Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Blood everywhere, covering everything. She whimpered as she crawled backwards, feet siding in bloody pools of gore.

‘Do not look’, the voice whispered.

She looked anyhow and then screamed a silent howl of the damned. For that surely is what she was now.

‘He deserved it, remember, remember, remember…..’ The voice murmured insistently, maniacally in her ear.

She keened to herself rocking herself backwards and forwards.

‘Get up, get up, get up, GET UP, GET UP… there will be here soon “. The voice so familiar to her as it demanded and cajoled until finally like an automation she got to her feet. Her eyes darting to the other room, the hidden room where the trap door was, perhaps she should, perhaps….

‘No, No, No, No….Nooooooo’ the voice rose to a crescendo before issuing new instructions, ‘Burn it, Burn it, Burn it all down’.

The girl her face blank nodded, her eyes darted around, ignoring the bloody lump of meat on the floor, pretending it was something else, anything else. Staggering to the kitchen she quickly cut the gas line, turning to the microwave she canted her head it may not be necessary but why leave things to chance. She placed a metal tin inside and then set the microwave on timer mode.

Holding the crook of her arm over her mouth to avoid the fumes as she collected other small essentials what she would need. Distasteful as it was she snagged HIS coat and boots, they were far too large for her but they would do until she could find something better. More importantly it would also hide her scent for awhile at least. On the sideboard was a wallet and his truck keys. She took those too. It took mere seconds to unlock the door and then she was free.

The icy wind blasted her face and for almost a second she felt sheer terror of the unknown and an almost overwhelming need to run back, run back to that …
The voice cut through her fear “RUN SISTER, run fast, run far, run long, they will come for you’, it added ominously.

She scrambled to the truck, it took 3 attempts before it started, she had never driven a stick before and she winced as the truck whined and protested every time she changed gears, skidding and sliding down the road. By the time she reached the intersection she was reasonable confident she could drive the truck without causing undue interest. Behind her on the mountainside there was a large whoosh of air and then flames shot up. Briefly it illuminated her face, she smiled. She was free at last and nobody would ever take that away from her again.

£££££££££££££££££££££££££££££

The fire crews were already rolling away the hoses when he pulled up. They had done their job, but so had the fire and there was nothing left of the very pretty cottage he remembered from his youth, just a burnt out husk. His hands clenched on the wheel as he steeled himself for what lay ahead. Murder was always difficult but when you knew the victim even more so. As prime alpha sentinel he had received the alert call in the early hours of the morning. It was a sentinel matter now.

A shout from the ruined entrance way of the house caught his attention. Wishing briefly he had brought Blair with him, instead he had left him snuggled down and warm at home. Knowing what lay ahead of him he didn't regret his decision, but still he would miss his calming presence. Heaving himself from out the car he was accosted almost immediately by his second in command.

"It’s bad chief".

Ellison growled, "Brief me? Are you sure its murder?"

"The axe sticking out from the victims head was our first clue", Derek remarked sardonically, before his face turned serious again, "The fires done its work so the coroner apart from confirming death, wouldn't say anything more but the body was pretty much in pieces a real hack job... I know he will need formally identified but I smelled him myself it is Sentinel Peter Hale.

Ellison closed his eyes briefly, any hope for going home in time for breakfast and maybe waking Blair up from a peaceful slumber were immediately shattered. Damnit.

"Luckily one of the fire crews had a sentinel on duty. He sensed the situation and automatically locked down the area as a sentinel crime scene. Only sentinel personnel have been inside. Victim was last seen at 11pm leaving Barney's Bar. The explosion was called in by neighbours at 1am, here’s the briefing from the statements we have taken so far".
Ellison briefly read over the concise report grunting his approval, his second had as usual done an excellent job. "Check the back roads and you will need to call Dean in on this".
Derek gave him a resigned nod before striding away. Hiding no doubt his irritation at having to call his rival in but he was one of the best damn hunters in the western hemisphere.

Sighing Ellison had a bad feeling this case was going to get real messy. He walked through the crime scene, carefully letting the sentinel forensics do their job only calling out areas he wanted rechecked. He winced when he saw the kennels behind the house, the blackened husks all piled at the gate as thought they had desperately tried to escape. What sort of psycho would torch helpless animals. For that matter what sort of Psycho could get the jump on an alpha sentinel.

He turned and walked back into the house. His senses fully extended then growling in irritation. Between the fire damage, smoke and foam there was an overload. He would have to come back later. Goddamnit.

The kitchen was a disaster, however although the explosion had occurred here by some strange coincidence apart from a flash fire, it was more or less intact unlike the rest of the house. He watched carefully as forensics photographed the cleanly cut gas lines, one eyebrow rising as he realised the significance of the exploded can lying in the remains of the microwave. Interesting.

Moving back into the hallway, he hunkered down onto his haunches trying to forget that the pieces in front of him were once the man he used to call uncle and had given him swimming lessons. They had fallen out years ago over Blair, but perhaps he should have tried harder to mend the bridges. His eyes hardened and he swore then to do everything in his power to bring his killer to justice.

He moved swiftly then his mind already working trying to fit the puzzle pieces together, working out a plan of action. It was then he realised what was missing from the drive way. He smiled grimly maybe this could be over by breakfast.

"Listen up folks. All non-sentinel personnel need to leave immediately". There was a few mumbled grumbles but within minutes cars were driving away and even the fire crew had departed hastily. Nobody wanted to get caught up in a sentinel hunt.

Ellison waited patiently until the area was secure. Before turning to his crew. They looked up at him eyes glittering, faces hard. The death of a sentinel even one that had all but excommunicated himself had hit them hard.

"This is hunt and it’s a sentinel matter. I want a complete blackout on all information and news on this. He paused patiently until the surprised mumble of voices petered out, waited until he had everybody's complete attention.

"Now listen up folks. The victim Sentinel Peter Hale was last seen leaving Barneys at 11pm its a 30 minute drive at best. The explosion was called in at 1am - so time of death is between 11.30-1am. Morris take your guide down to Barney's see what you can find out, who he talked to, if he left with anybody see if they have CCTV. Hustle people out of bed if you have to. He had an old prewar Volvo truck - a red one, its missing. Sally I need the plates numbers asap. The trucks old, top speed in these hills is probably 25mph. Derek get roadblocks set up you and an APB out know the drill. The unsub will probably ditch it but he’s panicking not thinking straight. My guess is we are looking at a young unsub late teens early twenties, and folks I am pretty sure the unsub's a sentinel so proceed with all caution and he or she should only be approached by a take down team. Dean Winchester will be on scene", he glanced over at Derek who scowling nodded that he had contacted Dean obviously that conversation had not gone well if Derek’s stormy face was any indication. "Dean Winchester will be in charge of the hunt and takedown".

As he issued further instructions and orders, he surveyed his team. Good sentinels and guides, he would lay down his life for them and he knew they would do the same. He couldn't ask for any better.

He nodded in satisfaction. "Times against us and the clocks ticking - move it".

A whirl of activity, as his team sped into orderly action. They had a mandate now, this is what they trained for and they were damn good at their job. He had made sure of that!
"Derek with me". Ellison motioned towards the house away from team pacing with his second.

“Yes Chief?”

"You have questions son?”

“How, I mean I know you knew the victim, but I couldn't get anything in the house just too much overwhelming my senses sir?"

“You have good sentinel instincts Derek, and that will stand you in good stead. But you are also a police investigator you have other skills use them too”. Ellison heaved a sigh “but a lot of it’s because I knew or used to anyhow know Peter Hale”.

“Chief?”

"Peter despised non sentinels - humans, guides, beta's you name it the man was a xenophobe of the worst type. It’s why I have had no contact with him in 15 years. He wasn't always like that but after his wife died, after the war he changed. No way would he invite a non-sentinel back to his house”.

“Who else but a sentinel could get the drop on another sentinel. The attack is vicious and out of control. An older sentinel would have been more co-ordinated, more controlled in his aggression, or at least would have more accurate blows. The last blow to the head the axe got stuck ether the unsub did not have the strength to pull it out or more likely just gave up. All hallmarks of an out of control unbonded juvenile sentinel”.

Ellison shook his head "we are missing some pretty big pieces of the puzzle, but our main objective catch the unsub, secondary you need to start investigating Peter Hale - something doesn't quite add up here".

Ellison crouched down beside some deep gouges in the snow covered dirt track “Tell me what do you see”.

Derek frowned and then leaned down, his eyes distant as he focused. It took him less than thirty seconds and then he straightened with a grin as he suddenly got it. Ellison was impressed the kid was good.

