Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Croatoan

They take off on a Wednesday, leaving Boyd in charge. Stiles had pulled a face at the time. Now he assumes Erica has taken over the pack, that Scott is doing his very best to avoid all of them by climbing into Allison’s pants, that Isaac is blowing off summer school, and that Jackson is trying to assert his dominance over everyone by being as big a douchebag as possible.

Stiles had asked Derek what exactly he thought was going to happen when he left a bunch of emotionally maladjusted sixteen year olds in charge of themselves.

Derek had flared his nostrils and tightened his grip on the wheel. His expression had practically shouted “I am having emotions and those emotions are violent”.

Stiles had wisely let him stew while Peter snored in the backseat.

It’s a seventeen hour drive that they break in half by stopping at a hotel to get from Beacon Hills to Oregon. They’re meeting up with a pack there, people that Peter used to know growing up, that still have an odd Hale cousin or two attached to it, to discuss a pact that would link both their packs as allies.

It had taken a lot of bitching, moaning, fact giving, yelling, emotional manipulating, blackmailing--

“Derek, if you don’t go through with this, I’ll tell my father, the Sheriff, that you touched me.”

Derek’s shoulders stiffen and he turns his head around slowly, eyes burning bright red. “What.”

“Touched me inappropriately,” Stiles clarifies. Not two minutes ago, this had seemed like a great plan.

Derek narrows his eyes and brings up his hand. His fingers curl and his claws flick out with a tiny ‘snick’. “I will touch you. Inappropriately.”

--and finally, psychological warfare in the form of Peter saying “Well it’s a good idea, so he probably won’t do it.”.

Stiles is still upset that Derek had ignored all his graphs and diagrams and flowcharts, only to be tricked by reverse psychology.

They could have made the trip in one go, each person switching off for a length of the drive, but Derek refused to let anyone but him even look at the steering wheel of his stupid, pretentious car--

“Fine, Derek, don’t let anyone drive your penis-mobile, whatever you’re the Alpha.”

--but instead they pulled over and stopped off at a small hotel that was only marginally better than sleeping in the car.

“I’m not even a werewolf and I know that guy was lying about having only one room left,” Stiles flops onto one of the beds and rolls around for a second before popping back up and moving onto the other one to see if it was any better.

Even Peter is frowning as he checks out the bathroom. “They don’t even have complimentary bodywash. It’s just a bar of soap.” He sniffs. “A used bar of soap.”

He stares at Derek like this is all his fault--which, really, pot and kettle.

Derek is gazing at the ceiling (where there’s some pretty suspicious mold happening) and doing some kind of deep breathing exercise.

“Look, you two wanted to come here--”

“Well, not here, obviously,” Peter quips.

Derek breathes.

“Rock, paper, scissors to see who gets their own bed?” Stiles suggests. “Losers share?”

Peter wins and makes a big, obnoxious show of sighing pleasantly and stretching from one end of the bed to the other.

Neither Derek or Stiles leave him any hot water to shower with. Stiles checks in with the pack (“Derek, they’re literally sending me mass texts about how Jackson won’t share the tv.” “Wonder where he learned that from.”) and then checks in with his father.

The official cover story is that Stiles is off to look at some colleges with a few seniors (“Seniors, get it, because you’re old--Ow!”) for the week. The conversation with the Sheriff had gone something like this:

“Why are you packing?”

Stiles froze and slowly turned around. “Oh hey Daddy, hi. What?”

The Sheriff frowned. “You’re packing. Why.”

“Um.”

“Not a good answer.”

Stiles thought fast. “Look, I was going to tell you, I just didn’t want you to make a big deal out of it, okay?”

“Kid, what the hell--”

“I just want to look at some colleges, okay?!” Stiles crossed his arms and tried to look as petulant as possible, like he’d been found out.

The Sheriff stared flatly at him. “Right. Just you and Scott--”

Stiles winced. “Um. Not Scott.”

The Sheriff’s look of surprise maybe lasted an entire second. “You two are attached at the hip, whatever you’re planning--”

“Scott might not graduate with me.”

“Um.”

“Look, Scott is probably going to get held back, okay?” Stiles looked at his hands and sighed, really going for it. “Okay, I know it’s summer and I only just finished being a sophomore and I should be having fun but...junior year is kind of a big thing, you know? This is where you have to nut up or shut up. So I was talking to some seniors and they were going to check out some colleges and...invited me. It’s just to look, you know? I mean, I don’t really know if I’ll be getting a scholarship or whatever.”

The Sheriff kindly tried not to gape, but it was a near thing. “I...had no idea you were thinking so far ahead, kiddo. Uh...and Scott?”

Stiles’ shoulders drooped and he bit at his lip. “Um. I kinda didn’t tell Scott? At all? I mean, look, you know we kinda had a crazy last semester and Scott really...well he pretty much failed every class, so he’s probably going to get held back. I just...I dunno. I didn’t want to rub it in his face or something.”

The Sheriff scratched the back of his head and Stiles looked up, pulling his face into what he hoped was something childlike and innocent.

“I didn’t want to make him feel stupid or that I was leaving him behind.”

Hook, line, sinker.

What followed was a very uplifting, encouraging talk which almost made Stiles feel bad for making his BFF seem like an idiot and lying so well. His father had promised not to tell anyone, especially Scott, where he was going and Stiles had kept the conversation to “do you think he’ll be mad at me?” so well that the Sheriff had completely forgotten to ask who exactly he was spending the week with.

Stiles texted every so often with things like “This school is full of hipsters, I can’t go here, I don’t have skinny jeans” and “This campus has co-ed dorms and a very large lesbian scene”.

Afterwards, when everyone is settled in and Stiles is hoarding the remote (“We’re not watching Law & Order.” “You got to take first shower, Peter gets his own bed, I get to decide what we watch.” “Stiles, for fuck’s--” “Shhhh Jack McCoy is talking.”), they go over their game plan one more time.

“Stiles made first contact,” Derek’s nostrils flare and he glares at the teen.

“Oh my god, dude, I just followed her on Tumblr. She just posts pictures of cats and sunsets, I didn’t know that made me some kind of ambassador in your weird wolf law.”

“You’ll make the introductions,” Peter picks up, when Derek looks like he’s fighting the urge to maim. “That’s your only job, while we’re discussing the treaty, all you have to do is make nice.”

“By that, he means ‘shut up’,” Derek says helpfully.

“Pretty much,” Peter says.

“I’m a great conversationalist,” Stiles grumbles.

“I wouldn’t try your brand of conversation,” Peter says. “They’re a bit...traditional.”

Stiles frowns and peels his eyes off the tv screen. “What does that mean?”

“They’re a little...backwards.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles gapes. “Oh my God, they’re redneck hillbillies aren’t they?”

“No,” Derek snaps. He pauses, then turns to Peter. “They aren’t, are they?”

Peter winces. “Sort of.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles wails.

“Stop complaining, this was your idea,” Derek snips.

“No, you don’t understand,” Stiles stresses. “I’m going to be the one that has a pretty mouth!”

“...what?! That’s--Stiles! This isn’t Deliverance! Calm down.”

“Well, they do keep pretty isolated,” Peter says absently. “They might be enamored by a city boy.”

“Oh my God.”

“Peter, stop it.”

“And you do have an attractive mouth.”

“Oh my God.”

“Peter!”

They don’t get much sleep that night.

To Derek’s eternal displeasure, it takes them two hours to get up and get ready to leave the next morning. Peter won’t stop baiting Stiles and Stiles won’t stop bitching. By the time they actually get in the car, Derek’s ready to just turn around and forget the whole thing. He’d known creating an alliance between packs would be difficult, he just hadn’t thought the hardest part would be putting up with his companions until they got there.

As soon as they crossed into Oregon, Stiles starts dragging his feet. Every half hour the teen needs to pee, or get something to drink, or get out and shake his legs.

If Derek doesn’t pull over each time, Stiles starts being annoying on purpose. If he’s sitting in the back, he’ll ‘accidentally’ kick Derek’s seat (“Stiles!” “I have long legs, Derek! Scoot your seat up!”). If he’s sitting in the passenger seat, he’ll bounce his leg so hard that the entire car shakes at stoplights (“Stiles!” “I have to pee, okay?! Jeez.”). After enough times, even Peter’s resolve is starting to wear and everyone just starts snapping at each other.

“Let’s just pull over for the night--”

Derek yanks the car into the first hotel lot he comes across with a screech. He parks crookedly in the far corner and it takes him three tries to get out of the car because the seatbelt doesn’t want to release him. While he’s stomping around the vehicle to get their bags out of the trunk he hears:

“Was it something I said?”

Derek almost loses his zen and punches Stiles in the face. He thinks Stiles realizes this because the boy stays mulishly quiet for a few blissful minutes. Until he finds out that, again, the hotel only has one room vacant and it’s a single.

“I have a bad back,” he says immediately. “You two can sleep on the floor.”

They trudge up the stairs in an aggravated line, stress lines etched into their faces.

“Maybe we should leave me here,” Stiles says just before they bed down. “I can just introduce you guys via text.”

Peter, sprawled awkwardly on the small sofa, groans. “I vote yes. Let’s just leave him.”

Derek almost agrees. “You’ve already said the pack is traditional--”

“Backwater hillbillies,” Stiles corrects. “He said they were backwater hillbillies.”

Derek pauses and removes the pillow from where he was slowly trying to suffocate himself by pressing it against his face. “Stiles,” he says gruffly. “No one is going to molest you.”

Peter shifts onto his back and glares. “Is that what today was about?!”

“Look, when Lydia and Isaac aren’t around, I’m obviously the cutest of the Scoobies. If I hear banjos, I’m out.”

Derek sits up to glare over the edge of the bed at Peter, hoping his expression properly conveys ‘Look what you did’. Peter’s left eyes twitches and he rolls over with a huff.

Derek takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Trying to project a comforting presence, he reaches up to put a heavy hand on Stiles’ ankle.

“No one is going to touch you,” he says. “You’re part of my pack. They wouldn’t dare.”

Stiles kicks his hand away and grumbles for a moment. “Peter’s a dick.”

“Yes he is,” Derek agrees kindly.

He can hear the other wolf grinding his teeth.

“Seriously though--”

“If I hear or see a banjo, you can wait in the car.”

“...fine.”

“Go the fuck to sleep,” Peter grouses at both of them.

That’s the last time any of them get any rest.

---

Chapter Text

The next morning, it takes them awhile to notice that anything’s different. They get a good start, everyone pees, no one forgets their phone and makes them turn around to get it, they steal a few towels and then they’re off.

It’s early enough that there’s still mist creeping over the small town and before they really hit the road, Derek decides that he’ll reward everyone’s good behavior with donuts. He’s learning positive reinforcement.

He didn’t get much of a look at the town they spent the night in before and he drives around for a few minutes until he spies a bakery sandwiched between a butcher shop and a Starbucks.

He parks and gets out, ignoring Stiles and Peter’s snarky Starbucks orders while he heads toward the bakery. He hears Peter mutter something unflattering about small town shops and get out of the car to head into the pretentious coffee chain.

Derek rolls his eyes at both of them and peers over to the counter to see what they have in. It takes him a moment of staring at the empty display case to realize he doesn’t smell any baked goods. He glances at the clock over the cash register. 9:47. He’s pretty sure bakeries are supposed to be up and running by now. The door was open and had a welcome sign. There’s a chalk board beside the glass case that lists their daily special for...Saturday?

He’s sure it’s Sunday.

“Derek!” Stiles calls. “Peter!”

Derek frowns and stalks outside, feeling off-balanced for some reason.

Stiles barely glances at him before snapping his searching gaze back to the streets. The wolf straightens up, instantly on the alert for danger. But there’s nothing. No one charging at them, no one harassing the teen, no one…

No one.

There’s no one on the streets at all.

“It’s Sunday,” Peter says, quietly appearing beside him. “Small town on a Sunday, nothing’s ever open.”

But he doesn’t sound sure and Derek’s unease doesn’t abate.

“Look,” Stiles points across the street, to a car parked in front of the post office.

It’s still running and the driver side door is wide open. For a second, it makes Derek feels better. Someone just pulled up and went inside...the post office on a Sunday…? It doesn’t mean anything, there’s a cramped diner right next door, they could have gone there in a hurry for some reason.

“Listen,” Peter says lowly. His head is tilted to the side and after a moment, he lifts his nose and takes a carefully sniff.

Derek follows his lead and picks up....nothing.

He stiffens up and strides closer to Stiles. There’s nothing. No chatter, no foot traffic, no cars rumbling down the side roads, no birds cawing annoyingly at each other, nothing but wind and the faint bleeping of the car across the street. And that...that’s fucked up and weird yeah, but there’s also no scents. No hot rubber from cars, or food being made, or dogs and cats marking their territory, or anyone other than himself, Peter, and Stiles.

It’s like the entire town has been muted.

He shifts in closer to Stiles, taking in his scent; young, male, fresh sweat from being anxious, that weird not-quite-good-not-bad smell from his unscented body wash and deodorant that he has to use because he’s apparently allergic to anything that smells good, mouthwash. Scents that are harder to define, scents that just let Derek know that Stiles is here and healthy.

Stiles is staring up at him, waiting.

“I don’t hear anyone,” Derek says.

He can almost feel Peter frowning behind him.

“And I don’t smell anyone,” Derek elaborates. Stiles shouldn’t be left in the dark just because he isn’t a wolf.

“What does that mean?”

Derek frowns. “It means I can’t sense anyone but us.”

“...what does that mean?!”

“If we’re going by our sense of smell,” Peter says smoothly. “Then it smells like we’re the only ones here. The only ones that have been here. And there are no other sounds but us.”

Stiles blinks at him. “No people?”

“None.”

“What about in the shops and stores or whatever?”

“Unless all these buildings are soundproof and everyone is hiding--”

“Wait, what about animals?” Stiles cranes his neck up. “Birds or whatever, you don’t mean, like, there are no living things--”

Derek strains his hearing, trying to find something to give Stiles some peace of mind. It is ridiculous, like some sort of joke.

Stiles takes off at a fast jog down the main road. “HELLLOOOOOO!” he belts out. “ANYBODY HERE?”

The volume of his voice is like a shock and for a second, neither wolf can move; muscles tensed, ready to fight. There’s danger, they should be quiet, should keep their bellies low to the ground and find shelter.

But this isn’t the first time that Derek has questioned Stiles’ survival instinct.

By the time they catch up to him, Stiles has gone down the block and ducked into an alleyway. The wind picks up and Derek zips his jacket closed as he follows with Peter just behind him.

Stiles is standing in the middle of the alley, closed in on three sides by the tall buildings; they seem to go back and merge just behind the boy, allowing for only a sliver of space between them. Stiles kicks through garbage, glaring down at the pavement.

“What the hell are you doing,” Peter snaps lowly.

Stiles licks his lips and shrugs. “I’m looking for someone.”

“There’s no one,” Peter hisses. “Don’t run off yelling like an idiot.”

Stiles scowls and looks like he’s about to start bitching.

The wind blows harder, colder, like there’s a storm coming and Derek tightens his jacket around himself and shifts closer to the wall to block some of the chill.

“We just need to stop getting worked up over nothing,” he says gruffly. “There could have been an evacuation--”

“That we slept through?” Peter snaps.

“Or maybe some barnyard party,” Derek bites back.

“The stores are all open,” Peter snarls. “They left without locking anything?”

“It’s a small town,” Derek shrugs, but even he knows he sounds like he’s grasping at straws.

He glances over to Stiles, who’s been suspiciously silent for too long. The boy is frowning and staring at the walls on either side of them, gazing them up and down with narrowed eyes.

Derek wonders for a beat if the kid is claustrophobic, but he doesn’t sense any rising panic. “Let’s just get back to the car and get out--”

“So,” Stiles starts slowly.

The two wolves look at him.

“So here’s the thing,” Stiles presses the one hand flat on one wall and stretches out the other to do the same on his opposite side. His hair is blowing fiercely and his nose and cheeks are tinged pink with cold.

“What,” Peter snaps.

Stiles works his mouth for a few quiet moments, following the line of the two walls up and down once more, following where they meet behind him before settling his gaze on Derek.

“How are we feeling the wind right now?”

Derek stares at him. There are plenty of quick remarks dancing on the tip of his tongue about Stiles being an idiot and...Stiles isn’t an idiot. Derek pauses and glances to Peter, whose eyes are wide as he presses the palm of his hand to the wall beside them.

“What?” he feels left behind.

Stiles gestures around them. “Dude. There’s no outlet, we’re surrounded on three sides by four story walls.” He points behind Derek. “That is the only way wind should be blowing this hard. But it’s not.”

Derek has that strange off-balanced feeling again as he stares at the wall on his left. The wind is gusting from that direction and...well wind blows from above too, it’s not weird...except...except he presses closer to the wall and still feels like the wind is blowing from that direction. Not being drawn down from above them or behind them, but directly from the side. Like...like it’s blowing through the building.

Like the building isn’t there to block the wind.

His ears start ringing as he swallows thickly. He shakes it off and glowers. Derek barely finished high school and dropped out of college as soon as he could. He isn’t stupid, but he’s never been good at science and couldn’t explain to anyone how wind worked. But he doesn’t think that anything too suspicious is going on. It’s just the cold from the building and the alleyway acting as a funnel or something. He ignores how uncomfortable Peter looks; how Stiles is curling in on himself with wide eyes.

Derek just shrugs again and straightens. “Let’s just get to the car and figure out our next step,” he says.

The other two glance at each other and nod.

Derek tries to appear as confident as he can as he turns and stalks out of the alleyway. He hesitates only slightly when he rounds the corner. The wind feels the same. Exactly the same. Not like it’s been funneled down between buildings, but just...there. He shifts back behind the wall.

There’s no difference.

“Derek?” Stiles says softly.

“Get in the car,” Derek orders.

If the other two notice what he did, they don’t say anything about it. He leads them, and he’s glad to see that Peter automatically takes up the rear so they can sandwich Stiles between them. Neither one of them get far away from the boy; he’s the youngest, the weakest, it’s instinct to keep him close and safe.

His nerves are on edge the entire walk to the car. He feels like he’s about to be attacked, but there’s no threat. No obvious threat. He’d feel better if he saw an army of hunters at the end of the road bearing down on them.

But there’s nothing. Not even the wind carries any new scent on it; just some rain and woods.

Peter’s practically stepping on Stiles’ heels when they reach the car, pressing him closer to Derek’s back. Stiles either doesn’t notice or is practicing some tact and keeping quiet.

Derek opens the driver side door and the teen doesn’t even hesitate to climb in. He shuffles over to the passenger side and buckles himself in while Peter slithers into the backseat. Derek gazes around them once more before tucking himself in after them.

He feels infinitely better when he’s seated and the door is closed. Inside, he’s wrapped in their scents, the smell of food, and body odor. It smells like life and he feels dumb for thinking there was anything dangerous going on a few minutes earlier. Peter settles back in his seat, Stiles blows out a rough breath next to him.

Derek starts the car and pulls out of the lot.

Stiles glances out his window as they pass the town by. It isn’t large, the main street seems to only be a few blocks long and he can already see the “You are now leaving” sign ahead of them if he squints. He leans back in his seat. The wolves are relaxed around him, tension draining just as easily as it had mounted.

Yeah, pretty fucking weird, no doubt. But there were plenty of explanations. Small towns had their own style and traditions. Maybe every Sunday at--

He glances at the clock on the panel.

--at 9:47, the entire town gets together in someone’s basement and watches old movies. He wouldn’t know. They’re near the base of a pretty heavily wooded area and this isn’t exactly California. Stiles may be being a prick, but he’s pretty sure anyplace that doesn’t have more than one road is basically a breeding ground for hillbillies. They probably dodged a bullet by not running into anyone.

Maybe literally.

The banjo tune from Deliverance plays in his head and he glares at Peter’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Dick.

Stiles had totally watched that movie before they left, too. Tickled pink because, yeah, okay, it was based in Georgia, but still. So many jokes to be made. And then it had stopped being funny. Because of Peter.

Such a dick.

He leans forward to flick on the radio and gets static on every station. Ugh, backwater inbred yocals. What the hell do they listen to?

Derek slaps his hand away and turns the radio off. And then completely ignores his glaring. So rude.

Stiles feels like an idiot for freaking out though and doesn’t say anything to him. There’s a sense of relief now, of not being so trapped, of doing something and not sitting around being helpless. He has no idea why he felt so...hunted. Or why he felt like running down the road, screaming would help anything. There was just...a weird animal panic that tingled up his spine and left his common sense jittery and off-balance.

He’s about to open his mouth and get more information about what the wolves had sensed (or not sensed) when--

he shudders and clenches his jaw.

--a weird feeling washes over Stiles. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up, he starts tightening his hands around his seatbelt and grinding his teeth. It feels like...it feels like they’re driving straight into the mouth of some enormous beast. There’s nothing ahead of them except road, some fog obscuring their views of the tall forests on either side of them, and a gray, gray sky. There’s no danger. Everything looks fine.

But the further they go, the more the town behind them fades into the mist, the more Stiles’ stomach clenches up and he feels like he’s about to shake out of his skin.

He thinks he’s the only one until Peter leans forward, gaze bright beta blue, focused entirely on the road, scanning back and forth. His claws are out and embedded deep into the leather seats.

“Do you see anything,” Derek says tersely.

Peter shakes his head.

They start to slow down, down, down until Derek has the car at a crawl.

Stiles can feel eyes on him. Hundreds, thousands. There’s nothing that he can see, but he swears there’s...there’s just a thing out there, waiting and watching and hunting. He’s pressed back against his seat as far as he can, trying to meld with it. Peter’s coiled tight behind and to the side of him, ready to spring in a second if he only had someone to aim at. Derek is gripping the steering wheel so hard that it’s actually denting.

The car stops.

There’s no sound except their heavy panting and the engine purring and it feels like it’s too much. There’s no cover here, nowhere to hide. Stiles’ lizard brain can’t deal with it. His body is flushed with adrenaline, his flight or fight instincts screaming at him.

“Derek,” he grits out.

“Yeah,” Derek immediately puts the car in reverse and the tires squeal as he stomps on the gas.

Halfway back, he makes a three point turn and then barrels all the way back to town. When they’re in the center of town, he stops in the middle of the road and turns the car off.

All three are panting and sweating. Stiles’ arms and legs feel like wet noodles; jittering and shaking as he tries to get his hands to let go of the seat belt.

But the horrible sensation of walking to their death has passed and Stiles breathes out a low sigh of relief.

Derek punches the wheel so hard that it cracks and breaks and his fist goes through the glass protecting the speedometer. “What the hell was that?!”

“I didn’t see anything,” Peter says quietly. “Or hear anything. There was...there was nothing there.”

“It just felt like there should be,” Stiles says.

The steering column broke when Derek punched it. The keys won’t fit in their slot and the wheel is broken anyway so they decide to borrow the abandoned car out on the side of the road.

They only try leaving twice more and don’t get nearly as far as the did the first time. An hour later, the new car stalls out and dies.

---

Chapter Text

They sit there for a few minutes, each staring out a window, gazing at the town around them.

“What time is it?” Stiles asks.

Derek glances at the clock, “Nine forty--”

He clenches his jaw shut. 9:47.

Peter slips out his phone to check the time. They’d already checked for service (“I just texted everyone last night, I had three bars, what the hell.”) and found nothing.

“...Nine forty seven on mine too,” Peter says.

Derek looks his phone. Then chucks it out the window.

“Dude,” Stiles says.

Derek just shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think about why the clocks aren’t working or the fact that they can’t stay in the car all night.

Derek’s the kind of man that if you set a wall in front of him, he’ll punch through it instead of taking the time to think of a way around it. He’s good at using his bulk, his claws and fangs. He can use his brain when the situation calls for it, it’s just easier not to. His strength has been what’s pulled him through these last grueling years since the fire. But now he’s Alpha. Which means he can’t go off and snap and snarl at the air until something appears like he wants to. He can’t roar and beat his chest until whatever it is out there is goaded into fighting him.

He has to protect his pack. And that means not rushing into danger before he’s thought of a plan. Derek will admit, even if it’s only to himself, that Stiles and Peter are much better at thinking through solutions than he is, but Peter’s still trying to retract his claws and Stiles is staring listlessly out his window.

So he gives himself thirty seconds to just breathe and clear his mind. He knows he needs to keep his pack safe, so that’s what he focuses on first.

“We’ll get our bags,” he says quietly. “And we’ll walk back to the hotel, set up there.”

Peter catches his reflection in the rearview mirror and Derek tries to look half as confident as he sounds. It must work because after a moment, Peter nods and sits straighter.

“Walk?” Stiles says, staring out around them. “We can’t walk all the way back to the hotel! Whatever’s out there…”

Derek turns to him and puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing until the boy looks at him. “We can’t stay here,” he says, because Stiles isn’t one to take orders unless he knows the reason why. “We have to get somewhere we can defend. The car won’t start, so we can’t drive. I don’t want to waste time looking for the keys to other cars.”

Stiles just stares at him, looking pale and young.

“It’ll take fifteen minutes, at most,” Peter says from the back.

Derek appreciates him trying to help.

Stiles bites his lip and looks passed Derek. There’s a few tense moments before the boy nods. “Okay, let’s do it.”

“We’ll be quick and quiet,” Derek says.

They slip out of the car, not bothering to close the doors in an effort not to make too much noise. Their packs are where they left them in the camaro; before, they’d been too busy thinking about getting out to remember their things.

They fall into the same formation as before, Derek in front, Stiles in the middle, and Peter bringing up the rear. Derek slinks against the buildings, not comfortable with straying out in the middle of the road, regardless of how empty it is.

The hotel is several blocks down the main street and off on what is mostly a dirt road. It makes him feel marginally better to be out of the town center. Behind him, he hears Stiles’ heart pick up and his feet start to quicken. The boy knows safety when he sees it and Derek is happy to deliver it to him--

He slows down and Stiles bumps into him.

“Hey, what--”

Peter shushes him.

The hotel is old, outdated by a few decades. Three stories tall, in an ‘L’ shape. There are only a few cars parked in the lot (“Oh my God, Derek seriously, there are way more rooms, we both know he’s lying. Go punch him.”), but Derek doesn’t bother going near them. The neon sign is turned off--when is the last time he saw something running?--but that isn’t what stops him.

He breathes deep and hears Peter echoing him.

He feels the other wolf crowd in close, pressing Stiles between them.

However much this place looks like the hotel they stayed in the night before…

It isn’t.

Derek should be able to pick up their scent from here. It’d be faint, but he’d still be able to recognize it. But here, like the rest of the town, is entirely blank. They’ve never been here before.

“What is it?” Stiles whispers.

He can hear the uptick in the boys’ heart.

“We should get another room,” he says. “One with more than one bed. I’m not sleeping on the floor again.”

“The couch was uncomfortable,” Peter chips in.

Again, Derek is grateful to his uncle.

Stiles relaxes between them. “Well, it’s not like we can’t get more than one room now.”

“No,” Derek frowns. “We stay together.”

He shoots a glare over his shoulder before Stiles can protest.

The teen scowls at him before rolling his eyes. “Fine, whatever, I love sharing a hotel room with two middle aged--”

Peter kicks him.

Derek allows it.

They go up to the third story and pick one of the rooms with two queen sized beds.

Stiles flops back onto the closest one and sighs. When Derek yanks him up and shoves him toward the bed furthest from the door, he grumbles, but goes along with it.

“Rock, paper, scissors?” the boy says.

Derek and Peter share a look.

“No, you’ll stay over there with Peter.”

Peter rolls his eyes.

“But he hogs the blankets,” Stiles instantly complains.

“You stick your feet under me,” Peter bitches right back.

“So?”

“They’re like bricks of ice.”

“Maybe they wouldn’t be if you didn’t hog the God damned blankets!”

Derek stares up at the ceiling, praying for patience, guidance, an egg McMuffin, and Scarlett Johansson’s number.

Peter wraps himself like an asshole burrito during the night and Stiles kicks him before slinking into Derek’s bed. The wolf isn’t asleep and allows it, thinking it’ll be better to share than to listen to Stiles huff and struggle to get some covers while Peter snickers quietly at his futile attempts.

The boy settles down with a sigh and lays out on his back. Derek isn’t planning on sleeping very much, but the warmth from another body relaxes him.

“There aren’t any bugs,” Stiles says quietly.

Derek shifts to look over at him. “What?”

“When I went into the alley, you asked me what I was doing. I was looking for roaches or something. They’re supposed to survive anything.” Stiles keeps his eyes closed as he gestures around them. “Listen. We’re surrounded by woods. Even in Beacon Hills we at least have crickets.”

Now that it’s been pointed out, Derek feels astonished that he didn’t notice sooner. Inside their room, he can hear their breaths, their heartbeats, every shift they make to get more comfortable in their beds. But outside...outside is a void. And, to a point, he can accept that there are no humans, but to not have the constant sound of insects thrumming in his ears is...spooky.

“Don’t think about it,” Peter murmurs like a man who’s been thinking about it for the past few hours. “Just try to sleep.”

They try. But they don’t succeed.

-

Peter isn’t nearly as patient as people seem to think he is.

Sure, he can step back and wait with the best of them, but it’s usually just to bide himself some time or let someone walk into his trap. He’s good at stalking, always the wolf, always a shadow’s step behind his prey.

But if that prey takes too long to walk itself into his jaws, he snaps. He used to drive his sister crazy when they hunted together. Talia and Peter, young and new to shifting, snipping and darting through the trees while his mother and aunt lazily kept watch.

Talia could stalk her target for the entire night and still get some pleasure out of it if her prey got away. Peter had been good at that up to a point. He could keep his breath even and heart steady, he could track down whatever it was that he was hunting with ease. But when it came to the kill, to waiting for the perfect moment, he always leapt too soon, ran in too quickly. His mother would frown, but say nothing. She wouldn’t need to say anything.

Wolves were pack hunters, you stayed with the pack, you hunted as a pack, you survived as the pack.

He supposes now that that’s what keeps him at his nephew’s side.

He’s still suffering from the effects of his resurrection. He isn’t as weak as he pretends to be, but he’s nowhere near as strong as he should be. Peter knows that he needs a pack’s safety. And if he can buy that safety with his well-earned knowledge, then so be it. He knows that if given the choice, Derek wouldn’t fully accept him, not after everything that happened--

rage, white hot and violent, the scent so thick and seeping from his pores that he can practically taste it. There’s so much hatred, too much for him to contain. He’s already overflowing with fear and grief and pain, there’s just no room for anything else. So he lets the rage loose, lets it guide him, gives into it like he never has before.

He knows he’s not thinking clearly, not really.

But he knows other things too.

He knows that for six years, he’s been trapped in a body that refused to heal like it should. He knows that for six years, he’s been in the care of a hospital in the town he was born in. He knows his nurse likes pinching him severely while he’s comatose. He knows that an Argent broke their code and murdered his family. He knows that what was left of his pack ran. Ran and left him to rot alone.

He knows this, but he can’t believe it.

--Peter has done horrible, bad things that he feels no regret over. He thinks that maybe he wasn’t always wired to think of himself first; thinks that it’s a learned behavior he adapted to while separated from his pack for so long.

His instinct is to run. Run now, while Derek dozes and Stiles snores. He could slink out the front door without any of them noticing. Just run and leave them behind to whatever foulness plagues this town while he made his escape.

Stiles snorts in his sleep and rolls over. Derek growls softly and kicks his foot.

Peter stays where he is.

He sits on the edge of his bed, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees while he stares at the door. His ears strain, trying to catch anything outside their little room.

But there’s only wind.

And he feels that urge that he always had trouble with, to lunge and bite and pounce before he had his prey properly cornered.

As much as he would like to be, as easier as it would make things, Peter knows that he is no lone wolf.

Being alone, more than any pain or loss, had been what drove him mad before. He doesn’t want to see what it would do to him here.

This place is...wrong. In a way he can’t really define. Peter is secure in his knowledge. It, more than anything, has saved his skin on more than just a few occasions. He’s honed it like a weapon, used it like a dagger: quick and sharp and deadly. He loves collecting bits and pieces of lore and stories and sussing out the facts, using them against others, lording it over his pack.

Peter loves knowing like Stiles loves words and Derek loves control.

And yet, as he turns their situation over and over in his head, he finds himself stumped.

There are stray tales here and there, a few instances that coincide with what they’ve been experiencing, but he’d written those off as old wives’ tales a long time ago. Just seen them as some cautionary stories to make children eat their vegetables.

“Don’t go out after dark or the monster in the fog will get you.”

Silly things. Peter was that monster in the fog. He was the apex predator. It made no sense that if he walked out that door and went too far in any direction, that he’d lose his mind to fear in such a short time.

Even now, after experiencing it just yesterday (is it yesterday? is it still today? the sky doesn’t change, the time still reads the same), he still can’t quite bring himself to believe that he lost his senses so fast. He’d been in worse situations; surely, being dead and dependent on a scared little girl to bring him back to life is worse than any of this.

Peter knows that if he goes outside that door, his heart will beat faster, his body will break out in sweat, and that he’ll want to attack anything that moves.

He knows this. He’s experienced it.

And yet...he doesn’t quite remember it. It’s almost a muscle memory. Like a bruise on his psyche that he can’t quite get around. There is danger out there. His senses tell him so. But there is also nothing out there. He might as well be afraid of the wind for all the good it does him.

Derek breathes in sharply and sits up; he glances first at Stiles laying next to him, and then Peter. He looks chastised for a brief moment, surely feeling guilty for falling asleep even though it was obvious how much he needed it.

Derek drops his gaze and Peter wonders vaguely if his nephew knows that he isn’t blamed for the fire.

He knows about Derek’s secret relationship with the Argent girl, of course. Knew about it then too, despite how hard they tried to cover it up. He’d been conflicted at the time. The Argents and Hales had never really gotten along, but they’d never really fought either. There had been an unspoken truce between them and he’d honestly wanted to keep the information to himself for future blackmail.

He knows he’s alluded to the death of their family being Derek’s fault, but he could never truly blame the boy, even back then. Derek had been a child. A stupid, trusting, lovesick child. And Peter, cold and psychopathic as he may be, could never bring himself to put all the responsibility on Derek.

His nephew had played his part, of course, but Peter wonders sometimes if Derek knows just how determined and devious his lover had been. If Kate hadn’t gotten in with Derek, she would have used some other means.

Derek had been a teenager, old enough to know better, young enough to think it was cool that an older woman was into him. But Peter had had other nieces and nephews. Other cousins and siblings. Other ways that Kate could have teased her way inside to learn their secrets.

Derek had just been the most convenient.

Peter thinks maybe he should explain that to him one day. He still fosters hate for Derek though. He can’t help that. Despite not being to blame, Derek should have known better. And frankly, it just wasn’t fair. Peter had other family members that died that night that should have lived; that were smart and brave and ambitious and true to their nature. They would have grown to be great wolves.

Instead his family was reduced to a scared, guilt-ridden man child, a young scared, resentful woman (who had been too drunk on her own new independence to come home from college during her break), and himself.

And then there were two.

Derek stands up and cracks his neck. He flicks his gaze to Stiles and talks lowly, trying not to wake the boy.

“We should get some food, search the town and start stockpiling--”

“Are you hungry?” Peter says mildly.

Derek frowns. “We have to keep up our strength, you know that.”

Peter shakes his head. “No, I mean, are you hungry at all? Thirsty?”

Derek’s frown deepens as he no doubt starts to catalogue his body’s needs and comes up blank.

“We ate...what? Ten hours ago?” Peter continues. Wolves have a high metabolism, they need to eat and eat well in order to keep themselves healthy. They burned through energy quickly; needing it to sustain their strength and speed and higher body temperature.

Derek looks like he’s trying to remember their last meal.

It had been Taco Bell. Peter isn’t proud of it.

“Do you even have to pee?” Peter goes on.

“What is this?” Derek asks, voice low.

For a second, Peter sees the young and stupid boy that was seduced by a monster and the urge to protect rears within him. He crushes it back down and shrugs.

“I don't know.”

Derek glares at him. “You always know something.”

Peter tries to grin smugly, but doesn’t feel quite up to it. “A town surrounded by fog that keeps you from escaping by making you feel scared when you get far enough away? No, I’m afraid I don’t have any real knowledge to share.”

He isn't sure Derek believes him or not.

Stiles grunts in his sleep and rolls onto his stomach.

Peter stares at him for a moment. “We should get food anyway, supplies. Water and a first aid kit.” He nods at Stiles. “If only to keep him occupied.”

Derek seems conflicted. “He isn’t an idiot.”

Peter thinks that’s debatable, but let’s it slide. “He ran off yesterday--”

“He got spooked--”

“--yes, and scared humans do stupid things. Even if we do this just to take his mind off it for a little while, it would be worth it just to keep him from getting spooked again.”

Derek seems to be taking the lack of faith in his pack member personally. But he nods and furrows his brows after a moment.

Peter can see the little hamster spinning its wheel behind Derek’s gaze. He’s about to make an awful decision, Peter can almost smell it.

So before he can, Peter bites the bullet and makes a slightly less awful decision.

“I’ll go,” he says quietly. “Stay here with the kid.”

Derek still looks at him sometimes like he hates him. And Peter thinks that that’s fair. Laura had been a good alpha to her brother. She had been the only thing he’d had left and Peter had ripped her in half and left her body to rot. Then he’d gone mad with the new power he’d gained, used it on the first person he saw, the first person to smell of fear and weakness--the first person to run and allow him to give chase. He’d started a feud and opened Derek to a lot of responsibility and bullshit that the boy just didn’t need.

So Peter gets it, he does.

But he also thinks that maybe Derek should let go because he had gotten his revenge after all. Peter had been dead for a good week or so.

They hold each other’s gaze for a few beats and Peter has no idea what Derek’s searching for in his eyes, but he must find it, because he crosses his arms and gives a tight nod.

Peter doesn’t want to go, not really. But he's quick and silent and more experienced. He’ll be able to slink up roads and down alleyways, creep into buildings and scrounge without any(thing)one noticing. It will only take him an hour to search through the small town and it’ll make Derek feel better if he’s here protecting the sleeping teen.

For the sake of the pack, he will pretend to be the lone wolf that he isn’t.

---

Chapter Text

The fire gave Derek the gift of guilt. Knowing the hand he played in his family’s murder makes it hard to breathe some days, hard to get out of bed on others.

He thought, when he first came back to Beacon Hills and saw his sister’s halved corpse and his uncle’s trail of vengeance, that the fire had given Peter the gift of rage and he wanted so badly to emulate that, to feel something other than what he did.

He realized later, standing over his uncle’s beaten and burnt corpse, that it hadn’t been rage that fueled Peter, but fear.

He had been terrified of dying, of being left alone, of reliving that awful day every night, of going through that much pain without what was left of his pack, terrified that it would happen again.

Even after he came back from the dead (terrified of being left to rot in the dark), Derek could still see the manic look Peter sometimes wore. He saw how the older wolf pulled away from pack, from helping; unwilling to form any bonds, but too afraid to leave for good.

The only person Peter ever seemed to get close to was Stiles (weirdly enough). They had the same sharp and devious mind, both enjoyed being the smartest in the room, and both enjoyed solving a problem just for the sake of figuring out the solution.

Derek still sometimes caught Peter gazing at his throat greedily, stretching his claws and working his jaw. He ignored it for the most part; knew that Peter only wanted to control, not to lead. He wanted the power to protect himself, wanted it badly enough to kill, but Derek thinks that as long as he tries to be competent, that as long as he listens to Peter’s warnings, that Peter won’t strike.

But he has no illusions. The second he lets Peter down, Peter will snap. He’ll have to. No wolf can follow a weak leader. And if that happens, the pack will devour itself, drowning in his uncle’s fears.

He lets Peter walk out of the room without a backwards glance, without saying anything redundant like “be careful” or “come back soon”. Peter is too smart to do anything but and he wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment anyway.

Derek sits and waits.

Half an hour later, hears Peter slinking up the staircase outside and breathes a sigh of relief. His uncle was efficient; it looked like he’d scavenged through the shops on main street, enough to fill the new backpack he carried with him.

Derek kicks the side of the bed Stiles is sprawled over, making the boy jolt up with a yelp. He feels bad for maybe a second before Stiles turns his sleepy glare at him.

“What did I ever do to you?”

Peter starts unpacking his loot and Stiles makes a “gimme” motion toward a box of pop-tarts. He shoves two packages in his mouth and then starts digging through the other food, pumping his fist when he discovers a packet of beef jerky.

He seems to be eating out of habit, not hunger, but they leave him alone just the same.

“Any trouble?” Derek asks.

Peter pauses for only a moment. “...maybe. I’m not sure.”

Derek tenses and behind him, Stiles chokes down what’s in his mouth and blurts, “What? Specifics!”

Peter frowns. “I’m…” he shakes his head. “I don’t think… It was nothing.”

Derek narrows his eyes. His uncle can be shady for sure, but he’s never seen the older wolf this...unsettled.

“What did you see?”

Peter just shakes his head and lets his gaze fall to the bathroom where the door is opened just wide enough for Derek to catch Peter’s reflection. He’s staring at himself suspiciously and Derek really wants to know what put that look on his uncle’s face.

“Maybe we should explore the town,” Peter says suddenly.

Derek blinks, hackles instantly raised at the thought of leaving their safe little room.

“Uh, no,” Stiles says, stretching across the bed to snatch of a bag of dried apple crisps and another package of pop-tarts. “That seems like the worst idea ever.”

Peter turns to glare at him. “We’re stuck here for the time being and we don’t know what’s out there--”

“Yeah, exactly,” Stiles interrupts through a mouthful of food.

“And my point, unless Stiles ate it, is that--”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“We should get the lay of the land,” Peter finishes before side eying Stiles fiercely. “Covertly.”

“I can be covert!”

The two wolves watch Stiles crunch obnoxiously through a box of Cheerios.

Derek just hopes the kid doesn’t throw up.

“He’s right,” he sighs after a minute. “We should scout around...get more food.”

Stiles glares at him, “Dude, I’m starving.”

“Are you?” Peter says curiously.

“Um, yeah, I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” but Stiles is frowning, staring down at his belly like he’s confused.

“We’ll go,” Derek says quickly, hoping to distract the boy from needless stress. “A quick scout, then come back here. Stiles--”

“You’re not leaving me here,” the teen bites out.

Derek is almost angry. The alpha in him can’t stand this sort of defiance from his packmates. It makes him want to peel back his lips and flash his teeth in warning, but Stiles would likely just make a dog joke and still insist on getting his way. And if Derek is being honest, he doesn’t want to leave the boy behind. Stiles had been quick to notice things that he and Peter hadn’t the other day. Yes, he’d lost his head a little, but Derek should be able to keep a better handle on him.

Besides, he doesn’t like the idea of leaving their weakest pack member alone, even if it’s only for an hour or two.

Also he’d probably have to tie Stiles to the bed in order to get him to stay and he really doesn’t want to go through the staggering amount of bitching that would bring.

He gives a sharp nod and crosses his arms. “You stay with me no matter what,” Derek says strictly. “If you notice something, you tell me. Don’t go off on your own.”

Stiles purses his lips and looks about five seconds from complaining.

“Or we’ll leave you here alone,” Peter adds darkly.

Stiles bites back whatever was on the tip of his tongue and looks down at his lap. “Fine, whatever.”

And Derek realizes that more than Stiles doesn’t want to go outside, he doesn’t want to be alone even more.

---

They walk from one end of the town to the other, take all the side streets and alleyways; they briefly visit every store and handful of houses, mapping the extent of their prison. It’s too quiet and still and they discover that if they step twenty feet away from each other, that they have trouble hearing the other person. Thirty feet and the wolves lose the scent. Forty feet and it’s hard to make the person out.

They don’t test to see what happens past that.

Along the main street there’s a clothing store, the Starbucks, the post office (locked up), the bakery, an old movie house (also locked), a butcher shop, a flower shop, a pharmacy (locked), and a small grocery store (locked as well); the rockier roads splintering off the main road lead to houses down one street and their hotel was down an opposite street. Stiles remembers seeing some scattered farms on their way in, but the fog and fear blocks them from exploring them further.

Stiles is exhausted by the time they’re done. The sky is still gray and cloudy and the wind is still bitter and sharp when they enter the town square again. Everywhere is empty. There’s no signs of life anywhere that they found.

The wolves didn’t mention anything, but Stiles is pretty sure they’ve been furiously trying to catch a scent or hear something that wasn’t them.

Stiles glances at Derek, stalking at his side. The alpha’s lips are thin and his face is pale. He looks tired and lost.

And Peter….

Stiles narrows his eyes. Peter has been doing this all day: staring at his reflection in whatever glass surface they pass. He’d at first thought it was some kind of vanity thing and he’d wanted to make fun of him, but now… He realizes that Peter looks almost...scared when he stares at any of the store fronts. And Stiles doesn’t know exactly what to do with that.

Peter is still staring at his reflection in the glass as they pass the pharmacy again, narrowing his gaze and frowning. He steps back after a moment and shakes his head, walks away a bit. But Stiles still spies him staring hard at his reflection at every window they pass.

It’s creeping him out.

“What’s with you?”

Peter looks at him in surprise for a moment. “What?”

“Dude, you’ve been glaring at yourself, it’s weird.”

Derek stops ahead of them and frowns at Peter. “He’s right. What did you see before you came back this morning?”

Peter, for a second, looks like a trapped animal. His shoulders are hunched and his eyes drop to the side. “It was nothing--”

“Bull, dude,” Stiles say. “We need to know, okay? I mean...did you see someone or…?”

“No,” Peter grouses.

Derek blinks and takes a step forward. “Peter...did you see someone?”

That trapped look flashes across the older wolf’s face again as he glances down the road.

Derek scowls. “Peter, stop messing around, did you see someone or not?”

Peter’s lips thin and he shakes his head, not really as a no, but more as a sign of defeat. “Maybe--“

“Dude!”

“I said maybe,” Peter snaps. “It was by the clothing store, and just for a second.”

Derek is already striding away from them, shoulders back and chest out and expression set in that “I’m the alpha and I will fuck you up” way it sometimes gets. Stiles trots after him and Peter follows behind him.

“It was just for a second, I thought I saw someone’s reflection behind me, but it was nothing.”

Derek draws up short in front of the clothing store window display, huffs and rolls his eyes. When the other two catch up to him, he gestures inside and says, “You saw one of these?”

There are four mannequins showing off the last year’s fashion, gazing blankly past them. The rest of the store is dark and empty.

Derek snorts. “And you were worried about Stiles getting spooked,” he says smugly.

Peter absolutely glares and says nothing.

Stiles peers up at the mannequins. They’re definitely creepy in the way all mannequins are, but he can’t see Peter being taken off guard by them. And he definitely isn’t the type of person to let a little fright shadow him for the rest of the day if that is how it went down.

He slides his gaze to Peter’s reflection, expecting the wolf to look furious at being mocked. Instead he’s watching his reflection again, carefully and cautiously. It makes Stiles anxious.

Satisfied with at least one problem solved, Derek starts off again.

Stiles shifts closer to Peter, trying to come up with something helpful to say, but Peter snaps an annoyed look at him before he gets anything out.

“What the--”

They both look over to Derek who’s standing half in and half out of the closed off alley they’d been in yesterday. He’s staring up at something on the side of the clothing store and Stiles goes to follow after him.

“What is it?” he doesn’t really want to know. He’s kinda done solving mysteries for today.

“There!” Derek points and Stiles follows his gaze until he sees it.

It’s some kind of tag. That definitely wasn’t there before.

“Peter?” Derek says stiffly as the older wolf joins them.

Peter’s lips thin and he shakes his head. “It wasn’t there when I was out earlier, I passed right by here. I would have seen it.”

They huddle together just outside the alleyway, staring up at the word scratched into the brick of the building.

“Croatoan,” Stiles reads. “Like...the town?”

Derek glances at him with a frown. “That’s a story, Stiles.”

He meets Peter’s gaze and the older wolf looks interested.

“I mean…” Stiles shrugs. “C’mon, an entire town full of people just disappearing overnight? Leaving behind everything they own? That doesn’t seem vaguely familiar?”

Peter shakes his head, looking distracted. “There are no accurate accounts of it being anything more than a thorough Indian raid by a nearby tribe.”

“Still,” and Stiles doesn’t know why he feels the need to press this, but he goes with it. “This is the best explanation we’ve gotten so far. The only clue we’ve found--”

“Who wrote it?” Derek snaps. He’s crossing his arms, clenching his fingers around his biceps. “This--” he waves his hand at the markings. “Would take a while. It’s carved into the brick and it wasn’t here before.”

The alpha turns a quick glare on Peter.

Peter looks startled, then pissed. “And I did it?”

“You were the only one out here alone,” Derek says darkly. “I mean, except for the mannequins.”

