All righty, dahlings. Looks like it’s time for fic again. This one…well it got away from me. Katka originally prompted me with BAMF Stiles because I needed something to enter into the contest. So. I, er, wrote it? But then it totally got away from me. Split into two parts for convenience! Anyway, PACK FEELS. There is a panic attack scene in here so, if that is triggering, BE FOREWARNED.
Into the Spin
The call wakes Stiles up at quarter after one. He groans, batting uselessly at the high shriek of his phone, and only manages to knock it off his night table. Sighing, he blinks blearily at the far wall before groping at the floor, fingers sleep clumsy and numb. He almost falls out of bed for his troubles.
He flips open the phone and buries his face in his pillow. He’s almost certain he said hello. But at the same time, probably not. “’lo?”
“Stiles! I thought you weren’t going to answer; alphas attacked the pack and I need to get them to safety and I need your help, Stiles, hurry!” Scott says frantic. Stiles blinks the sleep from his mind, scrambling up and off the bed. Scott keeps talking, “They got Boyd pretty bad, and we’re just keeping out of sight but I don’t know for how long. I really need a getaway car right about now.”
“Okay, okay, I’m on my way, give me a location.” He grabs his jeans, yanking them on one handed. He slips on his red hoodie, memorizing the address Scott rattles off and then they disconnect. Stiles grabs his keys and bolts out of his room. He stalls on the stairs, turning around again, and looking at the nondescript bat Deaton helped him make, propped up beside his computer desk.
Better safe than sorry.
He grabs the bat and rushes down the stairs, locking the door behind him as he makes his way to his jeep. His phone gives him the directions he needs as he gets in, praying that this time Betty won’t fail him. She purrs to life and he breathes out in relief, throwing the jeep into reverse and peeling out of the drive way. It’s only because he’s used to noting it, but his father’s cruiser isn’t in its usual spot.
He drives as fast as he can, taking as many wild shortcuts as his phone can give him, and when he gets to the overpass, traffic quiet above him, his lights cut across Derek’s black Camaro. He parks and jumps out, bat in hand. The streetlights create a dim halo of light, muffling the darkness into muted greys. Stiles taps the bat against his knee, terror a constant burn in the back of his throat.
Scott peers out from behind the side of a dumpster. “Stiles?”
“Oh, thank god, I thought you might’ve died already,” Stiles says, running toward him. Scott stands to greet him, grinning wearily, and Stiles gets his first look at the rest of the pack. Isaac is holding Boyd up, pressing his jacket against the worst of the claw marks, and Erica is huddled against Jackson in confusion. Boyd is whimpering, low in his throat, batting useless as Isaac presses harder on the wounds. He isn’t healing, his chest gaping and raw, and Stiles clenches the bat.
Stiles kneels down beside Boyd, passing a hand over his forehead. He feels like fire, ember low and out of control. “What happened?”
“We were patrolling, Jackson and I, like Derek asked, when we were ambushed. Boyd, Erica, and Isaac heard my howl and came running, but one of the alpha’s caught Boyd across the chest. We were sure he was dead. We retreated, keeping them off just barely, and Derek showed up. He distracted the alphas into following him instead and now here we are,” Scott explains.
“And where’s Derek now?” Stiles asks. He climbs to his feet, fingers tight around the bat.
“I don’t know. He bolted that way with the alphas on his tail.” Scott gestures down to where the overpass disappears into darkness. His face contorts into unhappy worry. “He seemed okay when he was leading them off, but there were five of them, Stiles. I don’t know if he’s going to survive.”
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Okay, okay, we need a plan. Did Derek throw you his keys?” At Scott’s nod, Stiles continues, “Take the pack to a safe place, where they can heal. Call Deaton. He can treat Boyd and give you some extra protection with the mountain ash. Just get them out of here.”
Stiles makes his way back to the jeep, his throat dry. Scott trails after him, a curious whine catching in his throat. Stiles clambers into his jeep, sitting for a moment to gather his wits. Scott blinks at him, eyes feral gold.
“What about you? Aren’t you coming with us?”
“I’m not letting Derek die,” Stiles says. He jams the keys into the ignition, his throat so tight he can hardly swallow. He smiles for Scott. “This is becoming a habit.”
“Just be careful,” Scott says, brown bleeding into the gold. Stiles nods. “I’ll call you after I get them settled. Allison says her house is best.” Scott looks away before taking a breath. He locks eyes with Stiles, imploring. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“You know me,” Stiles says, and guns the gas. The jeep lurches forward and Scott and the pack disappear in his rear view mirror. The bat sits innocuous beside him. He grips the steering wheel and breathes out. He can do this.