“Tyres dug in too much, too much gas not enough clutch control. He panicked and tried to apply more here, then skidded, braked too hard, stalled and then restarted”, he laughed “either a learner driver or just recently passed.”

Ellison nodded in approval, “It’s easier for me as I have Blair to ground myself even if he’s not here in person,” he stopped and turned to Derek “I want you to take lead investigator with Dean as your point man.”

Derek looked up at him in shock.

Ellison smiled in grim amusement, “I have my reasons”.

Chapter Text

Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, his head bobbing in time with the heavy bass of Jimi Hendrix as he purred along the back road. This was the life, an empty road, his baby, Jimi Hendrix and oh yeah a murdering sentinel scumbag. Christmas had come early! And the frosting on the top was he would get to see Derek again, he did so enjoy yanking his chain, it maybe hadn’t worked out between them both but those strong feelings of connection were still there. So they covered it with macho posturizing and good old fashioned pigtail yanking. And Dean was master at this.

He smiled happily as he remembered Derek’s phonecall to him. Ha they needed him, he couldn’t wait till….

“WHAT THE HELL….” He yanked on the steering wheel narrowly missing a large pick up that had come out of nowhere, driving in the middle of the road. He could swear he could feel the 2 wheels of his car almost lift up as he hurtled along the gravel roadside. He slammed on the horn, swearing at incompetent drivers, wishing he had time to go back and book that bastard.

“stupid inbred hillybillies”, he cursed watching in his rear view mirror as the pick up raced away.

“Hold on a…” he muttered.

“Pick up – check.”

“Red – Check”, Hmmm he flicked open his mobile.

“Hey that unsub was he driving erratically a red pickup licence plate SPH 100?”

“yeah, how did you…”

“Whooo Hooo. Don’t worry sweetcheeks this will be over by brunch - Daddy is on the case”.

“Dean?, DEAN? Dont you ….DEAN … what’s your location?”

“ssssss… sssss… oh you are breaking up I cant hear you… shhshhhs shshhh.” Dean grinned manically as he flipped the phone off. Ha that would get Derek’s panties in a twist.
He did a perfect reverse turn, his baby behaving perfectly as with a squeal of brakes and then a throaty roar that made his blood quicken, they almost took off as they raced back along the road after their prey. He cranked up the music. This is what he lived for!!! Hoooooo RAAAA.

It only took a minute to catch up to the unsub, who was a spectacularly bad driver. He rolled down the window and attached his small portable siren. Flicking the switch to alert his target that the game was up. Time to play scumbag! He beeped to indicate he should pull over, the unsub responded by trying to pull away, his driving even more erratic as he panicked. Piece of cake he thought to himself as he grinned crazily.

His sentinel senses extended to the fullest, reaction times faster than a mongoose. He calculated the exact moment …. And then with a hungry growl, the impala shot forward, speeding into the gap and overtaking the pick up. The unsub tried to ram him as he went past not realising how the road bent to the left, as Dean expected he misjudged missing his car completely , he caught a glimpse of panicked frightened eyes as the truck careered off the road and down the embankment.

Whoops”, commented Dean nonchalantly as he skidded to a stop. He took a few seconds to clip his badge to his jacket, and the jumping out, crouched low, his favourite piece held firmly in a 2 handed grip. The safety off.

He slid down the embankment noting with glee the position of the pick up.

“This is the Police put your hands on your head and don’t move motherfucker”, he barked out, alpha authority in every word.

He stilled and listened, the soft hiss of the radiator, he extended his sense further. There a scrape, the soft pitter patter of small stones being dislodged. Cursing he barely gave the empty pick up a glance as he slithered down the slope. Ahead at the bottom was the steel shiny train tracks. He caught a glimpse of a slender small figure as it darted into the train tunnel.

“Goddammit”, he hesitated wondering if he should call this in .....hmmmm an unbonded juvenile sentinel? Nah not a chance. Besides the unsub looked titchy maybe a beta sentinel .

He moved fast not wanting to give his target a chance to dig in or get further away. Oh this was a fun hunt. Adrenalin was racing through him it was almost a shame this was going to come to an end so quickly.

His eyes already adjusting to the gloom of the tunnel, he edged forward softly, a hunters walk, soft, quiet, deliberate. His senses all tuned into the slightest variation.
“This is the Police, I’m giving you one chance to come out kid, I will shoot and I will shoot to Kill. End of the road, just make this easy for yourself and come forward.” His voice echoed crazily in the tunnel making his senses jangle unpleasantly.

No answer, not that he had expected any from this murdering scum.

As he moved forward, he caught the slight hum from the rail tracks. Head tilted to the side he considered .... a goods train – a good 5 minutes away. Piece of cake this would be over in two.

There a breath, then another, a frantic heart beat like a bird caught in a trap, the faint stale smell of sweat and fear and the sharp tang of blood. He frowned something was not right here. He moved towards the sound, ignoring the train tracks beneath him as he pinpointed the unsubs position. His sentinel senses all working in perfect symmetry. It was almost beautiful. Then he felt it the sweet heady mental aura of an unbonded Guide, a strong one at that.

“Holy Shit”.

A soft whimper answered him, and Deans heart constricted. He switched the safety off. Letting his gun fall to his side. Holding his free hand out he entreated gently. “ Hey its okay, I am not going to hurt you, you can come out now.”

Another whimper and then a weak snarl, “Go away, Go away.” The voice sounded ridiculously young.

“Sweetheart you know I cannot do that.” He soothed, adding just a touch of authority to his voice. “Come on come with me, there’s a train coming and we need to get you to safety. My car is warm and I have hot chocolate in a themos.” He added encouragingly.

“Go away, I don’t want to hurt you… please.”

Dean rolled his eyes, god save him from hysterical guides. He was an alpha sentinel for Christ sake. He was close now just one more step and he would be in grabbing distance. Now he knew he wasn’t dealing with a sentinel he could go a bit faster the Guide was probably as bind as a bat in this cave and weak.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry….so sorry.”

“Its okay, everything will be okay”, he promised. He reached behind for his cuffs, better do this quick and get it over with.

He felt the guide mentally reach him, and despite himself he momentarily hesitated, the feeling of rightness of this felt good. His sentinel senses wide open as he let the guide in.
A SHRIEKING SCREAM, pain exploding in his brain, white out as his senses began to switch off. His last conscious though was ZONE OUT. Which was pretty damn unhelpful as the world seemed to freeze.

He was aware on some level as the rumbling got louder, the rail tracks vibrating audibly now. The screams of the guide telling him to move his ass. Then a warm soft body hitting him, his head making a sickening crack against the steel tracks, as he was rolled out of harm’s way, then gravel digging into his cheek. The guide crying hysterically against him clutching him tight, their cheek deathly cold against his a sharp contrast to the warm salty tears fell on his face, tracking down until they reached the crease of his lips. And then darkness.

She sobbed in pure fear as the train thundered past, its passage whisking the hat off her bald stubbly head. Its passage a mere inches from their bodies.
It took her too long to move once the train had passed clasping the sentinel close to her like a lifeline. Shivering she rolled away retching to the side. Before standing up to survey the sentinel. She had heard of zone outs and she knew she had done something very very bad to this sentinel. And not just any sentinel, a cop sentinel and an alpha one at that if she didn’t miss her guess. And what was he doing pursuing a dangerous criminal without back up. Did he not know police procedure or was he such an arrogant bastard he thought the rules didn’t apply to him.

He wasn’t moving at all, and his eyes were shut almost as if he was sleeping, just the slow puffs of air indicating he was still alive. She suddenly without thinking, kicked out at him, feeling at spurt of satisfaction at the dull thuds of her boots hitting his side.

Oh god what was she doing? She was hitting an officer of the law, her dad was a cop he would be ashamed of her. She sighed she couldn’t leave him like this no doubt there would be people looking for him soon. But still she couldn’t leave him. They were close to the other side of the tunnel as she dragged him away. Wincing at the blood seeping from his head. No doubt as a sentinel he had a harder head than most she tried to console herself. Rolling him into the recovery position, she swiftly searched his pockets. Smiling triumphantly when she found his keys. Then his phone, she was already in so much trouble but she couldn’t leave him hear like this. All sentinels were egotistical arseholes but still he was a cop too. She texted the last number he called, before she changed her mind, glad he didn’t have a key lock on his phone.

“HELP, OFFICER DOWN, TRAIN TUNNEL”

There that should do the trick. The phone began ringing angrily. She pressed to receive and then left it in the sentinel’s hand - they would be able to trace the call.
Then she ran back through the tunnel, and up the bank, grinning in appreciation at the work of art before her. It was really quite the beauty. And suited the sentinel she had left behind.