Peter growls.

Derek rolls his shoulders back and pops his neck in that slow movement that usually means he’s about to kick someone’s ass. Peter sneers at him and straightens up, coming around to block the only outlet of the alleyway. They’re both tensed and Stiles is gaping, finding it ridiculous that they’re really about to fight right now.

“That we know of,” Stiles says. The wolves turn to look at him. “He was the only one out here that we know of. Look, we should definitely calm down, okay? One: I don’t think Peter would be this creeped out over a couple dummies. Two: that being said, those things are creepy. Three: why would Peter scratch that into the wall and ruin his little werewolf manicure? Four: seriously, there’s no reason for him to do that. Five: you’re being, like, the biggest dick right now, Derek.”

He looks from Peter to Derek, trying to project his father’s aura of “I am much disappoint”. He’s not quite sure he pulls it off, but after a few tense moments, Derek rolls his eyes and turns back to the markings.

“I’d be able to catch your scent, I think,” the alpha says. Stiles thinks that’s as close to an apology as Peter is likely to get.

Peter seems to know this and rolls his eyes. “Besides, that looks nothing like my handwriting.”

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. They have enough problems to deal with without everyone biting each other’s--

He snaps his head to his right and stares at the large display window of the clothing store, then quickly jerks around to stare at the empty road behind them.

He thought...just for a second he’d thought...

Derek is staring at him like he thinks Stiles is losing his mind. Peter is staring at him like he knows exactly what Stiles saw.

He’s not all that comfortable with either look.

“Nothing.” he says. “Just creeping myself out.” He wraps his arms around himself and tries to withdraw into his hoodie.

Derek stares up at the writing once more before sighing and starting off. “Let’s get back to the hotel, we can come up with a plan after we rest.”

Stiles doesn’t get much sleep that night, and he’s sure the others don’t either. He lays back and stares up at the ceiling, thinking about what he saw.

He wasn’t positive, but at the time when he’d caught movement from the corner of his eye, he’d thought for sure that he had seen the reflections of an entire town bustling behind them.

He wonders if that’s what Peter saw. A small town full of people mirrored in the glass.

---

Chapter Text

Peter gets up as soon as Stiles falls asleep. Derek glances at him tiredly and Peter pauses for half a moment.

“I’m going back out,” he says.

Derek looks for a second like he might try to stop him, but then deflates and bows his head. “Be careful.”

Peter stares at him. Isn’t quite sure how to respond. Of course he’ll be careful, he’s always careful. Derek is usually the one to run in, claws swinging. He’s the martyr, not Peter.

But he shrugs and nods and leaves. He doesn’t plan on staying out long. He just has to see the writing again (maybe to see if it’s still there). He has to see the the windows again. He has to understand this wretched place.

Croatoan, the name is old and the story is provocative. He can definitely see the similarities that Stiles tried pointing out and now he thinks maybe they shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss them.

The story of Croatoan was just an exaggerated tale of a small settlement of Roanoke Island gone missing. The colony had been seemingly abandoned, food left out, treasures left behind; the only clues were two graves near the outskirts of the town and the word “croatoan” carved into a nearby fence post.

While the story had been built upon over time, the most forgotten fact was that a tribe of Indians called the Croatan were settled close to the village.

While they had been reported to be a peaceful tribe, something had probably happened to spark a fight between the colony and the tribe. Obviously, the Indians had won. Now, whatever happened to those people was sort of a mystery. Peter doesn’t quite remember how many went missing, but for no one to be accounted for was a bit...well. He shakes his head.

He should be thinking about his own situation. The stories are similar, yes, but he thinks that some sort of warning would have been passed down from survivors.

Unless there were no survivors. Unless they were all taken by this Thing that hovers around the town. Unless--

Peter huffs at himself. This isn’t helping. Maybe Derek had been right earlier, maybe he was creeping himself out worse than the teenager. Maybe--

there’s someone walking next to him.

Peter jolts and jerks around, immediately spying his reflection in the pharmacy window. And the reflection of all the people around him.

His lungs squeeze tight and his heart pounds. His claws are out and his eyes are flashing and he can’t control the quick, wheezing breaths that escape his throat.

A woman breezes past him, hair blonde and cut into a cute bob, her little daughter bouncing along beside her happily. A man nods at them and smiles as he crosses the street. A boy rides by on his bicycle, shouting at four of his friends as they race to catch up. Another man comes out of the post office and stops at his car, turning to wave at someone that calls out to him.

There must be at least forty people bustling around him. He can see their reflections.

If he turned around, he’d be able to see them all alive and well.

But he can’t hear them. Or smell them.

This is the same thing he saw before, this brief glimpse into another world, a normal world beyond the glass. Peter tries to calm down and just can’t. He steels himself, knows that he must look. He can’t stay here forever, being still and silent and hoping that the danger will pass.

There’s a high pitched whine ringing lowly in his ear, almost like a dog whistle. His wild heart becomes white noise as he slowly glances behind him.

No one.

The street is as empty as it’s been every other time. He stares anyway, trying to find someone, some reason for all of this. His senses have never failed him so utterly.

Peter balls his hands at his side, suddenly furious at himself. Whatever’s here, whatever is messing with their minds and isolating them, Peter should be clever enough not to give into it. These are scare tactics by the malevolent presence permeating the town. And when he figures out what (or who) the hell it is, he’s going to kill it.

He sighs, tries to let his frustration go as he looks back to the--

They’re staring at him.

Before, he’d only gotten a glimpse, a flicker of insight into that other world. When he’d done a double take, the vision had disappeared.

All that fear comes flooding back so quickly that he almost faints.

The girl, the mother, the children on bikes, the man crossing the street; they are all still, all expressionless, all staring right at him. He feels their gaze on the back of his neck like a physical touch. He imagines for a second that he can even feel their breath against him.

He doesn’t know what to do.

These are visions. Either his mind is torturing itself (and honestly, why would it come up with images like these) or he’s being magicked upon by someone he can’t see just yet. There are no other options. He knows this. He’s isn’t an idiot. These mirrored apparitions can no more hurt him than he can walk through the glass and into their world.

But his hind brain won’t listen to reason.

Peter is terrified.

He feels sick to his stomach and he wants so badly to run, bolt away and stay low to the ground, get back to the safety of his pack.

But he can’t move, and he’s ashamed to say that there’s no spell work causing it. He’s just too scared.

He swallows thickly, his eyes water as he fights the urge to blink. He doesn’t want to look away again.

Peter is petrified of these people, but he honestly doesn’t know if he’d be more afraid if he couldn’t see them anymore.

The small girl closest to him, with her hair in braids down her shoulders and her white dress and stockings, is gazing at him and for some reason, she’s the one he locks onto. She’s a child, the weakest, the easiest to take down if he needs to (what is he going to do, punch the glass out?!). But he doesn’t feel any safer looking at her.

She’s staring not at his reflection like the others, but at him. Like she really is standing just a couple feet away and looking up at him with big, dark eyes.

Peter fights the urge to look at his side. She won’t be there. She won’t.

She can’t be.

His stomach swoops and he gets that free fall feeling that happens when you go down the first drop of a roller coaster; his palms are sweaty and his claws won’t retract and she’s reaching out to touch his hand--

Peter bolts.

Runs close to buildings, doesn’t dare look at his reflections, pants and grits his teeth and tries to outrun the brief, horrible sensation of little fingers brushing against the back of his hand.

---

Peter doesn’t come back.

Derek can’t decide if he’s surprised or not.

Stiles wants to go look for him, Derek can tell. But he doesn’t want to go alone and Derek refuses to do anything.

He keeps thinking that if something got his uncle, he would feel it, he would know as an alpha. He keeps thinking that if something got his uncle, then it was probably strong enough to get him and Stiles too.

He doesn’t know what’s going on in this town. He keeps going over and over the story of the lost colony of Roanoke in his head. He’d always been fascinated by it (and the Donner Party) as a kid. It was the greatest sort of scary story to share in the dark with his siblings and cousins. Laura had been the best at telling it when they were smaller and she got most of her kicks out of scaring the younger children.

She’d given them all superior, knowing looks as she spoke; soft voiced and lofty, like she knew that what she was saying was completely true. She’d been able weave the little bits of tales together so well that all the kids had been on the edge of their seats, leaning in closer even though they all knew that she was going to dart out and yell, try to scare them all when she was finished.

A few months later Jurassic Park had come out though, and Derek had stopped caring about some silly ghost stories and was more concerned about wanting to be a dinosaur when he grew up.

It stuck with him though, those stories shared around a flashlight in the middle of the woods or in a corner of the house where the adults wouldn’t hear them and break them up.

He feels stupid for snapping at Peter.

He knows his uncle is a dick, but usually he has a reason for everything he does. Stiles had been right about that, there was nothing to gain from Peter scratching that word into the building. Even though he must have known about the stories Laura would tell them.

It didn’t make any sense.

None of this made any sense.

Was it witchcraft? Had they been cursed while he’d been off guard? Were they trapped somewhere and dreaming together? Having a collective nightmare? They couldn’t actually be here--here that didn’t have a smell or taste or sound and thus, didn’t exist to Derek.

This place...is a trap that Derek had walked them right into. He remembers driving into the town, remembers seeing people and animals, remembers the scent of cat urine when he entered the front office of the hotel, remembers the way the mattress had squeaked whenever Stiles had rolled over in his sleep, every put out sigh Peter made when the noise woke him up. These things were real. These were things he could hold onto.

But that next day...he’d been so stupid, going through the motions and not paying any attention to his surroundings. Had there been a point where he could have noticed sooner? A point where he could have stopped them and saved them from...purgatory?

The word comes unbidden and Derek blinks at himself in surprise.

Did we die?

He tries to shake off the thought before it can fully form, but the idea eats at him.

Stiles is next to him, laying flat on his back with bits of sour cream and onion chips (that he wouldn’t share) crushed into his shirt. His mouth is open and his breathing is even.

Derek thinks the boy is lucky that stress seems to make him pass out instead of stay awake like it does Derek.

He wishes he had that sort of coping skill.

The boy smells of anxiety even in sleep. Anxiety and junk food and sweat and that soft, strange sort of smell people sometimes get when they dream.

No, he is definitely real, Derek thinks. Definitely here and alive in this world of gray and silence. Whatever happened, he believes that it wasn’t death.

And that means that he can find a way out for them. All of them.

He tilts his head, straining for any sounds of Peter.

But outside there is nothing.

Outside there is just a void.

They wait for Peter for several more hours. Stiles eats most of their food in a fit of anxiety and shifts between glaring a hole in the side of Derek’s head and shoving as much as he can into his mouth in one go.

He can’t stop fidgeting, bouncing his leg on the bed or twisting his powdered cheese covered fingers along the hem of his hoodie. He feels useless. Worse than useless.

He feels like a burden.

Stiles knows that if were just Derek, that the wolf would have already gone out to look for his uncle. But he can’t because he’s too busy babysitting Stiles.

He can see the little cogs working in Derek’s brain, can see him start to work himself up, start to look like he’s about to get up and go out. But then he’ll steal a glance in Stiles’ direction and settle himself again.

Stiles hates it.

He isn’t useless. He isn’t a coward. He doesn’t need to be protected.

So he gets up, dusts his hands on his jeans and strolls right up to the door. He glances back over his shoulder just once as he starts to head out.

“Coming?”

“Stiles!”

But Stiles is already out of them room and scurrying along the hall and down the stairs.

Derek stomps after him as he jogs toward the town center, furious footsteps slapping against the pavement. He doesn’t really expect to have a chance at outrunning the wolf, so he assumes that Derek takes so long to catch him because the other man was burning to get out of the room just as much as he was.

As soon as they hit the main road, Derek reaches forward and snatches Stiles’ arm, wrenching him back so hard that he loses his balance and almost falls on his ass.

“What the--”

“Don’t do that again,” Derek snarls, tightening his grip.

Stiles swallows back a gasp as he steadies himself. “Dude, let go, you’re hurting me.”

Derek glares at him, teeth bared and squeezes until Stiles actually cries out and tries to jerk away. Then he lets go and clenches his fists at his sides.

Stiles holds onto his arm, cradling it against his chest. His shoulder throbs, pain beating with his pulse. “You almost dislocated it!”

Derek flexes his fingers and looks guilty for a second. “You shouldn’t have run off like that.”

“And that makes it okay?!” Stiles snaps. “What, were you going to maim me so I didn’t have a choice but to stay behind?”

“What?” Derek actually looks shocked. “No, I wouldn’t--”

“Well you almost fucking did, asshole!”

Derek shakes his head. “I didn’t even grab you that hard, stop complaining.”

Stiles actually gapes at him because it sure as hell feels like his arm was almost wrenched out of its socket. “I’m not a werewolf!” he says loudly. “I don’t heal like you! Whatever messed up love tap that was for you, was almost a pretty serious injury for me!”

He spins away from the wolf angrily before carefully shucking off his hoodie to inspect the damage. He has on a short sleeved t-shirt underneath and he hisses when he sees how red his skin is turning against the bright white cotton.

He can already make out the shape of Derek’s fingers. The hoodie hadn’t given him much protection against werewolf strength and the fresh bruise is spreading up from his elbow to his bicep.

“You’ve been losing it,” Stiles says meanly, turning back to show off the marks.

Derek’s eyes narrow, but he looks guilty as fuck. “I didn’t mean to grab you that hard. You should have stayed--”

“Oh screw you, man,” Stiles snaps. “You jumped down Peter’s throat yesterday and now you’re on me! No wonder Peter didn’t come back, he probably thought he was better off without you!”

And yeah, before he’s even done talking, Stiles know that that’s a pretty shit thing to say. He knows Derek must be worried over his uncle and he knows that Derek carries around guilt like it’s the newest fashion trend. So that was a pretty low blow.

He doesn’t apologize though.

Instead he just stares down at his arm, rotating it one way, then the other just to make sure nothing is sprained. He can feel Derek glaring holes into the side of his head, but they both just stand there until Stiles starts to get chilly and slips back into his hoodie.

“What do you want to do,” Derek says lowly.

Stiles looks up in surprise. From the expression Derek’s wearing, Stiles knows that cost him a lot to ask. Had he been any of the other betas, he’s pretty sure Derek would have just roared and dragged him back to the hotel room by his ears.

“I want to look for Peter,” he says shortly. He chews on his lower lip for a few moments before sighing. “I don’t want anyone left behind, okay?”

Derek stares at him grimly. “He might have...found a way out.”

Stiles blinks. “And what? Left us behind?”

Derek raises his eyebrows.

And okay, yeah, that...sounds kinda like Peter. It hadn’t occurred to him that Peter wouldn’t have come told them about a way out though. He’d just kept picturing the wolf’s mangled corpse somewhere. Now he feels like Derek’s guess is the more logical one.

“Maybe,” Stiles agrees. “Still though, if he found a way out, we could too.”

They’re already outside; he thinks that if they have to return to the room and just wait, that he’ll go stir crazy. Stiles just can’t be still anymore, he needs to be out moving. He needs to at least pretend at being proactive.

Derek frowns and looks toward the town. “Okay. I’ll go look around. You go back--”

“Dude, no!”

“Stiles, if I have to drag you back--”

“What, gonna break my arm for real this time!”

Derek glowers and takes a menacing step forward like he’s actually thinking about it. “Just go back and wait for me. I won’t be more than an hour!”

“No!”

And Stiles knows exactly what that kind of bald defiance does to the alpha, he not even surprised when Derek grabs at him again.

“I’m trying to protect you!”

Stiles jerks his arm out of Derek's grasp and hisses, “Yeah, well you’re doing a shitty job of it!”  

He darts away when Derek reaches for him again, backstepping until--

"Maamaa!"

Stiles jumps about a foot in the air and pivots mid-flight (he's actually a little surprised that the scare didn't activate his dormant mutant gene that made him sprout wings). "What the-"

Apparently 'what the' is a doll. One of those raggedy, sorta real looking baby toys that manages to look both like an infant and a demon spawn of Satan and plastic. He stares at it for a moment.

"That wasn't there before," Derek says behind him.

The road had been clear before, yes, clear from main street all the way to their hotel. There was only pavement below them, trees and fog on their sides, and gray clouds above.

"Don't touch it!"

But Stiles is already kneeling down and scooping up the doll in one hand. It’s sort of soggy and wet like someone had left it out in the rain--

When he looks up there is a truly massive dog about three inches from his face. Its lips pull back, showing off its white teeth and soft pink gums; its muzzle is painted with blood and for ten full seconds, Stiles forgets how to breathe.

He thinks maybe, for a bare second, that he’s seeing some kind of apparition. But the animal pants against his face and he can smell its rank breath hot against his skin.

He stays still, doesn’t dare move or blink. In the back of his mind, there’s the frantic thought of ‘you’re not supposed to look into an aggressive dogs’ eyes’. But he can’t help it. The dog stares and he stares back. It’s some kind of mix breed, he can tell that much; some giant cross between what looks like a rottweiler, a shepherd, and a horse.

The dog growls wetly, ducking its great big head down and glaring at Stiles.

Behind him, he can hear Derek shift forward and let out a growl of his own. It’s deeper, louder, more ferocious. The wolf puts a hand on his shoulder and slowly eases him back.

The dog seems to be caught between wanting to bite Stiles’ face off and scampering away at the sight of a bigger predator.

Derek snarls and snaps his teeth and the dog makes up his mind, turning tail and darting down toward main street, belly low to the ground before it weaves between one of the buildings and disappears.

Stiles sits back on his ass and rakes his hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”

“Come on--”

“No, fuck you--that, what the fuck was that?! Was that what’s been messing with us or?”

Derek squeezes his shoulder until Stiles looks up at him.

“It was just a dog.”

“Just a dog?”

“Smelled like a dog, sounded like a dog,” Derek confirms.

Stiles just sits there for a few more seconds. “What the hell is a dog doing here? Was it left behind?”

Derek shakes his head and tugs him to his feet. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

Stiles doesn’t even fight him this time.

They trudge back to the hotel; Derek obviously herding him. Stiles doesn’t care anymore at this point. His mind is jumbled, his arm hurts--he casts the sodden doll away from him--and he stinks.

“Think the shower works?” he mutters.

Derek actually pauses and stares at him as they enter the room. They’d never checked.

Since they’d been here, there’s been no urge to go to the toilet, to drink anything, to eat anything. It’s like their bodies just stopped needing anything. Which was pretty scary if Stiles thought about it too much.

The water does work. Which is kind of a surprise since he’s pretty sure the power’s out. At least, there’d been no need to turn anything on. It didn’t get dark here; the light that came through the window was enough to work in and sleep by, so what was the point?

He actually kinda feels stupid for not being more proactive about looking through this new environment. He feels like he should know as much about it as he can.

Stiles gets dressed in a new set of clothes, making sure leave his hoodie off so Derek can see the dark bruise crawling up his skin.

“Sorry about your arm,” Derek mutters and somehow makes it sound like ‘Your arm is stupid and shut up’.

“Sorry about your face,” Stiles replies. Because that’s the kind of guy he is. He slips in under the covers, strangely wiped after their short time outside. He can’t seem to sleep though and spends most of his time sighing and flopping from his stomach to his back.

“I’ve heard of lost dogs crossing states to get back home. I’m pretty sure Peter is at least that smart.”

Stiles shifts until he can stare at Derek over his shoulder. “Did you just make a kinda-racist dog joke to make me feel better?”

Derek stares at the door. “...go to sleep.”

Stiles rolls back over and shuffles down until he’s comfortable. “Thanks.”

“Shut up.”

“You know,” Stiles says after a few quiet minutes. “If that dog got in, it means we can get out.”

---

Chapter Text

Derek jolts awake.

He’d been staring at the door, trying so hard to make Peter and all the answers of the universe materialize with the power of his glare. He thinks for an instant that he heard something outside.

The dog? Peter? Something new?

But no, the tight wheezing is coming from behind him. Derek twists around and immediately spies Stiles curled up on his side in a fetal position, squeezing his arms around himself as he apparently struggles to breathe.

Derek still isn’t firing on all cylinders yet, so he’s scanning the room for anything that might be attacking the boy when he suddenly remembers stray conversations in which Stiles has mentioned his history with panic attacks. And now that he knows what to look for, he can catch the scent of sour sweat and fear, the fast pat-pat pat-pat of Stiles’ heart, the air rasping in and out of his lungs.

He shifts forward on the bed, not sure on what to do. It’s incredibly distressing to watch, he’s never seen anyone suffer through a panic attack before.

Stiles is gripping at the sheets, fingers curling and uncurling like he can’t help it; he’s doing some sort of jerking-rocking movement like he’s either trying to soothe himself or get up. His teeth are clenched tight and his breath is a tight and high-pitched strained noise.

Derek hesitates for a moment before putting a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Stiles makes some sort of pained whine, like a dog, opening his watering eyes and gazing at Derek like he’s the only one with the power to help him.

But Derek feels useless. He slides more into the bed, not wanting to crowd the boy, but not wanting to be any further than he has to either. Stiles’ whimpering starts to get higher, like being noticed is distressing him even more.

“Hey,” he tries to sound as soothing as he can. “Hey, just...you’re okay. You’re okay. Just. Lay here.”

He thinks he sounds stupid and he wishes Peter were here. Peter knew a little about a lot and could probably be at least three times as helpful as Derek was being right now (whether he would help is a matter for debate). But Derek does what he can, tries to calm himself down. Just pats Stiles on the shoulder and lets him ride it out.

They lay there for at least ten minutes and Derek is fighting back the anxious whine in the back of his throat. He’s an alpha, his packmate is suffering, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

So he just waits it out, muttering things like “It’s okay” and “You’re fine, don’t worry” and tries not to feel less useless than a lump of clay.

Eventually, the attack seems to ease off, to burn itself out. He pats Stiles on the back awkwardly while the teen all but collapses in on himself, looking exhausted and dizzy.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Stiles closes his eyes and makes a small, tired noise, but nods after a few moments.

“Do you need anything?”

The teen just breathes and slowly shakes his head.

Derek catalogues everything he can from the scents and sounds Stiles’ body is giving off. He brushes his hand along the boys’ forehead, checking for a fever or...he’s not actually sure what set off the attack. Stress? Surely there’s been a lot of it before. He thinks maybe all those naps were Stiles’ mind trying to protect him from all the tension and fear that the situation brought.

Maybe everything had just built up and hit a breaking point.

Stiles doesn’t look any better for it. He’s worn and small, but he’s breathing easier. His heart rate is still high, but not rabbiting at the worrying pace it was before.

Derek sits back and allows himself to relax as much as he can.

He listens to the boy slowly come down and drop off into an anxiety-induced nap.

He stays up, can’t bring himself to close his eyes for more than a second, just in case. There’s too much going on here. He can’t protect what’s left of his pack by himself. Especially if that pack is being attacked by their own body and mind.

He desperately wants to go out and look around, to slash his way out of this hellhole and drag Stiles with him until they’re both free. He thinks that if Peter made it, then he hates him (he thinks if Peter didn’t make it, then he hates him a little more). They should be searching for clues, for...for something.

But he won’t leave, can’t leave. Stiles is too weak right now and Derek wouldn’t dare leave the boy to wake up alone after what happened.

He’s trapped.

Derek finds himself wishing that he’d never pulled over--but that’s a slippery road. He should have never been manipulated into forming an alliance, he should never have bitten a bunch of emotionally unstable teens, he should have never tried to build a pack, he should have never killed his uncle and become alpha, he should have never let Kate Argent flash him a wink and a smile and get him to spill all his secrets--

He stops himself, running his hands over his face to try and wake himself up. There’s no point in thinking about what he should have done. His priority right now is keeping Stiles safe. If that means that have to hole up in this damn room until someone comes to rescue them or Stiles is up to trekking the town again, then that’s exactly what he’ll do.

He already has too many ‘should have nevers’ to feel guilty over. He won’t let Stiles become one of them.

Stiles feels like shit when he wakes up. His body is achy (especially his shoulder), he’s still exhausted and lightheaded, he smells like dried sweat, and his limbs are shaky. Which is usually how he feels after a panic attack. And then there’s the shame as well. Because it’s not enough that he freaks out and runs screaming through the town at the first sign of trouble, not enough that he starts losing it and seeing other people’s reflections in the glass, oh, and let’s not forget that damned dog incident; he feels worse than a burden now.

He might as well be some invalid that Derek has to cart around on his back. Just a dead weight.

Ugh, and Derek had looked terrified during his attack. Probably stuck wondering what the hell was wrong this time with the stupid human. He was probably wishing he had anyone else in the world to be stuck with right now.

His stomach rolls with guilt and anxiety and his eyes water. Stiles wipes his face furiously, refusing to cry. He’s always a little weepy after an attack, still off-balanced and raw to everything.

Derek shifts at the foot of his bed, staring at him over his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he voice is scratchy and sore. He winces when he recalls the whines he made. Jesus.

“Sorry,” he says after a moment.

“It’s fine,” Derek says.

Because that’s what you’re supposed to say when you’re stuck in some weird, fucked up town with someone that you have to babysit.

“I should have stayed inside,” Stiles says.

Derek side-eyes him fiercely. “...are you sure you’re okay?”

Stiles shrugs.

The wolf looks around, like he’s trying to find a way out of this conversation. “Does that...does that happen a lot?”

Stiles wishes he could sink into the ground. “No. I mean, it used to. But not really,” he gestures around and feels dumb. “It’s just...stress.”

Derek nods. “Should I have...done something?”

“What?”

The wolf shifts uncomfortable and flicks his hand at Stiles. “To help?”

Stiles just stares at him, feeling oddly touched. “No, I mean, it usually just runs its course, you know?”

Derek frowns down at his knees.

“It helped that you were...” Stiles stares out the window. “You know, that you were here.”

They sit there for a few quiet minutes before Derek reaches over and awkwardly pats his ankle. It might actually be the most uncomfortable encounter Stiles has ever been through. He’s pretty sure it’s the same for Derek too. The big guy isn’t good on touches that don’t end with “Ow, oh my god, ow, my spleen!”.

Stiles appreciates the effort.

“Do you wanna take another shower?”

Stiles’ brows almost shoot off his forehead. “Um?”

Derek stares at him, then rears back and flushes. “Not, no! You smell like sweat, I wasn’t--just shut up.”

The wolf spins around and glares moodily at the door again. Stiles decides one good turn deserves another, so he kindly doesn’t make fun of the way Derek’s ears go pink with his blush.

They end up sitting around for the rest of the day, neither really wanting to go out and see what new bullshit the town dropped on them. There was a whole lot of nothing to do once Stiles finishes off the rest of the food (and subsequently discovered that they did actually have to use the bathroom if they ingested enough. Derek glared at him balefully when he finished destroying the toilet (“Sorry, dude.” “No you’re not, open the damn window.”).

Stiles tried to start a game of I-Spy, but there wasn’t much to spy and it wasn’t really that fun to make the vein on Derek’s forehead pulse.

It feels strange, not having Peter as a buffer between them. It's too quiet and there isn't nearly as much fun to be had when he's riling Derek up by himself.

Derek seems down too; going from anxious and pacing to apathetic and frowning at the door.

It takes a while, but eventually Stiles convinces Derek to do a quick run through the town to look for Peter. He keeps saying that Peter might be hurt somewhere, that they wouldn't be able to hear him howl because of the strange way the town dampens noise. He knows he's using Derek's enormous sense of responsibility against him, but not knowing what happened is driving him crazy.

Derek is stubborn and it takes Stiles a long while to realize that Derek is terrified of being separated from Stiles; terrified that Stiles will be the one to disappear, leaving Derek packless and alone.

He fiddles with an empty packet of Twizzlers before, "I swear, I'll stay right here in this room, okay? I'll lock the door after you."

Derek frowns and glances at him, not looking convinced.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Dude, I'll lock the door, barricade it with the bed and shut myself in the bathroom and hide in the tub, okay?"

Derek snorts, but gives in.

The second Stiles sinks into the empty tub, he feels completely isolated and scared. All his senses are on high alert while he wraps his arms around his knees and stares at the door. He thinks maybe he would have preferred to cling to Derek's back like a baby koala as they loped through the town.

There's no noise, no annoyed huffs and grunts. Stiles rests his chin on his crossed arms and settles in for a long wait.

He doesn't dare let himself think of what will happen if Derek doesn’t come back. He doesn't want to think himself into another panic attack. Derek would never leave him alone again if he returned to find Stiles blubbering in the tub.

Stiles is busying himself counting the corners of the room (this time counting the corners of the tiles too) for the twelfth time when he hears it.

There's someone at the front door.

He lets out a heavy, relieved sigh. He can hear the doorknob clicking, but the lock holds. The handle jiggles again. Stiles frowns. Is it Derek? Derek had said that he'd knock three times if it was him. What if he was hurt? Unable to give any sign?

Stiles is halfway up when he hears the noise stop. He freezes, listening intently. There’s a weird panicky feeling bubbling in his gut. He’s trying to ignore it, trying not to let his imagination run away from him. He’s sure it’s Derek just messing with him. Or something. Something that makes sense. He’s being paranoid now, jumping at every sound.

He stays still just the same.

Then he almost pisses himself when there's a loud thump on the roof. Someone is quietly, quickly walking from one side of the building to the back--why the back? What's going on? Would Derek--

He left the window open.

The window that conveniently faced the back of the hotel, offering a view of trees and thick fog.

Stiles stays in that half-crouched position, hoping so hard that whoever is out there doesn't know about the window--

He can hear the roof creaking as the person stops, can hear the clicking of the window sliding higher.

Stiles can't think, can barely breathe.

He hears a thud, someone's inside.

Then nothing.

He swallows down bile, trying to suppress the weird urge to burst out in a fit of giggles. Was it Derek? Derek would have said something, given Stiles some clue by now. Was it the dog?! He feels stupid for the panicked thought, but can't help it.

He tries to hear something, anything. But it's completely quiet.

Stiles glances around, looking for some kind of weapon. The curtain rod is bolted to the walls. The plunger would only make someone laugh. The mirror? Should he break the mirror and use a shard as a knife?

He feels weird and floaty, he can't believe after all that time, the second Derek leaves, shit decides to go down.

Was it waiting for Derek to leave?

The wolf is bigger, stronger, faster; a much more dangerous adversary than one twitchy teenager. Had whoever it was waited patiently for the right moment to strike? Waited until its prey divided their numbers? Had this thing gotten Peter and tracked them down?

He can't stay here, he just can't. If he tries to wait until Derek comes back, he'll end up screaming.

Is Derek dead? Did whoever it was kill Derek first and then come back to finish the job? Stiles slowly, so very slowly, shifts forward and slinks out of the tub. This may actually be the first time he's ever been stealthy in his life.

He barely makes a sound as he eases toward the door, listening so hard that he's causing himself a stress headache.

For lack of a better option, Stiles grabs the toilet plunger and hefts it above his head as he reaches for the doorknob. He has to know.

He's no damsel in distress. And if Derek is alive and well, then he'll be walking into a trap that Stiles can't warn him against. And he can't let that happen.

His palms are sweaty and he feels like he's going to be sick, but his adrenaline is pumping and before he can lose his nerve, he jerks open the door and rushes out--

And sees Peter laying on one of the beds.

He's so relieved that he drops the plunger (what the hell was he going to do with a plunger) and falls back against the wall. His legs start shaking as he braces himself, trying to calm his body's fight or flight reflex.

"What the hell," Stiles snaps. "Did you do all that on purpose just to scare me?!"

Peter is on his side, facing away from Stiles so he can't see the wolf's smug fucking expression.

"Where were you?!" Stiles yells. "We thought you died!"

Peter continues to ignore him.

"Did you see Derek out there? Did he send you back or...?"

Peter is still ignoring him, had probably found some sweet hideout away from them and was just pissy that he'd been made to move back.

Stiles is so furious with him. Not only did he leave them without a second glance, he'd probably known they'd be worried out of their minds. And then to come back in the single scariest way possible? He'd probably heard Stiles freaking out and decided to have a little fun.

Stiles glares at him and strides forward, reaching out and settling a hand on Peter's shoulder to jerk him over--

The wolf grabs his wrist and yanks him down to the bed so fast that Stiles doesn't even have time to yell. Then Peter is above him, lips pulled back to flash his long, sharp teeth and bright, pink gums. His eyes are brilliant electric blue and he's growling and snapping his deadly jaws like he's rabid.

He looks…

He looks terrified.

Peter snarls wetly, gnashing his teeth as he hunches his shoulders up and stiffens like he’s preparing to lunge.

And Stiles just stares at him, gaping up at the wolf like a fish. Like a pathetic, meaty, pale fish. And he’s about to die. Which. Which is ridiculous. He can’t die--Peter is going to kill him. Peter is leaning closer and closer. He’s going to die and Peter’s going to kill him and then Derek’s going to come back and kill Peter and then everyone gets fucked over.

Peter--the wolf; because it’s so hard to see Peter behind those wild eyes--sinks down closer, growling so loudly that the sound shudders through Stiles’ body.

“Oh god, oh god, Peter, Peter, please,” he starts babbling.

He’d always thought he’d be the kind of guy that could face death with a cool one-liner and a cocky grin. But apparently he’s the type to beg for his life.

“Please don’t, please Peter,” he yelps out.

The wolf darts forward and closes his jaws around Stiles’ throat and all he can think is how much this is going to hurt.

But the wolf suddenly stiffens up, cocks his head.

“You’re an asshole,” he says. He doesn’t know why he chooses those to be his final words. It’s certainly not witty or memorable, but he means them with all his heart.

The wolf blinks down at him and slowly, very slowly, Stiles starts to see that human intellect creep back. Peter frowns down at him and rolls to his side.

“Stiles?”

 ---

Chapter Text

Derek has been chasing down the dog for what feels like an hour now. He knows he should be getting back, doesn’t want to worry Stiles with his absence, but he feels like he needs to at least touch the dog just to make sure it’s real. He doesn’t know why he’s so obsessed with this, but it just feels important.

He’d caught the dog’s scent while looking for Peter, then found it sniffing around a few abandoned houses.

Derek doesn’t know how the dog appeared here with them, how it managed to sneak up on him, or why it’s the only other living thing in the entire town.

He feels stupid as he runs after the animal, trailing after it as they weave through backyards and alleys and shops. The thing is wily and darts out of his reach every time he gets close with a snap of its teeth and a rough bark.

Finally, he manages to corral it underneath a stranded truck on main street. The dog grumbles at him in annoyance, stinking of fear.

Derek doesn’t want to scare it any more than it already is, so he lays belly down on the side of the road next to the car and just waits. Slowly, very slowly, he starts to reach out his hand.

The dog glares at him fiercely but seems too worn out to try anything.

The second before he makes contact with its flank, the dog lurches around and sinks its teeth into Derek’s hand.

And okay, yeah, one: he deserved that and two: yes, the dog is very real and three: he really hopes werewolves don’t get rabies because he’s honestly not sure what this dog is on (he suspects steroids), but it’s viciously strong as it wrenches Derek’s hand side to side like it’s trying to rip it off at the wrist.

He manages to jerk away, cradling his mangled hand to his chest and then rolling back quickly when the dog wiggles closer to him.

“Asshole,” Derek hisses before flaring his deep red eyes.

The dog whimpers and squirms out the other side of the car before trotting off with its tail between its legs. Derek tries not to feel bad.

He flops onto his back, bringing his hand up for inspection. It’s almost already healed up; torn skin knitting itself back together within seconds. He wipes the blood off on his pants and realizes how disappointed he is.

He’d expected...something. He’d expected that if he’d caught the dog that somehow everything would become clear, like the dog would be some magic clue as to where they are and how to get out.

But it was just a stupid, mean dog.

Completely normal as far as he could tell.

It was probably just as lost and confused as they were.

How did it get here?!

How did any of them get here?!

Did the dog have the misfortune of sleeping at the same hotel? The same town? Had it wandered in from the woods? Was it affected by the same strange fear that had been keeping his pack paralyzed? If it had come here, does it mean others could? Animals? People? If he chased it around enough, would it run back out the way it came in? Could he follow it out?

Derek lays there, sprawled out in the middle of main street, feeling like an idiot. If their phones worked, he’d have tried calling Deaton by now. Even as annoyingly vague as the man could be, Derek still thinks he’d be able to offer up some advice.

He just...feels like he should be doing something. And. He’s just laying here feeling helpless.

The wolf frowns and picks himself up. This isn’t how this is going to work. He isn’t going to sit back and let his pack go down one by one.He needs to find Peter and then...and then even if they have to walk the entire town inch by inch, he’ll find a way out for all of them.

Ignoring the feeling of being watched, Derek stands straight, tilts his head back and lets loose a loud howl. It’s defiant, challenging. He doesn’t think Peter will hear it with the strange dampening effect the town has, but he hopes wherever he is, that Peter at least feels it.

His howl echoes strong and he waits, holding his breath as he listens for some sort of reply.

But there’s nothing. Not from Peter, not from whatever is stalking them in the fog.

Still, the petty defiance makes him feel better and he’s about to turn on his heel to head back when he hears it--

laughter. Tiny, malicious laughter.

He spins around, focusing on the clothing store. Slowly, he stalks closer. His anger flushes out any fear in him and builds with each step. Derek is furious by the time he slams open the door and strides inside. His claws are out, his eyes glow red; he’s eviscerating the first person he sees.

But there’s nothing.

Derek pauses, listens again. He’s closer to the laughter and...it sounds strange, like it’s coming over a phone with a bad signal, teeny and off.

He walks behind the front desk, shoving aside stray papers and scattered books until he finds their phone. There’s no dial tone when he raises it to his ear. No dial tone and no laughter.

Frowning, he glances around again. There must be another phone somewhere.

Head tilted, he follows the sound as close as he can. It’s almost like it’s fading the closer he gets. But he thinks...he’s certain now that…

That the laughter is coming from the mannequins.

He stares at them, shifts closer, tries to see if there’s some sort of recording device around their feet or above their heads, but no, the laughter is coming from their mouths, deep in their throats of plastic.

There’s no way. There’s just no way that it’s possible.

And then the laughter cuts out abruptly.

Derek stiffens, has a strange swooping sensation in his gut. The feeling of having eyes trained on him returns and makes the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. Whatever courage his howl had given him flushes out of his body and leaves him feeling cold and alone.

It’s quiet again, oppressively so. He thinks his heart is making too much noise.

Gaze trained on the mannequins, he slowly eases his way back out onto the streets. He doesn’t feel any safer here.

Derek slinks away back to the hotel and doesn’t look back once.

They stay inside for another few days, quiet and sullen. Peter won’t talk about what he saw or where he was and Derek won’t talk about anything he went through no matter how hard Stiles tries to wheedle it out of them.

The atmosphere is depressing and Derek doesn’t know how to make it any better. It feels like they’ve given up. Like they’re just waiting for the ax to drop.

And he wants to do something to help, but can’t bring himself to offer any false hope.

It’s as though this place is sucking away any motivation they have to escape, leaving them isolated and weak. And mean.

He tries not to, but he knows he’s been snapping at the others more than usual. He’s quicker to smack down any of their few ideas. He huffs and rolls his eyes and ignores them, knows he’s making both feel like shit, but can’t bring himself to care much.

Peter becomes almost vicious. The first time that Stiles had tried to bring up what happened between them, Peter had just sneered and said “I would have torn out your throat just to shut you up.” Which isn’t unusual. In a pack of wolves, there are plenty of teasing death threats.

But the way Peter had said it…

Stiles had looked shocked and hurt and had immediately turned to Derek. Any other time, Derek would have gotten riled up, would have snapped back at Peter and tugged him back in line. But there wasn’t really any point anymore, so he’d said nothing.

And the look that slowly swept across Stiles’ face had made him feel like the worst type of person. He was allowing his pack to tear itself apart, was helping it tear itself apart.

Maybe if it were just him and Peter, he could let himself drown in self-pity, but Stiles was just a kid and didn’t deserve any of this. Before he could correct his mistake though, Stiles had already turned over in his bed, shutting out the rest of the world.

Now they just sit around and do their best to ignore each other. And Derek feels more like a failure than ever.

“Wanna talk about things we miss?”

Derek glances over at him, bites down the urge to roll his eyes and say something cruel. “Like what?”

Stiles shoots him a look like he’s not sure he’s being made fun of or not and Derek feels like a giant tool. He shifts on the bed, turning to give the teen his full attention and tries not to look like he’s getting his teeth pulled.

“Just, you know, going around and saying stuff we miss about the real world.”

That sounds stupid and depressing, but Derek shrugs anyway.

“I miss chicken noodle soup,” Stiles sighs. “Like the Campbell’s stuff.”

Peter snorts from his corner of the room. “Did daddy make it straight out of the can for you?”

Derek knows from the flash of anger that crosses Stiles’ face that it’s a sore subject.

“Shut up,” the boy snaps.

He can see Peter grin, see him winding up to take another cheap shot and he’s just too exhausted for a fight, too far done to stand listening to them bitch at each other.

“Peter’s afraid of clowns,” he says.

The look Peter shoots him is exceptionally betrayed. Stiles looks downright gleeful.

“Go on, tell me more. No detail is too small.”

Peter huffs and Derek can’t help but grin.

“When I was...nine or so...one of my little sisters was having her birthday party. No one told Peter that there would be a clown. He was carrying the birthday cake outside and we all started singing, the clown walked up right behind Peter and blew his, what are those things, kazoos? Anyway, Peter freaked out and threw the cake in the clown’s face.”

Stiles is laughing so hard that he’s barely making more than a few wheezing gasps as he falls back against the bed, holding his belly. Peter is giving him the most “bitch, I’ll cut you” look Derek’s ever seen.

“My sister was so upset, she cried for the rest of the day,” Derek smiles. It had been one of the few times he’d ever seen his uncle lose his cool. And it had made the older wolf the butt of many jokes for years afterwards. He remembers Laura dressing up as a clown for the Halloween following the incident. And whenever Peter was more of an ass than usual, his mother would walk around the house with a giant red ball on her nose.

Whenever Peter tried to bitch at her, she’d reach up and squeeze it, making it honk.

“When Derek was five, he kept stealing the eggs from the fridge. One day we discovered his closet stank like something was rotting,” Peter drawls. “Turns out, he had been hoarding all the eggs in this weird little nest. He showed us how he sat on them as gently as possible because he was hoping they’d hatch.”

Stiles doesn’t stop laughing for a good ten minutes.

And it’s nice to hear something other than silence.

---

There’s no way to tell time here, so Stiles isn’t sure how long it takes him to convince the two wolves that they should go out again. He’s not really expecting to find anything, but he tells them that he wants to go out and try to get a signal on his phone, or check all the store and house phones just to be sure.

He thinks they agree with him just because they don’t have any better ideas. Which is pretty disheartening to be honest.

Still though, anything is better than sitting around in a cramped hotel room doing nothing. Wolves aren’t meant to be confined like that and neither is Stiles. It’s probably why they’ve all been snapping at each other so much.

He thinks the walk will do them some good, but Derek and Peter are wary and slow. They take a few steps and pause, tilting their heads and listening, trying to catch any new scent on the chilly breeze.

“I want a jacket or something,” Stiles says, plucking at the hem of his not-so-clean hoodie. “And then I want to go to the pharmacy to get some Tylenol.”

He tries to look as pathetic as possible when he sniffs and rubs at his shoulder.

Derek rolls his eyes and Peter mumbles something unflattering.

When they get to the town center though, Stiles immediately knows that this isn’t going to work. Derek is glaring at the clothing store and Peter won’t look anywhere but straight forward and at his feet.

So Stiles turns on them and claps his hands to get their attention. Both men flinch at the noise and okay, maybe no more being needlessly loud.

“Okay, I’m going to go ahead and say it,” he pauses for dramatic effect. “I think maybe we should sp--”

“No,” Derek snaps.

“--split up,” Stiles finishes petulantly. “Look, I know it’s dumb but--”

“It really is,” Peter cuts in.

“Oh my god, let me finish,” Stiles hisses. “But if we’re going to get anything done anytime soon, we should split up.”

Derek is already opening his mouth to argue.

“I’m not saying like, I go to one part of the town and you guys go the other,” he says quickly. “Just...let me get some meds and a jacket and you two go check the other store phones.”

They’re both glaring at him.

“We won’t be out of each other’s sight for longer than five minutes at most.”

Derek waits until he’s finished, then says, “No.”

Which is really unfair.

“There’s no one here!” Stiles says loudly. “And it’ll be faster than both of you dragging your feet behind me!”

“No one gets left alone,” Derek says briskly. “For any reason.”

“But it’s not like I’ll have to fight anyone off! This town is empty! Creepy and empty!”

“Except for the dog,” Peter says. Which isn’t helpful, like, at all.

“Except for the dog,” Stiles agrees. “The dog that isn’t here.”

Derek is frowning, but he can tell he’s getting through.

“Look, we won’t even be out of hearing range, right?” Stiles says. “If I see the dog, I’ll scream.”

Derek lowers his brows in a glare.

“I’ll scream very loudly,” Stiles tries.

Peter and Derek share a look for a moment. Peter shakes his head once and Derek just sighs like Stiles is the worst thing to ever happen to him. Then he marches up the street to his abandoned car.

Stiles and Peter come up on him just as he’s popping his trunk and rummaging around in the small space. When he turns around, he has a tire iron in his hand.

Stiles has the bizarre urge to run because he’s pretty sure Derek’s going to beat him unconscious and he has the wild thought of “but why does he need a tire iron to do that?” But then Derek is handing it over to him with this completely done look like he knows exactly what Stiles was thinking.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Derek says.

Stiles weighs the tire iron in his hands, then gives it a good swing to get used to it. He likes it. Likes having a useful weapon against whatever comes his way. It doesn’t feel as good as having a bat at his side, but it’ll do.

“Better than a plunger,” Peter mutters rudely.

Stiles chooses to be the better man and ignore him. Right after he takes a wide practice swing that may or may not have brained Peter if the wolf hadn’t ducked.

“Enough,” Derek intervenes before they can really get started. “Peter, you check the stores on the right, I’ll get the ones on the left.” He points a finger at Stiles. “You get whatever you need and then get back to the car.”

“I should help you two--”

“You’ll get back to the car and stay there until we’re done or I’ll just lock you in the trunk and leave you there.”

Well. If you put it like that.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Fine, whatever. See you in ten.” And then he stomps off like the teenager he is, swinging his new toy like he’s cutting down overgrown forests in the Amazon.

He ignores the two put upon sighs behind him and trots into the pharmacy. Maybe he’d have been a little more cautious if exactly anyone told him what was going on, but he felt too pent up and reckless to be careful. He just needed to move. Maybe he could convince them to at least change rooms again.  

The lights don’t work; they’re the first thing he checks. The phone doesn’t work either, which he supposes makes about as much sense as anything.

He putters down the aisles, pausing to look at some food and fashion magazines before slinking along to the pain medicines.

A few boxes go into his pants for lack of a better place to shove them and he brings out his phone to check to see if he has a signal.

Stiles turns his phone off; can't stand seeing the time stay the same or watch his battery life flicker away so very slowly. The screen goes black and Stiles stares at his reflection. He looks worn and dark in the glass of his iPhone. He feels worn and dark.

He wipes a few smudges away on his shirt and brings his phone up again and almost doesn't notice it.

Stiles squints for a few moments, staring at the spot just over his shoulder that the screen is showing. It takes him longer than it should to figure out what he's seeing, to match the shape against what he knows.

He slowly stiffens up when it hits him, when he realizes.

In the reflection of his screen, there's the lower half of a young girl's body swaying gently just behind him. He can make out frilly socks and bright stockings and the bottom hemline of her dress. She's wearing little shiny shoes, pointed toward the ground as she swings.

Slowly, very slowly, Stiles angles his phone up to catch more of her. He feels in serious danger of losing his lunch, control of his bladder, and his mind as he spies on her.

She's a good six feet above the floor and when he tilts his phone just so, he can sorta make out the noose around her neck and her face--

“If she thinks you see her, she'll start followin' you.”

Stiles doesn't even shriek, doesn't jerk back or get into some attack stance. He literally wets himself, drops the tire iron, and flinches so hard that he smacks his phone against his face.

He pants shrilly, chest tight as he glances up at the young woman leaning against the counter. She's tall, a good few inches above six feet with thick red hair and a long, jagged scar on her face, drawing a crooked line from the corner of her mouth to the corner of her eye.

And Stiles stares at her, holding his breath, feeling light headed and dumb. He can't think, can't think of anything to do in this situation. Because he's losing it, obviously. There are black spots swimming in front of him and distantly, he remembers he needs to breathe, but he just can't make himself.

The woman frowns, looks concerned and strides closer.

And Stiles just sits. Collapses where he stands and ducks his head between his knees. There's air here, enough for him and all his delusions, if the little girl says something he'll scream and he won't be able to stop, he'll just scream and scream--

There's a warm hand on the back of his head and some words worbling in and out next to him. His ears are ringing and his eyes are wet and he's really trying.