Driving far enough down the expansive overpass, he wrenches the wheel to the side; he cuts the gas and jumps out. Gathering up the bat, he flicks up his hood and starts walking, listening for any signs. A whimper, a small yip of pain, and Stiles starts running. He gets around the side of a beam and there they are, all five of them, wolfed out and snarling, eyes bleeding red in the darkness. They’re surrounding a large black wolf, blood pooled under its paws. Stiles moves fast, knowing he has a very limited window to catch them by surprise.
One of the wolves has limped back and away, claw marks over its blonde muzzle. Its pelt is covered in bites, scarlet and leaking, and it keeps pawing at its nose in annoyance. It hasn’t sensed him yet, preoccupied with the battle, and Stiles takes the opportunity. He steps up beside it, readies his stance, and swings.
The bat connects with an audible crack and the wolf yelps, squeals in agony as it jumps away from Stiles. Smoke curls up from its fur and it howls, pain and fear sending it skirting back into a pillar. Stiles keeps moving, catching a second wolf as it jerks back to look at its companion, taking out its foreleg with a crunch and dodging away from the flash of claws. The other wolves are taking notice, backing off as their two companions go down screaming, skin smoking from where the bat connected.
Stiles backpedals when the largest wolf, a grey with silver markings along the pelt, darts toward him. He calms the clamour of his mind. One thought. Belief. Believe it will happen and it will. You can’t touch me.
The bat sings through the air as it smacks the wolf across the muzzle, sending it sailing back and away, howling in blind agony. Smoke sizzles up from its fur as it fights to get its paws over its eyes. And then the wolf looks up, catches Stiles gaze with manic red, and the fur peels back. A woman hunches over in its space, her skin crackling from the bat’s impact. Her nose is broken, blood streaming down over her mouth. It makes her teeth red when she bares them at him, elongated and sharp, and Stiles thinks, You can’t touch me. He holds the bat up, fingers flexing over the wrappings, pale wood gleaming in the streetlights.
“Come on,” he taunts; thinks, You can’t touch me. “I’m sure you can smell me. Not an ounce of supernatural in me. I’m just a little human with a bat. Come on.”
A snarl warns him and the bat hisses through the air, catching the attacking wolf with an angry snap, sending it careening into the only untouched wolf. It claws at its face as it smokes. It curls in on itself as the fur peels back and a man lies panting on the ground, hands desperate on the skin of his cheek. Stiles turns back to the woman. She’s standing now. Her stance is aggressive but wary. Stiles breathes through his nose.
“You can’t touch me,” he says.
There’s a desperate whine behind him and Stiles steps back, slow, easy movements. The alphas are regaining their senses, shaking off the impact of the bat’s poison. Stiles keeps walking until he bumps into warm fur. Derek noses at his side, mouth hanging open as he pants.
“Derek,” Stiles says. The other werewolves have joined the woman, crowding around her as she stalks toward Stiles. The shift is immediate, her body elongating and snapping out as she changes. She’s massive, still smoking from her face, but she advances on Stiles with purpose. “Derek, what do we do?”
Derek grabs his hoodie with his teeth, tugging him backwards. Stiles lets him, keeping the bat in front. The other werewolves have shifted as well, sleek forms darting around to surround them. Stiles grits his teeth. The female wolf is closest, her roar so loud it drowns out the semi passing overhead. Stiles thinks, desperately, You can’t touch me.
She jumps at him and Derek snarls, but Stiles is faster. He ducks and swings up, catching her in the side, bat sinking into her soft underbelly. She gurgles as she falls, changing as she rolls, and the other wolves whine in sympathy, in confusion. The woman coughs, arms around her middle as it smokes. She glares at Stiles from the ground.
“You’re going to let a human fight your battles for you?” she grits out. Derek growls low at her, pressed tight against Stiles’ side. She laughs. “Little red and the big bad wolf. How quant. You can’t protect him the entire time.”
Stiles is unsure if that’s directed at him or Derek but it’s a threat nonetheless. “I think you’ll find I can. You’re being beaten by this human. How does it feel? Humiliated yet?”
She glares and hunches over, but the shift is slower this time, looks more painful. Stiles stands and readies the bat; readies his belief. But she doesn’t attack. She backs off, barking once at her companions. They bleed shadows as they move, snapping jaws at Stiles and Derek as they pass, but none of them charge in for the attack. The female wolf bares her teeth one last time and turns tail, limping as she retreats. Stiles shakes out a breath.
“Holy shit,” Stiles says. The air clouds around his words. He just beat back five alphas. Stiles feels very much like fainting is in his near future. “Oh my god.”