The car purred to life as she started it, far easier to drive than that blasted tank of a pickup, she was so light to the touch, what a dream. With Hendrix blaring out she smiled in appreciation, it had been so long since she had heard Hendrix. A cool car and cool music maybe the sentinel wasn’t such an arsehole after all. Then scolded herself softly , “All sentinels are bad, not to be trusted and should be avoided at all costs.”

********************************
The car was still rolling to a halt, as Derek sprang from the car earning him a muffled oath from his driver. He ignored it, his eyes firmly fixed on the huddle of police offices and paramedics around the prone figure on the ground being slowly carefully lifted onto a stretcher.

“You goddamn stupid fool.” He ground out for the umpteenth time. “You stupid stupid fool.”

“How is he?” he barked out as soon as the stretcher was loaded into the waiting ambulance. He steeled himself for the worst.

“He’s unconscious, but all vitals are good, no signs of hypothermia so he hasn’t been out here long. There’s a nasty gash on his head which will need stitches. Well know more when we get to the hospital. Do you want to come with us”, the paramedic enquired seeing the look of relief on Derek’s face at his prognosis.

He closed his eyes, he desperately wanted to go. Then shook his head, turning without looking back, making his way to the crime scene. He knew his responsibility and he wanted to catch this motherfucker.

He stared grimly at the scarlet patch of red a bright contrast to the dusting of snow. There was blood trails and drag marks leading to the tunnel. But nothing leading away. The tunnel it was then.

Barking out orders his men fanned out eyes and senses alert. They were all spooked anybody that could get the jump on an alpha sentinel needed to be treated with caution, but to get the jump on Dean a highly focused alpha sentinel with almost legendary status that was a whole new ball game. They upholstered their guns and moved in with perfect precision.

They took their time, 10 minutes later the area was secure and Derek swore as he realised the significance of the crashed pick up. Clambering to the top of the embankment as he examined the tread marks grimly.

“Fuck”, he muttered “the bastards taken the impala. He grinned suddenly imaging Dean’s reaction to the theft of his pride and joy, “Dean’s going to go fucking nuts”. He always though Dean was too precious about his baby.

He reeled out the licence plate number to his officer ignoring his confused look about why he knew Dean’s plate by heart. An APB was put out and cordons relocated accordingly.
Satisfied that everything was done here he went back to the tunnel. Scrutinising the scene in more detail, Deans gun lying in the dip between the tracks. The safety on? The small pool of sick on the gravel… it all just wasn’t adding up. He needed to check in with control and then head to the hospital maybe Dean would be awake by then and he could bounce some ideas around with the chief.

“What a cluster fuck”, he muttered to himself as he made his way back to the car. He glanced up worriedly looked like snow was going to hit them finally whether that was a good thing or bad remained to be seen. So far this unsub was three steps ahead of them and had taken out their best hunter.

Chapter Text

Ghosts

The voices had been with Stiles for a while now, sometimes she wondered if she was going crazy.  And sometimes it seemed the voices were all that kept away insanity.  They soothed her through the worst punishments and the days and sometimes weeks of deprivation.  Keeping silent vigil as she screamed and begged through the worst of the experiments.  And they told her how to escape…. And …. Even how to kill.

On automation she had driven the impala as they had directed down her a shoddy dirt track, the falling snow covering the Impala’s tread marks.  The voices proving true as she drew up to a small summer holiday home beside an icy lake.  There seemed to be no neighbours and the heavy shutters barring the windows proclaimed its deserted status.  Like a marionette, she had used a log to bash in the storm basement lock.  Finding inside a cosy home, the framed pictures on the flower embossed walls showing a loving family, everything she no longer had. 

‘Sleep, sleep…safe…safe for now”, the voices whispered.

Stumbling she had crawled to a soft squisy couch covered in a dust sheet.  Wrapping herself around with an afghan throw that had been careless left behind, she finally succumbed to her exhaustion.

She dreamed that night of piercing bright green eyes, a large panther that stared intently at her.

‘Safe for now’, the panther agreed with a yawn, displaying an impressive set of white killer fangs.  ‘Sleep’, it suggested laying its head on its paws, its eyes shutting as it too started to nap. 

She smiled in her sleep the first real smile for years. 

++++++++++++++++++++++

Even with the sirens blaring, and breaking every speed limit, it still took him thirty minutes to reach the hospital.  He took the time trying to piece together what he knew.  But like a 1000 piece jigsaw with half the pieces missing, none of it made sense.  He needed to bounce some ideas of Ellison and hopefully Dean would be awake by now and probably as pissed as hornets fart but hopefully he would be able to ID their unsub.  Derek sniggered to himself as he strode down the hospital corridors, imagining Dean’s reaction to the grand theft auto of his beloved Impala.  He flashed his badge, nodding in approval at the sentinel cops on duty.  Damn good show of strength he thought to himself .  Minutes later he was being ushered into a dark room where Dean lay peacefully almost as though he was deep in slumber only the steady beep beep of the heart monitor belayed how serious this was.  A low ranking guide doctor gravely explaining to his horror that Dean was in a deep coma. 

He stayed with Dean all night, calling into control for any updates, but he preferred to stay with Dean rather than sleep.  Dean he knew would have done the same for him.  They always looked after each other’s back.  Closer then Brothers, more intense than just lovers.  If it hadn’t been for their overriding sentinel instincts they would still be together. 

“Here it tastes as bad as it smells”, a foul smelling polystyrene cup was waved under his noses.  Derek looked up gratefully too many stake outs as a beat cop, meant that if it was hot and coffee coloured then it was drinkable.  He took it from Ellison gratefully almost inhaling the caffeine fix down.  Ellison gazed at him sombrely, before easing himself down onto the chair opposite him.  Dean lay silent between them. 

“What a clusterfuck.” Derek muttered, he rubbed his face pretending that it was just a bit of grit in his eyes. 

“Yeah”, Ellison politely looked away giving Derek a few minutes to get his shit together. 

“I suppose you are wondering about…”, Derek waved vaguely at Dean and then himself, his attitude just slightly belligerent and defensive only deflating at Ellison’s raised eyebrow. 

“Call myself a prime sentinel, but blow me down if I didn’t see this coming, Blair will be teasing me about this for months.” Ellison smiled.

Some of the tension eased out of Derek, “Thanks …. It’s just hard you know.  No matter how much we felt, the sentinel inside us just wouldn’t let it work.  We both agreed we needed to move on, but goddamn, seeing him like this its killing me.” 

Ellison nodded letting Derek talk and talk.  Astonished despite himself by this other side of his normally gruff and taciturn second in command.  Derek look surprised himself at the flood of words, he looked out the window before visibly pulling himself back together. 

“I called in half an hour ago, no new leads then?”

“No, nothing, I got the reports through, but do you want to fill me in son?” Ellison asked not unkindly.

Derek nodded, recounting everything that had happened, his own thoughts and misgivings about this whole case. 

“Hmmm strange, I agree, nothing is quite adding up and I am afraid your day is not about to improve.”

“I hardly see how it can get much worse.” Derek frowned as he indicated Dean’s prone lifeless figure.

“Unfortunately the news broke this morning, some little shite leaked it to the press.  It’s been all over both local and national tv, the press are howling for sentinel blood. Fortunately for once we are the good guys, but the headlines have ranged from sentinel Manhunt to sentinel psycho killer.”

“Christttt….. it’s all gone FUBAR.”

“Yeah, you could say that, the tower is making noises about sending in back up, we have got every tom, dick and harry arming themselves with bear guns as though that would stop a fully engaged sentinel.  It’s going to get ugly real soon.  The only bright side is we have had reported sightings of the Impala all over the county.”

Derek rolled his eyes “All the usual nutjobs crawling out the woodwork?”

“Uh huh.”

“Awww fuck…..  look give me five minutes and I will head off to control.”

“I need you back up and running and focused?”  Ellison posed it as a question.

Derek exhaled, his eyes hardening, he gently squeezed Dean’s hand before getting to his feet, Christ he felt a hundred years old.   “You got it.  Let’s go and get that son of a bitch.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

She stared at the TV, her hand unconsciously reaching out to caress the cheek of the man on the screen.  It was a police passing out photo, Dean Winchester standing stern and proud. The name suited him she thought as the newscaster droned on.

“Sentinel Dean Winchester still under armed sentinel protection, his condition is stable but from sources we have heard that he in a deep unexplainable coma.”