He's yanked to his feet and before he can do much more than wheeze, the woman snaps her fist forward and punches him in the stomach.

What little air he had left whooshes out and he makes an embarrassing squealing sound like a deflated balloon. The woman holds him close, lets him double over at his side while she keeps him from falling on the ground.

His vision actually goes out for a second and he has the wild thought of this is how I'm going to die before his body jerks and sucks in a quick gasp of breath.

It's not enough, his head is swimming and he thinks he might be sick, but he sucks in another breath, deeper, more filling.

It's such a relief to feel his lungs expand, that he actually cries.

The woman lowers him down slowly, sits close with her arm wrapped around his shoulders. He lets her. Doesn't have the energy to do much else.

Stiles doesn't know how long it's been since he let his eyes slip closed, but when he jolts up, Derek is snarling and cornering the woman, driving her back and away from Stiles. She doesn't seem all that intimidated by him, but that boost of confidence may come from the shotgun she has leveled at Derek's midsection.

Peter's at his side, hand on his shoulder, looking him up and down frantically.

“Are you hurt, what happened--”

“I was tryin' to help, back off!” the woman snaps. Her accent is a thick drawl, Southern maybe.

“Peter!” Derek snarls through his fangs.

And Peter doesn't even hesitate, doesn't pay any attention to the mess Stiles made of his pants, just scoops the teen up and strides out of the store.

Stiles feels shaky and weak and just lets it happen. They don't stop until they get to their hotel room. Peter sets him on the rim of their tiny bathtub and goes back to shut and bolt the front door.

Stiles is having a hard time sitting up, suddenly drained and exhausted.

“What did she do?” Peter says. He's obviously trying not to shift.

Stiles can feel the prick of claws as Peter starts tugging off his clothes.

“Panic...attack,” Stiles mutters, moving how Peter wants him to as he's stripped.

Peter tosses his clothes aside and hustles Stiles into the bath, reaching over him to open the tap.

The wolf pauses, stares down at Stiles' belly with narrowed eyes. Stiles follows his gaze and sees a bright red bruise already starting to form.

“Punched me. Think she thought she was helping,” he slurs out.

Peter huffs and shuffles Stiles so that he's not in danger of slipping under the water.

“I dropped my phone,” Stiles says dumbly.

Peter shakes his head, “We'll get it later, just...stay still.”

Stiles does as he's told, feeling floaty and disconnected as Peter stands and grabs up his clothes. The wolf pauses on his way out and glares at Stiles.

“Don't drown.”

Stiles almost wants to laugh, or at the very least give a half assed salute. But he's too drained to do either and just grunts.

Peter does something with his clothes, he doesn't know what, and then comes back with fresh ones from his bag.

Stiles tries to stay awake after he gets dressed, but Peter shoves him into one of the beds and he’s out before he has a chance to ask if the woman was real.

---

Chapter Text

Derek comes back about an hour after Stiles passes out.

Peter looks at him, then jerks his head toward the door. He doesn’t think there’s much right now that would wake the boy, but just in case, he wants to have this conversation outside. He follows Derek out and shuts the door softly behind him.

“Well?”

Derek scowls and turns his gaze to the other side of the hotel. If he listens carefully, Peter can hear the faintest trip of a steady heartbeat in one of the far rooms on their floor.

“Did she say anything?”

“She said she was trying to help, that he was choking or something.”

Peter frowns. “Panic attack. She scared the hell out of him.”

“She said she gave him the Heimlich and saved his life.”

He snorts, “She punched him in the stomach and almost killed him.”

“Is he--”

Peter waves his hand dismissively. “He’s fine, just bruised. No worse than what you did.”

Because he is actually that kind of asshole.

Derek looks pissed and sullen and guilty. He glares at the ground and crosses his arms while Peter tries his best not to look amused. The left side of Derek’s jacket is ripped all to shreds and Peter can still smell the heavy scent of blood and gunpowder from the blast of the shotgun. The woman had only grazed Derek, obviously unwilling or unskilled enough to cause serious harm. He can tell by the way the younger wolf is standing that he’s already healed.

He also thinks that if she failed to make a good hit with a shotgun, that she can’t be that big of a threat. But...he can vaguely make out a few healing bruises on Derek’s jaw and eye.

“Took you a while to bring her back,” Peter says mildly.

“I stopped at the hardware store,” Derek growls.

“Did she tell you where she came from?” he says.

“She called me a dick and I taped her mouth shut,” Derek says.

“Where’d you get tape?”

“I stopped at the hardware store.”

Peter barely refrains from rolling his eyes. It takes effort. A lot of effort.

“I suppose we’re going to interrogate her now?”

Derek moves past him and goes to the door. “First I’m going to shower and change.”

Peter stands there for a moment, glancing down at his shirt and jacket. He smells like teenager.

Stiles wakes up to Derek and Peter squabbling over who had rights to the first shower.

Strangely, it makes him feel like everything is right in the world.

They’re too busy whispering fiercely at each other to notice he’s awake and Stiles takes the time go through what happened.

He’d seen a girl (was it a girl? was she really there?), he’d seen a woman (was it a woman? was she really there?), and instead of swinging his tire iron at her, he’d pissed himself (that he remembers quite vividly), Peter and Derek had shown up (did Derek get shot as they were going out or was that his imagination?), and Peter had...bathed him (well, that settled it, Peter had to die).

He feels like an idiot.

He’s been through scary shit before and never had two attacks like he’s had this week (has it been a week?). He’s been under intense pressure and duress before and never just...panicked like he had in the store. He hasn’t had a panic attack in years and now…

It must be the town; the way it builds up this intense feeling of fear and isolation, piling on and on, every minute of every day. He tries to remind himself that the wolves aren’t doing much better than he is. Peter flipped out and ran away and won’t talk about it. Derek had returned mostly normal, but fidgety and obviously stressed. This place is too much for anyone to handle, especially for as long as they have (how long has it been?).

The feeling of uselessness and shame doesn’t dissipate much, but he shoves it down deep, where it’s probably forming into a lovely little ulcer, and sits up.

Both wolves look at him, Derek looking guilty and Peter looking cagey as fuck as he shifts closer to the bathroom door.

“I call dibs on the first shower,” Stiles says, because he’s an ass.

Peter huffs and throws up his hands, but he also makes Stiles drink a bottle of Gatorade before he does anything, so he assumes all is forgiven. The boost in sugar helps and he almost feels like normal when he comes back out of the bathroom.

After everyone is done (Derek still glaring at Peter for not leaving hot water), they fill Stiles in on what happened and their new prisoner. Stiles informs them that all she did was sneak up on him and feels incredibly guilty for what happened. She still shot Derek though, so he supposes she deserved to be tied up (“Where did you get rope?” “I stopped at the damn hardware store!” “Jesus, calm down, dude.”) and kept in another room until they figured out what to do with her.

Stiles can’t help but be a little excited, even as he rubs over the brand new bruise forming underneath his shirt. A person. A real, live person is here with them. No creepy, rabid dogs or weird reflection-people, but an actual girl. Who had a shotgun, which means she’s been here long enough to find one (he’s pretty sure they would have seen her), or she was sucked in here with one.

He can’t get over that there’s someone new in the mix now. Someone that won’t automatically growl at him and tell him to shut up. Someone he can bond with over the lameness of werewolves. Maybe they could all team up, she could be some badass new teammate, taking no shit and talking smack--

he’s really trying not to imagine them as the stars of some buddy cop movie, but he’s failing miserably.

--all his hopes and dreams are dashed when Derek tells him that he can’t come to the interrogation.

“What?” Stiles complains. “How is that even fair?!”

“We don’t know what she’s capable of,” Derek starts.

“Well, she’s tied up, isn’t she? I’m pretty sure I can take her if she’s tied up.”

Peter gifts him with a frankly unflattering look.

Stiles points at him, “Shut up.”

Derek is shaking his head.

“Dude, you can’t just leave me here all alone,” he says, pouting. “Again.”

He’s a horrible person and everyone in the room knows it. He gives zero shits because it gets him exactly what he wants. Derek caves, Peter rolls his eyes, and they all troop down the hall to meet their newest guest.

Stiles honestly didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t to see the woman tied to a desk chair with so much rope that she looked like a victim in a cartoon. Derek might as well have thrown her down on some train tracks afterwards and skipped away, cackling maniacally.

She squints her eyes at Derek, glaring balefully.

He steps up to her with a shit-eating grin, reaches out, and snatches the tape off her mouth so fast that it makes her lower lip bleed.

“You’re still a dick,”

Stiles likes her almost immediately.

Her voice is an accented, low, husky drawl like she’d smoked a pack of cigarettes a day for ten years; which is ridiculous since she only looks to be a few years younger than Derek. Her eyes are dark blue and droopy; she’s one of those people that looks constantly ten seconds away from falling asleep. She’s long and lean and is dressed in a thick green sweater and dark jeans like she isn’t used to the cold. A jagged scar runs from the right corner of her mouth all the way up the side of her face to the corner of her right eye; when she grins, it’s crooked and makes her look like a Bond villain.

“So,” Stiles pipes up, because it looks like exactly no one is going to get the ball rolling. “I’m Stiles, that’s Peter, that guy who tied you up like a bdsm centerfold is Derek and we’re Team Halehound!”

She stares at them like she’d have rather not gotten involved.

“I hate you so much,” Derek mutters, one hand rubbing over his face.

“Is that a no on the Team Halehound? I thought it was pretty--”

“Shut up,” Peter snaps. He takes a few steps closer and leans into the woman’s space. Stiles can see him taking in careful sniffs of her scent (which is probably really weird for her). “What’s your name? How did you get here?”

“And do you know the way out?” Stiles adds.

Which, okay, maybe they were pretending that they knew that because Derek and Peter shoot him looks that scream “fucking shut up or I swear to god, I will wreck you, you don’t even know”. Rude.

Stiles plops down on the queen sized bed and huffs.

“Well?” Peter says sweetly.

She side eyes him and then tilts her head so it’s like they’re conspiring together. “Go fuck yourself.”

Awesome, great start. Go Team Halehound.

Peter looks like she might as well have spit in his eye and Stiles can see all that cool, calm facade just slowly melt away.

The wolf brings up a hand and gazes at it absently, slowly sliding his claws out like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re going to tell us whatever we want to know,” Peter says. “Do you understand?”

Stiles gapes and looks at Derek, “Dude, we’re not torturing her!”

But Derek looks conflicted. Stiles thinks both wolves are wishing he hadn’t tagged along. Stiles reaches out and tugs Peter away from her and takes his place.

“Okay, look, hi, it’s me Stiles,” he waits until her focus is on him. “Okay, so I’m a human, and if you were wondering--”

“I wasn’t,” she interrupts. “I seen weirder.”

“Well...okay then,” Stiles hesitates, then sits himself down on the corner of the bed closest to her.

“What’s your name?” he tries.

She stares at him and says nothing. Which, okay, maybe they just aren’t there yet, name giving requires trust and they’ve basically kidnapped her.

“Where are you staying?” and he knows before the words are even out of his mouth that he won’t be getting an answer. If their positions were reversed, he wouldn’t want his captors knowing where he was staying either.

She raises her eyebrows at him and gives him a look like she thinks he’s particularly dull.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Peter says.

Derek grunts.

Stiles frowns at the woman before leaning forward. “What...is your quest?”

Her droopy eyes widen comically.

“Stiles, I’m going to kill you,” Derek promises behind him.

Stiles waves him off distractedly. “What...is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?”

“An African or European swallow?” she blurts.

Stiles leans back and pumps his fists. No one can resist Monty Python quotes. She’s frowning at him like she’s trying to be more mature than the situation calls for.

“It’s okay,” he tells her. “If that hadn’t worked, I would have tried Star Wars quotes.”

And he waits for it.

She glares at him and then rolls her eyes. “Do or do not, there is no ‘try’.”

Stiles pats himself on the back and turns to the wolves. “That’s how you interrogate someone guys. Peter, I hope you were taking notes.”

Peter looks like he’s about five seconds from jumping across the room and choking the sass out of him. Derek just looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.

Stiles grins widely and leans forward again.

“So what brought you to Oregon?”

The woman frowns. “What?”

Stiles gestures around. “Business or pleasure, come on, you can share, we’re all friends here.”

“I ain’t never been outta Louisiana, the hell you talkin’, son?”

Stiles blinks. “Um. This town? Like. We were driving through Oregon? So.”

The woman scowls and shakes her head. “I was in Nawlins’.”

“In...wait, what?” Stiles says.

“New Orleans,” Peter translates.

“Ohh,” he thinks her accent is ten percent a result of where she was raised and ninety percent being too lazy to properly enunciate.

“How did you get here?” Derek asks.

She frowns. “Prolly the same way you did. Same way everyone gets here.”

“Everyone?” Peter says quickly. “There’s been others?”

“Uh, yeah,” she says. “Wow, you three are pretty new, ain’t ya?”

“Wait, how long have you been here?” Stiles says.

She twists her mouth up into a scowl. “What’s the date?”

“What was the date when you got here?” Peter says quickly before Stiles can answer.

She furrows her brows for a moment. “It was August.”

Peter makes a ‘go on’ gesture and Stiles wonders why he won’t just tell her--

“I dunno the exact date.”

Peter continues to make the gesture.

“...two thousand and five?” she says.

Oh. No wonder he didn’t tell her.

The date sticks out at him for some reason though and when it hits him, he can’t help but gape.

“Oh wow, New Orleans, August, two thousand and five?” he turns and boggles at the two wolves behind him.

Derek is frowning in confusion and Peter is making his ‘shut the fuck up, Stiles’ face.

“What?” she snaps.

“That was, like, ten years ago.” Stiles says.

And she does a double take. Her jaw actually drops in surprise, and Stiles wonders how she couldn’t have known how long she’d been trapped here.

...how long had he been trapped here? A couple weeks only, he’s sure...is he?

They give her a few moments to compose herself.

“Sooo,” because he actually can’t help himself. “I don’t suppose there was maybe some big hurricane coming before you, uh, appeared here?”

She stares at him.

“Maybe named Katrina?”

She frowns and shifts uncomfortably. “Guess since ya’ll heard ‘bout it, it didn’t turn out that well?”

“Uh, no, dude. Like, not at all--”

Derek smacks the back of Stiles’ head.

The woman just stares at the wall for a few minutes before she shakes her head vigorously. She twists against the ropes and even Stiles can tell she’s freaking out. “Let me up!”

“Hey, Derek, untie her,” he says quickly.

Derek shifts closer, but Peter grabs his arm to stop him.

“We don’t know who she is,” the older wolf says fiercely. “She could still be dangerous.”

“Derek! What if it was me?” Stiles cries.

Peter whirls on him, “What if it was you what?! That snuck up on someone with a gun hidden beside you and then shot someone else?”

But Derek has already shoved him off and crouched down beside the squirming woman. “She’s going to hurt herself,” he says. “Besides, I think we can take her.”

The alpha flicks his claws out and shreds through the ropes binding her easily. She immediately bolts to her feet--and wow, Jesus, she really is tall; taller than Boyd even, which Stiles honestly didn’t think was possible for anyone outside of basketball--and pushes past Derek (who she towers over) and crosses the room in two long strides to jerk open the window.

Derek grabs her elbow, but she’s obviously not going anywhere. She slouches down against the windowsill and hangs her upper body out, taking a few loud, deep breaths.

Stiles can’t even blame her; he couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to have some strangers tell him that he’d been in this hellhole for ten years. She jerks out of Derek’s grasp and he lets her. They’re three floors up, it’s not like she’s going anywhere. They give her a few minutes just to calm down; Peter frowning, Derek looking guilty, and Stiles waiting impatiently.

If she really has been here for ten years, then there has to be something she can tell them about this place. Has to be something she can tell them about what’s out there, and how to get out.

Except…

Well. If she knew a way out, she’d have obviously taken it by now. The truth hits him like a punch and he sinks back down to the bed. She’d been here for ten years and hadn’t figured a way out. What the hell did that say for them? Were they going to be stuck here that long? Longer?

He shuts his eyes and tries to calm down before he works himself into a truly impressive freak out. Honestly, he’ll probably just throw himself on the ground and start wailing and kicking his feet like a two year old if he thinks about it too much.

“Tell us everything you know,” Derek demands.

She sighs and leans back inside the room, turning to slouch against the windowsill. “Like what?”

“Like what you’ve seen, who you’ve seen, what the hell is out there and how you’ve dealt with it for so long,” Peter snaps.

She stares past them, “You ever hear that poem? I forget the name, but it went like: ‘Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today, I wish, I wish he’d go away’.”

Stiles thinks that maybe she’s still freaking out. “That’s...nice?”

“It was the first thing I thought of when I came here,” she says lowly.

“Antigonish by Hughes Mearns,” Derek says. “Do you think this place is haunted?”

Stiles forgets sometimes that Derek is actually smart and tries his best not to look so surprised. From the sharp scowl Derek sends his way, he’s not sure he quite pulls it off.

The woman shrugs, “If ever there was a place to be haunted, I’d think this’d be it.”

Stiles hesitates, “Before, in the pharmacy, you were talking about a girl?”

She nods tightly. “Yeah, little girl, white dress and stockings? Pigtails?”

Peter looks up, startled. “What do you know about her?”

“I know she follows you if she thinks you see her,” the woman shrugs. “I don’t know what happens when she catches you. I ain’t never been dumb enough to stare at her. But I seen her. And others.”

“How do you know what happens?” Peter insists.

She frowns and doesn’t answer.

“What do you do all day,” Stiles asks. After a couple weeks, he’s already stir crazy.

“Worked in a mechanic shop most of my life,” she says before shrugging. “I go ‘round an’ fix up some of the cars sometimes. Somethin’ to do, I guess.”

“Have you ever tried driving out of town?” Derek asks.

She side eyes him. “Yeah, tried a few times.”

“Guess you didn’t get very far,” Stiles mutters.

She hums and stares out the window. “There was a guy, in the beginning. He seemed like he weren’t takin’ all this so well, so I didn’t do much but watch him, ya know?” She frowns and rubs at the scar along the side of her face. “Watched him from the roof of the theater. He found one of my cars and got in, just started drivin’. Had my binoculars on me, watched him drive farther than I ever did and then…”

She shrugs. “He musta passed out or something, the pressure got too much, you know?”

Stiles nods at her.

“Well, the car swerved and he ended up in a ditch. I thought he was dead, so I didn’t waste my time in tryin’ to help.”

“Because you seem like the type to go out on a limb,” Peter says politely.

She grins wildly at him. “Character flaw.”

“You said you thought he was dead,” Derek prompts.

She hums and frowns again. “Yeah. But whatever’s out there waitin’, whatever makes you feel like you’re lining up to die...they found him.”

“They?” Peter says, leaning forward.

She scratches her head. “Couldn’t tell you why I thought there was more than one, to be honest. I just know that poor sonovabitch screamed for hours. I couldn’t see much, just,” she shakes her head, frustrated. “Was like looking at an after image, you know? Like the blur you get on your camera when you take a picture with your phone and someone moves.”

Stiles hugs his arms around himself. “That’s messed up.”

“Yeah?” she lifts her brow like he had dared her to say something that topped that (which, no god, why would he ever do that). “Well, the next day, that car he stole? Right back where I had parked it before. Like it never moved. Still had my tools around it and everything.”

She leans back and nods at them like ‘so there’.

“Bullshit,” Stiles snaps.

“Time don’t move here. Not a tick. It won’t ever be sun up or sun down. It won’t ever rain and that damn fog won’t ever fade.”

“Cheery.”

“Ain’t it just?” she crosses her legs at the ankle and shoves her hands in her pockets. “See, now the way I figure is that this place is sorta like a fridge,” she says knowingly.

Stiles stares at her, then slowly turns to look at the wolves with an expression that he hopes conveys how fucking Looney Tunes this girl has to be.

But she continues, “See, It stockpiles food here, right? I mean, we’re the food. So It keeps us locked up tight, unable to run, unable to do much more than wait around to be snatched up, ya know?”

And that makes a weird sort of sense and Stiles really doesn’t want to be part of this conversation anymore.

“You keep saying ‘It’,” he says slowly.

She gestures around them, “Yeah, ‘It’ that thing that watches your every move? You feel it don’t you?”

“Peter?” Derek says stiffly.

Peter is nodding. “It could...make a certain sort of sense,” he admits. “Another plane of existence. It might explain the reflections.”

“What reflections?” Derek snaps.

Peter just shakes his head, too deep in thought.

"Is this what Croatoan was?" Stiles jokes weakly. "Just...a town fell off the right plane?"

The woman flinches like someone just uttered the name ‘Voldemort’.

“So we, what? We fell though? Does that mean that we can get out?” Derek asks.

Peter is frowning, rubbing at his chin. “I’m not sure.”

“Wait,” Derek says as he turns to the woman. “You wrote that on the building didn’t you? Croatoan.”

She flinches again and this time Stiles isn’t the only one that notices it.

“Croatoan,” Stiles says.

The woman grits her teeth and glares back at him, her knuckles white as she grips the windowsill as hard as she can.

“What the hell, dude, why do you--”

They hear the dog barking furiously and everyone goes silent. It sounds close, maybe just at the end of the street. Stiles wants to poke his head out and see what’s driving the mutt crazy, but his eyes are trained on the woman. Her back is stiff, her shoulders are hunched and her hands must be hurting with how hard she’s clinging to the sill. Her face is pinched and pale and she looks scared, then determined.

“I hate dogs,” she says absently.

Stiles gestures to her face. “Did a dog do that you?”

She frowns like she forgot he was there for a moment. “What? Oh--” she touches her scaring. “No, this was a ‘gator.”

Stiles stares at her. “...well...that was going to be my second guess.”

“Look,” Derek says. “We got through, the dog got through, other people have fallen in this place before. We can get out. There has to be a way.”

Outside, the dog falls silent and the woman looks furious.

“What, you think you just fell through the astral plane?” she grins meanly and the scar pulls at her mouth.

“Well what then?”

“You were pulled through.”

“By what? Pulled through by what?!”

Her smile darkens. “You really ain’t seen It yet?”

“Seen what?”

The woman leans back against the window and frowns. “Look kid, Imma go on and give you some advice.” She stares outside for a few moments. “You get pulled in here and sometimes you see It and sometimes you don’t. If you don’t, it means It ain’t quite caught onto your scent yet.”

“And you’ve seen it?” Peter presses.

She nods slowly. “Yeah. It ain’t quite there, ya know? Hafta look out the corner of your eyes to really get a good look.”

“What happens if it catches your scent?” Stiles says.

The woman goes still, like she’s listening for something. “First, you start seeing things, maybe the reflections in the glass, maybe not. Then...then they start coming after you, the ghosts or whatever they are. I ain’t sure if they’re trying to help or just drive you insane… And then the voices come. You’ll hear them. Sounding like family, like friends. Trying to lure you out.”

“What does it have to do with Croatoan?” Peter snarls.

She hisses like she’s been burned and draws up to her full (and really impressive) height. “That’s what it is,” she yells. “Yeah, I’m the one that wrote it on the wall, but it was already after me!”

“What is it?!” Derek growls. “If it has a form, we can kill it.”

She sneers. “Nah, son, you write it, you say it, you read it, then you invite it. And it comes when it’s called enough times, like a dog to heel.” she pauses for a moment, then slides the window open further. “There ain’t but one way to survive ‘round here. You run when you see It. You run before It sees you. And if It happens to be on your tail…”

She puts one leg over the window sill and looks back at them with a shrug. “Then darlin’, you lead it to someone else.”

Then she drops.

Stiles rushes to the window just in time to see her land and stagger up. Three story drop; he thinks if she hadn’t been a giant, she wouldn’t have made it unscathed. She lopes away at a fast clip and Stiles turns around.

“What did she--”

BAM.

All three turn to the door. The wood creaks and groans like it wants to buckle. Stiles’ heart is in his throat, he doesn’t dare move.

---

Chapter Text

BAM.BAM.BAM.

Somehow, the door manages to hold against whatever force is assaulting it from the other side.

Peter catches his gaze and points toward the window, beside him, Derek nods. Stiles shakes his head. It’s a thirty foot drop, he will break something. Possibly his neck.

Peter crowds in close to him and grabs him around the middle like he’s going to haul both of them out over the edge. They freeze when they hear a loud scrabbling of what sounds horribly like claws and then something scampering up the walls, onto the roof, right above them--

And Stiles remembers how Peter got in and furiously motions to the window, tugging the older wolf back with him.

Luckily, Peter seems to be right on board with him, but instead of bolting, he darts forward and closes the window as silently as he can. It’s opened only an inch wide before Derek snatches them both by the scruff of their necks and hauls them into the bathroom. They hear the glass creak and splinter seconds before Derek closes the door and locks it.

They stand close, crowded together, staring at the door knob. Stiles glances around, tries to spy a way out, but there’s only a small, frosted window that looks painted shut. And even if it wasn’t, he’d have to be a small cat to fit through it. Peter presses back against him, slowly herding him until he climbs into the bathtub.

Peter makes a gesture and Stiles nods, sinking down into the tub until only his eyes and forehead can be seen above the rim. He’s all for being treated like the damsel in distress right now, all for letting the wolves act as his shield.

There’s nothing he can hear going on outside. He focuses on the other two men, watching the way they turn their heads, trying to catch a scent, a sound. They’re both shifted; Peter’s eyes burning beta bright blue, Derek’s bold alpha red. Their claws are out and their fangs are bared.

Distantly, Stiles wondering why he's not hyperventilating and freaking out, then he tries to feel proud of himself for (mostly) keeping his cool. Then he realizes that he's actually zoomed right past fear and gone into some strange zen-like state of absolute terror, that he actually doesn't feel anything. It's kinda nice.

He vaguely wonders what will happen if whatever it is gets through the door. Wonders if it'll hurt. Wonders if one of the wolves will take pity on him and slash his throat before the creature gets in. He thinks it'll be Peter. Not because Peter's more merciful, but because he's more practical. Derek just doesn't have it in him to kill a pack mate.

There’s still nothing outside. Derek and Peter glance at each other. Peter shakes his head.

The wolves can’t pick up anything either.

Then something creaks and rustles and there’s a soft sound of...something. Something clashing rhythmically against a wall or…

The blinds, Peter mouths.

Derek nods.

The blinds must have dropped down and are now tapping against the window with every gust of wind. Stiles fidgets and mouths, what now?!

Derek shakes his head, We stay.

They keep still for maybe another half hour. The rhythmic thwapping of the blinds hasn’t stopped, but other than that, there’s no noise. Stiles hadn’t actually heard anything come into the room, he’s not sure that anything ever did. Whatever is stalking them seems to have trouble with doors.

Sometimes the blinds give an odd little rustle and the dog barks; they stiffen up again and barely breathe.

But Stiles slowly shifts into a seated position in the tub, Peter relaxes against the sink, and Derek frowns at the door.

“We're going to feel really dumb when that turns out to be just the wind,” Stiles whispers.

“I'm okay with that,” Peter snips.

“Shut up,” Derek hisses.

So they stay in the bathroom. The next morning, Stiles finds himself curled up in the bathtub with Peter sleeping on the toilet and Derek slumped against the door like he'd been bracing against it all night.

Derek makes them stay for another hour. Which is awkward when Stiles announces that he has to pee. Peter’s about to snap at him to hold it, when he realizes he kinda does too.

After some no eye-contact shuffling by all three of them (and a few seconds where Derek almost strangles Stiles for flushing the toilet and making as much noise as possible), Derek decides that it’s about time for them to face whatever may be outside waiting for them. They can’t stay in the cramped bathroom forever and to be honest, Peter would like to get to the safety of their own room.

He should have maimed that damned woman. At least given her a limp to remember him by and to make her easier to catch next time.

He hates when others get the drop on him. Peter isn’t used to not being the cleverest one in the room. And it burns him up that he’d been stopped from an interrogation just because it messed with Stiles’ delicate sensibilities. He’d thought the bleeding heart had been Scott.

Derek shifts, and nods at Peter.

Peter does a mental five count and opens the door for the alpha, quickly stepping aside to let his nephew barrel through. Derek is a bulldozer in humanoid form, anything that survives his first assault is usually dealt with by Peter’s quick claws.

If something’s out there though, he fully intends to leave Stiles and Derek to handle it. He’s not above taking an easy kill, but only from something that can’t fight back too much. It wouldn’t be worth it to get himself injured.

Stiles is in the tub, hunkered down with wide eyes. Peter almost feels sorry for the kid.

Derek stands in the middle of the room, tilting his head this way and that, trying to catch a sound or a scent.

But Peter can’t pick up anything and after a moment, Derek shakes his head and gives them the all clear.

He can’t help but let out a sigh as he slips out of the bathroom. He’s been on edge for too long; ready to spring and attack or duck and run. He needs time to properly rest. And time to digest all the information they’d been given.

Peter needed to wade through it, suss out what was fact and what was fiction, what was being played up and what was being flat out lied about. The woman had been good, giving them stories, but nothing concrete. There hadn’t been a blip in her heart beat the entire time she spoke. Even when Stiles had told her how long she’d been there.

At the time, he’d been too focused on squeezing what details he could from her to pay it any attention, but he’s been thinking about it all night. She had already known how long it had been.

Which means she was lying about when she was taken, or she had already met someone who’d told her before them. Peter is inclined to believe the latter. And he can imagine what happened to that poor soul. He’s a little impressed, if he’s going to be honest.

Not only had the woman managed to evade them the entire time they’d been stuck here, but she’d also set up a scenario in which she’d run into them and earn their trust (had she suspected that they were the type to tie someone up and keep them captive? Had she made plans in case they had wanted to harm her?). If she was to be believed about the whole Croatoan thing, then she graffitied the wall where she knew they’d see it, gotten them to talk about it, and...what? Called the thing to them? Is that how she survived this long? Tricking unsuspecting victims into taking her place as the creature hunted?

It sounds like something he would do.

When they get back to their hotel room, they discover that their bags have been ransacked. Peter would be mad, but again, he’s just too impressed to get angry. Derek does not have that problem.

The alpha tosses their things around, digs through what’s left, growling the entire time as he discovers what’s been taken. At first, it seems like she just took whatever would keep her warm; some sweaters, socks, Stiles’ hoodie. All the candy Stiles had collected (she’d even found Peter’s stash of Reeses’). Then they discover their wallets have been searched through and she’s taken their IDs.

Peter can’t make anything of it.

“She took my fake ID and my real one,” Stiles complains. “What a dick.”

"So, she tricked us,” Derek bursts out.

Peter’s glad he’s getting his anger off his chest. With the way the boy represses things, it’s a wonder he hasn’t keeled over from a brain aneurysm.

"She set a damn trap. She scratched Croat--”

“Juuuust in case she was telling the truth about that,” Stiles interrupts. “Can we not say the C-word?”

Peter agrees wholeheartedly.

“...she scratched that word into the wall where we'd see it, then let herself get caught. She said It was after her. Whatever It is, she led it right to us."

Derek has started pacing. Striding quickly from one end of the room to the other, shoulders back and fingers curled like he’ll sprout claws any second. Stiles looks like he’s about to say something witty, but wisely decides to stay quiet.

Peter’s just trying not to enjoy how riled up his nephew is.

"I'm going to kill her!"

"I wonder how many people have said that,” Stiles says absently.

"What,” Derek turns on him and glares.

Stiles raises his hands in surrender, "Dude, she's been here ten years. How many people do you think she's double crossed and left to die?"

And that’s why Peter likes the boy. Unlike the other kids, Stiles enjoys using his brain for the truly morbid.

The dog barks again outside and they automatically stiffen up. But the animal doesn’t sound nervous or scared. Just sort of...morose. It had been making noise off and on the entire night (or day or whatever) and they’d been thinking of it as an early warning system--

Peter blinks and goes to poke his head outside. From this angle, he can’t see much up the road toward town, so he leaves the others trailing behind him (Derek stomping and growling orders, Stiles dragging his feet and complaining).

At the end of the road, just before they hit the main street, the dog is tied to the hitch of an abandoned truck.

And now he’s really impressed.

The dog slinks from under the vehicle and whines pathetically until Stiles croons and takes a step forward, then it snarls and snaps its teeth, lunging forward and jerking the leash anchoring it.

“Fuck you, Cujo!” Stiles snaps. “Why the hell is this thing...oh…”

Stiles turns to him and makes an astonished face, “Ohhhhh.”

Derek glares the animal into submission before he goes anywhere near it. “She did this?”

“Dude,” Stiles says, looking excited. “She totally did this before she was even caught. Knew the dog would bark if the thing came near our road! ...I feel like she’s the Master to my Doctor.”

Derek snaps the leash in two, unwilling to get close enough to the dog’s mouth to unwind the leash from around its throat. The dog snaps at his retreating hand anyway, barks, and then darts off toward town. “What the hell do you mean?”

“Early warning system,” Peter drawls. “She planned it out.”

Derek stares at them. “We passed right by here, I would have noticed it.”

Peter cocks his head. “Is this about where she punched you in the head?”

The younger wolf’s glare hardens and he just stands there as all the pieces fall into place. Poor boy, sometimes Peter has to show him the ball before he made him go fetch.

Derek looks livid for the rest of the day.

They troop back to their hotel room, both wolves subtly re-marking their territory by touching everything. Stiles flops back onto one of the beds with a huff and Peter takes the other. He lays out flat on his back and closes his eyes; he’s not tired, but this way no one will talk to him and expect him to respond.

Instead, he shifts through the information they’d been given. The fear the woman had shown in response to the word ‘Croatoan’ had been genuine, he was sure of that. Everything else should be taken with a grain of salt. Was she really from where she said she was? Her accent says yes. Was she really from when she said she was? Maybe. She could have used it to garner sympathy, especially for those that knew about the hurricane. And she hadn’t been upset enough, hadn’t wanted to know enough about why they knew about it.

Peter thinks that if he’d been in her shoes, he’d want to devour any information they could give him about what happened, what was going on in the world for the past ten years.

And she hadn’t exactly been happy to see them. Humans didn’t get on well alone; neither did wolves. Omegas went mad because they didn’t have the strength of a pack to keep them sane. He thinks that’s also the way for humans.

But she didn’t seem like she’d missed being around people at all. Stiles had shown more enthusiasm than she did. How long had she actually been alone? Was she alone? Did she have partners? Maybe Peter was wrong about how she distracted Derek. Had she been taken and someone else come up and tied the dog up to give her a warning? If she was here, how many others could there be?

Peter frowns at that and pushes it away. For the moment, he will assume that she was working alone, that she’s been left fend for herself (probably after betraying whoever was here before them) for a while.

She’s efficient. At lying, escaping, and planning. He was right about her being dangerous.

He shifts through her stories. She’d talked about the reflections in the glass, and if he hadn’t seen the girl for himself (or felt her touch), then he likely would have dismissed what she said about them. He hadn’t seen the child again. But, he also hadn’t been staring into any mirrors lately. And he doesn’t plan to.

He isn’t sure if this place is haunted, but he agrees with her: if there was ever a place that should be haunted, this must be it.

How many had passed through this plane? Was it really used as a place for some malevolent creature to hold its meals until it was ready to gorge? Were there really creatures waiting in the fog for some stupidly brave (or desperate) being to come across them?

They’d come through whatever doorway there was, the dog had come through, the woman had come through. Doors opened both ways; surely there must be a way to get back out.

Peter didn’t know why, but he was sure the answer lay beyond the fog. He couldn’t shake the feeling that that’s why there was such fear surrounding the edge of town. Like something didn’t want them to leave and laid a neat little trap that would have their terror act as their own jailer.

She’d said that they would be set upon by the people in the glass, he hasn’t seen it yet, so he won’t put much stock in that. Then she said they’d start hearing voices of their loved ones. Which was...disconcerting.  He didn’t want to believe that either...but the way she had looked when she told them….

He sighs quietly.

She probably wasn’t from when she said she was. She had probably telling the truth about what she thought the creature was and how to lure it to them. She’d definitely been scared. The story about the man taking the car as far as he could might be a lie; certainly the part about how the car had been returned was. ...too much of what she said, Peter can’t help but write off as the rantings of someone who’s been alone for too long.

She probably absolutely believes she sees things in the fog, with how much fear being out there gives him, Peter might say the same if he were out there too long.

“We should go look for her,” Derek is saying.

Stiles looks unsure.

“We didn’t find her when we searched the town before,” Peter drawls. His nephew is too used to just snapping his jaws and giving chase. He needs to learn to think and plan before he moves out.

Derek glares. “We didn’t know she was here before.”

Peter blinks at him. “Yes. Exactly.”

The other wolf scowls. “Now that we do, we can look for her.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “You're right, let’s go out and start tracking her scent--oh wait.”

Derek’s expression darkens in anger.

“Hm, then let’s go out and walk around until we hear her--oh wait.”

Derek looks like he’s about to bite him and Peter decides the boy has had enough.

“Unless she’s twenty feet away from us, we’re not going to know she’s there.”

“At least you took away her gun,” Stiles says.

Derek purses his lips.

Peter doesn’t remember the boy bringing the shotgun with him… “You left it at the store, didn’t you?”

Derek sits down on the edge of Stiles’ bed and pouts at the wall.

“We didn’t even find out her name,” Stiles says after a few minutes.

Yes. They had been well and truly fucked over.

It’s easy to ignore most of what the woman had told them. It sounded like a flaming bag of shit and Stiles wasn’t inclined to buy into it.

At least, during the day (or what they were calling day). At night though, while Derek glared angrily at the wall and Peter stared up at the ceiling as they lay in their beds, it was harder not to think about it.

Stiles had seen that girl in the reflection of his phone. There was a lot of creepy, fucked up stuff going around that he just didn’t have the knowledge to explain away. If Peter did, then he wasn’t saying anything (shocking, he knows).

But he couldn’t understand why she would lie to them. Did she really do it just to keep them busy while the creature (whatever it was) tracked her--and them--down? Or was she really trying to warn them?

Did it have their scent now?

How did this creature hunt? How did it pick its victims? Apparently it was able to hone in on its name, but Stiles and the others hadn't even been thinking of Croatoan that day. How did it decide to go for them? Out of the entire town, why were they special?

Was it hunting all of them?

One of them?

Was it hunting just him?

Had the woman been brought here alone?

Did she name the creature herself? How did she know what it was called?

Did it have their scent now?

Stiles could barely shut his eyes. Every few minutes he'd pop them back open, too scared to even pretend to be sleeping. He thinks about the scratching they heard, about how something had been on the roof.

He thinks of the reflection of the little girl. He thinks about the woman and how scared she looked.

He thinks too much.

When it becomes all too apparent that Derek isn’t letting this go and Peter nor Stiles have any better ideas, they decide to go out and search the town.

Derek stomps up and down the roads, nose tilted up and head cocked, looking like an idiot. Peter and Stiles walk grudgingly behind him; Peter pretending they’re not related and Stiles pretending he’s not ready to up and bolt at the first sign of Something Creepy.

They don’t find anything.

Peter insists that they keep to some kind of schedule (how he keeps track of time, Stiles can only guess; he’s pretty sure it’s time to go back when Peter gets bored), and makes them return to the hotel each night. They don’t rest, not really.

Stiles tries to sometimes, but he doesn’t need to and he doesn’t really see the point. He tries to start skipping eating, but it feels weird and Peter won’t let any of them go through with it.

He calls the older wolf a mother hen and Peter snaps at him that if they are in some strange pocket dimension, that they still need to keep up their strength just in case they manage to escape. And then Stiles could only think about what would happen if they did get out and he hadn’t eaten in two weeks.

Would it count out there? Would they appear healthy and whole like they were now? Would they be starving? Peter seemed unwilling to chance it and makes sure everyone ate something at least once a day.

Most of the food in town had been left alone. There was an almost empty grocery store and Stiles wondered how many people had been through here, taking what they could and stockpiling, not noticing until later that they had no appetite. He wonders if the woman still eats.

Most of what they scavenge comes from employee break rooms. There’s no electricity running, but it’s cool enough that most food is still good enough to eat (how had it gotten there in the first place? Had the Croatoan really sucked up an entire town, killing all the residents and leaving behind everything they knew?). There was going to be a point where they ran out though.

Stiles almost brought up the idea of building a garden, but the thought turned sour on his tongue. He was thinking like they were planning to stay. He couldn’t let his mind get trapped in anything long term.

Besides, there was no sun.

A few days with Derek still on a warpath and Peter growing steadily more apathetic to the situation, they split up.

As in, Stiles still follows Derek around like a duckling and Peter gives zero shits and stays in bed.

Stiles thinks the wolf is getting depressed. And who wouldn’t be? Maybe that’s why Derek is so focused on the woman. If he wasn’t, then he’d just have to sit around and stare at the wall with everyone else.

Derek starts ranting about how packs shouldn’t split up in a dangerous situation, but whatever malevolent force that had been hovering over them had slowly dissipated. It was still quiet and creepy when they leave the hotel room, but they didn’t feel as watched as they had been before. Stiles didn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

Maybe they had proved to be too much for their captor to handle and it went off to hunt more victims? (though how staying behind a locked door made them difficult prey, Stiles doesn’t quite understand)

So they trek out, him and Derek, mapping and remapping the town. His tire iron had been taken (because of course it had) and so had Derek’s phone (which Derek is pissed about and Stiles can’t figure out why because if he really wanted it, he wouldn’t have chucked it out onto the street and left it there for days). Derek thinks the woman took it. Stiles thinks the dog might have found a new chew toy.

They come across the dog a few times. It’s always pissed to see them and incredibly aggressive. Stiles thinks that if he didn’t have Derek beside him, the animal would have been shitting him out weeks ago.

They go into the clothing store and find him a new hoodie (it’s a size too big and is camouflaged, which just makes him stand out).

He thinks he might be getting used to the quiet. And he’s not sure that’s a good thing.

Especially because it makes him complacent. He doesn’t notice the little things until they build up. They had all dismissed the woman’s warnings about the town being haunted, about its long dead inhabitants coming for them.

Stiles thinks they have no one to blame but themselves.

---

Chapter Text

Peter misses the moon.

He hadn’t realized it until their...second? third? week trapped here. He hadn’t realized it wasn’t there at first; the slow ebb and pull that steadily got stronger the closer it came to the full moon. He misses shifting and feeling wild and free. He misses running and hunting, snapping at the younger betas as they worked through their aggression.

They didn’t like it, said they didn’t like that their ‘wolf’ was taking over.

Peter had never been human; his wolf was as much a part of him as his heart and lungs. He didn’t think about him being two separate entities vying for control. He just was.

He thought they complained about their humanity too much anyway.

They bitched and moaned about how much they’d lost, but were perfectly comfortable with popping out their claws and snarling at anyone they didn’t like. They mourned their humanity without celebrating what they had become.

Scott was the worst offender.

The boy was constantly telling anyone who would listen how much he hated being changed against his will, how he never wanted any of this, how it just wasn’t fair that he didn’t get to be normal.

It had always driven Peter up the damn wall. To a point, yes, he understands. It was poor form to have given Scott the bite in that situation. But Peter had been half out of his mind; mad with revenge and the new power of an alpha surging through him, urging him to create a pack. Had he known what an idiot Scott would become…

What most incenses him as that the boy never talks about how much he’s gained. The love of his life, who surely wouldn’t have looked twice at him; co-captain of the lacrosse team, a game he could barely even play before; a cure for his asthma, which would have held him back from doing anything remotely strenuous; the ability to fight back, to not have to sit there and just take whatever bullshit someone tried to put on you, an ability to protect his loved ones; and above all else, he received a pack.

People that would never abandon him, would never leave him behind, would never let him face the world alone. He’d always have someone to turn to for help, an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on, and a hand to help him back on his feet.

There were dangers, of course, but none that the wolves brought upon themselves.

He thinks Derek got lucky with the teens he bit; they were untrained, disrespectful assholes, but they at least appreciated what they had become.

Peter would bring it up, but what would be the point? Scott had a narrow view of the world; he was a teenager and thought he had a right to bitch like his opinions even mattered.

He’s incredibly annoyed with himself when he realizes he misses all of them. Even Scott.

A pack had just as much pull on a wolf as the moon did, and he felt lost without both their influences.

It’s lucky that he was with Derek at the time of their abduction; having his alpha close makes him stronger, steadier. If he’d been brought here with just one of the others, he might have already lost his precious control.

Knowing how much he needs his pack, his alpha and even the human boy, he still finds himself pulling away from them. He doesn’t want to get involved, doesn’t want to patrol the town like it’s his territory. He just wants out. But all his knowledge is letting him down. There are plenty of fairy tales about people being abducted from their homes and brought to a strange new land. But Peter had approached them with the same amount of attention that he approached bogeyman stories.

He didn’t believe them, didn’t care about them, and didn’t retain any of the cutesy little values they were meant to teach. He just hadn’t cared enough about them.

Now it’s come back to bite him in the ass.

There are some vague tales that his grandmother used to tell, nothing he can pin down in his mind though.

And he thinks he would remember coming across something called the Croatoan. If that’s even the entity’s real name. If they had access to the internet, he’s sure Stiles would have printed out about fifty pages of what this thing could be.

He could be looking through his notes, his bestiary.

Instead, he’s wallowing in self-pity like he’s one of the teen wolves.

Absently, he wonders how they’re doing. If they’re out looking for them, trying to track down their lost pack mates. He thinks if their lives are left to them, then they’re as good as dead.

Peter tries to shake off the feeling of apathy, but it’s difficult. He isn’t good at sitting still and knowing nothing while danger lurks right above his head. He needs to think. He needs to be useful. He needs a glass of wine--

“Peetteerrrrr!”

The wolf lifts his head up. Stiles? How long had they been gone? He should have been keeping better track. It doesn’t sound like the teen is distressed or hurt. He just sounds petulant.

Peter wonders if he did something to piss Derek off, causing the alpha to send him home early.

He stiffens up at that, at the thought of calling this place home even for a second.

“Peter!”

The boy is in the parking lot, he can hear him shifting from foot to foot. He’s excited about something.

Peter scowls and snuggles down deeper into his bed. He’s not getting up. If they found something, he doesn’t care. If they didn’t find anything, then he cares even less. If Derek wanted him, he’d come himself, not send Stiles.

“PETER!”

Except maybe Derek was planning on annoying Peter into getting out of bed.

“Peter!”

Which may be working.

“Peeeettteeerrrr!”

Ugh and Peter knows that tone; it means Stiles is about to make this the most aggravating day of his life.

“Pete!”

...no.

“Petey!”

That little asshole.

Peter throws off the blankets and bolts up, training his ears as he listens to Stiles snort to himself and dart off, sneakers slapping against the asphalt. He thinks maybe they found the woman. Derek might have chased her up a tree. He can see that. Peter isn’t sure he feels up to watching his nephew be smug. But he’s already up, so he may as well find out what’s going on.

He slips out of the hotel room, nose automatically tilted up to test the air. But, like every other time, he can sense nothing.

“Stiles?”

He can hear his name, muffled in that strange way that the town distorts sound. He tramps down the hall, down the stairs and across the lot. Stiles calls again, from around the other side of the building...towards the woods?

Maybe Derek really did tree the woman. Peter doesn’t know if he should be impressed or embarrassed.

“Peter!”

More urgent now as he rounds the far corner of the hotel.

He can see nothing. There’s the road going on for about fifty yards, then thick, deep fog that rolls over everything. He can make out the vague shapes of tall trees beyond the swirling murk, but that’s it.

“Stiles?” he calls out.

There’s nothing. He frowns and walks toward the fog. Had the boy gotten lost in it? Surely he would know better than to get close.

...had they found a way out?

Peter’s breath hitches in his chest and he breaks into a fast trot. He almost grins, feeling lighter than he has in days. Had they found a way out and Stiles had been sent back to get him? Had Derek already gone through? He scowls, souring at the idea of his nephew, his alpha, leaving him behind again.

First, you start seeing things, maybe the reflections in the glass, maybe not. Then...then they start coming after you, the ghosts or whatever they are. I ain’t sure if they’re trying to help or just drive you insane… And then the voices come. You’ll hear them. Sounding like family, like friends. Trying to lure you out.

It comes unbidden, the woman’s words.

Peter stops in his tracks. His stomach goes cold as he spies the area around him.

“Stiles?” he mutters.

Whatever the woman heard, she hadn’t had ears like a wolf; Peter would be able to tell the difference between Stiles’ voice and something using Stiles’ voice. If she had even been telling the truth about it.

He licks his lips, trying to ignore the sudden urge to snarl and bolt. He strains his ears and picks up nothing. Slowly, feeling incredibly stupid, he takes a few steps forward toward the fog.

Peter thinks he can see shapes moving. Trees swaying? Bushes? He can’t be sure. The fear that assaulted them on the highway is dimmed here.

