days nearly joined at the hip.
The teen argued that his pack—their pack—needed him. Isaac, Erica, and Boyd had seemed ansty and lost at the funeral and the reception afterward. They needed their Alpha. And Stiles needed to reconcile with his father.
He tried finding moments in between the chaotic stir of sympathies and the endless amounts of If-you-need-anythings. But during the silent ride home, he couldn't find the words. At home, he couldn't find a moment where any of them weren't surrounded by people. Stiles thought he might find some time when everyone had finally left, maybe while they were boxing up food and cleaning the kitchen. But with a quick snap of his fingers, Uncle Gabe inadvertently threw that hope right out the window.
And with nothing left to do, his pop announced that he was going to bed.
Stiles' moments had passed him by.
...Until he woke in a sweat, barely holding back a sob as he nearly tumbled out of bed. He sat and breathed heavily into the hand covering his mouth, listening intently to make sure he hadn't woken his father. And when he couldn't stand the quiet and the darkness pressing in on him any longer, he fumbled with the sheets wrapped around his legs and hurried from his bedroom.
His feet padded along the hallway, taking him to the place that had once brought him so much comfort and now only made his stomach twist in anguish and apprehension. Standing in the doorway of his parents' bedroom, he stared into the darkness. The longer he stood, the more his eyes adjusted.
He could see his dad's nightstand, the small things he kept on it, like his watch and the stupid beaded bracelet Stiles had made him when he was five.
It's important, Stiles. Everything you do, no matter how small you think it is, is important.
He could see his dad's dresser, all the pictures that lined the top of it, like the one they'd taken at the beach Stiles had dreamed about.
Perhaps when your father has some time off, we'll plan another trip.
He could see his dad's side of the bed, vacant but still disheveled, like he'd just gotten up and was downstairs making them something to eat.
You boys had better get down here and eat before everything gets cold.
Stiles closed his eyes and pretended he could hear that voice, strong and quiet and firm. The house seemed wrong without it. This place was just too big without his presence there to fill in the gaps.
Someone shifted on the bed, and Stiles opened his eyes to find his Pop curled on top of the covers. He looked...small. His Pop had never looked small. Ever. He was supposed to be unshakeable.
Without a word, Stiles quietly took the few steps to the bed and climbed in on his dad's side, making sure to leave a fair amount of distance between himself and the other man. “Pop?” he whispered, and his father's shoulders hunched, shook with the tension of keeping his muscles coiled so tightly.
He probably didn't want to see the teen. Ever.
Stiles sighed and mentally berated himself. Of course his Pop wouldn't want that. He was just sad. They both were. Which was why the teen knew that they needed each other. Even if his Pop didn't know it yet. He took a deep breath, allowing the tightness in his chest to stretch painfully as he grabbed at the words he'd been told while in his memory.
“I talked to Chuck,” he said quietly, and Dean's shaking stopped abruptly, the man turning onto his back and staring at the teen hard.
“In a dream. Or...in heaven, I guess,” Stiles clarified, and Dean continued to stare. “He told me dad can't come back.” Tears welled in the teen's eyes and fell to the pillow beneath. “That he's happy.” His breath hitched, and he closed his eyes and pressed half his face into the pillow. “And that...we need to keep being a family.” His chest tightened as he cried, as he let loose quiet, choked noises. “I want to, Pop. I want to keep being a family so bad. But...But if you don't want to...”
Suddenly there were warm arms around him, drawing him in, holding him fiercely. He gasped, having not felt this kind of relief in such a long time. He couldn't believe he'd ever felt anything else when his Pop was always right there, ready to take the brunt of his pain and sadness. They cried together for what felt like an eternity, and still it wasn't enough. Their shared grief would never abate.
When their crying calmed, and Stiles was able to breathe without the horrible tightness clinging to his lungs, he sighed and clutched at his father's shirt. He could smell his dad's soft scent on the pillow beneath his head, mixed with the warmth of his Pop's aftershave.
“I asked him,” he said, voice rough and quiet, “if he was God.” Dean waited quietly for Stiles to continue. “He asked me if I thought he looked like God, and I told him I didn't know because I'd never met the guy.” Stiles closed his eyes and breathed. “He said 'Me either.'” It took a moment, but the teen soon felt the shaking of his Pop's laughter, heard the deep chuckle that he remembered from before everything had gone so terribly, terrifically, terrifyingly wrong.
He would miss this, when he was married and living with Derek. The worry of what his Pop would do in such a large house all by himself sat at the back of his mind, but for now he let the older man's laughter lull him to sleep.
They were going to be okay.