The scene changed to an angry looking bear of a man as he confronted a wall of hungry reporters and the flash of camera’s

“The unsub is question is armed and dangerous and should not be approached under any circumstances, ” he paused dramatically, “and we have reason to believe the person of interest is a sentinel”.  The press erupted. 

Stiles pursed her lips” Oh…. Ohhhhhhhh.” Her eyes lighting up in silent mirth.

She glanced outside worriedly at the impala currently covered in some dust sheets with snow piled on top, as the impala picture was flashed on the screen along with a hotline number to call. 

Damn she had no way of knowing how long she had slept, but she figured it was at least a couple of days since she had escaped.  The peace she had found in this haven was a blessing.  The voices for once silent as she explored the house when she had awoken from her deep slumber.  Finding the electrics and for the first time in over 3 years having a hot shower, luxuriating in the hot sting of water as it washed her sins away with the sweet smell of mandarin and mint shower gel. 

In the master bedroom she had used every cream and scent available, lathering herself up until she stunk like a bordello.  She had snuggled into the goose feather duvet… and then oh my… she had feasted like a king in the kitchen.  The tins of tuna and pineapple chunks, breakfast cereals and even a forgotten out of date chocolate bar that she had let slide down her throat in sheer indulgence.  Then had vomited it all back up as her frail stomach rebelled at such rich food. 

She would if she could stay here for ever, safe, silent, no people to hurt and torment her.  Only the voices occasionally whispering in her ears. 

Sighing she switched off the tv, she couldn’t stay.  She had to leave, if they were still looking for a sentinel she had a chance a real chance to make a clean getaway.  Maybe get to a town and catch a bus far far away before the sentinel, before  Dean awoke…. If he woke up… her mind whispered traitorously.

Grumpily she finished dressing, the clothes she was … borrowing…. well mostly summer clothes, she had chosen the best of the lot and had layered as best as she could.  She looked decidedly untrendy and definitely a bit weird but hopefully not too strange that she would stand out.  The final part of her ensemble was a too large pair of wellington boots, several pairs of socks on to give a snugger fit.  She would wear this until she got to town and would ditch it for a pair of canvas snickers.  She turned and picked up a rucksack filled to the brim with everything she needed to survive.  As much as it pained her she knew she needed money so had stolen some small trinkets too that she could perhaps pawn later.  After all what was theft compared to murder!   Unfolding a few ripped off pages from a map, she rechecked her route.  Okay maybe 10 to 15 miles across country and she would hit the small town of little Durham.    Piece of cake!

Sighing she gave one yearning glance back at the house that had been her sanctuary these last few days, before determinedly striding forward into the snow.  The Impala lying forlornly in its snow covered shroud.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Ellison looked at Blair grimly.  “I should have called you in days ago… but I thought…  it was just his damns stubborn head… well it doesn’t matter what I thought… I think you are his only chance now Blair.”

Blair observed Dean through the viewing window, one eyebrow lifting in surprise.  “Derek’s here?”

Ellison snorted, “Yeah seems like all that bullshit posturing between the two of them was just that.”

“Oh my”, murmured Blair thoughtfully, “Okay let me do my mojo.”

Squaring his shoulders, he knocked politely on the door and entered.  Derek stood up his face distraught, wiping his tears away unashamedly.  Ellison watched on as they exchanged a few words and then Blair reached up cupping his cheek as he soothed the sentinel as only a clan guide could.   Once Derek was calm, he turned back to Dean.  His face intense in concentration as he ghosted his fingers along Dean’s face, finally placing two fingers on either side of his forehead.  Several minutes passed and then Blair jumped back in surprise, his body stiffening in shock.  His eyes seeking out Ellison in confusion and maybe a hint of fear. 

The heart monitor for Dean continued its steady beep, beep, beep.  Unchanged and unrelenting.

“What’s wrong?”

Blair shook his head, “Deans not here, his body … it’s not possible….”, he whirled around “I need to see Sentinel’s Hales house, take me there NOW.”

“It’s midnight Blair and 3 hours’ drive in these conditions.”

“Get the chopper, we have to leave now.”

Derek and Ellison exchanged a long look, before he unclipped his radio. 

The trip was made in silence, Blair his face pinched and worried, oblivious to his mate’s concern and rising agitation, as he was escorted between the large sentinels to the Hale residency. 

It had been 2 days since Ellison had last been here, the crime scene fully processed and all the evidence bagged and removed.  Now it was just a burnt out husk.

Blair moved around the house his hands ghosting over objects, stopping every few steps and breathing deep. 

“Be quiet”, he hissed suddenly, making the two sentinels uncross their arms and look at each other concern. 

“What?”

“Not you… goddammit.. just let me in… I can help .. “ Blair swore and then shook his head “So be it… where’s my bag.”

“Oh god you are going to do your freaky stick thing aren’t you?” Ellison grumbled.

“Maybe… well… yes.”

“I want cookies when I get home”, groused Ellison, watching in  irritation as Blair started drawing a white chalk circle, and positioning creepy dolls and weird smelling pouches within the circle.

“Sit down, shut up and don’t move.” Blair ordered impatiently, ignoring the two sentinels as they sighed in unison and settled  themselves against what was left of the kitchen wall.  Something had pissed Blair off and he was in his I am in charge mode.  Best if they didn’t get caught in the firing line. 

The minutes ticked by as Blair chanted and waved weird mumbo jumbo stuff around.  Derek looking increasing bored and irritated.  It was thirty minutes into Blair’s mumbo jumbo that Ellison realised something was wrong, something was very badly wrong.

“Blair”, he whispered in Concern.  Frowning as his mate, his guide remained silent and still.  To silent.  He focused in on him not liking the vitals he was picking up from Blair. 

Derek too had come away from the wall, his eyes narrowing. 

“Fuck this”, Ellison snarled, ignoring the chalk circle as he reached across, lightly slapping and then shaking Blair.  His eyes widening in alarm as Blair remained unresponsive.  His skin becoming cold and waxy.

“GODDAMN IT BLAIR, me and you are going to have words about your freaky shit stuff”. 

Ellison closed his eyes, centering himself as he called his panther.  His mind reaching out to the strong golden bond that linked him to his mate.  The panther came with a growl of ferocious anger, thundering over plains and mountains of the subconscious,  his mate was in danger.  PROTECT. 

The panther came to a leafy clearing, his mate cowering inside a circle of white glowing stones.  As wraithe like apparitions swooped around him, screeching and wailing.  It was the scratches down Blair’s cheek that made Ellison and his panther lose all control. 

With a roar, Panther and man pounced, fangs and claws extended all in defence of his mate.  Ready to rip and rend, as his bloodlust descended.

The Phantoms shrieks turned to whimpering and pitiful sobs as they cowered away from the full force of his wrath.

A touch on the ruff of his fur – Blair - his mate, both gentling him and giving him the control and balance he needed. 

Blair rubbed his face into his fur.  “I Love you”, he said simply.  Three small words allowing the panther’s fury to slowly abate.

Blair turned and faced the wraiths, his face sad and compassionate as tears trickled down his face, “ Its okay … you don’t need to stay… you can rest now… go in peace, I will show you the way.”

The phantoms and now Blair could see them more closely seemed to be almost childlike as they clutched at each other.  Almost looking hopeful at Blair’s calm words.  As he sang to them of peace and serenity.

Guide and Sentinel opened their eyes simultaneously, Blair collapsing into Ellison’s arms. 

“What the fuck Blair?”

“Im sorry, I’m so sorry… I didn’t want to hurt them you see, they have already suffered so much, so much pain… but there was more of them than I thought and somebody else has given them strength.”

Ellison shook him incensed and speechless, before hugging him as though he would never let go.  Uncaring that Derek was unobtrusively trying to look the other way.

It took several long minutes before Blair collected himself.  Gently he disengaged Ellison’s iron grip and staggered towards a small blackened cupboard.  Derek and Ellison looking in bemusement as he gripped and ineffectively tried to rip away blackened shelves.  Before they rolled up their sleeves to help him. 

It took the sentinels mere minutes to make matchsticks of the wall.  Then they stared in shock at the metal almost submarine type door inset into the cavity. 

“How did we miss this?” questioned Derek in disbelief echoing Ellison’s own thoughts, how the hell did they miss this, they were sentinels for Christ sake. 

Blair reached forward to turn the wheel lock.  Stilling as Ellison laid a hand on top of his. 

“Wait, are those things going to be down there?”

“Yes, I have only eased their pain, but it will need a full shamanic ritual to let them rest fully.  But it’s okay, I am stronger, far stronger than they are and besides “, he added with a crooked sad smile “they are more scared of you now – the big bad panther.”