Like it wants him here.

“Peter.”

He feels the boy’s cold breath on the back of his neck.

            -           

Stiles isn’t the type to ignore the elephant in the room. He’s the type to poke at it with a stick until it goes on a rampage and starts killing people.

Which is why Derek hates him a little.

“Why are we looking for that girl when we could be looking for a way out?” the teen moans.

Derek wants to bite him. Not even to change him. Just to hurt him.

Because Derek knows they shouldn’t be wasting their time. He knows this; he isn’t half as stupid and impulsive as everyone seems to think he is. But he also knows that he has no clue how to get out of this mess. There’s no wolf lore that he can pull out of his ass, there’s no roaring the enemy into submission or slashing an exit with his claws. There’s just this town, the fog, whatever is hunting them, and the woman. That’s all he’s got.

If Peter couldn’t figure a way out by now, Derek doesn’t know what Stiles expects of him.

He hated it in the beginning, when Stiles and Scott seemed set on ruining what remained of his sad, pathetic life. They would both stir up all kinds of trouble and then drag him into it and when everyone was neck deep, they’d expect him to save them. He’s glad they ended up saving themselves more often than not, but it ate at him that he wasn’t able to be what they needed.

He thought that becoming an alpha with his own pack would change things. And it had, mostly. Things were good; his betas were strong and learning fast. But he was running out of knowledge to give them. And some things he just couldn’t explain because he didn’t know what it was like to be turned. He was born with these instincts and these claws and these fangs. The teens were starting to look at him like he was holding out on them, holding them back.

They didn’t understand that pack was forever. It was family. It wasn’t like school, where they could learn all there was and then graduate and leave everything behind. And Derek didn’t know how to explain that in a way that didn’t make him sound psychotic.

He doesn’t know where to even begin in working a way out for them. So for now, he’s going to follow his instincts and try and track down the only other living person he’s seen.

Behind him, Stiles huffs and plops down on the curb.

Derek hesitates for a few moments, but decides to leave him be. They’re across the town, opposite the side with their hotel. Here, there’s a small bundle of rundown houses, squished together to make a homey sort of neighborhood. The kind that made you think of lemonade stands and pies cooling on windowsills.

If it was ever that place, it isn’t anymore. The houses are empty and stripped bare of most things a family would keep; linens and clothes and food. He suspects that the woman had scoured through here, he thinks of this as her hunting grounds. He glances back once more at Stiles and then trots up the sidewalk and the steps and into the nearest house.

It’s odd like it had been the first time he came inside.

It’s like one of those show homes that are fully furnished and have plastic food set out on the table to show you how you could be living.

Except that people did live here at some point. He can see the scuff marks low on the wall beside the door like people had just come home and kicked off their shoes every day for years. He can see where there are some old scratches by cats on the banister. An old pee stain from a pet dog. There are plates in the sink in the kitchen, long left to gather dust. The linoleum is chipped by the fridge like it had been moved too many times. The table rocks on a loose screw. One of the overstuffed chairs squeaks in the living room every time it folds out.

Up the stairs, there are opened toothpaste tubes and pink Hello Kitty toothbrushes for what looks like three little girls.

There are bedrooms with dirty laundry and sheets tossed on the bed like someone had just climbed out. There are school books and posters of boy bands.

In the master bedroom, the edge of the comforter is covered in cat hair. A woman’s slippers have been tossed by the closet door.

Derek feels like he’s intruding on people’s lives. And yet….

There are no scents. Not from anything. This may as well be an elaborate dollhouse, all the items inside painted and faked.

He can barely stand it, being there in the middle of what he thinks is a toddler’s room, feeling like any minute someone is going to come through the bedroom door and demand to know what he’s doing there.

There’s a Furby doll on the dresser at his side. One of the old ones from the nineties.

His littlest sister used to have one. She’d loved that damn thing, trotted it around everywhere she went. The rest of the family had grown to hate it and had been pleased when the batteries had run out. His sister had wailed and moaned and whimpered for about an hour before moving on to something else.

Laura had taken the batteries out and stuffed the toy in the linen closet.

A week later, the house had woken up to the sound of his mother’s shriek of terror. Derek remembers his father coming barreling down the hallway, barking at him and his siblings to stay in their rooms, for Peter to stay with the kids and watch them.

A few minutes later they’d heard him screech and they’d all tripped over themselves in a rush to go help.

Derek remembers clearly how his mother had been wielding a broom, shoving the Furby along the floor and to the back door. His father had been standing behind her, offering his moral support to “get that fucking thing out of the house, Jesus Christ, did you see it look at me?!” Half its face had been clawed off, exposing all the mechanics behind its wide, blinking eyes.

It had been making the most God Awful, terrifying sounds he’d ever heard; some garbled version of “Let’s be friends”.

“It doesn’t even have batteries,” his mother had kept muttering fiercely.

Peter had made the mistake of laughing and his mother had ordered him to go outside and burn the damn thing. He’d come back an hour later, pale as a sheet, looking like he’d seen things he could never unsee.

Derek snorts, a small smile lighting across his mouth as he pokes the toy. It rocks back on its heels and stays silent.

Nothing here runs anymore, like all the juice, all the energy was just sucked out of everything. He wonders if that’s what’s going to happen to them. Are they going to just fade away? Are they going to get more and more lethargic, all their life being drawn away? Will they become one of the tiny laughs he still sometimes hears in the mannequins? Will they disappear and leave behind just enough of themselves to confuse the next people that come through?

He picks the Furby up, brushing his thumbs over the eyelids and through the fake fur. He doesn’t know why he keeps coming into the houses, Stiles refuses after the first time and Derek can’t blame him.

In the town, it’s easy to tell that it’s been abandoned, but here...in these houses, you can actually feel it--

The Furby’s eyes flick open and its mouth works--

And Stiles screams.

For a second, Derek can’t breathe, can’t move, because he’s certain, just for a moment, that the scream is coming from the toy and he can’t even begin to understand that. But it’s echoing through the house, starting from out the opened front door. He’s never heard the boy make that noise. Never heard anyone make that noise. Like he’s being tortured. There’s a whine that escapes the back of his throat and it spurs him into action.

He drops the toy, shifts, and bounds through the hall and down the stairs, claws out as he wildly thinks ‘Is it the dog? The woman? Something else?’

He’ll kill whatever it is. Will die protecting Stiles if he has to. Stiles is still screeching--

And stops as soon as Derek bursts out the doorway. He snaps his jaws and roars, furious that something thought it could harm his pack, take it away from him.

But Stiles is sitting on the curb, just where Derek left him; his jaw is dropped open and he’s turned around, gaping at Derek like he’s never seen anything like him.

Derek’s heart is in his throat, the rush of adrenaline is turning the rushing of his blood into white noise in his ears. He feels jittery, on edge, so ready to fight. But there’s nothing.

“You screamed,” he gets out around a mouthful of fangs.

Stiles is still gaping at him, but slowly, he shakes his head.

Derek flits his gaze all around them, trying to find...something.

The teen straightens up, holds his hands out like Derek is the thing to be terrified of.

He can still hear the boy’s scream echoing in his head.

“I heard you,” he accuses.

“I was just sitting here,” Stiles says softly, like he’s talking to a cornered animal. “And you went inside….then you rushed out a few minutes later all...alpha-y.”

Derek can’t bring himself to stop tensing for a few long minutes. There are no strange scents, no strange noises, nothing. They are alone.

“I heard you,” Derek says forcefully, unwilling to let this go.

But Stiles draws his brows together and shakes his head. “I didn’t though.”

The boy is looking at him like he’s something to be pitied, like he’s losing it and he has to be careful around him.

Derek swallows and forces himself to fall back into his human form. His claws won’t recede and his eyes still blaze alpha red, casting everything is a strange, off hue. He eases up to Stiles, who’s still planted on the curb, tracking Derek with wide eyes.

He doesn’t want to scare him, not here, not now on top of everything else.

He breathes deep, taking in Stiles’ scent, his nerves. Derek crouches down so they can be eye to eye.

“You didn’t hear anything?” he tries.

Stiles shakes his head again. “There wasn’t anything, dude, I swear.”

The teen’s heart is faster than usual, but like he’s coming down off of a scare, not because of a lie. And if they were in each other’s shoes, Derek imagines he would have been scared to death too; watching his alpha come barreling at him like a mad man.

“Are you sure?” he says, and tries to ignore the flare of desperation blossoming in his chest.

Stiles shrugs. “It was quiet.”

Derek lowers his gaze and wipes a shaking hand across his face. It had been so horrible, so real. There was no way he could have imagined it. He knows that being so isolated can play tricks on the mind, and this town is one of the worst places he could think of, but he thought he’d been keeping a pretty level head about everything. If he expected his mind to play tricks on him, he doesn’t think it would have started with this.

Stiles reaches out slowly and pats him on the shoulder.

He almost wants to laugh, but swallows it back. Stiles shouldn’t be trying to comfort him; he’s not the one who should be needing comfort. Derek is the alpha, the leader, the strongest. He should be able to keep his shit together better than a sixteen year old.

He sighs into his hands and shakes his head. “I heard you scream,” he says.

“I didn’t though,” Stiles says hesitantly.

Derek nods.

“That woman,” Stiles says after a quiet moment. “She said we’d start hearing things. Voices trying to lure us out.”

Derek honestly doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or not. On one hand, there’s a chance he isn’t going crazy and imagining things. On the other, there’s a chance he isn’t going crazy and imagining things.

“C’mon,” Stiles pats his shoulder once more before standing up. “I’m getting creeped out, let’s go back to the hotel.”

Derek thinks that Stiles is suggesting it more for Derek’s benefit than his own, but agrees anyway.

He wraps his hand around Stiles’ arm loosely and doesn’t let go the entire way back.

Stiles keeps up a stream of chatter. Derek almost snaps at him to shut up a few times, but recognizes it as the boy working off his nerves. And he’s been kind enough not to point out that Derek is still clinging to him, so he decides to let it go. It’s background noise to him at this point. Like the recordings of waves on a beach or thunderstorms. He sinks into it, lets it pass over him. There’s nothing there that he has to pay attention to and it’s nice to hear something other than complete silence.

Derek just wants to lay down and not move for a little while. Maybe Peter had the right idea--

Stiles jerks him back.

“Dude,” the boy says urgently.

Derek stares down at him. He hadn’t been listening to anything. If Stiles was expecting him to answer, he’s going to be disappointed.

But instead, he’s pointing across the hotel’s parking lot.

Derek tracks where he’s gesturing and--

the door to their room is open.

He stiffens, pulling Stiles immediately behind him. He can’t hear anything, can’t smell anything. Did the woman come back? Did she go after Peter while he was alone? Had she just been waiting for the opportunity to catch them off guard? Take them out one by one? She could be up there right now, shotgun leveled at the door, ready to blast away the first person that comes through.

Or she could be searching through their things again; maybe she’s the one that’ll be caught unaware this time.

He bares his fangs and tenses, ready to launch himself three stories up, but Stiles yanks on his shoulder.

“Dude, Peter…?”

Derek follows the line of his arm again.

Down the road, near where the fog meets the tree line, stands Peter. And he’s fighting...something.

Derek can’t see very well from there, they’re far enough away that the strange distortion is affecting his vision even with his eyes blazing red. He jogs forward, doesn’t even bother telling Stiles to stay behind; the boy wouldn’t be any safer in their room and Derek wants him to stay at his side.

The closer they get to Peter, the more Derek realizes that Peter isn’t fighting anything. He’s thrashing his arms around, snarling and snapping his jaws, whirling his claws to and fro like he’s trying to ward off a bee…

Derek can’t make anything of it and he puts a hand out to stop Stiles, to keep the boy a few steps behind him.

“Peter!” Stiles calls out.

Peter nearly howls, furious, enraged. He growls and bites at the air, slapping his back and Derek has no idea what the hell is going on--

Stiles sidesteps him and darts to Peter, skidding to a stop next to him and reaching out to clamp a hand on the wolf’s shoulder.

“Peter, what the--”

If Derek had not been an alpha, had not been stronger and faster than a beta, had not seen the fury in his uncle’s eyes, then Stiles would have been skewered like a pig.

He grabs Peter’s wrist, almost hard enough to snap the fragile bones, stopping the older wolf’s claws a bare few inches from Stiles’ midsection. Peter twists and tries to reach with his other hand, but Derek grabs that one too as Stiles pinwheels back and falls on his ass.

He squeezes just so and breaks Peter’s wrists, jerking him around and flipping him onto his back.

Derek roars, stilling the other wolf in his place. Peter blinks up at him, gasping in huge breaths. His pupils are blown wide and he’s shaking like he’s about to come out of his skin. Derek keeps him pinned with his heavier bulk, doesn’t let up on Peter for a second.

Behind them, Stiles is panting. The boy has skittered back several feet and Derek almost tells him to go back to their room.

“Peter,” he says roughly, his throat sore.

Peter just stares at him for a few minutes. Underneath his palms, he can feel his uncles’ wrists trying to heal, bones and muscle trying to knit themselves back together. But he doesn’t let his grip up. He knows he can cause serious damage if he keeps this up. Peter will continue to try and heal and if his bones can’t heal like they should, then they’ll just heal as well as they can. He’ll have to re-break them to set them properly.

Slowly, Peter relaxes underneath him. He thunks his head back against the asphalt and shuts his eyes, breathing heavily.

Derek eases his hold back a bit, lets him heal.

“Is he crazy again?” Stiles whispers harshly.

Peter huffs, “I’m really not sure.”

Derek doesn’t let go, but shifts to his knees, lifting his bulk from the older wolf. “What the hell was that?” he hisses.

“You almost killed me,” Stiles snaps. “Again.”

Peter shakes his head and clenches his hands; slowly he’s able to retract his claws and Derek decides to let him up.

He stays between them though, poised and ready to dart out and pin Peter back against the ground if needed.

But Peter just lays there. When they’re healed, he brings his hands up and rubs his face vigorously, like he’s trying to wipe away the last traces of the wolf.

“I heard your voice,” he says after a while.

And a heavy weight drops in Derek’s belly as he steals a glance at Stiles. The boy looks pale, scared.

“I was inside the room and I heard you calling me so…” Peter shakes his head. “I was stupid.”

“I heard Stiles screaming,” Derek says quietly.

Peter drops his hands and sits up. They stare at each other for a few moments before Derek reaches out to help pull Peter to his feet. Derek squeezes his uncle’s hand, just barely, just as a reminder. He’s already seen what the other wolf can do to pack mates. He won’t have it done ever again.

Peter just sighs; sounding tired, looking tired.

Stiles stands behind them, brushing dirt off the seat of his pants. “So...can we go back to the room or…?”

They go back, Stiles in front, Derek covering him, Peter a few feet behind and to the side of them like he knows better than to get close right now.

Derek’s senses are useless here. He wants so badly to protect his pack; he knows something is terrorizing them, he thinks that maybe they never did escape the thing that the woman had brought on their doorstep. Maybe it was just waiting, playing with its food, beating them down until they were weak and tender enough to be swallowed whole.

He locks the door behind them when they enter their room.

He can still hear Stiles’ screams. Was it some kind of premonition?

He doesn’t ever want to hear the boy make that sound.

“The woman said we’d hear voices,” Stiles says, plopping down right beside Peter on the bed.

Both wolves stiffen up for a moment. Stiles has never had much of a survival instinct, but Derek thinks this is more of a ‘fuck you’ to whatever is pulling their strings and an ‘I forgive you’ to Peter. Which Derek appreciates.

But he still thinks maybe Stiles should stand a few feet away.

Peter relaxes slowly, fists clenched at his sides. Derek can see his claws.

“I suppose she was telling the truth,” the older wolf gets out.

“So. Why was it using my voice?” Stiles says. He’s chewing the string of his hoodie; tugging it out of his mouth when he speaks and shoving it back in to be gnawed on when he stops.

“It’s instinct,” Derek says lowly. “To come when you call.”

“How’s that?”

Peter frowns, still eyeing Stiles like he’s still thinking about ripping him open. “You’re the youngest and weakest of the pack. Here, at least. It’s instinct to protect you.” He pauses and then growls out, “It knows we’ll come.”

Derek nods slowly as he thinks about it. It makes sense. And it’s dangerous. 

Stiles raises his hand like he’s in class. “So...just don’t come when I call?”

“The Boy Who Cried Wolf,” Derek says, rubbing his forehead. “If we ignore you, then the next time, it could actually be you needing help.”

Stiles frowns. “Well...that sucks.”

It really does.

---

Chapter Text

They stay together after that. As much as they can stand it. Stiles comes up with code words to use if they ever get separated, little owl hoots and warbling howls that make the wolves wince. No one appreciates him.

Mostly, they spend their time resting; Stiles sharing a bed with Peter in some attempt to make the older man realize that Stiles doesn’t blame him for what almost happened.

He’s not sure if Peter gets what he’s doing or has just stopped fighting it because it’ll only make Stiles more stubborn; but at night, he shares the blankets and lets Stiles stick his feet under his calves without too much bitching.

He doesn’t want anyone feeling left out, like they have to be careful around each other. In this place, Stiles thinks that they have to trust each other no matter what; he thinks that if he were some terrifying baddie, that the first thing he would do is tear a group apart, make them turn on one another and then pick them off while they’re weak.

So when Derek wants to pace the town, Stiles bitches and moans until Peter’s eye twitches and he gets up and comes with them. He sticks closer to the older wolf’s side, doesn’t let him get out of sight for anything.

Peter gets annoyed and snaps at him, but with the same amount of heat that he used before, not with anything deadly. Derek starts relaxing again, no longer tensing for a fight every time Peter glanced at Stiles.

And it makes him feel a little better.

Peter may not be a good guy (like, at all), but he was still pack and pack means family and family means that no one gets left behind or forgotten. He thinks about sharing this little insight, but doesn’t know if the wolves would get it or appreciate it.

It gets better, the more they stick around each other. Or, maybe not better, but definitely easier.

Once or twice, Stiles is certain that the wolves hear things, hear him maybe, calling out to them outside their room. They don’t say anything, but he sees them stiffen up at the same time and shoot each other looks.

The third time it happens, Stiles almost asks about it because they look like whatever they’re hearing is incredibly distressing. So maybe Stiles talks a little louder, and hums a bit more, trying his best to remind the wolves that he’s not out there, that he’s right here with them. They get clingy that night.

As clingy as those two will ever get.

Derek shoves him more than usual and Peter smacks him on the head more than once. When they bed down for the night, Stiles sleeps beside Peter and Derek sits on the edge of their bed with a heavy hand on his ankle. Peter shifts closer than he usually would; feigning sleep like Stiles buys it for even a second.

Whatever their hearing tonight must be bad.

Derek’s grip on his ankle tightens and after a few minutes, Peter sits up and props himself up against the headrest.

“What is it?” Stiles asks.

Derek shakes his head immediately. “Nothing. Go to sleep.”

Stiles rolls over and glances up at Peter.

The older wolf frowns, staring at the door. “...it sounds like the dog has gotten to you.”

There’s a cold, heavy weight in his gut as he tries to imagine what that must sound like. He thinks it must be horrible. Derek sits on the very edge of the bed like he might take off at any moment to go and save him. He can’t imagine having instincts that scream at him to run out and protect someone like that. The closest he can come is if he tries to think of hearing his dad or Scott.

He thinks it would drive him crazy not doing anything.

He sits up after a few more minutes, decides that if his wolves aren’t going to get any sleep, then he’s not likely to either. Just because he can’t hear what they hear, doesn’t mean they should have to suffer alone.

“So,” he chirps loudly. “Who wants to play I-Spy?”

Peter and Derek sigh but don’t argue. Stiles thinks that they’re too shaken up to argue.

The dog is getting bolder.

It no longer scampers away when it spies them. It sticks around, staring at them; stands rigidly down the road, in the middle of the street like it wants them to know it’s watching.

Derek tries to run it off a few times; he shifts and barks, snapping his jaws in warning.

But the dog just stares him down, bows its head a little and gives a deep growl. He wonders if it’s hunger that’s made the dog fearless. Or if it even feels hunger. Maybe it really is rabid.

Derek can’t blame it for its obvious distrust of them; especially not after he had spent a good portion of his time chasing it around town and the woman had tied it up and left it. He figures he’d be glaring and growling too if it were him.

They spy it barking at the Starbuck’s windows once. It had cocked its head at the glass and whined and Derek had wondered if it could see the reflections of the town too. A few times, they catch it following them, slinking up to one of the houses they pass by and pawing at a front door with a whimper.

Stiles thinks it was someone’s pet and tries to call it by a few different names to see if it’ll come to them.

Derek doesn’t want it anywhere near them.

Today, he’s caught the animal glaring at them from underneath a parked car. There’s blood on its muzzle and when it slinks out, it walks with a limp. It stares at them for a minute before turning and trotting down to the main street.

Peter says it probably got in a fight with the woman.

Derek hopes the dog bit her in the ass.

They’re going through the houses again, restocking their dwindling supplies. They gather up a few new blankets (from the linen closets, never the beds) and pillows; Peter finds an emergency kit and some flares that he takes just in case, Derek frowns and takes a light jacket that fits him. He sniffs at it, feeling uncomfortable in someone else’s clothes.

It doesn’t smell like anyone, but there’s still some change and a receipt in the right pocket and Derek feels cold as he places it on the kitchen counter. He sits down at the little breakfast nook and sighs. This is becoming routine.

He can hear Peter snooping around in the garage and Stiles is upstairs; the last he looked, the boy was flipping through some comic books he found. Derek wants to tell him that he should just take them with him when they go, but he doesn’t think Stiles will appreciate it.

Peter keeps puttering in and out of the kitchen. He finds a duffel bag and shoves in his loot; some flashlights, the first aid kit, some towels, a big knife (???), a matchbox, and a few lighters.

Derek isn’t sure what his uncle is preparing for, but he’s not about to stop it. He thinks he’d just be pissed later on if something did happen and he’d known that he’d had the chance to grab what they needed and just didn’t.

Upstairs, Derek hears Stiles gasp. He cocks his head, already getting to his feet.

He hears Peter in the garage stop his shuffling and pause.

A second later, Stiles comes clomping down the stairs in a hurry; he’s almost at the front door before Derek can get a hand on his wrist and jerk him back.

Stiles stumbles against him, but immediately tries to pull away. “Dude, let me go! We have to help it!”

Peter rounds the corner and narrows his eyes. “Help what?”

If he says the dog, Derek will kick him.

“The baby!” Stiles says breathlessly.

Oh. Well. ....he would have preferred the dog.

“What baby?” he glances up the stairs in confusion.

Stiles stops struggling and stares up at him with wide, scared eyes. “You can’t hear it?”

And Derek immediately feels like shit. It’s one thing for him and Peter to be toyed with like that, but Stiles is a kid, barely old enough for independent thought; he shouldn’t be yanked around like this.

Behind him, Peter shakes his head. “I don’t hear anything, Derek?”

Derek tries not to look as guilty as he feels as he shakes his head as well. He knows exactly how horrible the disembodied voices can make someone feel; the horror and sharp need to help. He can’t imagine what hearing a baby was doing to the teen.

But Stiles gets that stubborn look on his face and tugs Derek toward the door. “I swear it’s like, right outside.”

The wolves share a look of concern. They hadn’t thought very much about what they would do if Stiles started hearing things too. Derek had assumed that the boy would know better than to go chasing after echoes. If he’s wrong about that, then they’re going to have a real problem. He doesn’t want to restrict Stiles even more than he already has, but absolutely will if it keeps him safe.

“Just let me look,” Stiles says, like he knows what they’re thinking and he just wants a chance to prove them wrong.

Derek lets himself be pulled forward slowly. He doesn’t know if it’ll be better or worse for Stiles to see that there’s nothing there.

“We can just see,” the boy says quickly, reaching the front door and tugging it open. He seems absolutely convinced that he’s hearing something real.

Derek has to fight the urge just to knock him unconscious and carry him back to the hotel.

No one is more surprised than he is when he actually looks out and spies a small bundle of blankets in the middle of the street that definitely wasn’t there before.

Stiles glances at him, “Do...do you…?”

Derek nods. Yes, he can see it too.

From here, he can see that it certainly looks baby-shaped. He’s surprised enough that he lets Stiles slip out of his grip and trot over to the pile.

Derek follows after him more slowly, straining his ears as hard as he can, trying to pick up some type of sound. Peter is at the doorway behind them, more cautious than the other two.

When he gets close enough, his stomach rolls violently and he knows exactly why he can’t catch any gurgles or wails or a heartbeat.

The child is dead.

There’s red smeared all around the corpse; on the blankets, on the asphalt. He can’t smell any blood from here and for the first time, he’s incredibly grateful for the strange dampening effect the town had. He thinks if he actually had to smell the--

Stiles bends down and picks it up.

Derek gapes soundlessly.

He remembers how Stiles is around blood, around anything vaguely gore-related. The kid can’t even watch zombie movies without getting a little green. There’s no way in hell that Stiles would be able to even look at this thing, let alone pick it up and cradle it like he’s doing now.

Derek’s mouth floods with saliva like it does whenever he’s about to vomit.

Stiles bounces the bundle in his arms, “Hey, hey, little guy. You’re okay, shhh.”

Derek sees an arm flop out of the blanket; loose and discolored and--

he gags. Swallows. Gags again.

“Put it, put it down,” he grits out.

If Stiles has lost it, he doesn’t know what they’re going to do.

“What? Why?”

Derek takes in a deep breath and stares up at the gray sky, unable to watch Stiles cuddle the corpse to his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, voice rising almost hysterically. “It’s dead. Put it down now.”

Stiles stares at him like he’s the one losing his damned mind. Like he’s the one walking around with a dead baby clutched in his arms. Derek feels bile rising in the back of his throat and swallows furiously.

“Dude,” Stiles says, sounding astonished. “It’s...what the hell, Derek! It’s not dead, just look at it!”

And Derek feels his stomach drop because they’ve talked about seeing people in the reflection of the glass, talked about hearing things, talked about things moving in the fog, but what if this is something new? What if whatever-it-is, this Croatoan thing or the ghosts or...what if it’s taken things a step further and made Stiles start seeing things? Not just reflections, but full blown hallucinations? Hallucinations that he can hear and touch and hold close.

He has no idea how the baby got here, but using it against Stiles is...almost too cruel to contemplate. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Stiles, please put it down,” Derek begs. He takes a few steps closer, dragging his feet, but unable to fight the urge to get close enough to slap the thing out of Stiles’ arms--

and then he smells it.

"Derek, it's crying! It isn't dead!"

Derek grits his teeth, "You're seeing a live baby where there's a dead one. Just trust me an-"

"What if you're seeing a dead baby where there's a live one?! We got pulled into this plane, what if this guy did too?"

Derek shakes his head, refusing to look at the torn up corpse Stiles cradled. If he'd had to guess, it looked like that fucking dog (the blood on its muzzle makes him feel cold) had gotten to the child about a week earlier. There were gaping holes where stuff was falling out and the stench of rancid meat made his nose twitch. He swallows down bile and shakes his head.

"Peter!" Stiles turns on his heel and holds up the rotting baby. "What do you see? Dead or alive?"

Peter still stands in the doorway, watching them both carefully. "...I don't see or hear anything," he says after a moment. "You're holding nothing."

Derek gapes at his uncle.

Peter stares between them, frowning and looking more than a little concerned. And Derek...Derek has nothing, absolutely nothing to say to that.

-           

They make him leave the baby behind.

Peter maintains that there’s nothing there and Derek won’t even tolerate the thought of taking it back with them. Stiles doesn’t know what to do.

The baby grumbles in his arms, face red and wet and angry. He thinks it’s probably hungry. Or gassy. Or just pissed off at being left in the middle of the road. He isn’t sure, he doesn’t know many babies.

Stiles argues with them at first, can’t wrap his head around leaving the poor guy alone again. He can’t understand why Peter can’t see the baby or why Derek can only see a dead baby; it’s obviously here and alive, squirming in his arms.

He tries going up to Peter and showing it to him, but the wolf just stares at him, face so filled with pity that it makes him almost unrecognizable. Derek won’t get near him.

Peter walks him inside, keeping his hand wrapped carefully around Stiles’ arm like he’s afraid he’s going to bolt. Stiles lays the baby down in one of the bedrooms upstairs, hesitating when it squawks and waves its little fists in the air. He wonders if Peter sees this as some very elaborate pantomime trick.

It’s incredibly hard to turn his back on the baby, but Peter tightens his grip and tugs him back to the street where Derek immediately takes him to the side of one of the houses and hoses his arms down and makes him scrub with hand sanitizer until his skin is red and irritated.

Stiles can’t see what Derek sees on him, but he knows it’s stressing the wolf out.

He hears the baby start wailing as they walk away and he tries to turn back, but Peter doesn’t let him, keeps him moving forward even when Stiles starts to struggle.

He doesn’t try very hard to get away. He’s confused, scared; he feels guilty for leaving the baby and terrified that it doesn’t exist at all.

Stiles can’t muster up any energy to complain when Derek manhandles him into their shower and steals his clothes with a disgusted look on his face.

Peter finds him something else to wear.

Stiles stays under the spray until the water runs cold.

He can still feel the infant’s weight in his arms.

Stiles gets quiet after that. More than quiet, he becomes withdrawn; it gets harder to lure him into conversation, harder still to lure him out of bed. He steals glances at Derek, full of betrayal and fear.

Peter can’t blame him.

Whatever is out there, be it the Croatoan or whatever haunts the streets, he thinks it’s starting to target their little pack more seriously. Either to demoralize them or just because it’s in its nature, he has no idea.

He feels like one of them is going to crack though. Peter’s already cracked once before, he thinks it’ll be terribly unfair if he has to go through it again.

Derek doesn’t seem to be effected as he or Stiles. Aside from the voices and the baby, Peter doesn’t think much has happened to his nephew. At least nothing that’s caused him to retreat inside himself. Peter doesn’t know if he should be jealous or worried. It could be that Derek just isn’t open minded enough (or more likely, too stubborn) to be vulnerable against attacks like this, or it could be that whatever is out there is gearing up for something bigger for their alpha.

If Derek falls, then they’re all likely to fall apart. Derek is the only thing that really links him and Stiles together. Without that, he doesn’t think there’d be any way that they could stand to be around each other.

Peter understands. Stiles (and Scott and Lydia and Jackson and Allison), no matter how he tries to hide it, is still afraid of him, of what he can do, of what he did do. The younger wolves weren’t there for the terror Peter brought down on the town; they’d only heard secondhand stories that made them wary, made them cautious, but didn’t make them scared.

He knows Stiles still hates him too, still blames him undoubtedly for ruining his and his friends’ lives (as though Peter had been the one to convince the boy to go out in the middle of the woods at night to look for a corpse).

Surprisingly, they do actually get along and work well together. He thinks if they didn’t have the history that they did, that they might actually even be friends. Which is a strange thought.

Stiles is pack. He’s earned that right through Derek and the other betas even without Scott’s support (maybe even in spite of it), so Peter would protect him--to a point.

But without Derek, he can’t see them acting as partners for much longer. Stiles doesn’t trust him and Peter doesn’t trust Stiles. If Derek, their alpha, didn’t act as a buffer between them, Peter could only see himself leaving and striking out on his own, unwilling to pull more than his own weight. The thought eats at him a little, but even as he starts feeling a little guilty, he just can’t picture risking his life to help the boy. Peter doesn’t trust Stiles with his life and Stiles certainly doesn’t trust Peter with his.

When a wolf protects their pack, it’s instinct. When a human protects their pack, it’s a choice.

And when it comes right down to it, Peter doesn’t trust Stiles to make that choice.

At least, not for him.

He’s seen how Stiles risks himself for the others, how the boy tosses aside every instinct that must scream at him and throw himself into danger. He’s heard of Stiles saving his nephew from drowning, watched him dart between Scott and danger like he was the one that could heal any wound.

Stiles is brave, Peter will give him that. And loyal. But right now, he’s nothing but a liability that Peter isn’t inclined to indulge.

He thinks about leaving them, not for the first time. Leaving them before anything else happens, striking out on his own. Maybe he’d find the woman, make her tell him everything she knew, everything she’d witnessed in all the time she’d spent here. Maybe he’d use her and the damned dog to test his theory about what lay beyond the mist.

Stiles is lying beside him, curled up under the blankets, turned toward the wall and facing away from both wolves.

Derek is settled on the other bed, eyelids drooping with every passing minute. The stress is getting to all of them, exhausting them even now that they don’t really need sleep.

Peter wants out. Out of this town, this place. Wants to feel the moon and shift and run. He wants his freedom so badly that he thinks he’d give anything, sacrifice everything just to have it.

He tries to ignore how much that thought makes him feel like a coward.

Stiles won’t leave him alone about the baby.

Derek had thought that giving the boy a day to rest would help things, but all it’s done is make Stiles more determined. He doesn’t take no for an answer, says that he’ll go back to the house on his own if he has to.

And though Derek doesn’t want to think about it, much less admit it, he could have been the one that was wrong about the child. What if the baby actually had been alive and he’d been the one hallucinating? What if he had made Stiles leave behind a perfectly normal baby just because he trusted his senses more than Stiles?

Then he thinks about how Peter didn’t even see the child. He wonders if they’re being affected more because they aren’t human, maybe they’re more sensitive to whatever tricks are being played.

So he agrees, lets Stiles lead him back at a fast trot; he doesn’t even make Peter come this time.

He keeps an eye out for the dog and doesn’t let Stiles get too far ahead of him. He feels exhausted, like he would like nothing better than to lay down in the middle of the road and sleep.

Derek isn’t sure that if it’s the town having this effect on him or if he’s just ready to thrown in the towel and give up. He doesn’t want to. He knows better; he knows he needs to keep going even just for Stiles’ sake. The boy hasn’t stopped trying, so he shouldn’t either. But more and more, he feels like he just doesn’t have the energy to keep up with Stiles. Because Stiles still thinks there’s a way out and Derek…

Derek realizes he’s already resigned himself to being stuck here until...well until the end. And he hates himself for that, feels like a failure. He can’t stomach the thought of letting everyone down; not just his pack here, but his pack back home too.

How are his betas going to get along without an alpha? Who will be there for them on their full moons? Who will show them how to be wolves in a human world? He can’t...he can’t stay here. He can’t let Stiles or Peter stay here.

But he also can’t save them.

Being an alpha, being a werewolf, here means nothing. It doesn’t matter how strong he is or how smart. It doesn’t matter how determined he is or how much he wants to protect his family. Not for the first time in his life, he feels like things are completely out of his control. If they live or die is up to fate.

Whatever is here will wear them down to raw nerves, will pick and toy with them until they stop being able to fight back.

Stiles jogs up the walkway and into the second house on the right, where they had left the infant’s corpse.

Derek can’t bring himself to follow him inside, so he waits at the front stoop. He listens; Stiles stomping up the stairs, clomping hurriedly down the hall, banging open the bedroom door...and then silence. He can hear the boy’s puff of breaths, his muted heartbeat, but nothing more. Then he hears Stiles sniff and the bed squeak.

He has his head cocked and a few moments later he realizes he’s listening to the boy cry.

Derek sits down heavily on the front step, rubbing his hands over his face.

If Stiles had found the baby, dead or alive, he wouldn’t be so quiet. Apparently Peter had been right, there had been nothing there. Just this town playing with their minds.

He tries not to listen to Stiles, tries to give the boy some privacy.

Tries not to break down with him.

They don’t give up, he and his pack, not ever, not for anything. They’ve been through so much together and Stiles has never backed down or just stopped (“C’mon, guys! Team Halehounds! ...what? Oh come on, it’s perfect, stop making that face, Erica!”).

If Derek was better, stronger, smarter, then maybe…

Then maybe nothing. It still wouldn’t matter.

“Derek?”

The wolf looks up, sees Stiles standing over him. The boy looks twice as exhausted as he feels; his eyes are rimmed red and his face is blotchy and there are still tear tracks running down his cheeks.

“I don’t want to die here,” Stiles says softly.

And Derek doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just nods and stands.

If Stiles is looking for some kind of hope, some kind of comfort, Derek will have to disappoint him again because he has none to give.

Stiles just stares at him, all big watery eyes and youthful anticipation, like he waiting for Derek to pump his fist and say “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine, and here’s how we can get out of here once and for all!”

Derek works his mouth. “We’ll be okay,” the words taste like ash on his tongue, but they are all he can offer right now.

Stiles looks close to crying again, like he knows just how much Derek doesn’t believe that.

Then he squares his shoulders, wipes his eyes and glares at him. “We will be okay,” Stiles says firmly. “We’ll think of something. We always do.”

Derek wants so badly to have this well of belief that Stiles and the other kids seem to be able to draw from in the worst situations.

He stares at Stiles, sees conviction and a little desperation in his gaze and slowly nods. “We will,” he agrees.

Stiles smiles and raises his hand. “High five on it?”

Derek snorts and starts walking off down the street. The boy complains about him killing his inner child and stumbles after him.

“That’s not very awesome of you,” Stiles whines. “That’s not very Team Halehound at all--oh.”

Derek huffs out an exasperated breath and belatedly realizes he isn't being shadowed any longer. He turns to see Stiles staring at him with wide eyes.

"...what?" Derek scans the area around them.

"Can you," Stiles licks his lips and works his mouth for a few silent seconds. "I can't."

Derek starts walking back toward him; he can hear the boys’ heartbeat rabbiting in his chest, see the sweat beading on his upper lip.

"What's wrong?" he snaps out.

Stiles keeps his gaze locked on the wolf. "I don't want to...I mean. What is it?"

Derek scowls and stops a foot away. "What the hell is--"

"Can you see it?" Stiles is panting now; sharp, tight little breaths wheezing past his teeth.

Derek looks around them once more, tuning his ears to try and catch any sound. "Where are you looking?"

Stiles shakes his head minutely. "I think it's a kid."

Derek frowns, "Stiles, there's no one here-"

"It feels like a kid."

Derek stares. "What?"

"I think..." Stiles shifts his weight on his right foot and gestures to his left. "It...I think there's a kid grabbing my ankle."

Derek immediately looks down. There's nothing.

"Stiles..."

Stiles smells rank with anxiety and fear so badly that it's making Derek's teeth itch.

"Can you...I don't want to look," Stiles stares over Derek's shoulder.

"...there's nothing there," Derek says carefully. The damn town can’t wait a few minutes? Let the poor boy have some peace just for a little while? Let him have some hope?

"I can feel it," Stiles whispers. "A kid. Grabbing my. Grabbing my ankle. Derek."

Derek stares at him, wants desperately to help. But. There’s nothing. No enemy to sink his claws into, just...Stiles’ mind. What he hopes and fears is Stiles’ mind. So he does the only thing he can think of and picks the boy up to carry close to his chest--

there’s an instant, barely a second where he swears he feels some type of resistance when he lifts Stiles up

--he lets the teen wrap his arms around his neck and walks them both down the road without looking back once.

---

Chapter Text

Stiles can’t bring himself to do much over the next few days. When he manages to sleep, he has nightmares and is shaken awake more than once by a worried looking Peter. Which doesn’t really compute. Peter isn’t supposed to look worried. Or concerned or pitying or any other emotion that humans experience. He’s supposed to be annoyingly aloof and sarcastic. Stiles doesn’t know how to deal with him any other way.

For the most part, he’s left alone. It’s almost impossible not to just lay there and feel sorry for himself. He can’t help but imagine the world outside just moving on like normal, leaving him behind. He thinks about his dad, about what he’s going through. Is he looking for his son? Has Stiles been gone long enough to warrant any concern?

He toys with the idea of just waking up in his bedroom, having dreamt this whole place up. If that happens, he’s never leaving home again; he’ll just cling to his dad’s leg and be dragged around for the rest of his life.

If time moves outside like it does in here, then no doubt his father has already started a manhunt. He’ll have sussed out that Stiles was lying about where he was going and who with. He’ll have probably figured out that Scott’s in on it because his friend can’t lie for shit; he’ll have rounded up the others and interrogated them one by one.

Maybe one of them will crack, feel guilty at the haggard look in the sheriff’s eyes. Maybe they’ll all come the same route that Stiles did and they’ll get sucked in here too.

Stiles tries not to feel hopeful about that. The last thing he wants is for the people he cares about to end up here.

The whole thing makes him feel guilty.

He doesn’t think even Scott would give him up to his dad until all other options were gone through. Which just makes him picture his dad driving all around California posting ‘have you seen me’ signs with Stiles’ face plastered everywhere.

And now he’s just depressing himself.

“Does anyone have any ideas on how to get out of here?” he says one day. He’s not expecting an answer, not really. He just wants everyone to feel as bad as he does.

But Peter surprises him.

“I think if we can get passed the fog, that we can escape.”

Stiles rolls onto his side so he can stare at the older wolf and give his best ‘I am not in the mood to be fucked with’ stare.

“What makes you say that?” Derek says. He’s sitting on the edge of the other bed with his face in his hands, looking less than excited.

Peter hesitates, tapping one hand on the dresser he’s standing by. “I’ve been thinking,” he says  slowly. “About all the stories I’ve heard about people disappearing.”

Derek sighs and looks up at him, the picture of unimpressed and apathetic.

But Peter continues, speeding up like he’s gaining confidence, like he’s been thinking about this for ages and only now, saying it out loud, does it start clicking into place. “There are dozens of stories of people disappearing, either in the woods or in rural areas or small towns...there’s never any real link between them, nothing about who or what did it. The only thing they seem to have in common is the area that’s affected.”

Stiles frowns and sits up. “What do you mean? Like...ancient Indian burial grounds?”

“...no,” Peter gives them both his ‘I hate that I’m smarter than both of you combined’ stare. “I mean the actual area, the size of the places people disappear from.”

Peter steps forward, his eyes lighting like he’s getting excited. “Think about it. A creature powerful enough that can sustains its own plane of existence? Why wouldn’t it attack larger areas with more people? It’s not like there are shortages of hunting grounds out there. Places that would offer far more things to consume. Places even that no one would really miss or notice. Bigger towns, cities even. Why would it stick to about four blocks worth of space?”

Stiles feels slow as he tries to follow Peter’s logic. He thinks the man is reaching but… “That’s...all it can take at one time? Just...that amount of space?”

Derek frowns. “If it can create its own pocket dimension, then why wouldn’t it--”

“Think about how much energy it has to take to maintain this place,” Peter says quickly. “Think about how many times you’ve ever heard of a large group of people disappearing.”

“That girl,” Stiles says. “She was taken before the hurricane, remember? What if it...I dunno, strikes before a natural disaster?”

Peter blinks like he hadn’t thought of that, but then rolls right over it. “How many natural disasters are there--”

“About five hundred per year,” Stiles pipes up.

Derek turns to look at him.

He squirms. “What? Dude, over the past two years, seven hundred natural disasters were registered worldwide affecting more than four hundred million people.”

“...I want to ask, but I’m not sure I want to know the answer,” Derek says.

Stiles shrugs. “Wikipedia is a dangerous animal at three in the morning. It calms me down when I get all--” He waves his hands around his head, hoping they can interpret.

Derek squints. “Reading about natural disasters calms you down?”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles never really thought about how weird that sounded. Huh.

Peter closes his eyes and rubs at his temples like this entire conversation has gotten away from him. “Despite...that. I think this area, only a town or whatever this size, is all that the creature can sustain. If it could do more, then it wouldn’t need the fog to scare us into staying.”

“Okay,” Derek says after a moment. “If we’re going with that theory, then what exactly are we supposed to do? We can’t even get close to the fog, let alone go through it.”

“Yes, well,” Peter shrugs. “That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

Stiles scowls. “So it doesn’t really help because we’re still stuck in the same situation.”

Peter pulls a spectacular bitch face. “It’s more than what either of you have been doing.”

And Stiles has nothing to say to that so he just sticks out his tongue and flops back onto the bed. They go quiet after that, Peter too miffed to be bothered with and Derek stoically staring at the wall, deep in thought.

Stiles doesn’t see how there’s much to think about. Yes, the theory is interesting, but how exactly does it help? Just knowing how they’re trapped isn’t doing anything to get them closer to freedom. They’re still trapped by the fog and the fear that comes from being too close to it. Never mind the things living in the fog.

Besides, beyond the fog there could just be more fog. Or worse, another town just like this one. They could just walk around forever, getting lost, getting further away from the safety of their hotel room.

Stiles thinks that if that’s the last thing he ever got to see, he’d be really pissed off.

Derek goes out alone while the other two are sleeping.

He knows he shouldn’t, he knows it’s stupid. He knows that at the very least, he should wake Peter up to keep watch while he’s gone.

But doesn’t want to explain himself.

He’d latched onto what Peter had said. If they could just get passed the fog, then he’s sure they’ll be free from whatever creature is keeping them. It’s the first time in a while that he’s felt a spark of hope and he isn’t ready to let go of it just yet.

So he leaves them behind and creeps through town. It’s still gray and cloudy and dull. Not night and not day, just a murky, muted, slice of sky.

Derek strides down main street, ignoring the window panes and the clothing store with the mannequins he still sometimes hears, goes passed his abandoned car and onward. He walks until he passes all the buildings, further until he starts to stutter beside the ‘you are now leaving’ sign. His legs become heavier, harder to move and his heartrate kicks up like he’s preparing for a fight.

The air gets colder the farther he goes and he tightens his jacket around himself.

Then his nerves start building. He knows that this is the effect the creature, the Croatoan is counting on it to make him turn back, but he squares his shoulders and marches on.

Fear creeps up his spine. He feels watched. He thinks he sees something moving in the corner of his eye, off the side of the road. Something’s keeping pace with him, flitting in and out of the shadows of the brush.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be anywhere near here. Especially not alone.

Derek tries to swallow around the lump in his throat and can’t. He starts panting, dragging his feet. Pressure builds up around him, making his ears pop like he’s on a plane. He fists his hands in his jacket pockets and stares at his feet, forcing one to move, then the other. There’s a weight on his back, in his chest; he feels like he can’t breathe.

What if Peter’s wrong, Derek thinks frantically. What if Peter’s wrong and there’s nothing on the other side?

What if this is what Peter wanted, a darker thought surfaces. What if Peter was just trying to get rid of him, to sacrifice him for some reason?

Derek grits his teeth, stuttering to a stop. His breath wheezes in and out and he sounds like Stiles having a panic attack. He tries to inch forward and just can’t. Can’t bring himself to even think about it.

If he takes one more step, he’ll die. He knows this. Either the things in the fog will get him or the Croatoan or he’ll just go crazy and keel over.

He tries to remember that this isn’t really his fear, that this is just being brought by the creature, this town, that nothing’s really out there.

But he can’t go forward.

Derek tries. Tries so hard that he thinks he might burst something.

His body refuses.

Whatever is out there, whatever wants him here is too strong.

He shakes his head and stumbles back a few steps. The sense of relief is so immediate and so strong that he almost falls to his knees. He backs up further and further and finally just turns around and bolts back into town.

By the time he reaches the town sign, he’s sweating and shaking so badly that he drops down, crawling the rest of the way to the main street where he flops onto his belly and tries not to vomit. He’s a mess of raw nerves, shuddering and freezing even though it’s not all that cold anymore.

It takes him a while to even consider moving. And he doesn’t notice the woman until she’s poking the barrel of her shotgun into his cheek.

She prods at him until he rolls over. He’s spread out on his back, arms flopped out and wide like he’s welcoming whatever happens.

She presses her gun into his stomach and frowns at him. She has a bandage around her right wrist and he absently thinks about the dog with its bloody muzzle.

“I got farther than that,” she drawls in her deep twang.

He glares at the sky. “Fucking bite me.”

He thinks Stiles would have laughed at that.

She presses her gun against his sternum until he grunts. He’s too exhausted, too disheartened to stop her. She seems to know this and grins her crooked grin.

It doesn’t matter what’s beyond the fog. They will never get close to it; will never withstand the fear it causes. He thought that they were survivors, that they could overcome anything thrown at them, but they aren’t and they couldn’t. They obviously couldn’t. They were going to die here, lonely and scared and desperate and there was nothing that Derek could do to stop it.

The woman hums and he sees her wrap her forefinger around the trigger and his heart leaps into his throat because he doesn’t want to die yet.

“I dunno that you have to be livin’ for the thing to come after you,” she says.

And then she fires.

-           

When Peter wakes, he wakes to the sound of something wrong.

He’s confused for a few minutes because there many things wrong in this place, but they haven’t jolted him out of a deep sleep before.

Stiles is beside him; the deep, even breaths of the boy, the small snores are comforting enough to lure his eyes into fluttering shut. He’s warm and snug, wrapped up in an extra blanket they looted because no, he doesn’t share covers and yes, he is going to wrap himself in an ‘asshole burrito’ when he sleeps.