The warmth leaves his side, Derek limping a few steps away. There’s a low rumble as he shifts back, skin blossoming up as the fur retreats, his bones snapping as they reshape. It looks agonizing. His back is a myriad of claw and bite marks, and one arm has a heavy gash down the outside. Stiles drops to his knees beside him, hand hovering over the worst of it.
“What do I do?”
“Nothing,” Derek grits out. He curls in on himself, panting. “You do nothing. Why are you even here?”
“Because saving your ass is my new favourite hobby,” Stiles says. He finally presses a hand against Derek’s unmarked shoulder. “My jeep is close by, come on.”
“They’ll follow,” Derek says, but he lets Stiles help him up. “You declared yourself part of the pack. They’ll come after you now.”
“As if the whole ‘bat carved specifically to ward off werewolves’ wasn’t clue enough. Can you walk?” Stiles asks. Derek seems to sway for a moment before he nods, taking careful steps, following in Stiles’ wake. Stiles doesn’t let his guard down. The bat is warm in his hands, pulsing with magic. The adrenaline hums through him and he feels insanely like laughing. He bites down on his lip as they make their way to where Stiles has parked his jeep.
Derek suddenly stops walking. “Stiles.”
Stiles steps back, bat up. Derek growls, a warning and a threat at the same time. He’s close enough to Stiles that he can feel the puff of angered air against his ear. Stiles catches the bright glow of red eyes watching them and calls, “It’s against the law to loiter!”
The red eyes blink, slow, and then disappear. Stiles sags. His adrenaline can only last so long. Derek sighs out behind him and Stiles starts walking again, his heart hammering desperately against his chest. His jeep looks unharmed and thank god, because he can’t afford to put her in the shop again. Derek leans against the passenger side as Stiles wrestles open the door and helps him inside. His skin is fever hot and the wounds don’t look to be healing. Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose and goes around to the other side.
His phone beeps as he gets in and he locks the doors before checking the message. It’s Scott. “got the pack safe. please don’t be dead.”
He types back, “I am badass, dude, you have no idea. Talk to you soon.”
Propping the bat up beside him, he starts the car. Derek closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, still sucking in painful breaths, and Stiles drives like the speed limit doesn’t exist. The wounds are slowly healing, he can see the shallowest of them starting to stitch closed, but the bigger ones still leak blood. It says something about his mental state at the moment that he’s not scolding Derek for bleeding on his seats. Again.
“Your bat,” Derek says, suddenly. Stiles glances at him. “What is it? I’ve never seen someone deter a pack of werewolves with a bat.”
“Would you have preferred I made an axe?” Stiles grins, giddy adrenaline tunneling his vision. “Deaton helped me make it. It’s carved from mountain ash. I soaked it in a concentrated solution of monkshood for three days before carving it out. Every smack doses the werewolf with a healthy amount of monkshood. It won’t kill, but it will smoke. It’ll keep them away from me while I wait for backup.”
“That’s – that’s new.”
Stiles laughs. “Don’t hurt yourself with the compliments there. It’s ingenious is what it is. We put in an iron core rubbed down with salt as an extra precaution. It was a chore and a half but, seeing as it successfully sent a pack of alphas scurrying, I would call it a success.”
And it’s like all the air is sucked out of the vehicle, Stiles’ chest tight with panic, and he jerks the wheel to the side. His foot slams on the break as he ducks his head, sucking in great gulps of air as he starts hyperventilating. It doesn’t help that he can still smell smoking fur and coppery blood; he breathes through his mouth to rid himself of the smell and it just makes him nauseous.
“Oh my god,” he wheezes, eyes squeezing shut. He can hear Derek beside him, breath sharp and pained, and it doesn’t make it easier.
“At least you didn’t die,” Derek says. Stiles sucks in a laugh, the tightness in his chest easing up enough for him to sit up straight. He stares out the windshield, every exhale rattling through his teeth like loose change, and when his vision clears of blotchy grey spots, he slumps forward.
“You suck at the cheering aspect of this friendship. I beat back a pack of alphas. I need about a gallon of ice cream and romantic comedies. I don’t even care. I deserve it,” Stiles says.
Derek huffs. “I’d prefer the not dying bit first, myself, but I’m sure that can be arranged.”
“Don’t you joke at me; my fragile mind can’t handle that right now.” Stiles eases his foot off the break, his jeep creaking as she moves back out onto the road. “You are the worst hobby ever.”
That startles a laugh out of Derek, which turns into a groan of pain. “I am no one’s hobby.”
“No, you aren’t a very good hobby; there would be some payout if you were. Like arts and crafts. Instead, you get blood on my seats.” The road is a ribbon of darkness, cut open by the slice of the jeep’s lights. Stiles tries not to search for red in the gloom. “I’m pretty sure I’m five seconds from fainting, just warning you, so if we careen out of control, at least know I tried.”