With a sick feeling in their bellies, they cracked open the heat warped door, the smell of burnt meat assailing their noses as they descended the stairs into the pit of madness.

Chapter Text

It had started out so wonderfully this morning, a day full of bright sunshine making the snow look so pretty and new.   A pristine day full of promise.  She had been giddy with excitement as she had thrown off her sense of unease and depression.  Frolicking in the snow and laughing with pure unadulterated pleasure, as she had ambled along her chosen path.   But after hours of trudging through thick unrelenting snow, every step now seemed to be like walking through molasses, sapping her strength and spirit.  The sheer whiteness of the snow actually hurt her eyes, and the cold seeped through her flimsy clothing and boots. 

Sighing she collapsed on a log, and rethought her options.  ‘Goddammit’.  She mumbled under her breath.  She used to be the county cross country junior champion.  A five mile run had been a piece of cake to her. But after years of captivity, despite the Pilates she had practiced in her cage she had no endurance left no stamina.   Her ambitious plan of walking to the next town, it might as well have been the moon.  She would never make it by nightfall and in her flimsy clothing she would freeze. 

“Goddamit,” she whispered again.  Her eyes narrowed why was she whispering?  She was free of that … that man.. that pig.  She didn’t need to be quiet…… she could… she could scream, she could shout… she could….

“GODDAMMIT”. 

Her eyes widened, ohmhygod… she had done it.

“GODDAMMIT…… FUCKKKKKKK….  YEAH GODDAMMIT… BLOODY SNOW… BLOODY SENTINELS…. FUCKKKKKKKK…. I’M FREEEEEEE”.

She stopped, gasping for breath, exhilarated and grinning like a child.

“YEAYYYYYYY……. FUCK YOUUUUUUUUU”. 

Her last words reverberated in the still country air and Stiles stopped feeling just a tad silly. She was alone, all alone she knew this.  But still she had a strange feeling as though somebody or something was with her.  She could almost feel their snort of amusement.  Maybe it was her ghost companions though they had been unusually quiet over the last few days.  As though giving her the space to come alive again.     

“I am alive, and my name is Stiles”.  Stiles gave herself a mental shake, and studied her half crumpled map. 

There!

A shortcut to the road.  A mile at the most.  Maybe an hour at her current speed.  If she could make it there she could hitch a lift into town.  Make up a story about getting lost, she could do the poor ignorant lost townie very well.   And if they tried anything, well she smiled grimly as she fingered the 10” butchers knife she had taken from the house. 

It took her over an hour, and Stiles berated her lack of stamina.  But she made it and god bless kindly little old grannies who would stop for strangely dressed waifs on the side of the road.  Stiles managed to avoid or detract most of the old lady’s well intentioned concern as to what she was doing so far from town.   And she enjoyed the normality of the drive, listening to the radio and trying to make idle chat with Mrs McKenzie, who had over 8 grandchildren with another on their way, a husband that had died last fall and a sheepdog called Sammy who was partial to chasing cars.   

They reached the town as night was falling, and Stiles hopped off at the bus station waving away the concern of her benefactor. 

It took her minutes to realise she had missed all the buses out of town for that day.  Unless she hitch hiked, and it was unlikely she would find another sympathetic Mrs McKenzie, she needed to find a safe place to hole up for the night.  She would get the afternoon bus to Seattle if she had enough money, and then see if she could lose herself in the city for a while or try and put more distance between her and this place and get across the border.

Derek swore, then hawked into the snow.  Trying to get the taste and smell of that hellhole out of his system.   He felt tainted by the evil he had seen.  Yards away Ellison was crouched protectively over his mate, as Blair systematically emptied his guts out. 

As a police officer he had seen worst that humanity could do.  But this was a whole new level.  Christ they should be giving a medal to Peter Hales attacker.  He closed his eyes, the image of those iron cages and that one lone blackened husk.  The large steel room had acted like an oven. No way to even tell the sex it was so badly… he tried to think of a word… and only cooked came to mind.    He retched and spat bile into the snow, it would be a long time before he would be able to enjoy a roast he thought inconsequentially. 

“I’ll call it in”, he shouted to Ellison.

“NO”, Blair jumped to his feet, face white, a drool of spit and vomit dripping down his chin.  “NO, don’t … not yet.”

“Blair”, Ellison held his mate gently as he tried to soothe him, “we need to get forensics down here, once they have finished I promise you can sing them to their rest or whatever freaky shit you need to do”. He half-heartedly joked trying to defuse the tension.

“No.”   Blair looked around wildly, “you don’t understand, you don’t see what was down there, what was happening.”

“Torture dungeon? It seems pretty clear to me.”

“You don’t see, you don’t see at all”, Blair murmured sadly. “It wasn’t a torture chamber, well it was, but it was also a laboratory.  Peter Hale was experimenting on mundanes, sentinels and if my  suspicions are correct even guides.”

Derek and Ellison looked at each other in shock.  “NO… no  he wouldn’t , guides are scarce, he wouldn’t be able to, he was a sentinel.”  Derek protested.  His mind in revolt at the thought of any guide being tortured. 

“And yet the evidence is down there.”

There was a stunned silence as the two men tried to process the implications of Blair’s accusations.

“Look, during the war, the Nazi’s conducted thousands of experiments on innocent victims of the concentration camps.  Horrific experiments from things like drowning, hypothermia, drug trials. Christ they even tried to sew twins together.   When the war ended the allies had a choice - destroy all the so called research or use them.  They decided that what was done was done, better to honour those that died.  They looked, they opened Pandora’s box.  It saved lives sure, but at what cost. Another chip at our humanity.  Another line crossed.”

“Blair, this isn’t the same, he was a sick man, but it’s not the same.”

“I was at a conference when I was still a student, there was a bunch of highbrow anthropology professors from Europe debating some hereditary disease. ….one of them said that Mengele was a genius and had been close to finding a cure and that the Russians were duplicating his work. … Christ not one of them was outraged, they just blinked and carried on.”

Blair took a deep breath.

“Down there in that room, Peter Hale was experimenting.  Those poor souls that suffered and died.  Peter Hale will have followers, people that will believe that the end justified the means.  That will try and duplicate his work.  We can’t allow that to happen. We can’t allow people to sanitise what’s happened here.”

“Jesus Blair, you are asking me to break the law, to break everything I stand for.  Christ what if there is evidence in there we need… No we can’t…I can’t do it Blair.”

“Blair’s right.” 

Blair and Ellison looked at Derek in surprise. 

“This is fucked up shit, but if we are going to do anything we need to do it now.   What’s your plan?”

Blair bit his lip “Remove his laptop, take the notebooks, remove the obvious scientific apparatus.  There’s enough there that it will just look like a madman’s torture fetish.  I’ll read the notebooks and if I find any relevant information of use I’ll pass it on.  Then I will destroy everything.”  Blair paused “And I will never undertake any research again.”

“Jesus, Blair that’s your life”.

“No my life is with you, and I still have teaching.” Blair added reflectively, “There is always a price to pay Ellison.”

They shared a look so deep, so intense that Derek had to look away.

Ellison shook his head sadly, “Okay we have 30 minute window I guess we better move fast.”

“Hold a sec what about Dean? And our missing Sentinel unsub?” 

“It’s a Guide, sorry did I not mention that before.” Blair smirked innocently, as he leant back to enjoy the look of surprise and then shock in both men’s faces.

 “I know I sound like a silly old lady.  It’s just officer she was all alone out there, and the way she was dressed, she looked like a refugee, all skin and bone bundled up in cast offs.  I think she’s in some sort of trouble.”

“Uh huh and you dropped her off at Cascade Bus station?”

“Yes she was very adamant about it.  I couldn’t dissuade her; she’s a stubborn little thing but bright as a button and ever so polite.  Not something you see in the young these days.  She’s come from a good family.”

“Ahh Okayyyy…and you didn’t get her full name just Stiles?”

“No dear.”

“Hmmm well there’s nobody matching her description from missing persons. I’ll ask the patrols to keep an eye out for her.   But even if we locate her there’s nothing really we can do, if she refuses help, except charge her with vagrancy.  We can take her to a half way home if she’s a run away and they have room.”

“Oh no dear I don’t want her to get her into trouble.  If she has nowhere to stay you bring her round to me. Do you hear me?”

The officer sighed “Now Ma’am you can’t just go about taking any waif and stray in.  The chief would have my head for sure.”

“Don’t you Ma’am me officer!  I knew the chief when he was in shorts stealing apples from my backyard.  You tell him Elsie gives her regards and just bring that girl to me.”