He’s drifting when he realizes that it’s not what he’s hearing, but what he’s not hearing that woke him up.

There are only two heart beats in the room. Two patterns of breath.

Peter blinks his eyes open wide and rolls over so that he can peer over Stiles into the other bed. The sheets are kicked down and Derek is gone.

He stares for a few moments, trying to parse that.

He wriggles from his cocoon, leaning up and dropping his bare feet on the floor. There’s nothing in the bathroom, nothing in the hallway outside, nothing as far as he can hear other than himself and Stiles. His thoughts whirl into high gear.

Could Derek have heard something? Another voice calling out? He would know better than to follow after it, wouldn’t he? Had it been the woman? Had she lured him out or had he heard her creeping up on them?

Had it been the creature, slinking in while they slept to steal away their strongest packmate?

Peter shakes that thought away before he can dwell on it. The window is closed, the door is...the door isn’t locked. He can see the opened bolt from here.

So Derek must have walked out.

Why?

He knows better than to stalk after the voices, what could have made him leave behind the safety of their room? Why hadn’t he said anything before he left? Woken Peter and told him what was happening? Had he not been able to? Was there something new and foul at play?

Peter tips his nose up and takes in a couple careful breaths. His nephew’s scent is fading; he’s been gone a few hours at the least.

He shifts and stands up, warily tuning his ears to try and catch any sound around him.

He doesn’t feel like he’s being watched or stalked. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck aren’t rising. There’s no strange pressure in his chest and mind, no tendrils of fear slipping under his skin.

Peter feels normal. He doesn’t think that the creature has been here.

His lips thin in annoyance and he wobbles between options for a moment before coming around the other side of the bed and shaking Stiles awake.

He doesn’t want to do it, but he isn’t an idiot.

Stiles is less than pleased with him and groans like he’s dying, shifting and burrowing his head underneath his pillow.

“Stiles,” Peter snaps, thumping the boy’s ear.

Stiles swats blindly at him.

“Derek’s gone,” he tries.

The teen stiffens up and he pushes his pillow aside as he gapes up at Peter with big, scared eyes.

“Wh-what?” Stiles says. “How did...how?” He sits up and gazes passed Peter to stare at Derek’s bed, then flicks his gaze across the room to the window. His heart starts to flutter faster and--oh.

“No!” Peter says quickly. “Not, not gone. Not dead. He isn’t here.”

Stiles doesn’t look quite as comforted, but he does calm a bit. “Where did he go?”

Peter shakes his head. “I don’t know. I think he’s been gone for at least an hour though.”

“Did you hear anything?” Stiles says. “Did you...did you hear...not-me?”

He shakes his head again. “I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t even hear him leave.”

And Stiles sits up and just looks at him, looks lost and small and so young. “What do we do?”

This, Peter thinks, is why he would make a terrible alpha. Not his too-violent responses or his knee-jerk reaction to hunters that usually involves disemboweling, but this right here: he cannot stand having someone look up to him like that. During training, sure, he can tell the betas how to move, how to surround their opponent and how to go for the kill; he can boss them around at pack meetups and tell them the lore he’d been taught growing up.

But he can’t bear this look of ‘okay, something’s wrong, can you please make it better?’ that the kids sometimes flash at Derek. Like Derek’s supposed to have every answer for every question, like he’s supposed to think his way out of any situation the young wolves get themselves into. Like they trust him with their life to help them no matter what.

It guts him because he forgets sometimes, that they are children. He forgets that they aren’t soldiers, weren’t born to any of this; he forgets that they’re just going along with the tide, trying desperately to keep their heads above water and that sometimes they look at the nearest adult and plead for things to just be magically better.

He doesn’t know how Derek deals with that. It makes him feels guilty, like there’s too much riding on whatever he says.

Peter glances away and thinks, has to think before he does anything. Derek’s scent is already fading inside the room, he knows that as soon as he steps outside that he’ll lose it, won’t be able to track it. He knows that if they stay here and wait, that it’ll eat at them both and they’ll get anxious enough to do something rash.

He also knows that there must be a very good reason for their alpha to abandon them (he feels sick thinking about it; this is not the first time he’s been left behind but he tries to ignore it).

“Do you think he went to try and get passed the fog?”

Peter blinks and stares down at the boy.

Yes. Absolutely yes. Derek is exactly the kind of martyr that would do something like that; leaving his pack behind because he’s a bulldozer in humanoid form and if there’s something dangerous, he’ll throw himself in first just to let others crawl over his corpse. Because he’s an idiot.

“Get your shoes,” Peter snaps, grabbing his own shoes up and shoving them on.

He hadn’t meant to rile Derek up into making such a stupid move, hadn’t felt like the other wolf had taken him seriously, much less started planning around his theory. Wolves are meant to run in a pack, this is the one lesson that Derek has drilled into his betas’ heads over and over again. But the second he thinks something is too dangerous he acts like a damned omega.

Peter wonders furiously if this is how his mother had felt when teaching him to hunt with the pack.

They’re ready and out the door in another few minutes, Stiles following closely at his heels like he’s afraid to let any distance get between them. And Peter understands that, he does. He knows that Stiles is terrified of being left alone because Derek’s gone and all he has left is Peter and isn't that some damned cosmic joke?

Peter reaches out and snatches Stiles’ wrist and tugs him close like a mother corralling her toddler at a grocery store. Stiles tenses for a second like he’s going to pull away, but he relaxes a moment later, twisting his grip a bit so that they’re holding hands. And. And that’s fine. Whatever. It’s not weird just because the last time Peter ever held someone’s hand was when he was in elementary school and it had basically been considered ‘going all the way’.

Stiles palm is sweaty against his, but he clutches just as tightly to the boy as the boy does to him as he marches them down the road.

He goes behind the hotel first, simply because that’s the closest way to the fog. But he can already tell from here that Derek didn’t go this way. It wouldn’t take him hours to return from here.

Peter leads them closer anyway, just in case. They walk until he can feel the first prickles of fear shooting down his spine and Stiles squeezes his hand. They go parallel to the fog, never breaching it, never getting too close.

He thinks about the woman and how she said that there had been a man that had been caught by creatures living in the fog. He can’t see anything, can’t hear anything from here. He thinks about what she said about the man falling unconscious as his eyes sweep the ground. The wolf doesn’t know what they’ll do if Derek got close enough to the fog, if he was stubborn enough to march right up to it and pass out from the strain. They won’t be able to save him if he got too close.

“What if he made it out?” Stiles whispers.

And Peter’s thought process stutters at that because he’d honestly not thought of it as a possibility. What if Derek had escaped and left them? What if his stubbornness had led him right out of this purgatory and beyond the fog? What if he’d escaped into the real world? What if he’d left them behind?

“Then he’s enough of a masochist to find his way back in,” Peter says firmly, pulling the boy along. “He won’t leave you behind.”

Stiles is silent beside him for a few minutes, then says, “He won’t leave you behind either.”

Peter appreciates it.

They trek through the tall grass and have to arch their way back to the road because the brush gets too thick. Peter is still sniffing the air, unable to stop himself from trying to catch his nephew’s scent.

There’s nothing to find on this side of the town, so they double back and pass by the hotel again to head into main street. Stiles is quiet beside him and Peter squeezes his hand.

The wolf sees it first as they slink down the sidewalk.

He’s keeping his eyes ahead, refusing to look at the large glass windows when he sees the broad flash of red in the middle of the road. Even from here, he can tell it’s blood and a heavy weight sinks in his gut as he tugs Stiles along behind him.

“Oh my god…is it Derek’s?”

Peter purses his lips and nods. He knows the scent of his nephew’s blood and as they pull to a stop a few feet away, he can tell Derek has been here within the hour. Blood is smeared across the asphalt, splattered in Rorschach paintings along both lanes.

“It isn’t enough,” he says after a moment. “He didn’t bleed out.”

“Can you tell if anything else was…?”

Peter is already shaking his head. If something else was here, he can’t smell it.

“...are those jelly beans?”

The wolf glances to where Stiles is pointing. He squats down and draws his fingers through the blood; it’s tacky, cool, and yes, those are crushed jelly beans. And tic tacs. And pennies?

“The hell?” Stiles says as Peter holds up a mixed handful of tiny, dirty screws, candy, and coins.

“Are werewolves like piñatas? Because that’s actually not nearly as cool as it sounds.”

Peter glares at him and dumps the random items back and then reaches out and snags up a mostly intact cartridge. “Know anyone with a shotgun?” he drawls as he stands back up, then trains his gaze back to the ground. “There are some droplets,” he points.

“Dude, that woman shot Derek?” Stiles gapes for a moment the skids after Peter as they follow the trail of blood across the street.

Peter hears him before he sees or smells him and it’s a surprising relief. What isn’t a relief is the fact that he can hear something else with his nephew.

They follow the blood across the street and now Stiles can make out hand prints and shoe prints and...paw prints?

He and Peter creep into the bakery and sneak passed the counter and into the small kitchen in the back. There, they find a couple stoves, a few ovens, a refrigerator, and the dog.

Peter jerks back, flashes his arm out to catch Stiles in the stomach.

The dog is on the ground, lying in front of the closed door of the giant walk-in. It lifts its great big head and growls low in its throat. There’s splattered blood wetting its dark coat, from its muzzle to its great barrel chest to its paws.

Some is smeared on the floor and walls and ovens; like someone had had to steady their balance as they pulled themselves along. The latch to the walk-in door is a mess.

He stares at the dog and the dog stares at him and he can’t for the life of him comprehend that this animal may have gotten to his alpha. Him? Sure, obviously. But the wolves were...well, they were the top dog on the food chain here. This stupid junkyard-reject shouldn’t have even been able to get close to--

It stands slowly, its growl morphing into a wet snarl.

Stiles swallows and folds himself closer to Peter. “Is...is Derek…?”

“He’s inside the freezer,” Peter says tersely, eyes on the dog.

The wolf hunches low and spreads his arms, an instinctive reaction to make himself look bigger. Stiles watches his claws slide out with a sharp ‘shick’ and takes a few steps back and to the side. Peter’s low growl is so deep in his chest that it must hurt his throat as it rattles out. It feels heavy, dangerous as it shocks through the air. It makes Stiles’ stomach flop and the hair on his arms stand up.

He feels small, like he just strolled into the lion’s pit at the zoo. Which is stupid, because yes, while Peter is deadly, his opponent is a dog and dogs are just....they fetch tennis balls. It makes him feel dumb to back down from the animal. He thinks he should just be able to hold up a finger and say ‘no!’ and watch the dog whine and roll over. It just doesn’t make any sense to him.

But the dog peels its lips back and flashes his red-smattered teeth and Stiles has the ridiculous primal urge to climb something to get out of reach.

Peter bares his own fangs, which are just as impressive.

“Derek?” Stiles calls out.

If the other wolf makes any indication that he heard them, Stiles doesn’t notice it.

Then the dog paces a few quick steps forward, crouches, and lunges.

And Stiles will admit, he’d been expecting a fight; some bloody battle between the dog and wolf with Peter doing most of the bleeding and pulling his punches because it was a dog and you were supposed to feel bad when you hurt a dog.

Even Derek hadn’t done more than growl and snap his teeth at the animal when it had been following them a few days earlier. Hell, if it came at Stiles, he’d protect himself, sure. But he’d probably have horrible ASPCA commercial flashbacks with that fucking Sarah McLachlan song getting stuck in his head for the rest of the day.

But Peter obviously doesn’t have that problem because he backhands the dog as soon as it comes within reach and grins in triumph as it smacks into the opposite wall with a loud yelp and slumps down to its belly.

Stiles skirts along the other side of the room until he gets to the walk-in door. The handle is bent in a way that makes it impossible to turn and he tries using all his weight in a pathetic attempt to open the door. When that fails, he sighs and gives a polite knock. “Um, Derek?”

There’s no response and Stiles puts his ear against the door as Peter all but beats his chest and roars the dog out of the room and passed the front counter and out of the shop. He thinks the wolf is enjoying himself just a bit too much.

Derek still hasn’t said anything and Stiles is wondering if Peter actually even heard him in there. Why wouldn’t Derek open the door or say something--oh.

“We’re not the voices,” Stiles says. “Or the you-know-what. I mean. I guess that sounds like something not-me might say. But it’s true. For realsies.”

He takes a step back and bounces on his heels when he receives no reply. “Okay, I’ll prove it’s me, okay? Uh. I’m sixteen, I go to Beacon Hills High, my favorite color is plaid--shut up, it’s a color--I enjoy tiramisu and Jack McCoy is the best thing to ever happen to the justice system and--”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek grouses from behind the door.

“Rude,” Stiles snaps back even as he pumps his fist in the air. “Can you open the door? It’s stuck.”

“...no,” Derek says.

“Dude, why not?”

But Derek doesn’t say anything.

“I already proved we’re not--hey!”

Peter comes up behind him and shoves him out of the way because a simple ‘excuse me’ would have taken too long. He stumbles back and feels a bit miffed that their buddy system has already collapsed.

Peter grabs at the handle, forces it down with a loud thunk and jerks open the door in one smooth motion that Stiles could have totally done. If he’d tried. And if he’d had some rest first. Maybe used his legs.

Stiles peeks over the older wolf’s shoulder and watches Derek peer up at them from the opposite end of the fridge.

He’s sitting splayed out on the ground, leaning his back against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him. There’s an opened package of sweet rolls next to him and Stiles tries to focus on that instead of all the blood everywhere oh my god. Derek must have rolled all around the floor at some point because there’s barely any clean space left.

His pants are shredded at the waist on one side and his shirt and jacket are off and in strips and tied around his stomach where most of the bleeding seems to have come from. Where most of the bleeding still seems to be coming from. There are tears and gashes and some burn marks where the gun went off too close to the skin. There are also bite marks.

“What happened,” Peter snaps out.

Derek blinks at him, looking bleary and pale. “She shot me. And. I passed out,” he looks down at himself. “When I woke up, the dog was…”

Eating me, Stiles finishes for him.

Which. Oh God.

Be strong.

Yeah, no.

Stiles’ vision blurs a bit and he feels bile rising and scorching up his throat. He wobbles where he stands and slaps a hand over his mouth as Peter reaches out and clamps a hand around his upper arm.

He shakes Stiles once, then seems to realize that’s a bad idea. “Don’t pass out; I’m not carrying both of you!”

“I don’t need to be carried,” Derek says, obviously insulted and lying through his teeth.

Stiles swallows a few deep breaths and then nods, “It’s okay, okay. I’m--gurk!”

He dry heaves, pressing his hand back over his mouth so nothing spills out. His mouth is getting overly wet and he’s starting to have those weird popcorn-tasting burps he has before he loses it. He gags again, lurching down and plants his hands on his knees.

“Stop it!” Peter hisses.

Well, obviously he’s fucking trying to--oh god he can smell blood everywhere ewewewhe’sstandinginblood. This is Derek’s blood. It’s everywhere--

“Guhk!” he chokes out.

“Stiles!” Peter barks.

No. No. He’s fine. He’s got this. Everything is awesome. He’s totally cool with standing in something that’s supposed to be in Derek’s body and certainly not outside of it because he’d been getting eaten alive by a fucking psychotic dog--

Nope, he’s out.

He jerks forward and sprays out a multicolored array of vomit because the last thing he’d had to eat was Skittles and then that makes him think of ‘taste the rainbow’ and he spews again.

The walk back to the hotel is quiet except for the slopping noises Stiles and Peter’s shoes make because they’re covered in vomit.

Apparently the only thing sympathetic about Peter is his stomach because as soon as Stiles started puking, so did the older man. Blood? No. Gore? No. Messy violence? He reveled in it. But apparently seeing someone else upchuck crossed the line as the only thing that made Peter nauseous. Derek had sat in the back of the walk-in and watched them like he really had just rather they left him alone to bleed to death.

They stop off at the pharmacy to scrounge around for some bandages and mouthwash and stutter back to their hotel room. They see the dog only once before they round the corner onto their street and Stiles watches it lick its chops as it stares after them.

--

Chapter Text

“You smell like burnt jelly beans,” Stiles says.

Derek wants to kill him. But he doesn’t think that he can lure Stiles close enough for his claws to reach his throat.

Peter had dumped him on the second bed as soon as they’d come inside, then turned around and locked the door before angrily kicking off his shoes and peeling off his socks. Stiles had opted to retreat into the bathroom; the boy was nearly covered in an unfortunate mixture of bile and tears and blood because Peter had been pissed at him for making him gag and had shoved him into a tacky puddle of blood which had made Stiles heave again--

Derek grunts as he leans back against the headboard and waits until Peter has changed and dumped their soiled clothing out the window before slamming it shut again while Stiles sits on the opposite bed looking more than a little green.

“The cartridges she used were filled with everything but the kitchen sink,” he says crossly.

He’d been picking candy out of himself and ignoring the dog on the other side of the door when Peter and Stiles had found him. The wounds from the gun had been mostly superficial on his sternum; though he was still poked through with pennies and tic tacs and screws and jelly beans and only a little bit of buckshot. The candy had only penetrated him a few inches. The pennies and other metals had gone deeper and were harder to get out.

“Well after ten years of shooting people, she must have run out of ammunition,” Peter says dryly.

“So. Werewolves are weak against mistletoe, wolfs bane, and jelly beans? Wow.”

“Shut up,” Derek snaps.

Peter plops down beside him, jostling the bed on purpose and making him wince. He sets down a small plastic bowl and a towel and holds up a pair of tweezers.

Derek doesn’t think his uncle should look this happy about digging through his wounds.

“I’m gonna--” and Stiles strips off and shuts himself up in the bathroom.

A second later they hear something splatter in the water of the toilet bowl and there’s really no worse time to be a werewolf with super hearing. Peter swallows thickly and Derek grins meanly at him.

Derek clenches his teeth and stays as still as he can as Peter digs into his side and works out all the debris underneath his skin. He has to keep being cut open because his body is desperate to heal over all bleeding wounds. The gaping tear on his belly is slowly knitting up and he has the distinct impression that he’s regenerating an organ or two. His stomach rolls at the thought.

The woman had shot him three times, once when he was on the ground and twice more when he tried to stumble away. The final shot made him hit the ground hard and he’d passed out. Derek supposes he should be thankful for that because otherwise the woman would have kept firing until he was down for good. Apparently she hadn’t cared enough to check for a pulse, sure in the belief that he would be picked off before he had a chance to escape.

He tries to think he was lucky that he’d been found by the dog first but...waking up to an agonizing pain and seeing a dog gnawing on pieces of him was something he just can’t be grateful for.

Derek had bolted up, smacked the animal to the side as he flailed back. With a hand clutching his stomach and holding everything in, he’d scrambled away and run into the first open shop he’d gotten to. Then he’d shut himself inside the walk-in and had to listen to the dog pacing outside, scratching at the door and growling for the next hour.

He thinks it’s the type of thing people have nightmares over for the rest of their lives.

Peter uses a claw to open him back up so he can work the tweezers in deeper. He comes back with a nickel and plops it down with all the other things he’s found inside of him. It’s annoying.

But that seems to be the last of it.

“Let me see your stomach,” Peter demands.

Derek has to bite back a growl as he peels back the bandages. He’s healing. Slowly. There had been a lot of damage inside and his body took care of the worst of it first. Right now, there’s a long, jagged, gaping tear. Most of the blood is dried and flaking, but it still looks ugly and swollen.

“You’ll be alright in a few hours,” Peter says after a few moments. He helps rewrap him in fresh bandages and then gives the all clear to Stiles as he cleans everything up.

Stiles pokes his head out cautiously. When he sees that all the blood and gore is gone, he sighs and slinks out of the bathroom and settles on the edge of Derek’s bed.

“So,” Stiles says; he sounds like his father. “What were you thinking.”

Derek glares at the boy.

“No, I’m actually curious about the thought process that led you to going out alone.”

He huffs and rolls his eyes.

“I’d thought you weren’t that stupid,” Peter says.

Derek hates both of them. Hates them even more because he knows that he shouldn’t have gone out. They stand there for the next half hour, tag-teaming him with a barrage of questions, insults, and disappointing looks that make his belly squirm. By the end of their bitching, he’s sunk down low in the bed with his shoulders hunched up by his ears with a deep scowl on his face.

“Did you even find anything, Derek?” Stiles says in exasperation.

“No,” Derek grouses.

“So you left in the middle of the…” Peter looks out the window and waves his hand. “Night to save yourself--”

“No!” Derek snaps. “I was trying to find a way out for all of us--”

“Sooo your plan was to escape and then...what? Try to figure out a way back in?” Stiles says.

Derek opens his mouth to bite out an answer, then shuts it with a clack. That’s...well, yes, of course he’d been going to come back. This is his pack and he’s not leaving them behind no matter how annoying they are. But. He hadn’t really thought about how he was going to get back. He’d sort of figured that he could just turn around and walk right in. Now, of course, it seems stupid.

He hunches down further into his bed, ears burning. “I would have figured out a way,” he says stubbornly.

“You could have died, Derek,” Peter says.

Derek knows this. He was there. Peter doesn’t have to keep pointing it out like a disappointed math teacher.

“If you hadn’t of woken up when you did,” Peter continues. “Or if the woman had aimed for a kill shot instead of just wounding you--”

“I know!” Derek snaps.

Stiles and his uncle both purse their lips in that disapproving parent look that makes Derek think they’ve been hanging around each other too much.

“I know,” he says more calmly. “I won’t do it again.”

Ugh. This feels exactly like his parents are standing over him and he just got in trouble for staying out too late with his friends.

The other two share a look and seem to decide he’s had enough.

“Did you find anything out?” Stiles plops down on the bed next to him with raised brows and Derek really wants to punch him in the face. A lot.

“No,” he says. He hesitates for a moment, then continues. “But I think Peter’s right.”

“It’s a cross I bear,” Peter quips.

“Right about what?” Stiles says quickly. “About the way out being through the fog?”

Derek nods. Now that he’s thinking about it, he agrees with his uncle. There’s no reason for there to be that much psychological defense around the fog unless that was the way out.

“So, we’d just have to, what?” Stiles frowns. “Stop being afraid? Take a deep breath and run?”

Derek hesitates for a second, then decides on honesty. “I also think the woman was telling the truth about what she saw; that there is something in the fog.”

“What did you see?” Peter asks.

But Derek shakes his head. Like the first time they tried driving out, the memory of the stark terror it caused is fading. He knows he was too scared to go further, but he can’t exactly explain why. He was terrified, he knows this, but he’s been scared before and it’s never stopped him.

“I think I saw...things. I didn’t get a good enough look to tell you anymore. There was just....an impression of something moving in the fog. It wasn’t like,” he waves his hand around them. “The other thing. It felt different.”

Peter rubs his jaw in thought. “Could be some type of supernatural remora.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles says.

“A remora is a type of fish that attaches itself to a larger predator. Usually sharks--”

“If there are sharks, I give up.”

Peter narrows his eyes at the teen. “Whatever is living in the fog probably just travel along with the...the C-word, eating its scraps.”

“Awesome,” Stiles says after a moment. “So we have It-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, crazy giant shotgun chick, crazy giant dog, crazy maybe-ghost people, and freaky things that hide in the fog and block our way out. Do I have that right?”

Peter and Derek share a look. Derek feels a lot worse when it’s all laid out like that. One or two of them, they could handle, but all at once? No wonder everyone’s becoming apathetic and depressed. Stiles flops back against the bed and rubs his hands over his face.

“Are we ever getting out of here?”

Derek shares another look with his uncle. The other wolf doesn’t say anything, doesn’t share some new and dangerous plan; he just looks...resigned. Which is a weird thing for Derek to see since Peter has never been anything other than determined in everything he does, especially when it came to protecting his own life. And it’s incredibly disheartening to realize that every single one of them has already given up.

“We’ll think of something,” he says. But even to him, the words sound hollow.

Stiles just shrugs and stares at the ceiling.

Derek wishes that the boy would bite back with something sarcastic, something funny or insulting. Anything.

They can’t stay here. They just can’t.

Derek doesn’t want to die here.

They don’t do much over the next few days. Peter insists that they still eat and Stiles just can’t muster up the energy to argue with him, so he chews on a stick of beef jerky until he’s left alone. None of them go out now that they have the woman and the dog hunting after their blood. The wolves don’t think she’ll be able to get near the hotel without being heard and she certainly won’t be able to take both of them at once if she tries to force her way in.

Stiles doesn’t bring up the thought that she’s been able to creep around the town without their knowledge since they got here and if she wanted to get to them, all she’d have to do is light the hotel on fire. He thinks there’s a time and a place to bring it up and now isn’t it. She probably only went after Derek because he’d been close. She’s only actively sought them out the one time. And Stiles thinks that if she sees Derek walking around again like everything's fine, that she’ll be wary enough to keep to herself.

He’s more worried about the dog. The dog that now has a taste for flesh. The thought of Derek being eaten alive by that thing still makes his stomach turn. He doesn’t even think there was a reason for it. Surely the animal must be suffering the same symptoms they do. No appetite, low energy, little motivation. Either it was eating whatever it could out of habit, or it actually was starving (which he tried really hard not to feel bad about), or it had been driven wild by the things it had seen.

Did it suffer through hallucinations like they did? Did it hear its owners (Stiles assumes the dog was owned by backwater hillbillies) calling out to it, calling it to come home?

Awesome. He’s depressed himself even further because, wow, that is a very sad thought. Now he feels bad for the real Cujo’s older, meaner brother.

Maybe they should start leaving some food out for it. Maybe after a while, they could earn its trust.

Annnnd there he goes planning for the future in this place again.

No matter what he tries to think about, it always turns into how his life is going to fit here in this little fucked up town. There’s no thought about what he’s going to do when he gets home or how much homework he’s going to have piled up or what he and his friends are going to do on pack weekends. Just this. Just him laying here in a hotel room with two grown wolves. This is his life.

For as long as it takes for him to be hunted down.

Stiles doesn’t know if he can deal with that.

He’ll be living like the woman must have been. He’ll at least have the benefit of not being alone but still…

There will be the voices, the hallucinations, the heavy cloud of terror, the fog, the things in the fog, no sun, no moon, no stars, no warmth, no change. He’ll just be stuck in the purgatory until he dies.

Stiles thinks he should be panicking at the thought, but he’s oddly...ambivalent. On one hand, he’ll be alive and ready to escape or be rescued. On the other...he doesn’t really think that anyone is coming for them. At least, if they are, then there’s no way they can get to where he is. So. He’s trapped. For good. He’ll live the rest of his life caught between apathy and fear and that doesn’t sound like much of a life at all.

And there’s a little thought, a little stray inner voice, that says that he could bring all of this to an end if he really wanted.

But it makes him nervous thinking about it. Like the wolves will immediately know and start yelling at him and giving him looks and being disappointed. So he tries not to dwell on it too much.

But it keeps surfacing in the back of his mind.

They’ll be better off without me.

I’m probably going to die anyway and it’ll probably be pretty horrifying and painful.

I won’t have to wait for the axe to drop, I could take my life in my own hands.

Without him dragging them back, maybe Peter and Derek would be able to escape.

It churns his stomach, makes him feels guilty, but the idea stays with him. Will Derek think he’s a coward? Will Peter just roll his eyes and say something like, “I knew he’d do it”? He’s not dumb enough to think that either wolf just wouldn’t care...but how much would they care? It certainly wouldn’t stop them from trying to figure a way out, wouldn’t stop them from going on and fighting.

Maybe it actually would be easier for them if Stiles wasn’t here to be dragged around like a sack of potatoes. It’s not like he’s helping here. At most, he’s dead weight. This just isn’t his element. He’s made for research and quick comebacks. He’s not built for...for whatever weird torture this is. He’s too weak-willed.

Stiles thinks of his father then; about how the sheriff would look if he never came back and the shame of it hits him so hard that he can’t breathe for a moment.

And then he thinks, Why would it matter? I’m never going to see him again anyway.

He goads Peter into an argument about how Law & Order is a completely accurate portrayal of the justice system and how Jack McCoy is basically the MacGyver of the legal process just to take his mind off of things for a while. It works for a bit. He even thinks he sees Derek grin when Peter starts getting riled up.

Later though, they hear the woman screaming. It’s abrupt, loud; it jolts them all awake at the same time.

Peter and Derek spring up with their teeth bared and claws out. Stiles clenches his fists and stays behind them.

She screeches, yells, shrieks, curses. There’s the sound of a shotgun blast only once.

And they listen, not daring to do anything more.

“Should we…?” Stiles whispers. He doesn’t finish; he doesn’t have to. Whatever they would have done in the real world, however they would have thought to intervene...doesn’t matter. This isn’t their world. And here they are prey. There are no room for morals.

So they stay inside. And they listen to the woman die. She can’t have been too close from the sounds of it, maybe on the main road. He thinks that they shouldn’t be able to hear her from where she is. He isn’t sure if whatever is out there is making them hear her or if she’s really just being that loud.

Stiles knows that it doesn’t last very long, but it feels like a decade before it’s finally quiet.

Afterwards, the silence is abrasive, oppressive. Too much and too heavy. They return to their beds. Stiles lays down but the two wolves don’t bother.

The next day (or several hours later since there is no day here), they go out and find her remains.

“Looks like the dog got to her,” Peter says.

Stiles is standing many yards back, trying not to focus too much on the long trail of blood and...innards. “She’s dead though?” he says.

Derek turns back to look at him. “She is.”

“I mean, everyone can see that she’s dead?” he clarifies. He still feels the phantom weight of the baby in his arms sometimes; can’t get over how it wailed as he left it behind, or how relieved Derek had looked afterwards.

Derek and Peter share a look.

“Definitely dead,” Peter says.

Derek nods.

Stiles doesn’t care enough to check for himself.

She’s spread out at the end of the street to the hotel and Stiles can’t help but wonder if she’d been running to them for help.

He can’t help but wonder if they would have helped her.

They can’t agree on what to do with the corpse. Peter says leave it, Stiles wants to bury it, and Derek just looks conflicted.

Stiles thinks that after ten years of being trapped here and outsmarting the creature and anyone that happened to show up, that this is a pretty shitty way to die. He wonders if maybe they should have tried to warn her about the dog.

He tries reminding himself that she shot Derek and left him for dead, but he still feels bad for her. She died alone and afraid in one of the worst ways he can imagine and he doesn’t think that anyone deserves that.

After a few minutes, they agree on burning her where she lies. Derek goes to fetch a sheet from the hotel to lay her out on and gathers up her...parts, looking like he’s trying to arrange them into something that she might have once resembled and Stiles stares off at the woods on the side of the road so he doesn’t have to watch. It hits him much later that this was something Derek had had to do before with his sister.

Peter trots up the street to the pickup truck and roots around in the back for canister of gas.

They drench her remains and light her up and then just stand around until the smell gets to them.

Stiles didn’t know what he expected, if he thought that a human would smell like cooking chicken or beef, but it doesn’t at all. It’s sickly-sweet and is so strong that it feels like it’s clogging the back of his throat. His tongue flattens against the roof of his mouth and he has to stumble away a few paces to gag.

The wolves herd him away and Derek awkwardly pats him on the back.

The quick thought of ‘I wonder if this is what Peter smelled when his family died’ flicks through his mind before he glances up quickly.

Peter is standing apart from them. He has the woman’s shotgun in one hand and he’s checking to see how many cartridges he managed to loot off her before they burned her. He looks pale and there’s a tremor in his hands, but Stiles doesn’t know what to say, how to comfort him. So he says nothing.

They leave the mess of her behind; turn their backs on the dark smoke that wafts up into the gray sky.

On bad days, Peter can still feel fire licking at his body; curling up his leg and arm and breathing across half of his face. He couldn’t remember if it had hurt at the time. He supposes it must have, but he has no memory of it. He’s read up on it, knows that the kind of burns he had would have killed a human; he knows that the kind of burns he had would have destroyed any nerves that had been exposed. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t recall any pain until his body had slowly started to heal.

He vividly remembers the first sparks of pain shooting up from his feet.

Of course, by then he’d been put into a medically induced coma, so he’s not exactly sure when it happened. Everything is still distant and foggy. He’d only had brief flashes of awareness: a numb sense of tugging when they’d scrubbed him down, the doctor frowning when the skin grafts didn’t take, arguments over whether or not they should be more aggressive in treating him, them being concerned and whispering about lawsuits when they couldn’t bring him out of his catatonia, his nurse leaving him in the shower under water that he knew was scalding only because of the steam.

When the first bursts of pain started radiating up his body, he was still in a stupor, still unable to quite parse what had happened or what was going on now. But as the time passed and his body healed, new nerves started to form and made the last three years of his recovery a living hell.

His feet had been burned so badly that parts of the bones had been blackened, he’d seen the pictures. There had been talk of amputation, but thankfully, they’d decided not to. He’d been wearing shoes that night, he thinks. He remembers the smell of burning rubber when he thinks back.

And burning flesh.

It’s not something one ever forgets. Sometimes when he first wakes up, he imagines that he can still taste the smoke on the back of his tongue.

Burning the woman...isn’t ideal for him.

He’d argued against doing anything. Aside from the obvious, making a fire that lasted long enough to burn a corpse would no doubt attract attention they couldn’t afford. And it wasn’t like burning the body would make it magically disappear. There’d still be debris and scorch marks on the road. There’d still be dark paw prints fading off into the direction of town. There’d still be bits that didn’t quite burn through. They’d need some type of incinerator to get everything.

There’s a spot in the basement of the Hale house that still has the imprint of his youngest nephew. Peter can’t be in the same room with it.

But the woman is dead and no longer a threat, so he tries to see the bright side.

They wander back to the hotel parking lot, but don’t go upstairs. Derek doesn’t want to leave the fire unguarded because worse than being trapped in a ghost town would be being trapped in a ghost town on fire.

Stiles amuses himself with throwing pebbles at other pebbles and plopping himself down on the curb. Peter has saved the shotgun for him just in case, but is unwilling to let the boy have it just yet. He’ll put it away and save it for an emergency.

There had only been a handful of cartridges tucked into the woman’s jacket pocket when he’d searched through what was left of her and he wants to save them for...for whatever might be out there. The dog maybe.

He’s definitely going to kill that dog.

Peter hadn’t thought that the animal would develop a taste for flesh. At least, not enough that it would actively start hunting down prey like its distant cousins. From the look of the corpse, the woman hadn’t had an easy death. She’d been able to get off one shot that seemed to miss because they hadn’t smelled any of the dog’s blood, then she’d spent quite a few minutes being mauled before eventually bleeding out.

It was an ugly death. At least he always goes for the throat when he kills someone. He’s a gentleman like that.

“Maybe we can find her hideout. Maybe she knew something that could help us. Or maybe she stockpiled something useful,” Stiles says.

Derek frowns from where he’s standing a few feet away, eyes trained on the fire down the street. “We don’t know where she was staying.”

Stiles bites at his lip. “But...I think she told us.”

Peter stares at him intently. “When?”

“When she was telling us the story about how she watched that guy drive off?” Stiles looks between the two wolves. “She said she watched him from the roof of the theater?”

Peter cocks his head to the side in thought. The three story theater was tucked away down a side alley on the other side of the main road; the doors had been locked, and they hadn’t really bothered with it at all. There’d been no reason to.

He supposes it’s as good a hiding place as any.

He glances up and meets Derek’s gaze. Peter doesn’t really have much of an argument either way. He doesn’t think that they’ll find anything useful there, even if that is where she’s set up camp. Obviously, she didn’t know a way out, so what was the point? He flicks his gaze to Stiles.

She may have had weapons though. Must have. They certainly hadn’t found much in the way of firearms since being here. He’d expected at least one gun owner in this small town; it’s entirely possible that the woman got there first and squirreled everything away. At the very least, she has his fucking license and he wants it back.

So he nods and Derek returns his gaze to the flaming corpse.

“We’ll check it out after this is done,” he says firmly.

Stiles looks a little green but crosses his arms over his chest and settles in for a wait. Peter sits down next to him because he knows exactly how long it takes for a human body to burn away into nothing.

Eventually the boy beats a hasty retreat to their room and Peter follows behind him. He’s unwilling to let either pack member out of sight, so he leaves the door of their room open and leans against the railing so he can stare down at Derek standing still in the lot. He can hear the teen starting up the shower inside and he wants to tell him that that won’t get rid of the smell of smoke, but decides to leave him be.

From his vantage point, he can almost see the faded impressions of the town. The weird distortion is still affecting him and it’s hard to make anything out clearly.

Stiles gags in the bathroom and Peter’s stomach flips in sympathy.

It takes another few hours, with Derek adding more gasoline when needed, before the corpse is about as disposed of as it’s going to get. He watches Derek stride forward and kick at the remains. He thinks at this point, there can only be bone and ash and teeth.

With his bare hands, Derek digs a shallow grave off the side of the road, just hidden by the unkempt grass and dumps what’s left inside of it.

From here, Peter can still make out a giant black smear across the road.

Derek seems to do his best to kick away anything left behind, probably for Stiles’ benefit. When he’s done, he brings back the empty container of gas and sets it outside their door.

He smells of death and fire and blood and dirt and Peter’s stomach revolts. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and he fights back the urge to shove his nephew away.

Derek stares at him for a beat. “Do you think it’s wise to go back into town?”

Peter frowns and subtly tries to shift away so that the wind is blowing Derek’s scent away from him. “I think it gives us something to do,” he says honestly.

“What about…?” Derek nods toward the open door.

Stiles is inside, snoring under the covers.

“Well, we can’t leave him here,” Peter drawls.

He understands though. Out of all of them, Stiles is definitely taking their situation the hardest. The voices have mostly stopped for both wolves, but Peter still catches the boy stiffen and jerk his head toward nothing sometimes, like he hears things they don’t. The baby...that had been a lot for him to swallow. Peter knows that if something like that happens again, that they won’t be able to protect him.

“And the dog?” Derek says.

Peter shifts his gaze away. He’s uncomfortable with the other wolf asking for his advice--even though before they’d been pulled here, that he’d craved it; that he’d very much wanted to be the puppet master pulling his nephew’s strings.

“We kill it,” he says firmly. He doesn’t care if it attacks them or not. They simply can’t have an animal that big and that dangerous running around.

He scrunches up his face when he realizes he sounds like a hunter.

Derek nods and walks around him, thankfully going immediately into the bathroom. Peter listens to the shower start up again and rubs at his nose.

They wake Stiles later and head out.

Derek leads them and Stiles is behind him and Peter is practically stepping on his heels as he herds the boy along. Stiles shoots him a few dirty looks, but says nothing about it. They don’t catch any sign of the dog.

Peter wonders if the thing is napping off its meal. He carries the shotgun at his side, finger itching to pull the trigger at the first sign of the animal.

The main road is as deserted as ever, except for a small bag of tools sitting next to one of the cars.

“Looks like she was fixing it up when she was...when the dog came,” Stiles says.

Peter nods. She was certainly clever enough to outwit anyone that came after her; the only way he could see her being outmaneuvered is if she’d been caught off guard. The hood of the car is still up; she’d probably been buried in her work, sure in the fact that she’d already taken out her biggest threat. She’d probably not even noticed the dog hunting her, too focused on her busy work.

As they get closer, he can see a splash of blood on the front bumper, a smeared handprint on the sidewalk as she no doubt tried to scramble away. The woman must have been attacked from behind and it must have been a wound to her leg or she would have escaped. He supposes she had just enough time to bolt down the road, probably trying to get somewhere high, maybe get far enough to get off a shot.

Obviously she’d underestimated how determined the dog had been.

Derek puts a hand out and they halt a few feet away while he takes a look around.

“The keys are still in the ignition,” he says.

Because of course they are, she hadn’t thought that anyone would come after her. Peter thinks that after ten years, maybe she grew too complacent to think that there would be anyone that could stop her.

“Why even work on them though?” Stiles says. “It’s not like she was going to drive out of here.”

Peter shrugs at his side. “She needed something to keep her mind off of all,” he waves his hand around, “this.”

“Does this mean I have to get a hobby?” Stiles mutters.

It falls too flat to be meant as a joke and Peter frowns.

Derek starts putting all the tools back into her bag and takes it with them as they carry on. He also takes the keys.

The theater isn’t big. It’s a skinny, tall building that was built maybe eighty years ago. He thinks that at some point, it must have served as a courthouse because there’s a grime covered plaque on the side of the door that has Lady Justice on it and under her, it reads the county name--the rest is too smudged to make out. The windows going up the side of the building have been boarded up; some of them even have scraps of metal melding them closed. The front doors are spray painted black and have a heavy chain shutting them together tightly.

Derek takes the padlock in one hand.

“She must have had a key on her--” Stiles starts.

Derek squeezes the lock until it bends and snaps.

“Never mind.”

The first floor has nothing of interest. It’s dark and smells strongly of mildew. There’s a small concession stand off to the side and another set of blacked out doors toward the back. Passed them is a small, cramped theater that’s barely big enough to take up half the wall. There are only ten rows of seats that are mostly plastic lawn furniture.

“This is sad,” Stiles says.

They check all the rooms on the first floor; a couple closets, a room leading to the side where there’s an ancient projector. There’s a tiny staircase tucked away in the back of the main room.

The second floor looks like it might have been a church. There are more plastic chairs and an altar that looks like it’s been destroyed and rebuilt more times than he can say. He wonders if the woman had gone through a few crisis of faith. There’s a small cross hanging on the wall behind it. They leave the room alone and go up to the next floor.

The door is shut tight and locked up. It barely takes any effort for their alpha to break it open. This floor seems to have been someone’s apartment. The ceiling is high but it’s cramped; not because of its size, but because it’s packed full with such random items that Peter barely knows where to look first. There are clocks and newspapers stacked against the entry way halls and beyond that into what he assumes must have been a living room, there are hundreds of car parts and scrap metal and bits and pieces of tools.

Stiles whistles. “I think I saw this episode of Hoarders.”

“Don’t touch anything,” Derek snaps out, dropping the bag of tools to one side.

They pick their way through the mess, having to go in a line because there is simply no room for anything else. Beyond the living room is a small kitchen that’s filled with balls made out of rubber bands. Just. Everywhere; piled up to the ceiling with rubber band balls. There must be thousands of rubber bands. Hundreds of thousands.

“Wow...she,” Stiles picks up a ball from the sink and starts a small avalanche, “had a lot of time on her hands.”

Derek glares at him like it’s Peter’s fault for letting the boy touch anything.

Peter smacks the ball out of Stiles’ hands and shoves him out of the kitchen. Stiles steps on one of the balls and slips back, causing another small avalanche before Derek can catch him and jerk him out of what was quickly becoming the Chuck-E-Cheese ball pit of hell.

“Thanks,” Stiles says.

“Stop. Touching. Things,” Derek grounds out.

Peter picks his way carefully out into the relative safety of the hallway.

The bathroom is filled with microwaves. The hall closet is filled with old radios and walkie talkies. A small office has a stack of those old talking bass fish stuck on a plaque and even more rubber bands. The bedroom is at the end of the hall and seems to take up most of the floor. It’s relatively clean here at least. Comfortable even. The woman has somehow managed to get an overstuffed couch up the stairs, along with a desk, a large framed picture of a line of swimsuit models, and a thick mattress with a truly impressive amount of pillows piled on top of it; above her bed is a massive poster or painting, a collage of some sort.

The tall windows here have been even more heavily locked down. There are flat planes of metal and grates welded against the walls, bars set up; like she was making the perfect panic room. There’s a skylight above them that lets in just enough light to see and a small door shoved in a corner that Peter assumes opens up to a staircase that leads to the roof.

One part of the room is definitely her living space. The other half looks like what Chris Argent wishes his basement looked like.

There are guns. Lots and lots of guns. Guns and hunting knives and a few sets of bows, and what looks like a small chemistry station that had been slapped together. He and Derek immediately step closer as Stiles trails off in the other direction.

“Looks like she was making bullets,” Peter says as he picks up a cast and turns it in his hand.

“Trying to at least,” Derek says, gesturing to all the slopping, deformed bits of lead and metal.

There are plenty of shotgun shells, some empty, some not, some in the process of being filled. “She seemed to have figured these out.”

“Easiest to make,” Derek shrugs.

“Guys,” Stiles calls.

Both wolves turn, fully expecting to have to stop the boy from touching something he wasn't supposed to be touching.

But Stiles has his back to them and is facing the wall that the woman’s bed has been shoved against.

“Come see this,” Stiles says softly.

Peter can’t tell what kind of tone he’s using. It’s almost...awe. He glances at his nephew before they both put down their loot and walk over.

“What did you find?” Derek says.

Stiles looks back at them with wide, sorrowful eyes and then gestures at the wall.

What Peter had taken for giant poster or painting is actually little bits of plastic, all taped or glued to the back wall above her bed. He steps closer and his gaze widens.

They’re licenses. Licenses and other IDs like library cards and credit cards and school IDs. There are badges from nurses and doctors and police; there are SeaWorld and Six Flags and Schlitterbahn passes, just anything that had a picture or a name. The ones that didn’t have pictures on them had small photos next to them; photos that were bent and folded and sometimes torn into the proper shape. Photos that belonged in wallets of proud family members.

“Do you think…” Stiles shifts uncomfortably. “Do you think this is like, her trophy wall?”

Derek and he share a quick glance.

There are hundreds of IDs here. All stacked in neat little rows going up halfway to the tall ceiling.

“I think that’s exactly what this is,” Derek says.

Stiles shakes his head. “All these people….”

It’s a lot to take in. Peter scans the tiny little pictures. There are people from all over the world, all races, all ages. He spies one library card that has a small boy missing his two front teeth smiling happily at whoever was behind the camera. None of these people knew what hit them. None of them knew that they were going to have their world turned upside down, first by being taken by some supernatural force and then by being tricked by the woman.

He wonders how many lies she told, how many people’s trust she earned before she’d left them to die or murdered them herself.

“Ten years…” Stiles says.

Peter reaches out and plucks up his license from the wall. He doesn’t belong up there. She didn’t beat him. He pulls down Derek’s and Stiles’ too and hands them back to their rightful owners. He wants to believe that they outlasted her, that they were just stronger and better than she was; but honestly, he thinks they just got extremely lucky.

He thinks the others feel the same because they share a quiet moment as they gaze at all the little faces staring at them.

Derek turns back toward the guns and Peter goes to follow. Stiles ducks down behind them and picks through her nightstand.

The wolves scrounge up a few backpacks and start arguing about what weapons they should grab. Peter doesn’t feel like they need them and he would rather destroy them, but if anyone else happens to be pulled into this hell, he doesn’t want them having any advantage over them. Derek frowns as he stares at all the weapons.

“We can come back for more if we need to,” he says slowly. “Maybe use this as a secondary base. Just in case.”

Peter doesn’t like the thought of leaving all this behind. But he nods after a moment. They can’t carry all this with them, and even if they could, they don’t have enough space for all of it unless they start branching out into other rooms of the hotel. He feels safer with the guns away from them though.

They decide on just taking a few knives and the rest of the shotgun cartridges and a small handgun. If anything, it’ll give them an edge if the dog shows up again. And Peter would rather Stiles had a weapon than to have to rely on them.

“Guys,” Stiles sounds like he’s on the verge of laughter as he calls them. “Guys, look at this. Her name was Judas. I’m not even kidding.”

The boy holds up a license and as Peter walks closer to get a better look; he can see it’s most definitely the woman, a slightly younger version that looks less angry at everything, but it’s her, scar and all. And...huh. Judas Snow. He supposes if he were named that, he wouldn’t tell anybody either. Especially the people he’s about to screw over.

“Judas Snow,” Stiles snickers. “You know nothing Judas Snow.”

Peter rolls his eyes. Derek ignores them.

“I’m going to check the roof,” Derek says. “She may have left something we want up there.”

Peter nods and waves him away, tinkering with a small safe sitting on the desk. Inside are a few Pokemon cards, a bible, and just, way too many bubble gum wrappers.

He closes the safe because it’s depressing and weird and shifts his gaze over the rest of the desk. There are wires and tiny scraps of metal and small, delicate silver chains. He has no idea what she was doing with most of this stuff, but give him ten years and he could probably work something out.

He hears Derek’s heavy steps cross the room. He hears his nephew grab the door handle. He hears Stiles make a small, questioning noise, “Hey, there’s a wire above the--”

and then there’s a white hot blast of air and fire and a bang so loud that his entire head goes silent as he’s flung forward into the wall of guns. A heavy metal rack falls over and slams down into him, pinning him against the floor. His skull smacks down and there’s something wet on his face and then his eyes roll back and he--

---

Chapter Text

Stiles is in pain.

He squirms; his body wants to move, needs to move--

but the agony is so all-encompassing that he just whines and passes out again.

The second time is a little better. There’s still waves and throbs and pulses of pain flashing through his entire body, but it’s not as horrible. As he passes out again, he promises himself that he’ll stay awake next time.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s a bit more clear-headed. Yes, there’s pain, there’s a lot of pain. But he feels like it’s somewhat manageable. He feels like if he moves, he won’t instantly feel like vomiting and curling up in a ball to die.