“Your car is already a metal death trap; my being in it is a miracle in itself. And I’m sure I’d survive if you drove us into a tree,” Derek says. “Where are we going?”
“Allison’s. Her dad has put up the pack for the night, and the alphas will think twice before going up against an angry Argent. Which Allison can be. And her dad. Mustn’t forget her dad,” Stiles says. Derek sighs but doesn’t complain, which actually freaks out Stiles more than the laughter. “You could at least growl at me for dragging you toward hunters. Otherwise it’s just no fun.”
Derek doesn’t answer and Stiles risks a look. His eyes are closed, forehead pressed against the window, and Stiles has another moment of panic. He grabs Derek’s uninjured shoulder, shaking him. “Hey, don’t fall asleep, I’m pretty sure if you fall asleep you won’t wake up, and I did not go through hell just so you can die in my car.”
Derek rumbles out, “Shut up, Stiles, or I’ll tear your throat out with my teeth.”
Stiles can’t help the laugh and the soft smile Derek directs at him is bonus incentive to press down a bit harder on the gas, grinning as they thunder toward Allison’s. They make it there with no fuss, Stiles’ cheerful disposition slowly replaced by the twitchy fear that makes his limps feel impaled by needles. He sits in the driver’s seat after he parks behind Derek’s Camaro, hands tight on the wheel, staring blankly out at the brightly lit front door proclaiming safety. Derek rumbles out in confusion and Stiles blinks, bringing himself back. He hops out of the jeep just as the front door opens. Allison comes rushing out, crossbow in hand.
She catches him in a hug, arms squeezing tight around his neck, and he spends precious seconds completely frozen. And then higher brain function kicks in and he wraps his arms around her waist, ducking his face into her hair. He’s shaking, high on the adrenaline kick, terrified with his mind whirring around ways this all could’ve gone so very wrong. Allison holds him until he releases her, and then she helps him get Derek out of his jeep.
“Quick question,” Allison says. Stiles looks at her, supporting most of Derek’s weight with a shoulder. “Why is he naked?”
Stiles blinks, before he slaps a hand over his eyes. “Oh, dude, you were naked in my jeep.”
“I know everyone thinks full blown werewolves run around in torn off shorts, but the reality is oh so very different,” Derek deadpans. “I was bleeding in your jeep, Stiles. Priorities.” Stiles can hear the laughter in his voice.
“There was naked werewolf ass on my seats. I don’t think I’ll ever recover from this,” Stiles says.
“And yet,” Derek shoots back and Stiles muffles his grin with an incredibly unsuccessful glare.
They start a slow shuffle toward the door as Allison runs ahead, yelling back a simple “I’ll get him a towel!” before disappearing into the house. Derek’s breathing is laboured, his eyes drooping with every stumbled step up the drive, and Stiles has to grab him around the waist before he drags them both down.
“You didn’t die in my jeep, you can make it to the front door,” Stiles says. “Walking is easy, see? One foot in front of the other .Come on, sourwolf, you held off alphas, you can make it to a door.”
“If I could, I would threaten you right now,” Derek says.
“If you did I would ignore you. You’re not as scary as your stalking tendencies make you out to be.” Stiles shifts his hold, fingers skating over one of Derek’s cuts. They both wince, Stiles readjusting his hold and Derek sucking in sharp breaths until the red in his eyes bleeds away. Allison runs back out with a towel.
“Well, this will be awkward for about five seconds, but don’t move. Dad has enough issues with a pack of werewolves taking cover in our house; I don’t think being naked will gain you any points.” Allison steps up beside Derek, slinging the towel around his waist and tucking it neat into the dip of his hip.
“But he’s just so pretty to look at,” Stiles says, dragging Derek forward. “Just look at all these cuts. An absolute masterpiece.”
“I may be weak but I can still bite you, Stiles,” Derek says. Stiles taps his hip.
“Kinky. Come on, almost there. Allison, do you have a place where we can clean him up?” Stiles asks. Allison nods and holds open the door as Stiles leads Derek in. Chris Argent is standing in the foyer, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. When he sees Derek, he doesn’t let up.
“Trouble in paradise?”
Derek bares his teeth at him and Chris rolls his eyes. Stiles holds up a hand. “As much as I want to watch you two tear each other apart with your words, Derek is leaking blood all over me and I’m uncomfortable with that. But save those barbed little phrases because I’m sure they’re lethal.”
Chris glares at him but Stiles is so beyond caring at the moment that he can’t even begin to address the panic locked inside his head. He just tugs Derek past Chris, following Allison down the hall and into the guest bedroom.
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