Mrs McKenzie gave him her fiercest look.  It never failed to quail her husband when he was still alive, and it seemed she hadn’t lost it, as the officer almost sprang to attention. 

“Errr yes Ma’am.”

Mrs McKenzie gave him a stern look, before nodding imperiously and marched out of the station.  The young officer at the desk drooped, groaning into his hand, “Gawd save me from old ladies.”

“Hey Mike,” he shouted to a passing patrol man.  “Can you put the word out for a girl, young, late teens, Caucasian, brown eyes, possibly brown hair, average height, thin looks starved, wearing black hat and dressed like a refugee, with a blue canvas rucksack and green wellies.  Last seen at the bus station. Goes by the name of Stiles.”

“Sure, you want me to bring her in?”

“Yeah. It’s the chief’s great aunt or something, got a bee in the bonnet about this girl, thinks she’s in trouble and running from some sort of abuse.  Bring her in and the chief can handle it when he gets back.”

Blair drew out the worn, filthy blanket from the plastic evidence bag.  “Please let this work.”  He pleaded under his breath.  He had no idea what he was doing, just going on instinct and flying by the seat of his pants.  But he had a hunch that somehow, some way Dean had formed a partial bond with their missing guide in that tunnel.  And didn’t that put a whole spanner in the works for his mate. 

“Hopefully even with the oven like conditions there should be just enough scent left in the old blanket, for this to trigger some sort of reaction.” He addressed Derek and his mate who were hovering like mother hens over the two of them.  He could understand his mate’s apprehension considering how he had been attacked earlier in the spirit world.  But Derek, the taciturn and gruff Derek, behaving like a besotted fool over Dean – he was still having trouble processing that thought.

Carefully he draped the blanket over Dean’s lower face, and then placed his hands on his forehead.  Leaning down he started to whisper.  His eyes closed in concentration as he worked on his mojo. Calling Dean back from wherever his spirit was happily hanging out. 

It seemed to be working as Dean’s eyes started to flutter and the heart rate monitor showed an increasing beep beep beep.  But still he didn’t wake up. And Blair started to despair.  If this didn’t work, the only chance they would have is to find the guide, which considering the only one currently who could identify him was comatose, wasn’t an encouraging thought.

“For Christ sake Dean, Wake the fuck up.” Howled Derek as he lost all patience with the delicate proceedings.  Reaching out, he man thumped Dean on the head.

“Jesus”, screeched Blair.  Then jumped back, as Dean almost catapulted into a stiff upright position.  His eyes wide and glassy.

“WHAT THE FUCK”, he croaked.  He looked around wildly at the hospital equipment, and then his chief and Blair.  Before his eyes narrowed accusingly on Derek.

“Did you hit me!”

A nanosecond later a shocked Dean was engulfed by his overjoyed friends.

“Sooo let me get this right, I’ve been asleep for over 3 days now, you’ve lost my unsub who is a guide and I figured that out myself thank you very much.  Who was kept captive by Peter Hale as some sort of sick experiment, and I have a catheter up my dick.”

“Yep that pretty much covers it. We are hoping you can fill us in on this guide.”

“No idea what he or she looks like, I got a flash of brown terrified eyes then nadda.  Complete zone out.  But whoever this guide is, it’s still salvageable.  They saved me.”

“Perhaps, it will certainly help with the tower if you have a partial bond, if that is you don’t want to break it.”

Dean’s hands tightened on Derek’s, “Maybe, I don’t know.  I just feel this huge instinct to find my guide, drag them back to my lair and protect.  Caveman I know, but I can’t shake it.” He looked apologetically at Derek. 

  “Would it help if you knew your guide has the same taste in cars?” Derek tried unsuccessfully to hide his grin, as Dean’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What?”

“Your sweet guide stole your car.”

Dean paled “My baby?” he asked weakly.

“Yep, we have had an APB out since it happened.  But not one sighting so far.  We reckon they must have either ditched it or they are hunkered down somewhere.  We have patrols checking abandoned buildings and ditches, but its slow going.”

Dean huffed, “Well sweet cheeks, good job daddy’s back on the case.  I fitted a GPS anti theft tracking device last summer.  Give me five minutes to get out of here and let’s go guide hunting.”

Derek stared at him in amazement, “God I missed you.”  But he looked sad as he went out the room hollering for a nurse for his friend.

Dean gazed after him, his own eyes misty.

“Christ I could murder a Big Mac.”

Chapter Text

It was like watching a mama bear being reunited with her cub, thought Derek in amused disbelief as he watched Dean anxiously flitter about his car checking for bumps and scrapes. 

“Finished?” 

He got two fingers in response.  Sighing he made his way into the summer holiday chalet.  Owned by a Mr & Mrs Deacon from New York.  It was a tidy homily house and surprising their fugitive guide hadn’t trashed it.  Rubbish had been carefully packed away into bags and the bed freshly made.  Though judging from the severely depleted bottles of shower gel and bubble bath and the sweet cloying artificial smell of bubble-gum and fruit it seemed their Guide had indulged themselves. 

But the guide was long gone now.  He took a deep breath , steadying himself letting his senses expand as he took in the scene.  Cataloguing everything he could about their unsub.  Empty tin of peaches, Smell of vomit around the toilet – possible sickness?? Books disturbed on the landing – the guide had handled these as though long lost friends.  Strands of hair and stains on the bedding – tears, salvia?  He signalled to the forensic team to swab and moved on.  Disturbed clothing, empty space in the boot rack, no dust.   A whole plethora of information engulfing him as he rode the intense waves of his senses.  Burnt smell in the kitchen, disinfectant, tuna and for some odd reason chocolate.  And underlying this the earthy scent of their guide.  Soft and very faint now but he had their scent and from the sounds of Dean shouting at the forensics to keep back as he checked the inside of his car so did he.  He grinned, it felt good to be on a hunt, even better to be buddying up with Dean for what looked like one last time.

He spread a map on the table, trying to figure out what their guides next step would be.  It would be best if they could do a quick precision hit, cut the guide off and swoop in with no warning.  He still wasn’t quite sure what this Guide had done to Dean but he didn’t want to take any chances.  

His phoned trilled, the opening tune of mission impossible starting.  Bloody Dean had been at his phone again. 

“Chief?”

“How’s it going?”

He filled the chief in, the house had been ridiculously easy to locate and now with the sun rising they could start a hunt proper. 

“I’m keeping an embargo on our unsub guide status for now.  You have maybe 5 – maybe 10 hours max grace.  I want this all tied up by supper.  Or it could get ugly real fast.”

“Yes chief.”

The chief sighed into the phone, “Be careful with this guide. Blair’s been reading the notebooks and … and it’s not good son, not good at all.  This Guide is maybe too damaged, too twisted by what’s happened.  And the Zone out, Blair has an idea about that but if this Guide can turn a sentinel’s senses against himself …” He left the sentence unsaid. 

“Will you be joining the hunt?”

“No, Blair’s got me holding candles and some flowers for him,” replied Ellison disgruntled.  “He’s doing his freaky stuff again.”

“Christ so soon?”

“Yeah he thinks it may help, he thinks these spirits have somehow formed a link with the guide.  Possibly they have been helping.  He has a theory if he can lay them to rest it may help…. Of course it could drive this guide even more crazy.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.  Let Dean take point, but I want you to keep a close to him.  Don’t leave his side for a minute and don’t let your feelings cloud your judgement.  Your protective instincts and especially Deans will be high so keep it tight. This maybe a guide but it’s still an unsub who has in cold blood slaughtered a prime sentinel.”

“Understood chief.”

A grunt and the phone went dead.  Neither of them thinking it was a strange way to end a phone conversation.

“Hey sweetcheeks.”

Derek growled, “DEAN?”  He glowered at his team as they hastily turned away trying to hide their smiles.  Dean stood in the doorway innocently, eyes twinkling as he waited for Derek to react.

“Should have left you in the hospital.”

Dean grinned his teeth white as he took another chomp out of a burger – was that his sixth or seventh this morning? 

“Got a trail, pretty fresh maybe 12 hours, snows not covered it yet, so let’s say we vamoose and go catch us a Guide?”

Stiles was frozen, she had crammed herself into a disabled cubicle in the ladies toilets, holding her feet up when the attendant had checked before locking the toilets for the night.  It was cold damp and smelly but she had had over 3 years of worse.   She ate the last of her provisions trying to eck out the last tin of peaches.  She didn’t sleep as her ghosts returned swooping and wailing telling her to run, not understanding she couldn’t run just yet.  She was safe if she kept her cool for just a little while longer.  Eventually they quietened, and she fell into a fitful sleep as they stood vigil over her. 