He rests for a few long minutes; spends his time staring up at the tall ceiling. There’s something on him, something stiff and heavy and soft and he blinks and turns his gaze downward. The mattress is covering half of his body. He’s surrounded in the giant mess of pillows and blankets that made up the woman’s (Judas, he thinks) weird little nest. His head is pounding and he shuts his eyes again, taking a few deep breaths.

Most of the pain is radiating out from his back and his ears and his right shoulder.

He blinks, refusing to let himself swim back into unconsciousness. Swallowing is hard. Keeping his gaze focused is hard. Keeping a steady train of thought is hard.

A few of the pillows around him have burst for some reason and there are feathers spread out beside him. He hates feathered bedding. He’s allergic to goose down.

Stiles counts to three hundred before he does anything else. He thinks his shoulder might be dislocated, that his wrist and forearm must be fractured. He may have a concussion. He should probably go to a hospital.

It takes him another few minutes to remember exactly why he can’t go to a hospital and he slowly cranes his neck to stare across the room.

He spies Peter lying flat on his back underneath a heavy steel rack and a pile of guns and knives.

He calls the wolf’s name. Or tries to. There’s no noise except a high pitched ringing in his ears. He tries again.

Peter doesn’t move.

Stiles tries calling for Derek--

Derek who gave him a confused look as he opened the door when he’d tried to point out the wire. The tripwire. The grenade. Derek.

Stiles whines as he pushes off the mattress that may have saved his life. It takes effort to move aside even the pillows and he’s panting by the time he’s finally free enough to sit up. He goes slowly, squeezing his eyes shut again as the world takes an interesting spin that does absolutely nothing to help his stomach settle.

The other side of the room is a mess.

There are IDs and splintered bits of wood and brick and metal everywhere. There’s a giant hole in the wall; through it is the small staircase leading up to the roof. There’s a huge crack that starts from what used to be the doorway and ends at one of the windows. He supposes they were lucky that the windows had been covered; otherwise there’d be glass everywhere.

Derek is curled up on his side against the wall across from him. Stiles can’t see his face.

But he can see a lot of blood.

“Derek?” his voice is thin and scratchy and he can barely hear himself. “Derek?”

But Derek doesn’t move.

Stiles feels his breath hitch in his chest as he turns to look back at Peter.

“Peter?” he tries.

Both men are still.

“You’re werewolves, you know,” Stiles reminds them. “You guys heal from everything. I’ve seen it.”

Stiles feels too weak to do anything more and he lays back down. He just needs time. They all need time.

The fourth time he opens his eyes, he manages to keep them open. He makes himself sit up again; makes himself stand. It takes a few tries. His legs seem to have forgotten how to be legs and if he moves too fast, he feels like he’ll vomit. He spends a good few minutes dragging himself over to the wall and using it to help him stand. Then he just breathes, bent over with his hands planted on his knees to keep him steady.

Peter starts moving; the wolf groans and shifts and the rack wobbles above him.

“Peter?” Stiles says. And he’s so grateful, so fucking happy.

Peter grunts and swipes aside the pile of weapons that cover him and pushes at the large rack. Stiles uses the wall as a support as he makes his way over, shuffling as fast as he can.

“Hold on, lemme help--”

Peter gives a great shove and frees himself and the shelf clatters off to the side. The wolf sits up and rubs his head. Stiles can’t see any injuries. There’s blood, yes, but he can’t see any wounds. There are a few places where his clothes have ripped, no doubt pierced through by the falling knives or bits of debris that was expelled from the opposite side of the room. He looks okay.

“Are you…?” Stiles manages to sit down next to him.

Peter winces and wipes dried blood off the side of his face. “I’m fine…” His gaze flicks up and down Stiles’ body. “Are you?”

Stiles tries to shrug without flinching and doesn’t quite pull it off. “I’m okay, just...I landed wrong.”

Then he looks quickly over to where Derek is still laying.

“Peter, Derek is--”

The wolf follows his gaze and his eyes widen as he gasps; then he’s up, without even a limp to show for it. He drops down next to Derek’s form and gently reaches out.

“Is he,” Stiles doesn’t want to ask if he’s dead. He doesn’t know how much damage a werewolf can take before it dies, but he’s thinking a grenade might do the trick.

“He’s alive,” Peter says after a moment. “He’s...he’s not doing very well.”

Stiles forces himself up so he can stagger over to his alpha; he kneels next to them and winces when he realizes he’s accidentally sat on bits and pieces of debris.

Peter carefully moves Derek from his side to his back. The younger wolf is splashed with dried, flaking blood over his chest, his arms, and his face; but there doesn’t seem to be any fresh bleeding. His clothes are torn and singed and most of his shirt is in tatters around him. Stiles can see a huge bruise on his abdomen.

“He’s healed?” Stiles says in confusion. “Why isn’t he waking up?”

Peter’s lips thin as he gestures to Derek’s stomach. “Internal bleeding. But I don’t see what could have…”

The wolf stops and narrows his eyes at the ground around them. Stiles follows his gaze. There are tiny slivers of metal and coins and--

“Oh no,” Stiles says slowly.

“Homemade frag grenade,” Peter says stiffly; he pauses for a moment before dragging his hand through a puddle of Derek’s blood. He pulls up a small bit of delicate chain, a small silver chain.

Stiles stares at Derek. “But...but it didn’t hurt him last time, he still healed?”

Peter shakes his head. “These went in deep; he’s healed over them yes, but his body can’t force out this much debris.”

“You helped him before,” Stiles says quickly. “You pulled all that crap from him? Do it again.”

Peter just looks at him, brows draw together. “Stiles...this is a lot of damage all at once, I’m not sure--”

“Try,” Stiles stresses. “Just try. You know he’d do the same for you.”

But Peter just has this look on his face like he’s trying to find a nice way of telling Stiles that it would be a waste of time, that Derek probably won’t make it. Instead of saying any of that though, Peter just gives a quick nod and lifts one of Derek’s arms around his neck.

Stiles tries to help as much as he can as Peter supports the younger wolf.

“Let’s get him back to the hotel,” Peter says firmly.

Derek is going to die and there’s nothing Peter can do about it.

He’s seen wolves that have been blown apart by hunter-made grenades filled with silver and wolfs bane and mistletoe. It was never a pretty death.

Peter remembers being young and ignoring his mother’s orders while she and her sister hurried off to their pack emissary (funnily enough, he’d also been a vet) in the middle of the night. Something had happened on their territory and Peter didn’t want to hear about it not being any of his business. So he’d slipped from under his older sister’s hawk-like glare and followed after his mother.

He had trailed after them, tracked their scent to the Veterinary clinic and spent about ten minutes scoping the place out. Beams made out of mountain ash and bricks infused with wolfs bane made it impossible to break into without invitation. And some nifty spell work made spying extremely difficult. Even with his ear pressed up right against the building, Peter hadn’t been able to hear anything.

He’d scrambled around to the back and climbed on top of one of the trashcans, squirming against the wall until he could just barely perch himself under one of the small windows overlooking what he assumed was the room where they performed surgeries.

Inside, he’d watched their emissary and his mother and her sister try to hold down a wolf he didn’t know.

The man had been thrashing on the table; how he was still moving, Peter couldn’t figure, because most of the skin around his left side had been all but torn off. He knew it was an omega, and with his nose pressed against the glass he heard the emissary talking quickly, explaining that a group of hunters had followed the omega into their territory and used some new weapons on him.

He’d spent the next few hours watching as the vet opened and reopened the strange wolf over and over, trying to work fast to dig out bits and pieces of woods and metals before the wounds closed and healed over.

His mother had been grim the entire time. She knew that it was too late for the wolf, but she’d tried to save him anyway. Peter had never been able to understand why. The man was obviously in pain and wasn’t going to survive. The best thing to do would be to end it for him, put him out of his misery.

He’d waited around until the omega stopped squirming, stopped screaming, stopped breathing. He’d watched his mother and aunt as they pressed in close together to comfort each other. He’d watched the emissary clean his glasses and then gather up his tools, shaking his head.

There’d just been too much damage.

Peter had scampered off before his alpha noticed him and slinked back to the house, up to his room.

The next morning Talia had tattled on him because of course she had and he’d gotten a tired flick on the nose as punishment. His mother had been too exhausted for anything else.

He thinks about that now as he drags Derek’s surprisingly heavy bulk up the stairs and down the hall to their room.

The woman’s grenade hadn’t been as focused on killing werewolves as the hunter’s had, but with random parts of hard metals and silver bits and pieces… Silver wasn’t a killing agent like wolfs bane and mistletoe, but most wolves were actually allergic to it and it certainly wasn’t helping matters.

Stiles doesn’t think that they were out more than a few hours, but it’s impossible to tell here. Time doesn’t move. It could have been days for all they know. Days of little bits of anything and everything that damned woman could stuff into a grenade slowly working their way deeper into Derek’s body. With every beat of his heart, with every pump of blood, a sliver of nail worked its way in; a link of silver chain; a slice of broken coin. They were all attacking Derek from the inside out now and Derek’s body was working on overdrive trying to heal.

His nephew is sweaty and pale by the time he drops him onto one of the beds and Peter doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t have half of the equipment he remembers the emissary having and even if he did, he’s not a damn doctor.

So he focuses on Stiles first, because that’s actually something he can do. The boy yells at him and tries to pull away, tries to get him to move onto their alpha; but Peter pins him down and manages to wrap his wrist up to keep it steady and clean out most of the larger cuts on his face and arms.

Only then does he turn back to his nephew. Derek’s breaths are coming out in quick little puffs and his face is screwing up like he wants to wake up but just can’t quite yet. Stiles brings him a cold cloth to lay on the younger wolf’s forehead and Peter gently glides his hands over his skin; feels all the bumps and dips that are hiding pieces of debris and decides that he can at least deal with those if nothing else. Werewolves heal the more they’re hurt, maybe this will even help.

He sits on the edge of the bed, ignoring Stiles’ nervous chattering and pacing and starts working. He uses a pair of tweezers and his claws to dig in as deep as he dares to start cleaning the other wolf out; he takes his time, is thorough. But he feels like he’s been charged with emptying the ocean one cup at a time.

Derek seems to wake after a couple hours, but isn’t coherent. He spends most of his conscious time fighting Peter and trying to get up.

Peter holds him down until he passes out again.

“More gauze and peroxide!” he snaps out hurriedly.

Stiles shuffles through their supplies behind him and comes up empty.

“We’re out,” the boy says. “You’ve used all of it.”

Peter isn’t actually sure any of it is helping, but Derek is healing slower than he should be now and the bruise on his belly is getting larger and darker so he’s trying to stop the superficial bleeding his cuts leave behind. Underneath him, the blankets are spotted with red and he’s starting to feel desperate and useless.

“I can get some more,” Stiles suddenly pipes up.

Peter shoots a glare at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

Stiles hesitates for a moment before that damned determined look passes over him. “Peter, you need...you need a lot of stuff, okay? And we don’t have it. I can run to the pharmacy--”

“No,” he snaps.

“And the clinic, or the woman’s apartment--”

“Absolutely not, are you retarded?” Peter hisses. “Going there is what caused all this, you idiot.”

“He’s going to die!” Stiles yells.

“He’s going to die anyway!” Peter roars right back. “We all are!”

And he knows as soon as he says it that it’s the wrong thing to say. Stiles stumbles back and collapses on the other bed like he's been slapped. The worst part is that Peter can’t even say he didn’t mean it, he can’t take it back because he absolutely believes that they’re all going to die here and that his nephew is going to die first.

Stiles just looks at him and Peter has nothing he can say to make up for it, so he stays quiet and returns his focus on Derek.

He’s cleared out the little bits and pieces of scrap on Derek’s face and arms and he’s staring at his stomach with a sense of failure. Because even if he opens him up, Derek is too weak to heal. He’ll be alright the first few times, but after that? When Peter needs to keep opening him up in order to dig out all the stupid, insignificant things that are killing him? He won’t survive it. Even as an alpha he won’t survive it. If they were at a hospital, maybe; if they had Deaton or a doctor or absolutely anyone with real medical training, then maybe. But just maybe, there’s no certainty.

Peter is going to end up killing him by doing anything. And Derek will die anyway if he does nothing.

“Peter,” Stiles says lowly. “Peter, we have to try.”

Peter closes his eyes and counts to ten. Then he gives a quick nod.

“Get your phone and turn on the flashlight,” he says quickly. “I’m going to open him up and your only job is to hold the light steady and not faint, is that understood?”

Stiles swallows and looks pale, but gets his phone anyway.

“Come stand over here,” Peter directs. “Point the light at his stomach and keep it there.”

The boy opens up the flashlight app and aims it. “Okay. I’m. I’m ready.”

Peter feels a brief flash of sympathy for the teen, but quickly shakes it off. Before he gives himself too much time to think about it, he presses one claw to the side of Derek’s stomach and with a swift flick of his hand, he slashes the younger wolf’s belly open. Stiles gives a low, agonized groan above him, but holds the light steady as Peter works back a flap of skin and fat and muscle to see.

Derek’s belly is littered with bits and pieces of metal that catch the light and flash briefly. Peter doesn’t give himself even a second to feel hopeless before he’s darting in with tweezers and working out the bigger chunks. Underneath him, Derek gives a full body flinch and Peter prays fiercely that this isn’t the time that his stubborn nephew decides to regain consciousness.

He moves as quickly as he can before Derek’s body heals itself, closing off his way in. There’s a puffy, swollen line where he’d cut, but he’d seen Derek start to mend over each tiny hole he’d left behind. And this...this could work. Against all reason, his nephew might actually live.

It makes him more determined and Peter works faster; slices Derek open again and again.

The fourth time, Derek doesn’t heal as fast.

The seventh time, Derek barely heals at all.

Peter holds his breath, waiting as the gaping wound slowly, so slowly, starts to knit back together. He hasn’t even gotten out half the debris, he doesn’t know if it’s enough. Derek’s stomach is still bleeding sluggishly; the comforter underneath him is soaked along with his pants and his arms up to his elbows. The wound doesn’t close.

“I need--” he bites his tongue. They don’t have anything to help stop the bleeding.

“He needs stitches,” Stiles says. “Or, he will when you’re done.”

The boy is pale and sweaty and is looking over Peter’s shoulder, staring anywhere but at Derek.

Peter sits back. He needs to give Derek’s body time to heal itself. There’s been too much trauma in too short a time. “I’ll go, you stay here--”

“And if he wakes up?” Stiles says incredulously. “Am I supposed to hold him down and wait for you?”

Peter grits his teeth. The few times Derek’s eyes had fluttered open, he hadn’t been very lucid. Mostly he’d shifted like he’d wanted to stand and it had taken a lot of effort on Peter’s part to hold him down without injuring him further.

“Peter,” Stiles says firmly. “I’m going.”

Stiles turns his phone off and shoves it in his back pocket, backing toward the door. “I’ll be fast--”

“What about the dog,” Peter snaps out. He would have at least made Stiles take a weapon but they’d left them all at the theater, too focused on getting Derek back to the hotel.

Stiles just shakes his head and opens the door. “I’ll be fast,” he promises.

And then he’s gone and Peter has to dig his claws into the meat of his palms in order to stop himself from following after him.

Stiles jogs as fast as he can. His ankle gives an unpleasant twinge every time he puts pressure on it, but he doesn’t let it slow him down.

If Derek dies, it’ll be his fault. He’s the one that suggested that they go after the woman’s hideout, he’s the one that suggested where she might be; the wolves had just humored him and gone along. He hadn’t even considered for a moment that the woman would be batshit crazy enough to booby-trap her own home. Which, in hindsight, was a horrible mistake because of course she would. With creatures and people roaming around the town, she’d have been stupid not to.

The only reason they hadn’t been blown up earlier is because she had probably only set her traps when she was sleeping. But she’d been out fixing up a car, fully intending to come right back. And Stiles was an idiot for not thinking it through. Derek had taken the brunt of the explosion, probably saving Stiles who hadn’t been that far away. And now he was going to die because of it.

Stiles limps quickly down the road and turns on the main street. He’s wary of the dog, but is counting more on getting in and out before the animal even knew he was around. If the dog was even here. He might be curled up on the porch of one of the houses.

The road is empty and Stiles doesn’t waste any time in darting into the little pharmacy. He grabs a plastic bag from behind the counter (haven’t these people gone reusable yet?) and starts going down the aisles, grabbing whatever could be to help. There isn’t much he thinks can be used for surgery, but he snatches as much gauze as he can, half a dozen bottles of Tylenol, some sleeping syrup (hopefully it will keep Derek under?), some bandages, a few tubes of Neosporin, and probably more peroxide than is necessary.

He slips back outside and goes next door to the small clinic that’s attached to the pharmacy. They’ve tried this door before, he knows it’s locked but maybe he could try to force it? He hesitates for a minute. What if all the doors that had been locked were booby-trapped? What if they were wired up by the woman in order to keep people out of what she considered her stashes?

His heart’s in his throat, but he doesn’t give himself any more time to stress over it before he searches around the side of the building looking for something to--there, a heavy brick.

“Always wanted to do this,” Stiles mutters before he launches the brick at the glass windows.

It doesn’t immediately shatter like it does in the movies. He has to spend at least ten minutes repeatedly hurling the brick as hard as he can before the glass fractures and a huge chunk crashes out with a loud clatter. He kicks out the rest of the window open, flinching at how much noise he makes before slipping inside.

It’s dark and he stumbles over one of the waiting chairs as he skitters around the front desk and into the back. There’s only one office and one exam room and he’s disappointed (but not surprised) to find that most anything that’s useful has been cleared out. He grabs up some more bandages, some gloves (though Peter hadn’t seemed all that concerned with having his hands clean before he operated), a couple scalpels, and a container of antiseptic wipes.

There’s an opened drug cabinet in the office and Stiles hesitates in front of it. The lock has been busted and there are only a few bottles of clear medicine left. He has no idea what they are. No idea if Peter knows what they are. Or even if they’d help. He takes them anyway along with a few syringes and heads back out.

He doesn’t see it at first; he’s too concerned with getting back to the hotel as quickly as he can. But his foot slips on the curb and he flails and drops absolutely everything before wiping out and smacking on the ground.

Stiles hisses and raises his hands to look at his bloody palms. They’ll have to wait. As fast as he can, he gathers up his supplies again and shoves them back into the bag. Two of the three bottles of medicine have smashed open and he really hopes they weren’t going to help Derek as he chases after the antiseptic wipes rolling their way across the street without a care in the world.

He snatches it up, shoves it in his bag and sees a brief flash of white out of the corner of his eye--

It’s a blanket. A pale white sheet in the middle of the road covering...covering…?

It's a odd, twisted shape. Too unnatural for Stiles to make out this far away. He slinks closer, dragging his feet. He knows he shouldn't, absolutely knows that it can be nothing good and that he needs to get back to Derek and Peter, but he just...he needs to know what it is.

The shape is contorted, shifted and dumped into an awkward position on the ground with a thin sheet covering most of it.

He frowns and tries to move at an angle, tries to get a better look without actually going any nearer. It’s just…odd. An odd object that he absently thinks should have a recognizable shape, but not one that he can figure out.

He should turn and run and leave this...this thing here for another time. Peter sent him on a mission and Derek needs his help and he absolutely can’t be standing here wasting time.

Stiles glances behind him, toward the end of the street and their hotel and--

when he looks back, the thing has shifted.

It was barely a second, but now the thing under the sheet is mostly upright, not just a jumbled mass anymore. It looks...off. Stiles backs up a step, swallowing thickly. He really thinks he should know what he’s looking at and its shape is almost familiar and then it sort of hits him that it might be one of the mannequins. He flits his gaze quickly up the road, but from where he stands, he’s certain that all the mannequins are still in the window--

it’s closer when he looks back, he’s sure of it. It hasn’t moved; he hasn’t moved, but nonetheless, they are closer than they were before.

His eyes strain as he stares at the thing. He refuses to blink; wildly, he thinks of the Weeping Angels and thinks that if he doesn’t blink, then it can’t move, it will just stay still forever. It’s hunched over in such a way that when the wind blows, the bottom of the sheet flutters and for a second he thinks he glimpses…

red hair?

“Judas?” he calls stupidly.

The thing is still.

Of course it isn’t Judas. Of course it isn’t the woman with long red hair because she’s dead (dead and burned); he’s seeing things, he’s literally hallucinating right now and his brain is being a dick and falling for every trick this place can throw at it--

And then it creaks. Cracks. Pops like when Derek adjusts his neck before he shifts into his alpha form and fucks someone up. Because why would it matter if Stiles was keeping his eyes locked on it or not? Why would it matter if he was praying with all his might that the thing would remain still and silent?

It makes a noise. A horrible, catching noise that stutters out of an abused throat or an abandoned house. It drops closer to the ground like it’s on all fours; except it’s too long, too tall, too disjointed to be any creature he can think of. But he. But he sees hands pressed down against the road when the wind blows just right. Hands and feet in the back even though they can’t be because a body just doesn’t make a shape like that; like every joint has been ripped from its socket and stretched to its max and is still able to bear weight.

There’s another hitching noise a--a breath?

“Judas?” Stiles isn’t actually sure he’s making any sound. His knees are weak and he’s shaking horribly and he’s going to fall any second and just sit here for the rest of forever.

The thing turns, its too long neck lowering to the ground and shifting his way like it’s honing in on him.

And. And he just. He can’t. He absolutely can’t.

He suddenly feels weightless, dizzy and sick to his stomach as he stumbles back. He can’t do this, not any of it. He just can’t anymore.

So Stiles closes his eyes and wishes he were small and in bed with the blankets tugged over his head. Because he’d be safe then. There, he wouldn’t be able to hear any sort of creature heave its awkward and broken body closer to him. There, he wouldn’t be able to hear the thing drag in deep, ragged breaths that scrape against its throat and skitter out of its mouth like marbles being dropped on a table.

He has two feet planted firmly on the ground, but he couldn’t tell you that. He couldn’t say how he was managing not to float off into the sky, into space, into nothing. He can’t remember what he was doing, why his heart in thundering in his chest or why he’s shaking like he’s freezing. He doesn’t think he’s cold. But he may be wrong.

Stiles doesn’t know why he’s not with Derek and Peter and suddenly that becomes very important. He needs Derek and Peter. He can’t remember why, but he holds onto that because it’s the only thought that he can focus on right now.

(is that a scraping noise?)

He tries to remember how his body works, how to make it do what he wants it to.

(is it getting closer?)

He tries to move his fingers or toes, tries to remember what fingers and toes are.

(something draaaaaggggssss)

Some type of message must get through, because he’s able to turn and he figures, ‘why stop there?’ and puts one awkward foot in front of the other.

(it creeeaaaaakkkkssss)

His feet are strange. They don’t feel very well attached to him right now, or attached to the ground for that matter. He thinks that may be important.

(the wind rustles the sheet)

Stiles keeps his balance somehow and thinks that he should really be looking where he’s going and opens his eyes. He stares at his feet in confusion, but they keep plodding along at a sedate pace, getting him to wherever he seems to be going.

(don’t look)

He stumbles forward, but can’t use his arms to help his balance since they’re full of...of something--a bag?

(he smells smoke, burning flesh)

He passes the Camaro and the clinic and the pharmacy, suddenly very aware of his heart and how it appears to be trying to climb out of his throat. And he thinks ‘that’s odd, hearts don’t do that’. But he can’t think of why a heart shouldn’t--

(don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlook)

--he’s wheezing, lungs squeezing in and in and then trying desperately to expand. He thinks maybe that’s why he’s light headed. Did he forget to breathe? He tries to remember how that’s supposed to work and--

(don’t you dare look)

--there’s something behind him, there’s some sort of catch-drag noise that irritates his ears, scratches at the back of his mind like a wild animal--

(DON’T LOOK)

--he’s reaching the end of the street now and he can just make out the hotel from here and he turns toward it, feels like he’s trying to walk through quicksand, but does it anyway because he must and he thinks if he stops now, that he’ll never get going again--

(DON’TLOOKDON’TLOOKDON’TLOOK)

Stiles thinks maybe his body is having trouble breathing again, that maybe this isn’t air, that maybe it’s water and he knows that you shouldn’t breathe water. He holds his breath, feels too light, thinks he’ll drift away with the breeze any second--

---

Chapter Text

How Stiles even made it to the hotel, Peter has no idea. Because as soon as he looks up as the boy stumbles through the doorway, he’s absolutely sure that Stiles is about to pass out and die.

“Stiles?” Derek grunts.

The teen is pale and drawn and making tiny, hurt, wheezing noises. The air whistles through his clenched teeth and there’s blood trickling from his mouth like he might have bitten straight through his tongue or cheek; his arms are squeezed tight around a couple plastic bags and he’s walk-jerking like a puppet on strings.

Peter barely gets to him before his eyes roll back and the strings are cut.

He catches the boy and lowers them both down, ignoring Derek’s shouting. Stiles is shuddering in his arms, cold like he’s been in an ice bath, sweating and too pale. All the supplies the boy had gathered skitter across the floor.

The older wolf thinks he might be having some sort of attack but he’s never seen a panic attack this severe before. He thinks the boy may be in shock, having shot right past whatever anxiety threshold his mind has.

He leans over and slams the door shut--

(did he just hear something dragging up the stairs?)

and then picks Stiles up. For a second, he’s not sure what to do; not sure if he should try rousing Stiles from his stupor by tossing him in the shower or letting him ride through it in one of the beds.

“Peter!” Derek is shouting hoarsely. “What happened?!”

But Peter doesn’t know, he wasn't there, Derek knows this. Derek woke up not ten minutes ago and tried very hard to toss him into a wall so that he could go after Stiles himself. He waves a dismissive hand at his nephew, barking at him to keep still as he struggles to sit up.

Peter opts for the shower just because he doesn’t know how else to handle this and the last time Stiles had a panic attack, a bath had seemed to calm him down.

He’s glad that at least this time the teen hasn’t soiled himself, but he’s definitely soaked through his clothing with the buckets of sweat he’s dripping. Stiles’ head lolls back and rests against Peter’s shoulder as he tries to shift the boy to one side and reach over to turn on the shower. He waits until it’s warm because he doesn’t want to be cruel right now and shuffles Stiles inside the stall.

But Stiles can’t stand; his legs are wet noodles, so he grinds his teeth and gets in with him. They stay under the water for about ten minutes; Peter alternating between petting compulsively at Stiles’ head and back and shouting at Derek that no, he still doesn’t know what happened, so just shut up and sit down.

But Derek is Derek and he gets up because of course he does and stumbles into the bathroom because who cares about how he’s still healing up the wound on his belly and who cares that Peter spent the last few hours honestly believing that his nephew was going to die.

His eyes are wide as he takes in the scene and he opens his mouth, but says nothing.

Peter just leans over to turn the hot water up a little, trying to stop Stiles’ extreme shaking.

After a while, the boy seems to come to at least a little of his senses (or completely loses all of them), because he wraps his arms around Peter’s neck and seems very much to want to be held like a toddler. Peter sort of awkwardly juggles him for a minute before Derek thrusts his arms out, looking like he was just given the most important mission of his life.

Peter hands the boy off and shuts off the shower and then they both work to strip Stiles of his wet clothes before bustling him into the bed Derek hasn’t bled all over yet.

He tries bitching Derek back into the other bed, but the alpha isn’t having any of it and curls around Stiles like a giant, backend, stubborn parenthesis. Peter grumbles and changes out of his wet clothes before trying to shove Stiles into a sweater so he doesn’t freeze and shake apart like his body obviously wants to.

Trying to pull pants on a weak-limbed teen doing their best to impersonate spaghetti is maybe one of the most aggravating things he’s ever had to do, but he fucking does it and Derek does nothing except stare intently at Stiles’ head like all the answers will come tumbling out if only he waits long enough.

But Stiles stops shivering after a while and closes his eyes and starts breathing like a vaguely normal person and Peter drops to the other bed in exhaustion.

They wait until they can hear the boy’s heart settle into something that doesn’t make them think that he’s about to die and only then do they relax.

“What do you think he saw?” Derek asks quietly.

Peter just shrugs. He has no idea. He’s never seen anyone so scared and out of it before, he wouldn’t have the vaguest clue of what this place could conjure up to make that happen.

“I still need to get all that shit out of you,” he gripes instead.

Derek just nods but doesn’t move and Peter guesses he’s determined to bleed on both beds but is too tired to really argue about it. He digs through the supplies Stiles brought and wrestles Derek onto his back and starts in again, working as quickly and efficiently as he can. Derek doesn’t move an inch, just bears the pain and sticks close to Stiles, sharing his warmth.

It’s at least two hours later when Peter is finally sure that he’s gotten most of the rubbish out of Derek’s body. The younger wolf is healing faster at least, though Peter still has to spend some time stitching up his belly when he’s through.

He’s too tired to do much more than sweep all the bloody bandages and towels and debris to the floor. He stands and cracks his back and frowns when Stiles jolts in his sleep. Derek has passed out sometime during his impromptu surgery and Peter walks to the door and locks it. Then he makes sure the window is locked and slips into the bathroom to dig through Stiles’ supplies.

The bandages are perfect and he manhandles Derek into a sitting position and wraps him up as best he can after dousing him in peroxide and wiping him down with the antiseptic wipes. He turns over a vial of clear liquid in his hand. Even werewolves can get infections so the antibiotics will definitely help. Sleeping syrup was a nice touch too; Peter thinks maybe next time he’ll just drug Derek up so the idiot can’t move.

He lays out everything in the bathroom and walks back and forth for a few minutes before finally sighing and sinking down onto the edge of the bed his nephew and pack mate are sharing.

Peter is too wired to even think about sleep; too scared. So he stays awake and listens to the two other men breathe.

Stiles says he doesn’t remember what he saw that scared him so badly.

Derek isn’t completely sure he believes him, but wouldn’t be all that surprised, the kid had been pretty out of it when he stumbled back to their room.

Apparently, everything after breaking into the clinic was a blur; Stiles says doesn’t even remember how he got back or that Derek and Peter had had to see him naked (though the boy does scrunch his face up at that).

Stiles thinks that maybe the town/ghosts/Croatoan/whatever did some sort of memory erasing thing on him and spends a lot of time frowning at the wall like he’s trying to recall a bad dream.

Peter frowns and says that it’s more likely Stiles saw something that scared him so badly that his mind just blocked it out.

But Peter doesn’t know what happened and Derek certainly doesn’t know what happened (mostly because he spent a good amount of time being unconscious), so they all just kind of wait around and stay holed up in their room.

His uncle had insisted on going next door and switching out the mattresses, sending Derek a furious side-eye like it was his fault he bled all over everything. The new beds smell weird. They don’t smell like them; instead they’re sterile and it makes the wolf in him itch. He and Peter both spend a good deal of their time subtly re-marking their territory by switching beds every time they sleep. If Stiles notices, he doesn’t make a joke about it.

Stiles is quieter now. Sometimes he gets this look on his face like he almost remembers what happened, then he just frowns and shakes his head and stares out the window like that’s where all the answers will be. The view is of the edge of town and the fog, so who knows? Maybe that is where all the answers are.

Derek wants to go out, wants to hunt down whatever terrified the boy, but Peter stands in front of the door and glares him back into bed and calls him an idiot for good measure. He knows he isn’t at his full strength yet; when he shifts a certain way, he thinks he can almost feel bits of metal grinding inside of him. It’s unpleasant. But he doesn’t want Peter rooting around in his body again; it’s weird and it confuses him because he would have thought that Peter would have taken the opportunity to kill him and reclaim his alpha status.

It’s not like Derek could have fended him off; not like Peter would have even had to look him in the eye while he did it. He’d been completely out of it; even Stiles could have killed him if he’d wanted to. He would have thought for sure that he wouldn’t be waking up. It just didn’t make sense.

It was in a strong beta’s nature to challenge their alpha--which certainly explained Scott--and Peter was an older, stronger beta that had tasted an alpha’s power once before. He should have leapt at the chance to get at it again, especially in this place where you needed to be as strong as possible to survive.

Derek would like to believe that Peter just didn’t want to lose any more family, or that he was actually too fond of Derek to kill him...but it’s too strange a thought. Maybe he’s cynical, but he still doesn’t trust his uncle.

Though, Derek’s also aware that his near death experience may have left him paranoid.

He owed his life to the man that killed his sister; to a man that he’d killed. He wasn’t sure a ‘thank you’ was appropriate or not. And just the thought of saying that made something in his mouth taste sour.

So he says nothing and he spends most of his time standing outside their room on the stairwell, leaning against the railing and staring out toward the town.

There’s this sensation in his chest, this strange itch in the back of his head that says that they need to escape soon, that things are going to get worse and worse. But there’s another thing, another sensation that sort of blankets him that says ‘why bother’. It makes him frown. After all he’s been through, all he’s seen and done, he’s never felt this apathetic before.

Derek narrows his gaze, trying to correct the odd blur of the town even though he knows it has nothing to do with his eyesight. He stands there and starts examining his feelings--really examine them, for the first time since he ended up in this place. It normally wouldn’t even occur to him to do so; he’s always been able to rely on and trust his instincts, but this mood that hangs over him and the others, this dark cloud...it isn’t like them. He has this feeling that he’s thought this before but maybe forgotten about it or pushed it aside as unimportant.

He fights the urge to do so now; fights the little urge inside him that says it’ll make no difference.

He stands there and thinks. First about his home, about his family and the fire and he feels the same emotions he’s always felt; grief, remorse, guilt, loss. Nothing new or abnormal. He thinks about his pack now, the new wolves that he’s made and he feels hope and determination and a bit of fear because he doesn’t want to let anyone down again and that’s normal too--and then he thinks about how much he wants to get back to them, how much he wants to see them again and about all the things he’d do just to get home.

And that’s when the apathy creeps back in; that cool numbing sensation that slips through him and makes him hunch his shoulders and want to just lay down somewhere. He frowns at it.

Derek pictures his hometown, then his old friends in New York, the small health food store downtown that is the only place in all of Beacon Hills that sells the brand of protein bars that he likes. The numbing sensation fades, gives way to how he has a craving for granola and a cold beer.

It doesn’t make him anxious or angry, it’s not anything new to him; they all know how this place affects them--how it makes them scared and forgetful. It’s no surprise that it’s pushing this feeling of not wanting to do anything to help them escape. It does make him uncomfortable that he can’t bring himself to get worked up about it though.

He sighs and leans his head into his hands, trying to muster up...something, anything. Any thought as to how to help themselves get out of this purgatory. It’s depressing.

And there’s nothing he can do about it.

Derek rubs his face in frustration and listens to Stiles and Peter in the room; listens to their heartbeats and murmured discussion.

He listens to his uncle snap something rude and then pause right in the middle of a word.

“What is it boy?” Stiles says. “Is Timmy stuck in a--”

Peter comes out of the room and stands next to Derek, mouth in a firm line and eyes narrowed in the direction of town.

“What?” Derek says.

Peter blinks at him in surprise. “You can’t hear it?”

“Hear what?” Stiles pipes up behind them.

The older wolf frowns and glances back to the main road. “Car alarms.”

The three of them all pause at once to listen. Derek tilts his head, but can’t hear anything but the wind, the sound of his pack mates breathing, the quick beat of his uncle’s heart and the calmer one of Stiles.

He shakes his head.

A look flits across Peter’s face as they stare at each other; some desperate quick thing that passes before settling into a sad sort of acceptance. Derek hates it. Hates even more that he can do nothing about it.

He opens his mouth, starts to say something about going back inside, that maybe the voices have learned a new trick--

“It sounds like every car is going off at the same time,” Stiles says. “Like after an earthquake or something.”

Peter at once looks relieved and then conflicted about being relieved.

“You can hear it?” Derek says in surprise.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Like...it’s distant and stuff but...wait, you can’t?”

Derek tries to listen again, listens hard enough that his ears actually start ringing a bit as he tries to pick out what the others are hearing. But there’s nothing.

“It could be the voices…” Peter says slowly.

Stiles shifts and stares toward town. “Do we...go look?”

Before, there would be no question. Of course they’d check it out; of course they’d want to see what was happening; what new mischief the town had created for them. But now. Now it could mean one of them not coming back--to falling prey to something worse than hunters or kanimas or wolves. It makes Derek hesitate.

They look at him and wait and he stares out toward the town and doesn’t know what to do.

“We’ll wait an hour,” he says finally. “If it doesn’t stop, we’ll go check it out.”

The other two nod and they troop back into the room and shut the door behind them.

Barely ten minutes pass before Stiles declares, “Okay, that’s actually really annoying now.”

And ten minutes after that, they’re right back outside marching toward town because literally anything is better than hearing a teenager complain. Especially one like Stiles that has perfected it into some kind of horrific art form.

Peter winces as they step out onto the main road, flinching like he wants to cover his ears. Stiles doesn’t bother restraining himself and scrunches up his face while he plasters his hands to the sides of his head.

“We need to shut them off!” the boy yells.

Peter nods. “Go check the cars, usually opening the driver side door will be enough to make it stop!”

They’re both loud.

Both talking over the blaring noise of the car horns.

The blaring noise that Derek can’t hear.

He helps them anyway, goes from car to car, ripping out the alarm systems.

While Stiles is down the road taking a brick to the steering column of one particularly stubborn car, Peter waves Derek over to him. The older wolf is still wincing, though they seem to have disabled most of the alarms and Derek can’t tell if this is one of the hallucinations or not. If it is, it’s elaborate and he doesn’t know what it’s supposed to accomplish other than be annoying. At first, maybe, he might have thought it was like a spot light. Like something started all of the cars at the same time as a sort of...target. That’s why he wanted to wait; he wanted to see if anything else came to check out the noise.

But the dog isn’t here and the oppressive feeling that the Croatoan gives off isn’t here. He listens though; keeps an ear out for anything coming up on them while his pack mates are unable to.

There’s nothing though. Just wind.

Peter stands beside an old minivan, eyes narrowed in a wince.

Derek glances at the van. “Did you turn it off?” he asks.

The older wolf’s upper lip twitches in a quick snarl. He can tell Peter’s Not Happy with any of this. Most of all the fact that Derek isn’t being affected. He doesn’t know how to explain that he’d rather be going through whatever they are; that he feels unbalanced and more scared than he would have if they were all hearing the same thing.

“There’s no alarm,” Peter says, voiced raised like he can’t help it.

Derek frowns and glances at the car. Peter’s sure acting like he’s hearing something blare into his eardrums.

“There’s no alarm system,” Peter corrects after a moment. “There’s nothing to be tripped. It’s just making noise.”

Derek doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get it until he opens the driver’s side door, until he checks the steering column, until he gets back out and checks under the hood. There’s no alarm system installed. The car is too old. He glances at Peter who’s just staring at him looking frustrated.

“These cars,” Peter says loudly, waving at the few vehicles in front of them. “They shouldn’t be going off at all--”

Peter goes stiff and his teeth clack shut. Down the road, Stiles slowly gets out of his car and stares around.

“What?” Derek snaps. What now? What else can’t he help them with?

“They stopped,” Stiles calls, jogging up to them. He glances at Peter, “Right?”

Peter pauses for a moment, tilting his head at an angle before giving a clipped nod. “I don’t hear anything anymore.”

Derek frowns.

“And you never heard anything?” Stiles asks him.

He just shrugs has nothing better to offer.

“Maybe it doesn’t affect alphas,” Stiles says absently.

And Derek desperately wishes he hadn’t because now he has to ignore the way Peter’s gaze instantly drops to his throat, has to ignore the flash of hunger he can see there.

He shakes his head. “Peter and I heard the voices before, we’ve all seen things. Maybe it’s just...trying something new.”

They stare at each other for a few moments.

“Ominous,” Peter mutters.

“So,” Stiles grouses. “What would be the point of--”

The noise is so sudden and sharp and deafening that all three drop to the ground with their hands over their ears, trying to block out the sudden blast of the car alarms going off again. Derek hears them now and they’re so much louder than they should be. All together, they nearly sound like a train roaring right over their heads. Derek doesn’t know how the other two could have withstood this--

Stiles is tugging at him, yelling at the top of his lungs. Derek can see how flushed his face gets with the effort, how wide and scared his eyes go, but he can’t make out even the barest sound from the teen. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly as the alarm gets even louder, goes to a higher pitch, and pierces through his brain like a sliver of ice. It numbs him from the inside out.

The teen jerks at his arm, then goes to Peter; he’s pushing at them frantically, trying to herd them toward one of the stores like inside would be any safer. Stiles isn’t covering his ears anymore; the alarms must have hit a higher frequency that he can’t hear. Derek almost wants to laugh because somewhere out there, the dog has to be losing his shit.

And then, as soon as it had started, all noise just stops.

Stiles is still yelling something, but all Derek can hear is blips of staggered ringing. An after effect. He looks at Peter and watches the older wolf as he braces himself on all fours and slowly lifts a careful hand up to the side of his head. There are two trickles of blood running from both ears and Peter gently massages the tender area just behind his jaw.

Stiles has a fistful of both their jackets and is doing his best to haul both of them away and Derek bats him off but can’t help but feel grateful.

“It’s fine!” he says. Or tries to say. He feels the sort of itchy, heated sensation of his eardrums starting to heal. Sounds slowly slip in and out. He can hear Stiles’ quick panting; can hear his own heart beating madly in his chest, pumping adrenaline. The high pitched whine starts to fade.

“We’re fine,” Peter says, waving off the teen’s effort to help them sit up.

Derek grits his teeth and presses over his ear, feeling tender and swollen all over. “...why?” he snarls out. He purses his lips together to stop the flood of ‘whywhywhywhy’ that want to slip out. There’s no reason for this, for any of it. They’re already trapped, have already given up hope of getting free, are already scared and spend most of their time huddled together. Why do anything more? What else is there to gain?

Stiles grabs his sleeve again and gives a gentle tug. “Let’s just...let’s just go, okay?” he says quietly.

---

Chapter Text

Their hotel room has been broken into.

Before they’re even in the parking lot, the wolves go still for a beat before snapping their gaze to their door. Their opened door. Even from here, Stiles can see that it’s been busted off its hinges and is leaning crookedly, making a dull thudding sound as the wind pushes it.

All three of them stutter to a halt.

He knows it’s useless to ask, but he can’t help saying, “Do you hear anything?”

The wolves are silent, eyes trained on the door.

“Should we...go up?”

He glances up at Derek.

They’re careful about it. Derek goes in front and Peter is only a few paces behind, both looking like they’re ready to pounce at anything that looks even slightly more threatening than a breeze. Stiles walks slowly; gives them room in case they need to use their claws. Or teeth. Whatever. He follows as they climb the stairs and go down the hall toward their room, trying to breathe shallowly so he doesn’t distract the wolves.

Derek pulls to a stop and motions for them to stay put as he pauses for a moment to gather himself before darting forward, snapping a fist out to burst down what remains of the door; quickly bulldozing his way inside with a vicious snarl that raises the tiny hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck.

He freezes; holds his breath and waits as Derek goes quiet.

And stays quiet.

Stiles chews on the inside of his cheek.

Peter glances back at him, probably noting how hard and fast his heart is going.

“Derek?” the older wolf calls out.

Derek takes a moment but finally responds with, “Someone was in here.”

He and Peter share a look again before slinking through the doorway to see for themselves. And, well. Yeah, someone’s definitely been in here since they were.

Their room has been ransacked.

All the items of clothing they had stubbornly kept in their bags are strewn around room, mostly shredded like some wild animal had gotten to them; the bedding is the same, the mattresses have been flipped and dug into--the stuffing and springs are exposed, the cliché painting of flowers that Stiles suspects is in every hotel room across the states is broken into pieces, the two nightstands are toppled over, the fake-wooden dresser has been cracked in half. He wobbles while picking his way across the busted door, too busy staring at the damage.

“What…?” Stiles just doesn’t have anything for this level of destruction. “...was it...the dog?”

Peter’s crouched down in front of him, picking through what’s left of their supplies.

“It doesn’t smell like the dog,” Derek says.

“...but you wouldn’t be able to smell it, right? You can’t pick up scents?”

“We’d be able to in here,” Derek goes over to where the window has been busted. “It’s too small an area.”

He pokes his head outside, peers around each way and gives a careful sniff.

“Nothing’s been chewed on,” Peter says. “There are no prints...and I don’t think the dog would be strong enough to break down the door like that.”

The older wolf pauses and glances sharply at Derek.

“What?” Stiles says.

Derek looks back at them; meets his uncle’s gaze, then shakes his head. “Is anything missing?”

Stiles waves his arms out. “How would we be able to tell?”

Derek frowns and picks up one of their empty bags, tossing it at Stiles’ face. “Pack whatever you can, whatever’s left. We’re moving.”

Stiles starts kicking through the crap on the floor to make the alpha happy, but he doesn’t think there’s much worth saving.

They don’t leave the hotel because it’s been their base camp from the beginning and even now, it still feels like their safest bet. No one wants to be anywhere near the main road and no one wants to stay in the creepy empty houses. They move down the hall and take one of the smaller rooms because it doesn’t have a window and Derek seems especially keen on that. There’s only a queen sized bed though, so before they do anything else, Stiles directs the wolves into switching it out for two full sized mattresses that they just shove together.

He’s not even embarrassed anymore. He’d rather be in bed surrounded by werewolves than have space to stretch out at night. He’s cool with it. Peter grumbles a bit, but doesn’t really object. Derek doesn’t seem to care one way or another.

Stiles wears through his nervous energy by unpacking what they have and making a mental list for what they’d need; water, food, more medical supplies that they hopefully wouldn’t need. Clothes would be good too, something warmer than what they had just rushed out in; it makes him uncomfortable to think about going through the houses and people’s closets, but he doesn’t want to suggest going to the clothing store because Derek seems hell bent on avoiding it and the mannequins are still fucking creepy.

Eventually, he calms himself down with the task of organizing what they have left. He doesn’t bother asking them what they think happened; if there’s maybe someone new in the town or...or something. Only their door was busted down. As far as he knows, only their room was ransacked. He doesn’t really want to think about it.

Peter slips out while Derek is in the bathroom and Stiles is passed out in some weird coma brought on by nerves. The kid snores, laid out on his back with his limbs out like a gangly starfish.

He paces back to their old room and carefully starts looking around; goes over to where Derek had stood by the window and tries to see if he can tell--

“What are you doing?”

Peter’s shoulders bunch up a little at the low snap of his alpha’s voice. He’d been too focused, hadn’t heard the younger man come up behind him.

“What did you see earlier?” Peter snaps back. “Your heart nearly beat out of your chest.”

He turns and stares at Derek, daring him to say differently.

“I can understand not wanting to tell the boy...who you left alone, if you’ll notice.”

Derek frowns and they both automatically take a moment to strain their ears to catch the barely there thump of the teen’s heartbeat.

“Well?” Peter clips. “Or do I have to keep looking?”

Derek just looks at him for a second before sighing and shaking his head. “Outside the window. There’s a print.”

Peter blinks and turns toward the window. Slowly, so very slowly, he tilts his head out and looks down at the sill before frowning. The side of the wall is bare; just weather-worn and old. Down below, he can spy the shards of glass that had been broken out. “There’s noth--”

“Up,” Derek mutters. “Look up.”

He twists around, careful of the jagged shards left behind and...and there are prints. Many of them. Dozens of dark, black blotches of hands and feet like--like something had crawled out of the window and up to the roof, like something had stuck on the side of the building like Spiderman.

Peter just stares for a minute, his stomach knotting uncomfortably. He reaches out and touches one of the prints that stand out boldly against the old paintjob. He leans back inside and rubs his fingers together, bring them up for a quick sniff.

The scent brings back memories of pain and burning and he immediately flinches away. “Soot,” he frowns. “Like from a fireplace.”

Derek just looks at him with this lost sort of expression. “Not from a fireplace,” he says lowly. “It doesn’t smell anything like wood.”

Peter can’t argue that.

Derek hesitates for a beat, then spills out in a rush, “Have you checked your wallet yet?”

He stares at his nephew blankly, regretting nearly every decision he’s made since birth. “What.”

“Just,” Derek actually looks like he’s about to panic; there’s sweat beading on his upper lip and forehead and his claws keep coming out like he can’t control them.

Peter holds up his hands to placate the younger wolf, before reaching into his back pocket--why he keeps his wallet on him, why any of them still do, is a mystery to him. It’s like their way of keeping hope somehow; like they’re ready to leave any second.

“What am I looking for?” he asks, thumbing through his things. Two twenties and a ten and some ones; he always lies when Derek asks if he has change for a tip when they’re at diners (not for any particular reason, it’s just funny). Credit cards that are under another name. An old photo he doesn’t look at anymore.