She woke to the sound of voices, so surprised she had jerked upright her head hitting the cubicle wall.  The dull thud a damning statement in the silence that followed.

A polite knock on the door, “is somebody there.”  It wasn’t a question.

Shit!

Levering herself up she pasted on a bright smile.

“Ohmygod I’ve been waiting hours, the doors jammed I can’t get out.  Been shouting all night.”   Stiles gave a convincing sniff and snuffle.  Her voice breaking at the end.  An Oscar winning performance.

“Oh Ma’am- just you hold on there we will have you out in a jiffy.”  The lady ran off returning almost immediately with what was obviously a supervisor.  The sound of a screwdriver as it tried to disengage the locking mechanism.  Stiles held the lock for a few seconds straining to hold it firm then letting it go with a ping as the door flew open. 

“I thought I would be there for ever.” Exclaimed Stiles dramatically, her slight body giving a shudder of revulsion. 

The two ladies looked at her with varying degrees of suspicion.  Stiles smiled innocently, giving each startled woman a warm hug, “Oh thank you, thank you.  It was so scary.  I hope nobody gets into any trouble - by the time I realised I was stuck they had locked me in.”

“It wasn’t us, it would be the evening crew, slipshod team, this wouldn’t have happened on my watch”, the older lady said crossly.

Stiles shrugged, as she wiped away a pretend tear, pulling her ruck sack over her shoulder, “Well I better get going.  All’s well that ends well, as my grandma used to say.” She sauntered out the toilets, trying to act natural.  She had a few hours to wait but if she kept her head down she would be home free in a few hours.  Oh dear God please let her get away. 

Hours passed and Stiles took to reading the peach tin can, memorising the words, then rescuing a discarded newspaper she devoured the latest news.  Chuckling to herself on the hunt for the Psycho Sentinel killer.  Oh boy… these cops must be the dumbest ever. 

The hours flew by as she read every single article even the lonely hearts column and advertisements.  Loving the normality of the reading a newspaper… goddamnit a real god to honest newspaper. 

As the clock turned 12 she made her way to the ticket office.  Act natural, act natural she chided herself.  Smiling her most innocent and sunny smile, as she made sure her hat was firmly pulled down over her shaved stubbly head. 

“Single to Seattle please”. As she counted out the last of the dollars from Peter Hales wallet. 

The man barely gave her a second glance as he printed off her ticket.  God bless bored ticket officers she thought gleefully. 

She turned and then froze, across the waiting room, the two cleaning ladies were in deep conversation with two cops, pointing her out with excitable hands.  Almost from here she could see the way the cop scanned her from top to bottom, his eyes confirming something in his notebook.

“Excuse me Miss, can I have a word.”

The officer a large man, started walking towards her, he had big hands she noted idly, hands that could hurt her, could drag her back. 

She bolted.  On spindly legs and as fleet as a colt she ran.  The spirits flew with her. 

“POLICE, STOP”.  The words heavy with authority as the man chased her down.

The bang of a luggage trolley and the muffled oaf as the officer tripped over it, the spirits whooping in glee, before telling her to run faster, then to turn, left then right out into the streets they took her.  Down alley ways and through the park.  The bus station far behind her. 

She collapsed, her chest wheezing, trying not to puke up her carefully savoured peaches.

“What is that?” 

“It’s a snow angel.”

“Christ.”

Dean was sombre as he looked down at the snow, remembering when as a kid he had spent hours with his brother making snow angels and abominable snowmen in the back yard.  Her mother scolding them for getting so wet, before wrapping them up in warm blankets and giving them hot chocolate with marshmallows in front of crackling fire.  That was the last year he had made a snow angel, his mother died that winter and life had changed inexorable.  But at least he had snow angels looking at Derek’s confused face he had never even had a snow angel. Knowing what he knew of Derek’s childhood he shouldn’t be surprised, and it pained him to think of his friend, his lover having such a lonely childhood.

“Hey when this is all over me and you, going to have a slam dunk snowball fight.”

Derek smirked “You think you can take me?”

“Anytime sweet cheeks, anytime.”

Derek gave a gruff snort but he was smiling as he turned away.  “Hey look at this”, he knelt down dusting off some snow, he unearthed a mound of mismatch of objects.  A treasure trove it seemed of tinned food, trinkets, and other stuff.

“Looks like our guide got tired, sat down here to rest.  Footsteps have been getting slower closer together, almost dragging along.  Fatigue is setting in.  Dumped this stuff. Yeah yeah I can see it, sits down feels hopeless, lonely…. Then hmmm this is strange changed direction.”  Dean buzzed around eyes narrowed as he analysed the scene.  The hunter in him, sensing his prey had changed tactics. 

“Awww shit.”

“What?”

“Our guide had a map, must have realised they would never make it they have headed for the road.  It’s a mile, two miles tops. They probably hitched a lift.”

“Should I call the copter in?”

“Yeah they are long gone.”  He paused “They would have learnt from their mistake realised they couldn’t make it on foot.  They may hitchhike but only local traffic around here.  Cascade, they will be in Cascade.  Get the copter in and set the roadblocks up around cascade.” 

“You sure?”

“Ha I can smell it I’m this close, train station… no no… little money try the bus station.” 

Derek raised his eyebrow, but lifted the radio and called in the helicopter.  Ten minutes later they were in the air heading towards Cascade.  Roadblocks were being set up.  Cascade was now cut off. 

“I don’t know how you talk me into these things Blair.”  Ellison grouched grumpily. His eyes tearing up with the heady smell of eucalyptus.  “Jesus I’m crying like a baby.”

Blair rolled his eyes, his face pale and drawn with exhaustion. “It’s done, they are at rest now, You better call Derek.  The Guide her names Stiles, and she’s going to be pretty messed up now.  They need to pick her up fast.”   

"Stiles huh?"

“STILES… Stilesssss…. Stiless……Stiles….. Stiles… we go now.”   Their voices carried on the wind, hauntingly sad.

“No what do you mean?... don’t leave me , don’t leave me… Don’t leave me alone.” Stiles panicked his eyes wide with fear.  They were his bedrock.  His only companion through years of madness and pain.

“We go, it is time, we love you.  Its time.”

“Noooooo No nooo noooo please please please don’t.”  Stiles pleaded, his heart racing, tears streaming down his face as he sobbed and screamed.

“Run Stiles they are coming for you. Runnnnnn”

Chapter Text

Betty sighed, her gaze flicking to the clock. It wasn’t even four o’clock, and her feet already ached from hours of non-stop work. Outside, the storm clouds churned ominously, promising one hell of a blizzard. Inside, Morgan’s Bar was packed to bursting, the hum of chatter and clinking glasses blending with the blaring music. Saturdays were always busy, but today was worse—everyone was getting in their socialising before the storm hit.

The sentinels, as usual, were the loudest, gossiping like old hens about the latest buzz- the psycho sentinel killer. Betty rolled her eyes as she poured another round of Coors. Honestly, for all their heightened senses and physical prowess, sentinels could be worse than high schoolers when it came to drama.

A sudden bang interrupted the din, followed by the creak of the outer bar doors slamming open. A gust of icy wind and powdery snow whipped into the room, earning shouts and curses from patrons as frozen particles swirled around them.

Betty glanced up, annoyed, just as a lone figure stumbled through the doorway. The girl—she looked too young to be here—was hunched over, shivering in a thin hoodie that clung to her slender frame. Betty frowned, raising her voice over the noise. “No ID, no entry, sweetheart!”

The girl ignored her, spinning on her heel, her wild brown eyes scanning the room. She was gasping for air, her hands gesturing frantically as she stammered, “Psssss…Psyc sentinel!”

The room stilled. The hum of conversation died as every sentinel present turned, their attention locking onto the frantic guide in their midst. A wave of distress radiated from her, hitting the room like a shockwave.

Several sentinels pushed forward, hands raised in calming gestures, their voices soft and careful.

“Easy there, guide,” one of them said, his tone kind but firm. “What’s going on? Speak up.”

Her voice broke as she shouted, “He’s outside! The psycho sentinel killer—he’s here! Please, stop him!”

For a moment, silence reigned. Later, Betty would tell her husband you could’ve heard a pin drop. Then chaos erupted.

The sentinels launched into full protective mode, shoving through the crowd toward the door, their faces set in grim determination. Non-sentinels, caught up in the excitement, trailed after them like moths to a flame.

And just like that, the guide was forgotten.

Only Betty noticed the girl swipe something off a nearby table—before slipping toward toilets and the exit. Her curiosity piqued, Betty glanced back at the commotion outside, briefly distracted by the growing sounds of shouting and fists meeting flesh. By the time she looked back, the girl was gone.