But Derek doesn’t have to answer because Peter notices it a second later. He stills and looks up at the other wolf with wide eyes.

His ID is missing.

“She’s dead,” Derek grits his teeth.

Peter stares at him. He’s not stating a fact, he’s asking, begging for reassurance.

“Yes,” he agrees quickly. “We all saw her.”

“But...this place makes us...makes us see things,” Derek is clenching his fists; his claws are sliding into his palm and making blood drip down onto the carpet.

“Not that,” Peter says sternly. “Not all of us at once.”

“But--”

“Derek,” he interrupts. “That dog had pieces of her all across the road. She wasn’t just dead; she was torn apart and eaten. There was barely enough left to burn.”

He watches the other wolf flinch.

“What if she wasn’t dead and we--”

Peter holds up his hand, because this can go nowhere good and he knows now exactly why Derek looks so sick.

“We didn’t burn her alive, Derek,” he growls firmly. “She was dead. There was no way she would have survived that. You saw her. After she burned, there were only bones and ash to bury.”

Derek swallows and turns, staring out toward the open doorway. Peter knows they can’t see the grave from here, but he has to fight the urge to look for it anyway. They can’t do this. They can’t start losing their minds now. Not after everything else. He refuses.

“Let’s--”

“What if It brought her back?” Derek says.

They stare at each other for a long while. Peter honestly doesn’t even want to let his mind go there. But. But they’ve seen things. He’s seen things. The town reflected in the glass, the little girl that touched him; he’s seen the dead here. But the thought of someone like the red haired woman climbing out of her grave was ridiculous. She wasn’t him after all. He swallows and steps forward until he can put a hand on Derek’s shoulder.

“This place...it knows how to twist us, how to scare us,” he says firmly. “The voices, the baby, even this,” he gestures around their old room. “This is all just a performance. Whatever is here wants us too terrified to think. It will throw anything it can at us, we can’t--”

“I want to check the grave,” Derek says briskly.

Peter drops his hand and presses his lips together. He can’t deny this child’s wish of looking under the bed for the Boogeyman. If it makes their alpha get a grip on reality, then he’s all for it.

“Let’s do it now, quickly, while Stiles is asleep,” Peter pushes passed the other wolf and leads them outside. God knows the teenager didn’t need to see any of this.

He stands in the middle of the road a few minutes later, eyes on Derek and ears straining toward their hotel as he waits for the younger wolf to find where they buried the woman.

He thinks; tries to think about what they’re going to do. In general and if their only safe place keeps being attacked. A couple of the homes have basements. One even had a tornado shelter. He’s sure that they could be made into a suitable home.

Shelter.

Not home.

Derek makes a noise and ducks down to start digging. Peter watches him warily and for just a second, he has this horrible sinking feeling that the remains are going to be gone and Derek’s going to look at him like he used to when he was younger; like he’s lost and needs his uncle to fix everything. Peter dreads it, won’t be able to handle it because he’s scared too and they’re both hanging on by a thread and he shouldn’t have to take care of anyone when he’s like this.

He’s no one’s alpha.

But then he sees Derek straighten, sees the tension seep from his shoulders as the younger man sighs and tilts his head back.

“Well?” Peter says.

“She’s still here,” Derek’s voice is flat. “What’s left of her at least.”

Peter tries not to let it show how relieved he is. But then he thinks about the prints and their room and...and maybe even what scared Stiles and he decides that he’s not really that relieved at all.

“That doesn’t make you feel any better, does it?” he sighs.

Derek shakes his head and stoops back down to cover up the grave. “Not really.”

Peter thinks (not for the first time) that it might have actually helped them if they’d had something, some physical thing to fight against instead of...nothing. He can sense it in himself, in Derek; they are wolves being hunted and they need to hunt back. They burn with it. They’re not meant to be prey; being forced to move from what their instincts considered their den was...difficult to handle, especially on top of everything else.

“We need to think of a way out of here,” Derek wipes dirt onto his jeans as he trudges back.

Peter almost bites his tongue, but can’t help himself. “Well if you have any bright ideas.”

Derek frowns and glances toward the hotel. “Honestly? The only thing I can think of is if we get in a car and try driving through the mist as fast as we can.”

Peter just stares at him. “I wish I could say that’s the worst idea you’ve ever had, but you did bite a bunch of emotionally and mentally deficient teenagers.”

He gets a glare for that, but honestly, it’s not like Derek has a leg to stand on.

And unfortunately it’s the best idea they have so far.

“Maybe,” he sighs. He doesn’t think it’ll end up any better than the first time they’d tried it. But it’s something. Some distant, bleak light on the horizon they can aim toward.

A very dim, bleak light.

“Which car?” Peter says. “We don’t even know if any of them run or have gas.”

“I still have the keys from the car that woman was working on,” Derek says. “Or we could take the truck.”

Peter glances at the truck that sits up the road.

“We don’t exactly have a limited choice here,” the younger wolf continues. “We just need to decide if we want to rely on speed or something that can withstand an attack.”

And that makes him frown a bit. Peter stares at his nephew for a beat. “What did you see while you were out in the fog?”

Derek shrugs and kept help the way his eyes immediately track to the woods. “I’m really not sure,” he shakes his head. “It was more like...I felt them.”

Peter narrows his gaze curiously. “Them. More than one?”

“Yes. I didn’t see them, and it wasn’t like with the…” he gestures toward the town. “The other thing, I could hear them moving in the fog.”

Derek huffs and runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”

Peter doesn’t think he wants that much detail but he presses, “How many do you think there were?”

“Dozens? More?”

“Were they fast?”

Derek pauses at that. “I’m not sure. I wasn’t exactly running.”

Peter glances over at the hotel again, focusing more on the cars that had been left in the parking lot. A few were newer models, smaller and faster; the truck might offer them better protection--he doesn’t want to use any of the cars from the main road that had gone off for no reason. He didn’t trust them.

“We’ll check the cars here,” he says after a moment. “See if any of them run, then we’ll decide.”

Derek nods and walks passed him and Peter realizes that the younger wolf had (annoyingly) tricked him into taking charge. And he gets it, he does. No one wants to make the decision that might end up getting them all killed. Or worse.

He steals one last look at the woman’s shallow grave and turns to follow after his alpha.

--

Chapter Text

Stiles is waiting for them when they get back, leaning against the railings and giving them a nasty stink eye from the third floor as they slink from car to car and Derek immediately feels guilty.

The silence stretches on and he can practically feel the annoyance coming off the teen and it makes him want to duck his head and hide or shove the boy’s head through a wall. If Peter feels the same, he’s covering it well; going from car to car and checking for keys, turning over the engine just to see if they run. Three out of five of them don’t and before Derek can say anything, Peter volunteers himself to try and siphon the remaining gas out of the vehicles and divide them between the last two cars just in case.

Derek putters around for a few minutes, but it’s more than obvious that he’s just standing there trying to avoid Stiles’ disapproval.

Peter clearly doesn’t need his help so he huffs and stomps up the stairs, intent on washing his hands and doing his best not to look like he did anything wrong.

“So,” Stiles drawls when he gets close enough.

Derek scowls.

“The whole ‘stay together for safety’ thing doesn’t apply when someone’s asleep or…?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “We were just up the road.”

“Oh, does that mean that nothing bad can happen? ‘Cause that would be just super. You know. Knowing that just because I don’t know where you are or how long you’ve been gone--”

“Stiles!” he snaps. “We were just checking the cars, if something had happened we would have heard--”

“So you heard me calling for you then? When I woke up alone? You just chose to ignore it? That’s better, that’s awesome, thank you.”

Derek says nothing.

“...or did you not hear me?”

Derek just sighs and steps around him to get into their room.

“Why are your hands dirty?”

He glances down at his hands and just sighs. It isn’t right for him to keep something like this from the teen; he knows that if their positions were reversed that he would hate for them to secrets from him. He’s been through this route before; he’s kept things close to his chest that needed to be shared--the consent he’d gotten from his betas before he’d bitten them was dubious at best with how much he’d kept from them.

But there’s also nothing to worry about. He doesn’t want Stiles to know how badly he’d been shaken up. It wouldn’t help anything and the kid still needs to believe that he can be protected; he doesn’t need to know how useless Derek is against everything here--

“Is it because of the IDs?”

Derek glances up sharply.

Stiles just stares at him and purses his lips. “I’m not an idiot.”

No, he’s definitely not that.

“We thought it might be…” Derek shrugs. “The woman. So we went to check to see if she was still buried. She is, by the way.”

“And the cars?”

“Our way out.”

Stiles continues to watch him for a minute longer, then hums and goes back to leaning over the railing, watching Peter work. Derek knows he’s been dismissed and tries not to act like it affects him as much as it does.

“It won’t happen again,” he says. He promises.

Stiles ignores him.

He’s changing in the bathroom after a quick wash up when he hears Peter walking down the hall outside.

“So,” Stiles starts.

Peter immediately interrupts him, “Don’t even try to guilt trip me, I don’t care about your feelings.”

Derek tries to keep his snort of laughter to himself, but as he comes out and gets glared at, he assumes he didn’t quite pull it off.

“So our best bet is going to be driving as fast as we can through the fog and hope there’s something on the other side?”

“Yup,” Peter says.

Derek frowns. “It’s the best plan we have so far.”

Stiles huffs and plops down on the bed. “Should we...prepare? Like get food and supplies?”

Peter hums in thought. “Probably,” he glances at Derek. “Just in case.”

They talk about it for a while, plan it out. He thinks it does them all some good to finally have a goal to work toward, something tangible that they can make happen. Derek doesn’t know if they think it’s actually going to work, but just talking about escaping is lightening the mood. It’s decided that as soon as they gather what they need, that they’ll try driving out.

“You’re preening,” Stiles says as they start to bed down for the night.

Derek raises his brows. “What.”

“You,” Stiles points at him and he settles in the middle of the bed. “Are doing that Alpha preening thing you do when you think you did something good.”

Derek balks. “I don’t--”

“You do,” Peter snips, wrapping himself in his own blanket. “It’s annoying.”

Derek just huffs. Because he doesn’t do that. At all. Ever. So maybe he’s a little happy that he’s thought of a plan for them. And maybe he’s a little proud that he’s found a way to save his pack, but he’s not preening.

“You’re doing it again,” Stiles says.

“Shut up,” Derek snaps as he slips in on the other side of the teen.

“Ew,” Stiles says suddenly.

“What now,” Derek sighs.

“I’m the meat in a Hale sandwich,” Stiles pouts.

There’s a quick silence while both wolves go still and parse that out.

“I’m sleeping on the floor,” Derek announces. Because no. Just no.

As soon as the he moves off the bed, Stiles rolls over and stretches out like the little shit he is.

“There were three in the bed and the little one said ‘roll over, roll over’, so they all rolled over and one fell--”

Derek glares at him for half a moment before reaching out and snatching Stiles’ ankle and jerking him off the bed. There’s a brief struggle between them before Stiles gives in with a yelp and plops onto the floor. Derek settles back in his place on the bed and gives a loud, obnoxious sigh as he burrows down and gets comfortable.

“Children,” Peter warns.

“...so rude,” Stiles mumbles.

They ignore him.

“Can I at least get a pil--”

Derek hurls a pillow at him.

“--ow!”

The thirty minutes of Stiles huffing and puffing and grumbling as he gets comfortable isn’t ideal, but eventually he realizes neither wolf is going to acknowledge him and he quiets down. Derek considers it a win and shut his eyes.

Peter wants to escape. He wants to escape more than anything in the world and he doesn’t care what it costs him. He’s desperate enough to go along with Derek’s plan even though he knows Derek hasn’t had a decent plan since before he was in third grade and decided that taking the class hamster home would be a good idea (he hadn’t told anyone and it had all ended in a very traumatizing vacuuming accident).

He feels like he’s becoming slower; “less” than himself somehow. Each day (day, night, hour, minute) he thinks maybe he’s forgotten something--there’s an annoying tick at the back of his head like he’s misplaced his keys or he’s left a light on in the other room and he never quite recalls why it bothers him. His senses are dull, his mind feels dull and the wildness in him that bays for freedom is steadily drifting into nothing.

This is a thing that should be driving him mad.

Instead he feels like an ailing pet being put to sleep at the vet; slowly drifting into a soft quiet.

Peter doesn’t want it, not any of it; he will not go quietly into any dark night. He will rage and bite and claw and fight. He refuses this apathy seeping through him. And yet it soothes at him when he is most determined; calms him when he is most committed like it knows--like it needs him docile.

He’s not quite sure what’s going to happen when the fear gets to them again (though he welcomes it to feel something other than...this); he assumes everything will turn out just like it did the first time they tried to escape and they’ll just end up turning around again. Then they’ll end up right where they started. But he supposes anything is better than staying here and doing nothing. Than fading into nothing.

Though the thought of coming back from what he considers their last ditch effort is… Well, he doesn’t really want to think about what it’ll do to each of them. Peter tries to think just about getting out; no matter what, he doesn’t care.

He hears Stiles shifting again and turns onto his back; they’ve all been awake for the past few hours, but they’ve been ignoring each other.

“Anyone else think that maybe the cars were just a diversion to get us out of the hotel?” Stiles suddenly says.

Peter reeeaaallllyyyy hates these ‘late night almost asleep disturbing thoughts that I must share right now because of reasons’ episodes Stiles falls into.

Although now that he thinks about it, it is a pretty alarming coincidence. He hates overlooking things.

“I mean, you guys thought it was that woman and…” he hears Stiles shift again and then sees him pop his head over the side of the bed. “Well, that was her MO wasn’t it?”

Peter sighs because apparently they’re having this conversation as Derek huffs.

“She didn’t do anything with cars.”

“No,” Stiles says. “But she planned a trap for us, right? Like, she had the whole setup with the...word and the dog to warn her? Then she went through our stuff.”

Derek rubs his face and sits up slowly. “The only common factor is that our IDs were taken. I don’t think we should get carried away. There’s enough going on without our imaginations getting overworked.”

Even Peter makes a face at that answer, but he doesn’t want to start an argument.

Stiles and Derek snipe back and forth because it’s in the nature and Peter, for one, abstains from the ensuing catfight.

He finds himself grinning and wonders at it before he realizes that he’s happy, they all are. He can almost feel it thrumming through the pack bond; he hears it in the lilt of Stiles’ cutting jabs, in the rougher tones of his nephew’s answering snarks. They have a goal--some way to finally be proactive about their situation even if it is just a simple plan.

It’s good, he thinks. It’s good for them.

They don’t need much sleep here, and after Peter insists that everyone eat at least something (he’s still concerned about what condition they’ll be in on the outside), they go out and quickly gather up what they can. Half of Peter wants to scour the woman's hideout to see if that’s where his license disappeared to, but the rest of him doesn’t want to chance it...and also really doesn’t want to know. They settle on taking a warm jacket each, some food, and some water.

Peter takes some cheap hotel towels because he’s simply not breaking tradition just because this was the worst road trip he’d ever been on and Stiles can just shut up about it.

And then they’re in the car.

And then they’re on the road.

And then they’re passing the town sign.

And Peter had thought he’d been prepared for the wall of fear to hit him; he’d thought his determination to not die would be able to withstand it. But he’d forgotten exactly how potent it is. Forgotten how slowly it begins.

How it doesn’t just seize him immediately by the throat, but creeps up his spine and shivers down his arms. He shuts his eyes, tries to close it out and think of anything else while he still can. Strangely enough--and he’ll realize this only later--that the more fear that gathers, the closer they get, the more his mind starts to clear of the rampant nothingness that enveloped his emotions and senses. Later, he’ll realize that he’d almost felt normal.

But the sensation is pervasive, perverse. It needles at the back of his mind, burrowing through whatever defense he has against it. It taints him like oil slicking over a clear pond, coating every other thought with its heavy presence.

Peter starts to sweat as he notices the car slow. He trembles when he hears Derek grinding his teeth. He gasps in heavy breaths when Stiles grabs the dashboard and starts pressing the imaginary breaks on the front passenger side.

And when they come to a shuddering crawl, he sees things in the fog.

His vision in blurring around the edges, but he knows, he hears them. They aren’t close enough yet to touch the car, but in a few more seconds they will be.  And all at once, he is absolutely sure that if they enter the dense mist, that they will never come out again. They will die, they will wither, they will rot in there like so many others before them and no one will know.

His claws are out before he has time to wonder why and he’s reaching forward, darting his hand out and he knows, he knows he can’t do this thing, this very awful thing, but it’s a distant knowledge overshadowed by the all-encompassing need to be stronger, faster, to tear through anything in his way. He is a wild thing, a wild thing in front of an unbeatable predator and he is too scared to stop himself.

That’s why he reaches for Derek’s throat.

Stiles must see him, must have watched him, because the boy grabs onto his hand and yanks it to his chest and holds it tight.

Peter can feel blood rushing there. Can feel a heart rabbiting. He gnashing his fangs and growls--

and then the car stutters and stalls.

What fear had built up is nothing compared to the complete and utter terror that seizes all of them at once.

Peter feels faint with it, digs the claws of his other hand into the back of Derek’s seat just to keep himself upright.

It is so very, very quiet.

They’re maybe fifty feet from the edge of the fog; it rolls and swirls and dips and slinks closer like it has a mind of its own. It’s colder here, so much colder than the town.

He thinks Stiles says something, a word, the name of his alpha.

They are staring ahead.

Peter knows that there is a mouth there; a wide and gaping chasm of teeth and tongue and a gullet ready to swallow them down. It’s too dark to see anything beyond the fog, but he thinks...he thinks he can make them out now--the creatures flitting around. They are not the thing, the monstrous thing waiting patiently, they are different, they are numerous; the remoras, he remembers calling them. The small fish that glide underneath the belly of a shark, picking away at scraps.

They are hard to make out, they blur where they should not blur and are like deeper shadows among the already deep shadows; splashes of ink against black paper. There’s a noise outside--some rough clicking like tin cans and he has the wild thought of claws; thousands of tiny, needle-sharp claws. He’s dizzy, has been holding his breath, can’t stand the thought of breathing in this...foulness that eats at his gut that is separated from him only by steel and glass.

The animal in him rebels.

This is not an escape.

Something suddenly looms ahead of them, some great shape in the fog, in the trees, that rises and arches to them like a wave and breaks back down to nothing before it hits them.

Peter has the impression then that they are being watched, considered, that they are being carefully evaluated by the things hiding just out of sight. They have not managed to attract the attention of the Croatoan, but this might not be much better. Are they a curiosity? Are the things aware that they are being watched in return? Are they afraid of venturing out of the fog? Do they wait just out of sight by some instinct? An order?

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Derek move, knows that the wolf is trying to start the car again, but his ears are tuned to outside, where he sees--

he sees…?

a shimmer

like what one would see on a highway up ahead on a hot day. Like how a mirage is described in a desert--

and they’re backing up, speeding more and more.

There is noise outside--the creatures are excited by the sudden sound and movement. But they are already too far away and getting further by the moment. Peter gasps, lilts back against the seat and shudders back into existence.

The fear fades.

The disappointment does not.

Chapter Text

They don’t make it.

Of course they don’t.

He doesn’t even know why he expected them to. But he did and they hadn’t and now what.

Now. What.

Stiles sits there as they idle in the middle of town and he feels hot streaks streaming down his face and he thinks ‘Great, this is great, now I’m crying’ and it seems so ridiculous because if it were anyone else, he’d be telling them it was perfectly acceptable to cry and curl up in a ball, but he just can’t take another hit. And he thinks that the others are definitely going to treat him like a child now because who does that. Who just bursts into tears when denied what they want? Four year olds. Four year olds and him and it’s horrible.

He thinks it’s the worst reaction out of the three of them until Derek reaches some silent boiling point.

Stiles will never know if it was the scent or sight of his tears, or some chemo signal he missed from all of them, or just the frustration finally taking its toll, but Derek loses his mind.

It takes them all by surprise, he thinks, when the alpha shifts and punches his fist through the steering wheel, the steering column, and the dashboard. Stiles gapes at him, heart in his throat, beating against his carotid artery and making it hard to breathe.

Derek just sits there, nostrils flaring as he glares at his arm--elbow deep into the car like he doesn't know how it got there. There’s bit of plastic and wire and glass and metal and he’s bleeding and it might actually be pretty bad, Stiles can’t see enough to tell--

and Derek retracts his hand and punches again

and again

and again

and aga--

Stiles startles as Peter grabs him by the shoulder and tugs him out; the older man having gotten out and come to get him too. He stumbles from the vehicle and a second later, Peter jerks him to his feet and they back up to the sidewalk.

Derek apparently gets bored with smashing the interior and he gets out and yeah, okay, Stiles gets that Derek is the alpha and that’s a big deal; he remembers Peter and all the strength he possessed but somehow it’s just different seeing it from Derek.

This isn’t Derek against another wolf or a hunter or anything like that; this is an alpha werewolf against a two ton vehicle and he reduces it to scrap.

His eyes burn as his claws slice through metal like it’s nothing; his jacket rips and his skin rips and he just keeps going like he’s focused all his built up rage on this one thing. The driver’s side door comes off, the hood is shredded, then he turns his attention to the front of the car and digs through the engine as easily as if it were mud and all Stiles can think of is how long it took man and machine to put this thing together.

When Derek’s done or when he’s just tired of slashing, he backs up, takes a breath and just tosses the rest of the car like it’s made of marshmallows. Two tons actually leave the ground, it flies up and twists once and crashes across the street and skids into a small two door car and both vehicles slide onto the opposite side walk and clash into the corner of the butcher’s shop.

The following silence is deafening.

Stiles feels like his heartbeat must be echoing throughout the entire town and he holds his breath. Peter’s hand is heavy on his shoulder still and the older wolf is tensed like he’s ready to pull Stiles behind him should Derek’s fury turn this way. Stiles would be laughing if he wasn’t so grateful.

But he can’t, he absolutely can’t because Derek doesn’t scream or howl or beat his chest in anger--instead it’s like he spent everything that was keeping him upright and he collapses to his knees.

It’s worse than seeing him rage at inanimate object.

The alpha bows his head and sits on his heels with his hands in his lap and Stiles just watches him.

He has nothing to say. He doesn’t think there’s anything to say.

So he sits on the curb with Peter and they wait.

There’s blood splattered on his shirt and the front of his jeans and his jacket is torn up to his elbows.

He feels a little better though if he’s going to be honest.

The three of them are sitting on the curb in front of the post office and down the road, at the edge of his blurred vision, he can spot the dog pacing in a circle before it finally settles and stares after them.

Derek can’t muster up the energy to care about it right now. He feels wiped, drained, absolutely exhausted like he’s recovering from wolfsbane poisoning or after running and shifting under a full moon all night. He wants to sleep for a year and only then would he consider giving a shit about anything else. He’s too tired to even feel disappointed, which he assumes is a sort of blessing because he’s sure the weight of it would crush him.

Stiles sits next to him with his arms wrapped around his knees and his chin dipped down to his chest. He might be dozing for all Derek knows; he’s been zoning in and out himself. Sometimes he’s aware of the town around him, his two pack mates. Mostly he’s just letting the breeze chill him to the bone.

He stares at the car for a few minutes. Or what’s left of it, at least. He knows he did that--he made that mangled piece of scrap into what it is, but he doesn’t remember going through the motions at all. The skin on his hands and forearms has healed and only thick smears of dried blood remain.

Peter is silent and Stiles is listing to one side like he’s about to fall asleep.

The dog gets bored of watching them from afar and eventually trots off; some time after that, they get up and dig through the remains of the car to grab their packs.

“We still have the other car,” Derek says, but the words are hollow and the promise is empty.

They go back to the hotel because there isn’t anything else to do. Peter looks distant; keeps staring off into space like he’s in deep thought as he sits in one of the chairs in the corner. Stiles is curled up on his side in the middle of the bed.

Derek doesn’t want to interrupt either one of them. So he stands outside and leans against the railing and stares out over the parking lot and the town beyond. He remembers (vaguely) driving in and thinking this place was too small, too much of nothing in too little of an area to be of any interest.

And now it’s his entire world. Outside of this is nothing. For them, at least.

He had tried, he really had. He’d strained against everything inside of him screaming to turn around and run and he’d still gotten them only a little farther than they'd gone the first time.

Derek had thought, just for a moment back there on the road, that they were going to make it; that they were going to have one of those breakthrough moments the young betas always had--Scott tricking Gerard, Stiles keeping him above water for two hours while he was paralyzed, Isaac finding his anchor so soon--before they conquered whatever it was that they were up against. He’d thought if he hoped enough, had enough riding on him, that it was inevitable--of course they’d make it out; they’d give all they could and make it and then they’d sigh and it would be over.

It’d be a just another adventure; the horror of it would fade, they’d research it until it no longer haunted them, until they knew all there was to know about it just in case.

But it would be something they got passed. That they lived through.

He supposes he should know better by now.

This place doesn’t allow for things like that to happen. Hell, his life doesn’t allow for things like that to happen.

But he’d...he’d really, honestly hoped…he’d believed...

Derek clasps his hands together and rests his elbows on the railing. He bows his head down, but not to pray--even if praying was something that he did, it wouldn’t be anything he put his faith into now. Not after everything. Not here.

The door to the hotel room is opened behind him and he listens to Stiles toss in his sleep and Peter sigh.

He clenches his hands until he hears his bones pop and creak. It doesn’t help.

It feels so much worse now. Now that they’ve tried and failed again.

There’d been such a stupid hope to aim towards and now even that has been stomped on and he has no one to blame but himself.

Derek stands there and he clenches his eyes shut as tightly as he can and he goes over and over each little instance in his head where he could have prevented this if he hadn’t been so stupid. He hates it. It doesn’t help. But he does it anyway because he must. His life has rarely felt in control, but this is going to be the thing that tears him up inside.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and wishes he had the will to howl and run. After a few minutes he turns and shuffles into the room to lean against the doorjamb.

“I’m going out for a little while,” he says quietly enough to not wake the boy.

Peter doesn’t even look up.

Derek grinds his teeth together, suddenly angry. The older wolf should be calling him an idiot, should be rolling his eyes and saying something to guilt trip him into changing his mind. Instead he sits there. He sits there and ignores everything and keeps his calm while Derek is the one slowly losing his mind, looking for anyone to keep him from drowning. Peter is supposed to be pack. Supposed to be family--

“I always hated you,” he says suddenly. It’s not what he meant to say. Not even what he was thinking. But he continues, “I always thought you were stuck up and arrogant and not nearly as smart as you thought you were.”

This at least, draws Peter’s attention to him.

Derek holds that cool blue gaze, so unlike his mother’s, and thinks about the Peter he knew before the fire. The man too young to have much in common with his sister and too old to have anything in common with her children, but hung around them anyway; he thinks about how Peter would just know things--like when Derek was about to freak out if the full moon was too close, or when he’d laughed off Laura’s pregnancy scare when she was in high school that had had the rest of the family tense and not speaking to each other.

He remembers the Peter that could be incredibly cruel and always had to have the last word; but who was never mean for the sake of being mean. Who loved his pack even though he thought he was better than they were.

Peter looks at him like a stranger more and more now--even before they got trapped in here. Derek hates how Peter calls him ‘nephew’ like he’s constantly reminding both of them that they’re related by blood. He thinks he might have disliked the old Peter, but that he dislikes this new one even more--this hollow wolf living in his uncle’s skin.

Not hate though. Never hate. Even though it would be so much easier.

“I always thought you were an uninteresting disappointment,” Peter replies softly.

It’s such a sharp knife in an already opened and festering wound. It almost takes his breath away.

They stare at each other silently for a few beats before Peter drops his gaze, not in submission, but in indifference and Derek backs out of the room.

He peels the coat off of him and tosses it on the rail before shoving his hands deep into his pockets and striding from the hotel, the parking lot, down the road.

There’s a flimsy excuse in the back of his head, some whirling notion of needing a new jacket. Anyone that asked would be able to tell it was a lie though--there’s no one that asks.

He doesn’t hesitate as he walks across the main road to get to the other side of town.

The houses are the same. Everything is quiet.

The first home has a coat that fits him. As does the second and fourth. He doesn’t take any of them.

Derek stands in the middle of the street, staring around him, waiting for...for something.

There are no horrible screams, no wailing babies, no ominous presence.

He goes back into town, goes to the clothing store, goes right up to the mannequins. But they’re silent. Inanimate. They don’t laugh at him. They stare out with glassy eyes and do nothing when he ends up taking a jacket off the rack and slowly tugging it on.

When he goes outside to stare at the glass window, all he sees is his reflection; there are no bustling bodies behind him, the world doesn’t move like he’s watching from another plane, there is no small child tracking his movement.

It’s like the town is mocking him in a completely new way. Like it knows he’s just given all he had in trying to escape; like it watched him fail and is denying him any outlet for his pent up frustration. Like it knows it doesn’t need to do anything more to drive him insane--that he’ll do the rest of the work himself.

He wonders absently if that will make him more of an uninteresting disappointment.

Peter is enjoying thinking.

His head is clearer than it has been for a while now; he wonders how long it’ll last. He wonders if it was because they tried to escape, if it was because they got so close. He wonders if it had anything to do with the fog or the creatures. He wonders what the creatures were--though the memory is already starting to fade.

He wonders.

Thinking has always been a simple pleasure of his; one that he’d apparently taken for granted. It’s an odd thing to realize that he has not been able to have a clear thought or idea in...how long has it been? Weeks? More? He tries to trace the days and can’t because there’s no end or beginning to any of them. He turns the idea over that no time has passed, that only a few hours have gone by in the outside world and it’s almost a physical ache.

The wolf in him is more observant, dictated by the moon as much as it is. But he still can’t be sure. It bothers him.

Peter shifts his thoughts back to the fog, to their escape attempt and worries because the memory is fading like it did before. The creatures just out of sight lose their shape in his head; the fear that made him choke has settled into a low murmur. He’s still well aware of his actions--how he’d been panicked enough to try to take his nephew’s life. But the reason behind it, no, the feeling behind it is...slipping through his fingers. He can’t muster it back.

It scares him to think that this clarity will fade too.

He’s always prided himself on being especially wily and clever. It eats at him that this is being taken away. He doesn’t want to be dulled again.

So he stands and leaves the room and paces up and down the hall. It’s good to feel the chilled air on his face; he breathes deep and smells nothing but himself and Stiles and Derek and is somewhat warmed by the scent of his pack.

One thing he will not let fade: he saw the exit.

He knows he did.

Beyond the fog, beyond the shadows, beyond the creatures flitting in and out of sight--he saw it. The shimmer. The thing that did not belong. He is completely certain that they were no more than a hundred feet away from freedom.

He didn’t recognize it at the time; he was busy behaving like a trapped animal. Had he been more conscious--

Peter won’t bother with chastising himself. He’s not his nephew.

What he will do is plan better. This is what he’s good at.

So he doesn’t let himself get bogged down by the ‘why’ and the ‘how’ liked he’d done before; instead he lets his mind turn the problem over and over. The fear will paralyze them--he refuses to forget this even if he forgets the feeling of it; it will slow them and stop them and no amount of willpower will get them passed it or else Derek and his over-inflated sense of duty would have bulldozed through it by now.

This, he believes, is the Croatoan’s primary weapon and he doesn’t think there’s much he can do to get around it. Maybe the fog is some kind of gas it secretes that affects the chemicals in the brain that are responsible for the ‘fight or flight’ reflex; it could be the reason they lose themselves so fast the nearer they get to the edge. As for the dampening of their minds? Well, even insects can have that sort of effect when they bite; minor numbness isn’t new to the animal kingdom.

It helps to think of this thing not as some supernatural, otherworldly beast, but as just another animal; an apex predator for sure, but still just another creature that ate and breathed and shat and bred.

It’s easier that way.

Peter finds himself staring out toward town, toward the direction his nephew took off in. He probably shouldn’t have said what he did--it needles at him until he has no choice but to turn his attention to it.

Derek has always been a cliché. Happy enough as a child until he slowly learned how different he was, angry as a teen and wanting to fit in, foolish as a young adult. There was nothing about him that Peter couldn’t predict before the fire; he was just that much of a stereotype of the common all-American boy. Granted, this boy had a furry secret, but still.

Peter had always been able to read his family, read his friends. It had been...boring. He didn’t know if it was because he was manipulative or if it was a natural curiosity, but he could never help but tug at their strings a little. Push them when he shouldn’t; direct them into trouble when he wanted something to do. It had always been easy for him--he was charming, good-looking, and well-liked by everyone that didn’t know him.

His sister had been the only one to call him out on his bullshit and he’d hated her for many things, but never that. Derek was more like her than he realized, despite his failings.

As nauseating as it sounds, Peter loved Derek too in the same way--at least, he thinks he does (he hopes he does). It’s just...more difficult. When they were younger, Derek looked up to him; now he can see all of Peter’s shortcomings as a person and it’s annoying to be judged by someone whose diapers he’d changed.

He frowns at himself--irritated that he’s allowed himself to be derailed again. He doesn’t have a purpose if he isn’t the one to come up with a plan.

The more he turns the issue of escape over in his head though, the more he can feel the familiar apathy set in. He knows it now--can recognize it as something outward worming its way inside, but it’s still difficult to think around. He wonders then if it’s an effect of the creature or a byproduct of the intense isolation. Or both.

He hears Stiles stir and turns back to their room, coming in just as the teen sits up.

They stare at each other.

“Derek?”

Peter puts his hands in his jacket pockets. “Went for a walk.”

Stiles frowns. “...did you try to stop him?”

“I’m not his keeper.”

“You actually might be the most self-absorbed person I’ve ever met.”

Peter tilts his head. It’s possible. But Stiles hasn’t met that many people. Beacon Hills isn’t a very good pool to judge from even with all the murders that tend to happen there. He shrugs.

“I yam what I yam.”

The look Stiles gifts him is priceless. “You are so insane. I mean that. And you and Derek? You should probably both go to family counselling.”

Peter hums, “I’ll bring it up at the next pack meeting.”

Stiles actually snorts at that and for a brief second, he even smiles. Then he turns away and sighs. “We didn’t make it.”

Peter shifts and leans against the doorjamb. “No.”

The boy rubs his face and pulls his hands through his hair. “And we’re not going to.”

It isn’t a question, but Peter doesn’t like the finality of it. He won’t die here. He won’t live here. So for him, there is only one option. He thinks of the shimmer in the fog and almost says something but...can’t really bring himself to. Not with how tired Stiles looks. Both the teen and his nephew have been through enough today. A little bit of rest would do them some good. And he can’t...he won’t be responsible for getting their hopes up.

“We’ll try again,” he says instead. He means it like a promise, but he thinks Stiles takes it differently. The boy doesn’t smile or nod or anything, he just sits there.

Peter isn’t a comforting type of person, has never been, so it’s difficult for him to say what he means--he will be getting out and if he can, he’ll get his pack out too. There’s nothing else to it. But he says nothing and turns away and goes back out into the hall to wait for his nephew. Behind him, Stiles gets up from the bed and shambles to the bathroom.

He’ll think some more, try to come up with something. Maybe when Derek gets back, he’ll tell them what he saw to get their opinions. His nephew is better at bolstering spirits; he’ll let him do the job that he has no interest in.

Peter walks to the end of the hall and leans on the railing so that he can peer around the corner and get a good look at the forest and fog behind the hotel. There’s nothing sinister about it from here, no shadows, no shapes, no sounds.

It will not keep him. It will not keep any of them.

When Stiles comes out of the bathroom, he looks to his left--toward the closet, for no real reason. The was no noise, no sudden movement, nothing to attract his attention.

If someone asked his friends, they would say that he has no survival instinct, that he taunts things that could and would kill him and rushes into danger at the drop of a hat. It isn’t true though, well, the first part. Stiles is incredibly aware of his own mortality, more so than most his age. He has survival instincts, it’s just when the people he cares about are in danger, he ignores them. Just because he doesn’t howl at the moon doesn’t mean he isn’t an animal; he just happens to walk on two legs instead of four.

So when the hairs on his arms rise up and there’s a prickling at the back of his neck he knows, on a base level, that he’s in danger.

The only thing that surprises him is his reaction. He doesn’t flounder or start blubbering in fear; there’s a strange sort of...acceptance. Like, of course this is happening, of course this was waiting for him, of course he can’t escape.

And in those few short moments where he’s looking at the closet, he almost has a sense of relief and it is the most peculiar thing he’s come across since being swept up into this place. He feels like he’s out of his body and just watching an actor on screen that looks like him; he’s detached from the situation.

The closet door is opened a few inches.

He knows he closed it--slammed it actually, because that’s where he’d thrown their packs when they’d gotten back; he hadn’t wanted to see the reminder of what they represented. He’d spared the closet a forlorn look when he’d gotten up and he doesn’t think Peter’s been back in the twenty seconds it took for him to splash water on his face and--

and he smells smoke.

he smells flesh.

he feels sick.

there is a creak, a crick! from behind the door, from where it is dark.

There is a rustle--a sound of fabric and a rattle of something shifting.

When he was young, Stiles had an enormous and irrational fear of the things under his bed and in his closet. He remembers his mother sitting with him every night and reading him story after story until he was just too exhausted to stay awake any longer. He simply couldn’t be left alone to fall asleep by himself. He’d end up staying up and wondering what sort of creatures were hiding just out of sight.

His mother had told him it was the price of having a good imagination while his father had said it was because he ate too late at night. He remembers his father frowning and looking helpless whenever he woke up to Stiles having crept in their room at night to sleep on their floor, safe from monsters because they couldn’t get him in his parent’s room.

He remembers sleeping under four blankets because everyone knew that rabid beasts couldn’t lift blankets that were tucked in by mothers. He remembers jumping the two foot safety ring around his bed every day because he didn’t want his ankle to be grabbed. He remembers his dad taking the door off his closet and setting up nightlights all over his room so he wouldn’t have to be scared anymore.

Stiles wants that again.

He wants that sense of safety.

The sickly sweet smell of burning flesh invades the room and makes his stomach flip.

“Judas?” he whispers.

There’s heat now; something that wouldn’t really be noticeable if it weren’t so cold all the time here.

“I don’t want to die,” he hears himself say.

The thing in the closet cough-rattles-croaks like it’s trying to find words.

“I don’t want to die like this,” he corrects himself a moment later.

Stiles pulls back, presses himself against the wall. He doesn’t want it to come out of the closet. He doesn’t want to see it. He can’t see it, not after today, not after what they went through. He’ll...he’ll just quit, he knows he will. It won’t be fair and he’ll give up and he’ll just be done.

“Peter,” he says quietly; the wolf shouldn’t be far.

The thing in the closet is silent. But the door opens just a fraction more--

“Peter!” he screams.

The older man is at his side, claws out and eyes bright blue before Stiles can take another breath. He gives the room a quick scan, nose wrinkling at the scent.

“There’s something in the closet,” Stiles says. Daddy, you have to check the closet too.

Peter shoots him a look before stalking forward. Yup, I know, kiddo, always gotta take a peek.

He maybe should be backing Peter up or standing outside just in case, but he stays where he is and watches silently. Is there anything?

Peter dives forward and wrenches the door open. Nope, not a thing, those monsters know better than to mess with my kid.

Stiles waits for a beat, “Is there anything?”

The wolf takes a step forward and crouches down and Stiles suddenly wants a lie. He’s desperate for one. He wants his parent’s lies of ‘there are no beasts that eat little boys’ and ‘there’s nothing under your bed’ and ‘I’ll always be there for you’.

Instead, he gets Peter straightening back up and coming out with a plain white sheet in his hands. It’s covered in dirt and soot and smells like rot and smoke and then, and then, Stiles feels fear. And it’s not the childhood fear of the unknown, but the fear of something other. Something real that is other and can’t be cowed by flashlights or goodnight stories or heavy blankets.

Peter is quiet and still for only a moment before he seems to come to some decision and nods to himself. “Stay here,” he says and Stiles does because where else would he go?

He hears the wolf a few minutes later, dragging something along the hall and Stiles pokes his head out to look and immediately has to back up and jump out of the way as Peter drags in what looks like interior doors from closets and bathrooms.

“Um?” Stiles starts dumbly.

Peter ignores him and goes out again and when he returns, he’s carrying one of the bulky dressers under his arm like it weighs as much as a pillow. It takes some work from both of them to maneuver it inside the door and when they do Peter tells him to strip it down to boards and then leaves again.

Stiles just...does as he’s told with some trouble (are these things Swiss? What even? Where are the damn screws, it shouldn’t be this hard to break shitty furniture). When he’s done and panting, he still has to wait ten minutes for the wolf to return and when he does it’s with a heavy canvas bag of tools and Stiles wants to be mad because he was left behind alone again--but he also wants to know what the hell is going on.

“Sooo,” Stiles starts again.

“We’re doing what we should have done in the beginning,” Peter says. He pulls out a hammer and some long nails and--oh.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Sounds good.”

It doesn’t though. At all. It makes him feel sick to his stomach.

They’re fortifying this place. Boarding it up because there are monsters outside that want in and they are making this place safe for...for however long they stay here. It feels final, like they’ve just given up any pretense on getting out--on this living situation being temporary. He knows it makes sense, he’s not an idiot. He knows that it’ll make them safer but...they just didn’t need to be safer before because it didn’t matter, they weren’t staying.

And now Peter is breaking wood into even pieces and creating some sort of latch lock like on a castle door and Stiles feels dizzy and has to sit down on the edge of the bed.

It just keeps running through his head in a weird little skip and he feels like his brain is buffering and getting stuck on 99% and he can’t quite get over that last hurdle. They’re staying here for the foreseeable future. It’s fine. It’s nothing. Peter is keeping everything out.

The wolf ducks into the bathroom and Stiles listens to him hammer on in there before he comes back out and gets back to work on barring the front door from easy access.

He wants to beg the older man not to, but just can’t quite make the words come out.

Stiles goes into the bathroom and shuts the door and sits on the toilet. It’s dark in here now without the bland, gray light filtering in from the dirty window. They’re going to have to get a candle or a flashlight or something now.

Because they’re staying.

He presses his hands against his face and rubs vigorously, but the thought doesn’t go away. Instead it grows stronger, bolder. He thinks about what might have happened if Peter hadn’t shown up earlier, if he’d just been out of hearing range or if Stiles had been too frozen to call out. He thinks about the woman and the way she died and the thing in his closet and the things he’d glimpsed in the fog and he shudders.

Stiles thinks about the way the woman screamed and how Derek still goes pale when he sees the dog and about how Peter had looked when he’d reached for their alpha’s throat. He thinks about the girl in the reflection of his phone and the noose around her neck and the voices that try to separate them from each other. He thinks about everything just getting worse and worse and Derek exploding at the car when they couldn’t make it out and Peter basically turning this place into a bunker.

And he just…

He doesn’t want to die here.

He also doesn’t want to be torn apart and eaten by a dog or tricked into somewhere by the voices or followed by the child or snatched by the things in the fog.

He’s always been afraid of death and what it meant for him and his dad but...but here, he’s more afraid of how he dies and it’s a new feeling. Everyone goes, there’s nothing new there, but not everyone gets cut in half or beaten to death or drowned or have their throats torn out or set on fire or any of the number of things he’s seen in the past year.

He hates himself even as he thinks it, hates himself as he goes through with it, and hates himself even more when rinses his mouth out so the wolves won’t smell anything strange on his breath. As he stares at his reflection afterwards, it’s almost like it didn’t happen; he can almost believe it didn’t happen as he puts all the first aid supplies back where they’d stashed them under the sink.

Chapter Text

Derek doesn’t immediately know what he’s coming back to when he nears the hotel. He hears hammering and frowns and approaches cautiously.

Peter opens the door before he can and stares at him.

He feels at a sudden loss for what to say because with anyone else, he would feel the need to apologize and get defensive about it, but this is Peter and Peter doesn’t do normal things like that and they both have that in common.

“What are you doing,” he demands instead.

Peter stares at him shrewdly before stepping aside and allowing him entrance. He almost balks and stumbles back at the stench of burning flesh that assaults his nose.

“We had a visitor,” Peter drawls. He holds up the hammer and gestures to the new construction with it.

Derek just looks at him, stomach rolling with guilt. “What happened?”

Peter shrugs. “I’m taking care of it.” The ‘because you weren’t here to’ goes unspoken.

He wants to growl and snap his teeth, but he feels defeated already. He glances at Stiles; the boy is sitting up in bed, staring blankly at the dark tv screen. Derek frowns. He feels like Peter’s doing this more for Stiles’ benefit because he doesn’t actually thinks some pieces of wood will stop anything from coming in if it wants to. Maybe he just wants Stiles to feel like something’s being done to protect them instead of just sitting around and waiting for the next home invasion.

The teen doesn’t look like he appreciates it in the least, but Derek thinks it’s the only sort of comfort his uncle is able to give. Maybe to both of them. He certainly didn’t have to go through this trouble and probably wouldn’t have if anyone had pointed out that he was acting like a reasonably good person. Derek knows the older wolf doesn’t feel the same drive to protect his pack as an alpha does--or he thought that at least.

He shakes it out of his head and just decides to respect the effort Peter’s putting into this even though he’s not fond of the idea of ‘digging down’ into their makeshift den. He doesn’t want to start thinking of this as permanent.

“I’ll see if there are some flashlights in the main office,” he grunts.

Peter hums.

And that’s about as close to a heartfelt resolution of their feelings as they’re bound to get so he takes it as it is and goes for the door.

He expects to have to fight with Stiles over whether or not the boy can trail after him, but nothing comes. Stiles stays staring at the tv and Derek feels uneasy, but leaves anyway.

He comes up with candles instead of flashlights because no matter how many times he’d changed the batteries, they hadn’t worked. The candles say they smell like vanilla and cinnamon, but to his overly sensitive nose they smell sour and too chemical. Hopefully it’ll drown out the smell of burning flesh and it’s honestly better than nothing.

Derek pauses at the second flight of stairs because he catches movement out of the corner of his eye down the road.

The dog is there--sniffing and obviously following a trail and Derek fights a shudder as he slowly goes to the end of the hall so he can watch the animals’ progress. It doesn’t seem to be coming any nearer, which is good and he wonders at what it could have found that seems to be so interesting--

oh.

The dog veers off the road and toward where Derek knows the remains of the woman is buried.

He shouldn’t be offended, but he is by the sheer audacity of this animal. As if the woman hadn’t suffered enough before her death, now her grave gets desecrated. It makes him think of his sister even though comparing her to that woman makes him ill. He thinks about chasing it off, of making it leave, but it would only return when he wasn’t there to watch out for it. Best let it have what it came for and then let it go on its own.

It’s easier to ignore it. Easier to pretend it isn’t happening and that it’s inevitable.

He’ll just have to remember to clean up the mess before Stiles sees it.

The teen is still in the same position when he comes back and Peter looks slightly stressed which Derek takes to mean he’s very stressed and doesn’t know how to deal with it.

He doesn’t want to push, so instead he compiles a list of the things they left behind, the things they ran out of, and the things that were destroyed that they need more of. Stiles stays quiet through most of it, only offering grunts when asked directly for his opinion.

Derek figures the boy just needs time and heads out again since the town seems to have settled for the time being.

He tries to ignore the dog as he passes by, but he can’t help but stutter to a halt and stare at it as it buries its face into the ground. It pops back up a moment later to growl at him with its mouth covered in soot and dirt and Derek feels his stomach roll again.

It isn’t hungry, it can’t be. None of them feel any urge to eat here so it’s not digging through its last victim for any reason other than...what? Boredom? Revenge? There’s no other purpose, no other drive for this behavior. Derek is a beast just like this one and while they are different animals, they are still animals. They share a common instinct. This is the first dog he’s ever come across where he can’t immediately suss out its motivations.

It isn’t scared or angry or fighting for territory or anything like that. It just...is. And he can’t relate to it. And that’s terrifying to him.

If something as simple as a dog is behaving like this, what does that mean for them?

They can’t stay here. He doesn’t want to see what monsters this place will make of them.

The dog huffs at him and then goes back to his prize and Derek thinks about killing it, of putting it out of its misery. It’s dangerous--it’s killed one person and almost killed him, he shouldn’t let it go running around. It wouldn’t be difficult; he’s not unconscious this time.

He could be on it in less than a second. He could have his hands around its neck. He could have his claws through its throat. He could have his jaws clamped firmly where there is blood and heat and life and he could rip and tear until there is nothing left but pieces and he can almost taste--

Derek takes a step back. Then another. Then continues on his way.

He thinks if they had found out any later and it would have been too late. Or maybe it’s already too late.

Stiles curls up on the bed and complains of a headache when Derek starts to hover.

Being the overprotective alpha that he is, Derek immediately goes to their first aid supplies and Peter is watching Stiles at the time, so he sees it when the teen takes in a sharp breath and he knows--he knows even before Derek comes back out with the empty bottles what’s happened and the shock of it makes his throat close up.

It takes his nephew longer to figure it out and Peter feels sorry for him because the possibility would never even enter the younger wolf’s head.

“We’re out of…” Derek stares at him and then at Stiles and Peter actually sees it hit him and he has to look away because he’s never seen Derek looked so shocked.

It hurts him.

Derek works his mouth like he’s about to ask if they were thrown away or lost because it’d make more sense to him and Peter’s jaw tightens.

Stiles just looks at them and Peter listens to him; listens to his heart and lungs and notices the sharp, shallow breaths and the annoyed grumbling of his stomach that has nothing to do with food and the clamminess of his skin and he snaps into action.

He grabs Stiles by the back of the neck and hauls him to his feet and ignores the boy’s frantic attempts at escape and drags him into the bathroom--

how long has it been? how much time has gone by? what did he take?

Derek goes through the two empty bottles and holds them up when Peter demands them and they both try to remember if the bottles had been full or not. He can’t remember if it’s appropriate to make someone throw up--it’s never been a priority for him to learn what happens in case of an overdose so he’s flying blind.

Peter grabs Stiles by the hair and jerks them both down to their knees and before the teen can fight him, he’s got two fingers pressing down the back of his throat. Stiles wrenches himself to the side to escape, but Peter holds him firm until he starts to gag and hunch over and wheeze. He aims Stiles toward the toilet and then snaps at Derek to get water or Gatorade or anything that they have.

He thinks he remembers something about charcoal but can’t quite recall what to do with it or how it would help and what the hell does it matter, they don’t have any charcoal.

The next twenty minutes are a mess of tears and snot and vomit and Derek gets so stressed out that Peter has to send him on a bullshit errand of getting something more to drink and any crackers and bread he can find because Peter knows that alcohol can be absorbed that way and he’s completely lost.

Stiles isn’t giving up anything more than bile and it scares Peter because what he took might have already been absorbed into his system. They don’t have the equipment or knowledge to deal with that.

Peter sits on the edge of the tub and stares at his feet as Stiles huddles on his knees in front of the toilet.

The teen is shaking and he wipes at his face and sniffs. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” he says hoarsely.

He sounds snappish, mean, and Peter knows he’s trying to provoke him. He wants to take the bait and berate the teen for his idiocy. He might be dying and there’s nothing to be done about it except wait it out and see what happens.

“Why,” he says.

Stiles hesitates and Peter feels his eyes on him.

“You’re not supposed to make them throw up, you know.”

Peter finally looks at him; takes in his pasty skin and the sweat on his brow and upper lip. “Oh?” He supposes Stiles would know all about it with his late night internet binges.

“I mean, at hospitals, they can pump your stomach, but generally, you’re not supposed to do it yourself,” the boy sniffs again and stares at Peter’s knee. “It depends on how long the drugs have been in your system. Sometimes they inject active charcoal into you to bind everything harmful in your stomach so that you can pass it. There’s also this prescription treatment that be given, it’s…”

Stiles licks his lips and Peter hears his heart rate increase.

“I didn’t want to die in pain,” the teen says. “Which is stupid because an overdose of painkillers is a slow and painful way to die. Like, it shuts your organs down one by one if you take enough over a period of time. It’s a blood thinner so…” he swallows thickly and rests his head against the toilet seat. “Some side effects are dizziness, blurred vision, nausea, headache--”

“Why,” Peter grinds his teeth.

“It’s not actually an effective way to kill yourself. Unless someone is allergic, it’s pretty hard to overdose on ibuprofen. There are other ways that--”

“Stop it!” Peter snaps.

Something in his voice, his panic maybe, makes Stiles stop and huff out a deep breath.

“I don’t want to die in pain. Which really makes this a stupid move on my part.”

It feels like an honest answer. Stiles’ heartbeat is faster than usual, faster than he’s heard it outside of a fight. It makes him scared and angry and he wants to lash out and grab it and keep it still in the palm of his hand.

“I mean, I could have gone for a noose or, you know, down the river; not across the stream, did you know male suicide attempts have a higher chance of death because males usually use more extreme methods? Like, I know this sounds sexists, but usually women choose methods that don’t leave behind much of a mess--like pills, so--”

It makes no sense to him.

He is a wolf and he has never felt like he had to give in. Wait and hide? Yes. Be patient for the moment to strike? Yes. Retreat to fight another day? Yes. But this...this urge to just...end everything is foreign to him. He lived through fire twice and he crawled his way out of his own grave in order to come back to this existence; despite how desperate they’ve become, he can’t see ending it. He wouldn’t even know how to entertain the idea.

And honestly, he’d thought Stiles had that same survival instinct. It’s such a strange thing to learn about someone you’re close to. He has to see the teen in a whole new light and he doesn’t like it.

Peter puts a heavy hand on the back of the boy’s neck and squeezes just so. “It doesn’t have to hurt,” he says quietly.

It’s an offer and he knows it’s taken as one because Stiles stiffens under his touch. The teen keeps his head bowed and takes in several deep breaths that sound too much like sobs.

“Derek would kill you,” he says after a few minutes.

Peter considers this. “Yes.”

But he can’t let a member of his pack suffer like that; it...eats at him in a way he’s uncomfortable with. At least with him, there’d be very little pain and it’d be over quickly. Stiles wouldn’t have to endure anymore.

He can tell the teen is considering it. Stiles relaxes under his hand and leans into his touch and Peter wishes he were anywhere else right now because he can’t offer the kind of parental comfort the kid so obviously needs. It’s the same reason he couldn’t be their alpha; they’d look at him with that ‘fix it, please’ expression and he would have nothing to offer them. Nothing but this.

He tightens his grip until he knows it’ll leave a bruise and he hears Derek just outside the hotel room--waiting.

Peter knows that as soon as it’s done, the other wolf will come in and cut him down, he’ll have to. It’s his nature to protect and avenge and if he can’t do one then he’ll certainly be doing the other.

He expects Derek to tell him what to do; to warn him from it, to threaten, or make to deathly promises. But his nephew stays quiet. Peter listens to his heart, to the way he shifts his balance from one foot to the other. Waiting.

If Stiles gives him the go ahead, he’ll be killing them both; the boy knows this, they all do.

They wait.

They don’t leave him alone after that.

And he gets it, he does. He can’t be trusted anymore.

It takes hours for the dizziness to pass, maybe days. He feels off balanced and nauseous and exhausted for so long he starts to think that he might actually die. The thought terrifies him until he sees Derek watching him with bright red eyes and he realizes there are worst things and no matter what Stiles says, he doesn’t think he’ll have the option of dying like this. Derek will see to it.

Or Peter will.

One way will end with him howling at the moon and tearing at his skin and the other will...well, he supposes they could bury him by the woman. It’s not like he’d care. And she probably wouldn’t mind the company.

Except.

Except a thought eats at him. A thought that didn’t occur to him until now that says maybe he wouldn’t die.

Maybe he’d come back like she did.

Maybe he’d just be a sheet and weird noises that followed the wolves around--well, Derek around. Because Derek would have killed Peter the second Stiles hit the ground and that still scares him and makes him sick. Not because Peter would die (Peter’s a dick and will always look out for himself first), but because Derek would have to kill the only family member he has left and he already went through that once and it just seems unfair for him to have to go through it again.

An idea niggles at him that Peter offered to kill him only to start a confrontation in which he’d have a good excuse to fight Derek and kill him and become the alpha himself, but he pushes it away.

If he dies here, he’s pretty sure he’ll become trapped just like all the people that came before him and he’s disappointed in himself because he didn’t even consider that as an option before he...before he did what he did.

The memory of it shames him to the core and Stiles wishes he had a time machine so he could go back and...obviously.

He hates how the wolves treat him now; Derek’s too gentle and won’t lay a hand on him--like he’s afraid Stiles will shatter if he does, and Peter is...Peter. He makes snide remarks low and under his breath, whispers to Derek and sighs like putting up with Stiles is the most strenuous task that’s ever been asked of him.

Stiles hates both of them.

Derek takes the door off the bathroom and he knows Peter hid the rest of the first aid supplies in one of the other rooms and he gets it. He knows exactly what he did and how stupid it was and if he could take it back, he would but he can’t so he really would prefer if everyone acted like it didn’t happen.

He misses his dad.

He misses Scott and he misses staring at Lydia in class and he misses his home and his bed and if he thinks about it too long he’ll go crazy. Whenever he needs something, Derek goes to fetch it like he’s part Labrador and he and Peter sit in uncomfortable silence until the alphas return. So. He supposes it’s not all bad.

They don’t let him leave though.

Also, he’s pretty sure he’s either going crazy or something keeps trying to get into their room.

He hears scrapes and scratches at night and sometimes he thinks the wolves hear it too, but they never say anything. It might be the voices messing with him.

Or it might not be.

He’s so sick and tired of wondering and being scared and if this is going to be the rest of his life then what the hell is the point.

He didn’t sign up for any of this. And yeah, he gets that that’s a pretty shitty excuse because none of them expected or wanted this, but still. He doesn’t deserve this. Like, he knows he’s not a great person, but he’s still a pretty good guy. If someone in class asks to borrow a pen, he’ll hand one over, he’s cool like that. If he has gum, he always shares. He makes people laugh.

People that go out of their way to make others laugh shouldn’t be sucked into places like this.

Peter and Derek are just outside the opened doorway, talking quietly to one another. From where he sits, Stiles can see the side of Derek’s face and the back of Peter’s head.

The alpha looks pale and hunched in like he’s bearing the weight of the world. His eyes are dark and his brows are furrowed and the line of his mouth is pulled down in a deep frown.

Stiles hesitates, then scoots off the bed. At once, he has the wolves’ attention.

“What’s up?”

Derek stares at him for a beat, assessing, listening; he knows they’re both monitoring his breathing and his heart and it’s annoying and invasive and he crossing his arms over his chest like that’ll help.

Peter turns toward him and cocks his head. “I was telling Derek how I thought I saw the way out.”

Stiles just...looks at him. Waiting for the punch line. Something. Because that’s not possible. And if it was, it’s not exactly information you sit on.

“When was that?” Stiles gestures around him. “You’ve been sitting here this whole time.”

Derek gives a minute shake of his head that Stiles supposes is meant to make Peter stay his tongue, but the older wolf plows onward with a thin smile that makes him look mean.

“During our last escape attempt. In the fog.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and huffs out a breath. “And you’re just bringing this up because…?”

And the nasty grin Peter’s wearing turns into something vaguely polite and disarming before he says, “Well, had I known you were in such a...delicate head-space, I might have shared earlier.”

Stiles wants to hit him. And scream at him. And shove him off of something very tall. He does none of that and instead takes what little pleasure is to be had in watching Derek pull his lips back and snarl viciously.

Peter sways backward the barest bit and drops his gaze for a moment.

“I was going to tell you,” Derek says then, quickly, like he thinks that’s why Stiles is so angry.

“When? After you went to go check it for yourself?” Peter sneers.

Derek glares at him but Stiles thinks he might be right.

“I don’t believe you,” as he says it, he realizes how true it is. “I don’t think you saw anything at all. If you had, you would have already gone. Or said something sooner.”

Peter’s lip curl in a quick snarl that’s gone before it can fully form. “Neither one of you were in the right mindset to try again, what does it matter--”

Derek puts up a hand and that’s good because there’s so much waiting to spew out of Stiles’ mouth that he isn’t sure he’d be able to bottle it all up if Peter kept pressing him.

“I’ll go--” Derek starts and Peter looks livid and Stiles feels like something is trying to crawl out his throat.

“No,” he says firmly.

“No?” the alpha parrots like he’s never heard the word aimed at him before.

“No,” Stiles says again.

And he meets Peter’s gaze and he sees this sudden hopeless, desperate, clawing thing and he thinks he must look just as wild as he tightens his grip on his arms and shakes his head.

“When we started this, every time we split up, something bad happened,” he mutters. “I know...I know it won’t stop anything bad from happening again if we’re all together but…”

He’s got nothing.

“We’re pack,” Peter finishes lowly. “We stay together. No more leaving anyone behind.”

Derek stares at both of them like he’s never seen them before and it must show how much this has taken from them because he doesn’t snap his teeth or posture or yell, he just sighs and nods and rubs a hand over his face.

“We’ll stay together,” Derek agrees like he has a choice.

They’re silent for a few beats before Stiles suddenly says, “You aren’t sure, are you?”

It’s aimed at Peter and the older wolf frowns at him.

“What?”

“You aren’t sure you actually saw what you did, are you?” Stiles clarifies.

Derek huffs before another fight can break out and ends it with, “If he was sure, he’d be gone by now.”

Peter actually has the gall to look insulted. “I would at least have left you a note.”

Stiles has the sudden image of a post-it note with a crudely drawn middle finger and can't help but bark out a quick laugh that he immediately smothers underneath his hand because it sounds so foreign and so loud. Too loud. He feels a chill break out across his skin and slink down his spine and he shudders.

The wolves press in close and look behind them, look outside.

There’s nothing.

That doesn’t mean anything.

“We have to go,” Peter mutters in a small, tight voice.

Derek hesitates for a second, eyes swiveling from one direction to another as he listens and searching for...for the next thing. And Stiles realizes that that must have been what they were arguing about; the pros and cons of waiting for whatever comes next--trying to survive it, and attempting to leave again. He knows Derek feels responsible for him and Peter and he must think of Stiles as a weak link; someone that has to be coddled and looked after because hey! he might decide to try and kill himself again and he hates it.

Stiles has a sudden wave of homesickness so strong that he almost gasps from it and he needs out. They all need to be out and it won’t be like last time; last time where he could barely summon up the energy to care. He wants it now, he needs it because he knows exactly what will happen if he stays here:

he’ll give in.

If that’s what this creature, this Croatoan wants, then he’ll do it and he’ll be glad about it because no matter what comes after, at least this will pass.

A small part of him knows that it won’t work; that they’ll still be trapped here. He tries not to listen to it because he knows without a doubt that if they turn around that he’ll ask Peter to kill him. And Peter will. And what happens after that doesn’t concern him. It’s selfish and cruel and stupid and...it gives him a sense of comfort.

“We stay together,” Derek says. He looks at each of them in turn like he’s asking for a promise.

Stiles nods. Peter mirrors him.

“We still have our supplies from--”

“We need a phone charger,” Stiles pipes.

“There’s no electricity,” Peter says like he thinks Stiles is brain damaged.

He gets a glare in return. “There are ones that hook up to your car. They might have been invented while you were in a coma--”

Derek actually steps between them and slaps a hand over Peter’s mouth. “Enough, we’re done, we don’t need--”

“Um. Your phone is gone. Peter’s is…?”

Peter sends a flat look at his nephew until the taller man moves his hand just slightly. “I lost it--mff!”

Derek quickly covers his mouth again and looks at Stiles. “We don’t need one--”

“Yeah, no, you’re totally right. Except, you know, if we actually get out of here we’ll need to, I don’t know, call our pack? Or we’ll need it for GPS? Or about a million other reasons why we’d need a phone?”

Stiles can tell his tone is testing Derek’s patience and even Peter is giving him a stink eye but it’s a good idea and everyone here knows it.

Except.

Except that that would mean they had to go back out and find one. There aren’t any electronic stores so they’d have to go into houses and search them one by one. His phone still has battery life somehow, but he knows it won’t last long if (when) they get out of here. He wants to make sure nothing stupid can go wrong.

He wants to hear his dad’s voice.

Derek suddenly pulls a disgusted face and jerks his hand from Peter’s mouth and rubs it vigorously against his jeans. Peter wipes a trail of saliva on the sleeve of his jacket and flashes and sarcastic grin.

“Fine,” Derek snaps. “We can start packing--”

“Tonight,” Peter cuts in.

“....tonight,” Derek grouses. “And we can look for a charger or whatever else we need tomo--”

“Also tonight,” Stiles interrupts.

Derek purses his lips and glances up at the ceiling like it’s going to help him or give him strength. It might because when he looks back at Stiles, he seems calmer.

“Alright,” he sighs. “Alright. And we’ll stay together.”

It helps.

It shouldn’t, but it does.

There’s no reason to think they’ll be any safer as they move out of the hotel together, but it warms something deep in him that calls for pack. It settles him. This is how they should be; they’re not complete, most of the pack isn’t here to run beside, but it works. It’s something.

Derek leads them and Stiles follows and Peter brings up the rear and not one of them pause as they pass by the woman’s grave and the mess the dog has made of it. Stiles makes a point not to look but Peter can’t help but turn his head and stare at the scattered bones.

Derek keeps glancing back, turning his head to the side and Peter realizes slowly that Derek’s listening to him; listening to his heart rabbit in his chest. He’s probably taking in all the silent cues his body is giving off to show how scared he is.

It surprises him.

It invigorates him.

Fear isn’t something that he likes, but he always finds it to be a good motivator. Not that they need any more motivation to leave this place.

Or Derek’s keeping an eye on him because he knows that if they don’t make it, things will turn ugly very quickly. The way it happens won’t matter, who starts it won’t matter; but he knows they’ll turn on each other. They’ll have to, there’s no other way for them now.

The boy’s already made his intentions clear and just because he seems alright now doesn’t mean he’s going to stay that way.

And Derek...Derek will fight it. He’ll fight against the inevitable because that’s what he does. It won’t matter what Stiles wants or if Peter’s the one to do it or not; Derek won’t be able to lose a pack mate under his watch like that. The alpha in him won’t stand for it. Peter thinks he’ll bite the boy, turn him if it comes to it. If Stiles survives the change, he’ll hate Derek. If he doesn’t survive, then he’ll hate Derek for taking the choice away from him.

Peter’s already hated, it won’t matter if he does it. Except it’ll matter to Derek who will only see what happened to his sister and react accordingly. Peter isn’t the type to go down without a fight.

He’s killed one alpha; he thinks he can kill another.

He doesn’t want it to come to that. Because he knows, he knows that he’ll end up killing Derek.

They’ll go for each other and they’ll bite and tear and Derek will be stronger and he’ll eventually pin Peter to the ground and he’ll raise his arm to strike and then he’ll hesitate. Peter knows him too well. Derek will pause and will wrestle with his conscious or he’ll try to steel his resolve.

Peter will not give him the opportunity. He will not hesitate.

He thinks he’ll end up winning.

He thinks that this will be the worst thing that could happen.

He’ll be alone. And he’ll go mad without a pack.

They cross the main road quickly and it’s so empty and so still that Peter’s ears almost ache with the noise their shoes make as they slap against the pavement. It feels like everything echoes. It’s too strange after everything they’ve been through but...the town has never been so

vacant.

It’s vacant.

The realization stops him in his tracks. He stares around the town; stares at the buildings and the glass; stares down the road and at the cars and…

everything is gone.

Even the feeling of being watched, of being constantly observed and followed and...when was the last time they’d heard the voices? When was the last time they’d heard footsteps shadowing their own? Since their failed escape attempt, the only one they’d run into is the woman. But everything else, all the malicious and curious apparitions and happenings have disappeared.

Why?

The town hasn’t been this quiet and this empty...ever.

what did they know that he doesn’t

what’s coming that scattered them

The thought alarms him--

“Peter?”

He glances up and spies his two pack mates watching him from across the street. Derek looks concerned, Stiles looks wary and tired.

Peter forces a grin and shakes his head. “Thought I heard the dog.”

Derek knows he’s lying. Stiles doesn’t; the boy stuffs his hands in his hoodie and looks around.

“It sounds quiet to me,” he says.

Peter shrugs and takes the lead and they fall into a new formation. He doesn’t want to take any longer than he has to. He feels like they’re suddenly running out of time. The others must sense something from him because they don’t complain about how he hurries them along as they start searching the houses.

There’s nothing in the first or second or third and then they get the idea that if they do have a car charger, then it’ll probably be in one of the cars and they start checking garages. Peter directs Derek to check for gas canisters because the last thing he wants is to run out while on the road.

The fifth house has a bright yellow Volkswagen beetle in the garage that’s almost hilariously out of place in this dreary town and Stiles grins and charges inside the house to pour through the bedrooms (“they have an IPhone adaptor, Peter, they’ll have a charger, trust me”). Derek trails more slowly after him, grumbling under his breath about running off alone. Peter stays at the bottom of the stairs and waits impatiently.

A whine makes him pause.

He thinks at first that he was too quick to assume that the voices had disappeared and he feels a strange rush of relief. But then he turns his head and catches the small tick of a quickened heartbeat.

Peter knows better, he does. He goes anyway.

He follows the noise, now a steady whimpering, down the hall and toward the back door. It’s coming from off to the side to the cellar door and he’s not that stupid.

The door is halfway opened and he opens it just enough so the he can peer down the short steps. He catches the reeking scent of the dog from here and he thinks it’ll serve the damn thing right if it fell down there and broke its leg.

He lets the door swing open further as he hears the clicking of nails on concrete. The dog peers up at him from the bottom of the stairs and Peter narrows his eyes at it suspiciously, ready for an attack.

But the animal only whines again and takes a slinking step back.

Peter frowns and copies him, thinking maybe he’s being too big of a target that the animal thinks it can’t get passed. It still doesn’t move.

He shifts uncomfortably and pats his leg in a silent call.

The dog whimpers and he can see it shaking; the fur along its back is rigid and he catches the strong scent of urine.

“Come here,” Peter mutters softly. “Here boy.”

The dog takes a step forward and then backs up again and Peter starts to get a sick feeling in his gut.

It’s not him.

He’s not the thing scaring the animal.

It knows, it knows like the apparitions know that there is something Other to be wary of, something Other to be feared and to run from. He swallows thickly and takes the time to compose himself as he hears Stiles whoop from upstairs as he finds his prize. He meets them at the bottom of the staircase and offers a tight grin as Stiles trips passed him. Derek follows more slowly and stares at Peter.

Peter gives him nothing to work from though and they don’t say anything as they head out.

They only happen upon one full gas canister and Peter doesn’t want to waste time by searching for another. If Derek has picked up on the new wrongness surrounding them, then he’s better at hiding it than Peter is.

Stiles wants to stop at the clothing store for another jacket, but both wolves hurry him along between them. The teenager thinks it’s because of the dog and they let him believe that.

“We’ll rest first,” Derek says as they near the hotel.

Peter almost pitches a fit right there in the middle of the road, but Derek glances toward the boy and Peter gets it, he does. Stiles is still recovering from his ibuprofen binge and he can hear the boy’s heart stutter at odd moments and he sees the way Stiles blinks rapidly at times like he’s trying to clear his vision. He’s alive, but he’s still weak physically and mentally.

None of them are in their top condition. Peter and Derek both had stayed up and stressed over the teen. Rest would do them some good. Even if it were only a few hours. They have to be able to steel themselves against the fear the fog will bring.

So he nods and takes the gas canister to fill up their vehicle and watches as Stiles pesters Derek as they climb the staircase and return to their room. The car greedily laps up all five gallons and Peter feeds it eagerly, unwilling to even entertain the idea of running out of gas on the road or in the fog. Why he even believed for a moment that everything would go according to plan is a mystery to him.

He glances up and sees both Derek and Stiles on the third floor in front of their room. They’d locked it and placed the hotel key on top of the doorway for safe keeping. He can tell from the way they’re standing that they haven’t misplaced the key or anything so mundane. Peter still takes the time to finish up what he’s doing, prolonging the inevitable for as long as he can.

Then he climbs the stairs and goes down the hall and takes a place between them to peer into their room.

The stench of burning flesh makes him reel and he stutters back a few steps until he hits the railing. He barely notices Derek reach out and steady him as he takes in the scene.

Ash covers their bedding, the floors, the walls, the ceiling; and if it was just that, just the mess of dirt and soot, he might be able to handle it. If it was that and the cloying, disgusting, putrid stench of rot and fire and flesh, he’d have a hard time, but he’d still be able to handle it. But it’s not just that--it’s that and the prints.

Because it’s not just like someone emptied a fireplace into their room, it’s as though someone walked through it and then ran around like the laws of gravity didn’t apply to them. There are hand and foot prints in a wild trail starting from the front door and leading inward; they cross over the tousled bed spread and tick back down and then across the floor and into the bathroom, from there they come out upside down and Peter thinks back to the prints outside of their previous hotel room window.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Stiles whispers.

They don’t dare go inside. Derek shuts the door and they retreat to the lowest level, to the room closest to their waiting car. Peter locks the windows like he thinks it’ll help anything and after a brief argument, he slips out and quickly searches through the main desk and employee lounge that seems to double as a management office for food and drink. He returns with a few candy bars and two bottles of water that have gone stale.

He swears the stench of the woman follows him.

Chapter Text

Both of them want to leave now; he knows. He can see the way the satellite around him and each other, jittering with nerves as they orbit. They look at him and look away and he can’t give them what they want, not yet. They need rest. He needs rest. It feels like they’ve been running nonstop for years and if this is going to be their one shot, their one good, last shot, then he wants to make it count. It has to count.

They won’t have the will for another try. It doesn’t matter if they see a yellow brick road at the end of this, if they don’t make it, he doesn’t think it’ll be in them for another go. They just can’t.

It’s too much heartache.

Derek sits on the end of the bed and faces the door. He and Peter had piled the dresser on its side to block it like they thought it would stop anything getting through. The smell of the dead woman clings to them; to their clothes and skin. It makes him itch to let his claws out, makes him itch to scratch and peel away everything that carried her foulness.

His hands are shaking.

He clasps them together and holds them tight and sits. And listens. And tries so hard to think of a way to protect his scared pack.

There’s nothing to be done. He can’t comfort them because every word out of his mouth would be a lie, he can’t fight for them because there’s nothing here to fight, and he can’t help them escape because he feels like he’s about to lose his mind. He’s frayed around the edges; his vision is blurry and he feels too sick to think straight.

Derek can’t remember the last time he actually slept and that’s a sobering thought because they really don’t even need sleep here. He’s been running on empty for too long, stretched himself too thin. He feels wild with anxiety and he desperately wants to let loose and spend all this aggression like he did with the car. But he can’t. One break was enough. He can’t afford another one, not where the others can see him and it’s not safe to go anywhere alone.

So he sits and contains himself in his body--in his too small body. And he focuses on breathing and taming the beast within. He doesn’t allow himself to think about what will happen after this. If they don’t make it, if they do make it--he can’t entertain either outcome, he’s too exhausted for it.

“I’ll take first watch,” Peter says.

Derek looks up at him blearily. His tone makes it sound like maybe he’s been trying to get Derek’s attention for a few minutes and is miffed at being ignored.

Stiles huffs behind them and plops down on the bed with a heavy sigh. “We should just go.”

And Derek just rubs his hands over his face because if they tell him to move, he’ll move. He’ll go wherever they want him to. He’ll push through every hint of exhaustion his body throws at him and drag them all out of here if that’s what they ask of him. He’s their alpha and it’s his responsibility.

“No, Derek’s right,” Peter clips. “We need the rest. We won’t be able to go on like this out there.”

He meets his uncle’s gaze and tries not to look as grateful and surprised as he feels. Peter just shrugs at him and turns away, walking the length of their room and rechecking the windows and doors.

Stiles groans behind him, but doesn’t protest anymore after that. Derek lies down on top of the covers and shuts his eyes and focuses on his body, trying to relax his muscles one by one. He’ll rest, sleep if he can. Then he’ll be strong for them; he’ll be enough for them. They won’t come back here again.

He’ll make sure of it.

-

Later, it’s the smell that wakes them.

It’s thick and putrid and heavy like a bog and Derek coughs and rolls onto his side to retch. Thankfully, nothing comes up and he pants as he glances over his shoulder.

Stiles and Peter are squished next to him in the queen sized bed; the teen is pressed up against him on his back, buried deep underneath the covers. Peter is on the other end on top of the blankets like Derek. Both look like they’ve been up for at least a few minutes--Stiles’ hair is mussed and even Peter looks grumpy and disheveled. So much for keeping watch.

“I swear it’s getting stronger,” he uncle growls.

Derek grunts in agreement. He still feels heavy and tired and he wants to lay back down again, but the smell is just too repulsive.

“I’ll grab the candles from the other room,” he mutters.

Stiles is staring at the ceiling with his brows furrowed and Derek sees the exact moment something occurs to the boy and it makes his stomach twist in knots.

“Oh,” Stiles says.

Peter frowns at him. “What.”

“She couldn’t have gotten in while we were gone.”

Peter shifts and sighs. “Let it go.”

“We must have left the door unlocked,” Derek says; he’s too exhausted for this.

“No,” Stiles almost laughs. “You don’t get it. The bathroom window is too small. The front door was locked. There was no way she could have gotten in while we were out.”

“If she got in once, then I doubt she’d have any trouble getting in again,” Derek grumbles.

“But that’s just it,” Stiles insists. “She got in, what if she never left? What if she just waited?”

Derek’s stomach drops to his toes. “What.”

“She got in when we had the door open, remember? While you were walking, Peter,” Stiles speeds up until it’s hard to understand him. “You-were-out-and-I-was-in-the-bathroom-and-she-must-have-gotten-in-then. And stayed.”

Derek and Peter share a look over the teen and he shakes his head because that’s going too far.

“I looked,” Peter says, dropping his voice lowly. “She wasn’t there.”

“We would have noticed,” Derek tries to assure the teen. “We would have--”

“What?” Stiles interrupts severely. “You would have smelled her?!”

The wolves go quiet.

“There’s nowhere for her to hide, this is ridiculous,” Peter mutters furiously.

But they lay there anyway, each holding their breath, just waiting.

“Do you ever get the feeling--” Stiles starts to whisper.

“Don't,” Peter snaps beside him in a furious hush. “Just--”

“That there's something underneath the bed,” Stiles finishes in a rush.

Derek closes his eyes briefly. “...damn it, Stiles.” They don’t need this paranoid bullshit right now.

A tense silence steals over them.

“I don't hear anything,” Peter mutters softly.

“Neither do I,” Derek agrees quietly.

“...then why are we all still whispering?” Stiles breathes.

Derek doesn’t have an answer for that. They lay there and he listens, tuning out the sounds of his pack mates and trying so hard to find anything out of the ordinary. He feels the itch under his skin again, the urge to run and claw and bite and do something other than lie still and play the prey. Peter and Stiles are stiff beside him and they’ve come too far and been through too much to let something so stupid shake them up now.

“This is ridiculous,” he snaps and sits up.

Stiles reaches out and grabs his arm and actually tries to drag him back with a worried, “Derek, no, wait--”

But he pulls away and firmly puts his feet on the ground--

and even though he doesn’t believe it, has never believed in the monster under the bed, he gets a chill that rises up his spine and curls around his throat

--and nothing happens. He lets out a breath and stands and turns to the other two. Stiles at least has the grace to look sheepish. Peter is staring moodily at the wall and when he feels Derek’s stare, he huffs and gets out of the bed himself.

“We can at least open the door to let this stink out,” Peter grumbles.

“Yeah, like anyone’s getting back to sleep after that,” Stiles mumbles.

Derek shakes his head. It’s just nerves. They’re eager to get going, to get out. They’re letting their fears get the best of them and they’re not even near the fog yet. They can’t fall apart now. It’d be pointless.

“I’ll get something to cover up the stench,” Derek says. “Lock the door behind me.”

Peter wrinkles his nose and he doesn’t even have to say anything, Derek knows he’s going to try and air out the scent by opening everything as soon as he turns his back.

Stiles shoves himself out of bed, planting his feet firmly on the ground like he’d dared himself to just to face his fear. “I’ll go too.”

Derek pushes aside the dresser and unlocks the door. “Stay here, I’ll be faster on my own.”

“What happened to ‘staying together’,” Stiles snaps back. He actually uses air quotes and Derek wants to slap him.

He rolls his eyes instead and steps out and is at first so caught up in how fresh the air is outside and how revolting it is in their room that he barely pays attention to the sight of Stiles in the corner of the eye starting to follow him and then go down with a hard thump. He thinks that Stiles tripped over his own two feet or tripped over the covers or--or something, it doesn’t really connect in his head that something’s wrong until Peter gasps and Stiles shrieks.

Derek spins on his heel and it takes him a moment to figure out what’s happening.

Stiles is on the ground on his belly, his face is red and he’s coughing like the wind was knocked out of him with his fall; Peter is at the corner of the bed and looking down at him and his eyes are wide and as Stiles tries to pull himself up, Derek sees why.

He should have listened. He should have given some thought to the boy and what he said because he’s always been intuitive and observant--

there’s a hand

or something that was once a hand

and it’s wrapped tightly around Stiles’ ankle

and it is dragging him under the bed.

It shouldn’t have any strength. There are...there are no muscles. There is missing chunks of bone. It’s held together by sinew and thin ropes of what he thinks is skin; it’s crackled and blackened and peeling and every time Stiles tries to shake it off, pieces disintegrate and fall off into powder. Into soot. Into ash.

Stiles is looking down at it, trying to twist onto his back as he kicks at it with his free foot.

There’s a horrible catching, creaking sort of cough and Derek

he just

he stares

Peter found the sheet. The sheet they buried her in. Derek had seen what the dog had done to her remains.

and Stiles is jerked halfway under bed and Derek lurches forward and grabs the boys’ outstretched hand.

It’s so strong.

Stronger than he is. He’s pulling back with everything he has; he’s using his full weight and bracing himself with one boot against the bed and the other planted firmly on the ground and Stiles is still being dragged.

He clenches his grip tighter around Stiles’ wrists and Stiles grips him back just as hard and the boy looks terrified. He’s staring at Derek with his huge brown eyes and he’s panting shrilly.

“Don’t let--don’t let it--” Stiles cries.

Derek shakes his head fiercely and tries to haul him closer and only gains half an inch at most and Stiles is still staring at him and Derek can’t, he can’t let it happen like this.

“Peter!” he yells.

His uncle is still standing at the corner of the bed just watching them struggle and Derek sees it--that wild animal gaze, that panic that takes over all reason; he sees the fight or flight response kick in and he shouldn’t be surprised, he knows he shouldn’t be, but it still feels like a kick in the gut when Peter gives a tight shake of his head and bolts from the room.

Derek screams hoarsely, so full of rage and betrayal and--and Stiles is still looking at him and he’s begging now. Begging in rushed words that mix and smash together as he tilts his head back just so to show off his pale white throat--

“No,” Derek snarls.

He won’t, he won’t ever. It simply isn’t in him. His grip tightens and he pauses for a second to gather himself before hauling the boy back as far as he can. Stiles wails and there’s a sickening pop and Derek feels one of the boys’ arms shift awkwardly in his grasp.

“Derek,” Stiles yelps.

Derek’s palms are sweaty and his claws are tearing into the sleeves of Stiles’ hoodie but the fabric is ripping and they both realize it at the same time: Derek can’t hold onto him; he’s going to be pulled under the bed with the woman.

And he isn’t strong enough to stop it.

Stiles cries out again and thrashes and kicks with everything he has and he gets pulled under even further and he’s slipping away and Derek can’t do anything and Stiles is going to die and--

and then Peter’s scrambling at his side and he’s uncapping something. There’s a bright red flash and heat--it’s a flare, the stupid flare that he’d taken along with the emergency pack he’d stolen from one of the houses; the older wolf reaches and shoves the flare underneath the bed.

There’s a horrible shriek that grates against Derek’s eardrums and he feels it when the woman releases her grip. He hauls Stiles back with him and drags the teen to his feet. He’s half carrying him and Peter shoves them back toward the door. There’s a shrill, high-pitched screech and he sees the bed come up off the floor and there’s a foul blast of putrid air and he sees--

he doesn’t want to see.

He turns away and drags Stiles with him as a loud crash sounds behind them. Glass shatters. Woods snaps. Peter slams the door closed behind them.

Derek is glad he left the keys in the car; left the door unlocked. He shoves the boy through the drivers’ side and Stiles clambers over the center console and Peter leaps into the back seat. He refuses to let his gaze wander up--he doesn’t want to see what the woman looks like now, he doesn’t want to see what’s become of her, what she’d hidden underneath a sheet. The other two gasp and yell at him and he focuses on turning the key, on starting the car, on reversing and peeling out of the parking lot as fast as he can.

Stiles holds his right arm and grits his teeth and Peter has a hand on Derek’s shoulder and is looking behind them as they speed away.

The tires scream when he breaks as they skid to a stop in the middle of town.

There’s a low, hard, thrumming noise that’s slowly building and it’s at such a high frequency that it’s makes his teeth ache and his bones rattle. It grows and grows and vibrates through him and through the car and he shuts his eyes tightly and grips the wheel and tries to remember what breathing is like. It seizes him up, freezes him where he sits and locks up his body. Stiles makes a small, distressed sound next to him and Derek can do nothing to help him.

It builds more and more until he thinks his brain is going to melt--he actually hears his teeth crack as he clenches his jaw too tight.

And then it crests.

It breaks like the tide crashing against the shore and--

Peter’s hand tightens on his shoulder in a too-hard squeeze and Derek winces and turns to him. The pressure is enough to make his bones feel like they’re grinding against each other but Peter’s not looking at him or Stiles. His eyes are wide and scared and Derek follows his gaze--

it must have happened while they were at the hotel.

except

except he didn’t see it

How could he have not seen it?!

The word is written everywhere.

On the streets and on the cars and the storefront windows and on the brick of the buildings; scratched all over in the same way they’d found it before.

Derek swallows around the knot nesting in his throat and he’s got nothing, absolutely nothing. Because everything in him just shrivels up in fear.

And then the worst thing happens.

Like an animal in the woods catching the scent of a brushfire, Derek has the sudden, horrible knowledge that must have emptied the town.

It

is

coming

The Thing. The Thing that brought them here, that has kept them (that has preserved them). It’s a sickening feeling. Heavy and viscous and writhing in his chest and in his head. It weighs him down and saps everything from him. All the determination that he’d gathered, the will to save his pack; it’s even taken the fear.

He’s a shell. He’s a shell and he will die a shell.

They all will.

Peter’s claws are buried deep into his shoulder and he tries to focus on it, tries to focus on the very real physical sensation that the creature can’t bleed away from him.

It works only because he’s been taught to use pain as an anchor when he gets at his most wild. He can move his limbs. He can turn his head. He can see his pack.

Peter is staring behind them; looking toward the opposite edge of town and Derek...he doesn’t want to know what’s caught his uncle’s undivided attention.

Stiles is holding his shoulder in place and has stopped breathing. He’s turning blue. Like he’d rather die than take in the rancid feeling that tries to perverse them.

Derek presses his foot down and the car squeals away.

They speed through town and he doesn’t dare stop because he knows it’s coming. He knows if he stops again, he won’t be able to start again. He will stop and stay stopped and the creature will feed.

“We aren’t turning back,” he whispers. He promises.

They blow past the You Are Now Leaving sign and Derek is so pumped full of adrenaline that it takes a little longer for the fear to kick in. It makes his heart stutter and his body feels heavy. They aren’t any further than they’ve gone before, he can’t give out here. The car is slowing.

The car is slowing because he’s easing the pressure on the gas pedal.

“Put your seatbelt on,” Derek gets out.

He feels Peter’s gaze on the back of his neck and he shakes his head. Stiles makes a desperate noise and leans forward like he’s going to be sick.

“Peter,” Derek snaps.

Peter darts up and manhandles Stiles’ seatbelt on and Derek stomps on the gas.

The road and woods pass by in a blur and he presses himself to go even faster.

He can’t stop, he absolutely can’t stop because he-will-die-Peter-will-die-Stiles-will-die. Even if the Thing doesn’t manage to get them, he teen will die by his own hand or Derek or Peter will do it for him and then Peter may give up too and then Derek will be left alone, too guilt-ridden to end his life.

He can’t stop because stopping and seeing what happens to them may actually be worse than death--

A sharp burst of fears grabs him in the gut and he jerks the wheel.

The car lurches and tilts and tips over and they slide into a ditch and flip over.

Chapter Text

Stiles wakes with a jerk as his arm is wrenched and he’s dragged from the upturned vehicle.

He cries out in pain as he shoulder is jolted as Derek hauls him through the busted passenger side window.

“W-what,” he tries.

Derek grabs him by the back of the neck and jerks him up and he whimpers as the wolf takes hold of his right arm and starts to lead him away from the crash. They take up their usual positions with Stiles in the middle, Derek leading, and Peter bringing up the rear.

He hears them, the things in the fog; the fast little creatures that watch them.

Stiles tries to focus on lifting one foot, then the other. But it’s like walking through slowly drying cement. Each step is heavier than the last and the air feels like it’s being squeezed out of his lungs. The atmosphere is oppressive to a degree that it just wasn’t moments before. Whatever is hunting them, whatever little beasties are flicking through the shadows, he knows they’re finally done waiting.

Peter’s panting and gripping his shirt, shoving him forward inch by inch. “Move Stiles,” he snarls. “Move or I’ll toss you aside and let them have you.”

But he can’t. It’s too much and he can’t. He needs to go back, to return to that horrible town. His legs quake and he can’t lift his feet. When his knees give out, he’s not even surprised. He’s determined to crawl back into town--

“Damn it!” Peter growls. The wolf drags him up and thrusts him forward.

Derek reaches back and digs his claws into Stiles’ hoodie. It doesn’t matter if his feet won’t work; if his body seizes up, the two men almost carry him further still. Stiles wants to scream at them, beg them just to drop him and let him go back, but he can’t find the breath to say anything.

“I can see it!” Derek grits out between clenched teeth. “Just ahead!”

Stiles looks up, trying to make his eyes focus. There’s a sort of...shimmering ahead of them. Like a mirage in the desert.

And then the creatures attack.

Peter cries out--sharp, pained--and pulls back to slash his claws at the shadows. Stiles can’t make out more than flickering shapes with reaching hands, pulling and tugging at Peter’s coat, his legs; they bring him down to his knees as Stiles’ vision blurs. Derek turns back and roars in fury and desperation; the sound quakes through the air like a clap of thunder and for one blissful second, the air comes back and the creatures stop and the shadows recede.

And then It appears. The Croatoan. The Thing that they had been warned against; that dragged them to this hellhole in the first place. It’s hard to see, like the red haired woman described, like a blur, a sort of...just shape that you can barely make out, that should be nothing, should be something that’s easily overlooked.

Stiles turns his head and stares at it from the corner of his eye. It’s massive, hulking, so much bigger than what it seems like at first, constantly shifting and undulating like a liquid or smoke. If it had a form once, then it was horrible and disfigured. Stiles gets the vague impression of a mouth before Derek claps his heavy hand on the back of Stiles’ neck and lifts him.

Peter, mouth open and teeth flashing, roars in challenge, wild and ferocious and every bit the wolf he was born to be as he turns toward the Thing.

Stiles barely has time to shout before Derek shifts and hurls him toward the shimmering edge of the road. He has twenty feet of air time to watch Derek turn back and stand by his uncle, to lift his head back and howl--

Stiles lands on hard road. His head snaps back and cracks loudly against the pavement and everything goes black.

He wakes up only because of the heat. He blinks his eyes open and then immediately shuts them against the harsh sun. His skin feels tight like it does when he’s in the process of getting a really bad sunburn.

Stiles stays still for a long time, but eventually convinces his body that getting up would help his situation drastically. He only makes it up to his elbows though and throws up almost immediately, too swamped with pain to do much else. There’s only bile though, no solid foods--of course not, when is the last time he even ate some real food before they were trapped--

“Dereeek, c’mon, just pull over at the next one.”

“Stiles, you just ate!”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t at Taco Bell.”

“No. We’re already behind schedule--”

“I want a Chalupa,” Peter drawls from the back.

A vein on Derek’s temple starts throbbing

--Stiles sits up, head whipping around as he searches for the other two.

“Derek!” he hollers. “Derek! Peter!”

there’s nothing.

except…

Not nothing. The sky above him is bright blue and he realizes for the first time how cold the town had been because the sun on him now feels like it’s scorching his skin. There’s a cool breeze and swaying grass and the tall trees on the sides of the road don’t feel like they’re reaching for him.

There are birds.

A beetle crawls over the pavement, over his hand, back down and along its merry way.

Stiles stares down the road and sees no sign of any town. Just miles and miles of asphalt. He crosses his legs and wraps his arms around himself, taking slow, deep breaths.

When he feels like he can stand, he goes back the way he came. He sees no shimmering, no mist, no sign of Peter or Derek.

They didn’t follow him through.

He sits down again; just stays on the side of the road. He doesn’t even bother trying not to cry.

After a while, Stiles reaches into his pocket and brings out his phone.

It reads the time as 4:31 and he has three bars of service and a quarter of battery life left.

Stiles doesn’t know what else to do, so he opens his contact list and presses dial.

“Dad?” he breathes out shakily when it picks up.

There’s a beat of silence and then “Son?! Stiles?! Is that you?!”

“Dad, come get me.”

Stiles had been reported missing for seven months.

There was no such town as the one he named, so it makes it hard to find him for a bit, but eventually the chopper catches sight of him. It’s one of those heavy duty ones that they use when hikers get lost in the woods and Stiles feels stupid when it lands and one of the rescuers comes to ask if he’s okay.

They take him to the closest hospital in Oregon and his dad shows up not ten hours later. They keep him for a week because he has a concussion and a badly dislocated shoulder and is severely dehydrated and malnourished (all he can think about is Peter’s ‘one meal a day’ rule). Then they transfer him to the hospital in Beacon Hills where the doctors there want to keep him for a couple more weeks.

His dad doesn’t leave his side and when he looks at him, he doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. His dad tries to ask a few times “Did you run away? Did someone take you?” But Stiles can’t think up a good enough lie and doesn’t really feel up to talking anyway.

Scott visits him for a few minutes a day when he’s allowed, leaning in close and asking “What happened Stiles? We tracked your scent, we thought the other pack had killed you! We couldn’t find any of you, it’s like you dropped off the face of the earth!”

Later, Stiles asks the nurse not to let any more visitors come by.

When he’s finally released, his dad takes him home in a wheelchair and insists that he do everything for Stiles. He cooks and helps him eat, helps him to the couch when he wants to watch tv, helps him brush his teeth and get ready for bed--Stiles only draws the line at being helped to go to the bathroom. But everything else, he soaks up, craving the attention and love only his father could give.

He cries a lot that first day, just clings to his dad and sobs, almost climbing into the other man’s lap.

The sheriff cries too, begging Stiles to tell him what happened and who did this so he can shoot them.

But Stiles wouldn’t even know where to begin, much less how to not sound like a crazy person if he told the truth.

His father isn’t a stupid man; he knows Stiles lied to him about where he was and who he was with, he knows Stiles hasn’t forgotten what happened while he was missing and he knows most of all that whatever happened, it scared his son half to death.

The Sheriff has to give him pills to help him sleep that first night, but he cocoons Stiles up in his own bed and stays awake sitting in the corner with his gun in his lap.

Stiles eventually graduates to his own bedroom and finally turns on his phone. They had taken it away from him for evidence earlier and Stiles had been too exhausted to complain much. It’s been sitting on his desk for the past few weeks and when he unlocks it, he flicks his gaze over many messages and missed alerts.

Scott has tried calling about a hundred times since he was released from the hospital (and about a thousand times since he was lost). He still doesn’t know what to say, how to tell him what happened or how useless he’d been toward the end.

Or how he’s pretty sure Derek and Peter sacrificed their lives for him.

But he has to give his friends something. They deserve it.

So he types out a quick one-worded message. Just the word they had seen scrabbled on the buildings and roads and cars and shuts off his phone.

When Stiles wakes, it takes him a few disorienting moments to remember that he’s safe at home, that he’s been safe for the past month, holed up inside with his father.

It’s dark outside; he can hear crickets and a really annoying toad chirping beyond his window. He just listens for a while, breathing and trying not to think too much about anything at all.

Stiles is so focused on the noises outside, that he notices exactly when they stop. He pulls the blanket close under his chin as the world outside falls hush. His breath comes out sharp and squeaky, he can’t get it deep enough to fill his lungs. He wants his father. He wants his friends. He wants Derek and Peter. Because--

you write it, you say it, you read it, then you invite it. And it comes when it’s called enough times, like a dog to heel

because--

he feels It.

He knows It's there, that if he just turns his head he'll see It; jaws open, teeth greedy, tongue lashing.

He thinks he can hear It breathing. He can almost feel the hot blast of air against the back of his neck.

Stiles clenches his eyes shut and counts to ten. It's a dream. Some figment that hasn't yet dissipated from the back of his mind while he wakes. It’s nothing. Whatever happened in that town didn’t follow him over, it couldn’t have.

He flips over.

You know when you've stayed up too late and you start getting spooked by shadows in your room? Maybe getting the feeling that something's right behind you so you muster up your courage and spin and--of course there's nothing there. There never was. How could there be? And then you have a laugh at yourself because your imagination has gotten the better of you again.

This is nothing like that.

He turns and sees It and It is so much worse than anything he could have come up with.

He screams

and screams

and screa--

End.