Twenty Minutes Earlier

Dean jogged up, a slightly winded, overweight officer hurrying behind him.

“She was here!” Dean said, his grin tight. “Hiding out all night, but Officer Donut over here scared her off. Missed her by, what, thirty minutes tops?”

The officer flushed but didn’t correct him. “I thought she was a runaway. Looked fragile, you know? But she sure can run. I called it in. She won’t get far.”

Dean huffed, clearly unimpressed. He shot a look at Derek, jerking his head toward the street. “Let’s go.”

Derek didn’t bother replying, shouldering past the officer to follow Dean outside. He watched as Dean paused, scanning the street with eerie focus.

“This way,” Dean said, his voice clipped.

The two sentinels jogged side by side, their heightened senses attuned to every sound, every scent. Snowflakes swirled thickly around them, the storm building with each passing second.

Eighteen minutes later, Dean froze mid-step, his entire body taut like a hunting dog catching a scent. Derek followed his gaze, squinting through the snow. At first, he saw nothing. Then—a flash of movement. A pair of frightened brown eyes.

“There,” Dean growled.

The slender figure bolted, dashing down the icy sidewalk with startling speed.

“Stop!” Derek bellowed, his voice laced with every ounce of his sentinel authority.

The guide stumbled, her momentum faltering for a split second before she recovered and kept running. Derek readied the cuffs and guide hood as they closed the distance.

Then, to his disbelief, the guide darted into Morgan’s Bar.

“Seriously?” Dean growled, picking up speed.

They reached the door just as it swung open—and were immediately bowled over by a stampede of furious sentinels pouring out, spoiling for a fight.

“What the hell—” Derek snarled as they hit the ground.

o|o

Stiles tightened her grip on the handlebars, her breath coming fast as the Yamaha Super Tenere roared beneath her, powerful and untamed. Snow whipped past her visor, the icy air stinging her exposed skin where the helmet couldn’t shield her. But none of it mattered—not the cold, not the storm. All that mattered was the surge of the bike as it shot forward, carrying her farther and farther away from the sentinels.

She had snatched the keys in a split-second gamble, her hand darting out like a pickpocket’s as chaos erupted in the bar. Luck, sheer dumb luck, had handed her the keys to this machine. And the owner—thank God for their stupidity—had left the helmet sitting right there on the back. Stiles had barely taken the time to secure it before gunning the engine and tearing out of there.

Don’t think about it. Just ride.

But her mind didn’t listen. Her pulse thundered, a cacophony of adrenaline and old fears. Memories she’d buried clawed their way to the surface: locked rooms, sharp voices, the weight of hands that left bruises. She bit her lip hard, the sting pulling her back to the present. Keep it together, Stiles. Just a little longer. You can fall apart later.

The bike growled beneath her, its engine purring like a beast unleashed. She twisted the throttle, feeling it respond with a rush of power that almost made her giddy. The world blurred past her, and for the first time in months—maybe years—a spark of hope ignited in her chest.

She was free. At least for now.

But she knew better than to let herself relax. Freedom wasn’t guaranteed, not with sentinels involved. Her mind raced as fast as the bike, piecing together what had happened. She’d seen them, back in the street—the sentinel from the train tunnel and another, his voice like a rumble of distant thunder. They had been close, too close. And now they were out there, regrouping, hunting. Sentinels never gave up a chase.

“Focus,” she muttered to herself, her voice muffled inside the helmet. “You’re a cop’s kid. Think. Work the odds.”

She forced herself to slow her breathing, running calculations in her head. Ten minutes—maybe less—for the sentinels to recover and establish their identities. Another ten for them to realise the bike was gone. With all the chaos in the bar and the snow covering her tracks, she might get another five minutes beyond that. If she was smart—if she was lucky—she could be out of the city before they caught on.

Out of the city. That was the key. Once she hit the outskirts, she could leave the roads altogether. Go off-grid. This bike was built for rough terrain. Stiles had been riding dirt bikes since she was a teenager—long before everything went to hell. She could handle it.

The snow thickened, blurring the edges of the world. The cold was relentless, seeping through her gloves, biting into her fingers. She flexed her hands on the handlebars, forcing herself to focus.

“Come on, Stiles. You’ve got this.”

She had no real destination, no endgame. She just knew she couldn’t be taken back. The Tower wasn’t an option. It was better to disappear entirely than end up there.

Disappear. The thought clung to her like a lifeline. She could do it. Get out of the city, find another empty chalet to squat in, like before. Lie low, wait for things to die down. She could grow her hair out, put on weight, change the way she looked. No one would know she was a guide. No one had to know.

The thought of being alone, off the grid, away from the Tower and its relentless sentinels, was the only thing that kept her going.

Whatever happened, one thing was certain - The Tower will not have me.

She let the throttle out a little more, the bike responding with an eager growl. One way or another, Stiles would stay free.

o|o

Dean leaned heavily against the edge of the table, his hand pressed to his bruised side, grimacing as the dull ache flared into something sharper. “Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the map spread before him as though it were personally responsible for his pain.

The bar fight had been bad enough. A mob of enraged, overprotective sentinels, mistaking him and Derek for psychotic killers, had descended on them like rabid wolves. It had taken longer than Dean cared to admit to regain control, and not without a few bruised ribs and a ringing headache to show for it.

“Goddamn amateur hour,” he growled, shaking his head. Some of those sentinels had a hell of a punch, and it wasn’t lost on him how close it had come to escalating beyond just a scuffle. When the mob had finally realised they’d jumped two law enforcement sentinels, the mood had shifted from hostile to sheepish, with more than a few lingering glares and muttered curses.

Derek, as usual, had been the one to step up and restore order. His presence alone was enough to push the crowd back into the bar, a sharp back the fuck off doing the rest.

But it had cost them. Precious minutes. Minutes too long.

Their guide—clever, infuriating, maddeningly resourceful—was gone.

Dean jabbed a finger at the map, his jaw tight with frustration. “There.” He tapped a spot on the edge of the city. “Get Jim on the radio and have him send units here, here, and here. That’s where she’ll head.”

Derek didn’t bother questioning him. Dean was a hunter; this was his territory. He didn’t just track his prey—he read them. He could slip into their mindset, anticipate their every move. It was what made him one of the best, even without his sentinel edge.

Dean’s lips twisted into something between admiration and irritation as he muttered, “Clever little minx.” She’d taken them for a ride, playing her cards just right. The Yamaha was a smart grab, fast and built for tough terrain.

“Derek,” he continued, his voice steady despite the pulse of pain in his side, “get the team to converge here.” He tapped another point on the map, just past the outskirts. “That roadblock won’t stop her outright, but it’ll force her off-road. She’ll have to slow down once she hits rougher ground, and that’s when we can close the gap. You take the road. I’ll take the chopper and coordinate from above.”

Derek grunted his agreement, already flipping his phone open to relay orders. “Storm’s moving in,” he said, his tone clipped.

“I know.” Dean’s gaze met his, steady and sharp. A silent understanding passed between them. They weren’t just chasing her anymore—they were racing the weather.

The storm would hit hard, and if they didn’t catch her in time…

Dean straightened, ignoring the protest of his ribs as he reached for his jacket. “She won’t survive the night out there. Not in this.”

His sentinel instincts were a low, constant hum in his chest, urging him to move, to find her. She was his whether she knew it yet or not, and every second she was out there alone only added fuel to the primal, unrelenting need to bring her back. Safe. Protected.

Alive.

“We’ll catch her, Derek,” he said, his voice hard.

Derek nodded, slipping into his own coat. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to.

Dean grabbed his radio and barked into it, “Get the chopper ready. Wheels up in two minutes.”

Outside, the wind was already picking up, a low howl cutting through the cold afternoon air.

“She won’t make it far.” Derek’s words were low, almost to himself.

o|o

Later as the Yamaha jolted over frozen road, snow spraying in her wake as Stiles clenched her teeth, every muscle in her body taut with adrenaline. She had done it—she was clear of the city, her pursuers left scrambling in the chaos. The frigid wind whipped against her face, biting through her jacket, but she barely noticed. All she could feel was the fierce relief that pulsed in her chest.

Home free.

The thought settled uneasily in her mind, a fragile hope she didn’t dare trust. But the open wilderness ahead seemed to stretch on forever, offering her the escape she so desperately needed. Just a little farther, she told herself.

Then, up ahead, she saw it.

A makeshift roadblock.

Her stomach twisted as she instinctively eased off the throttle. Two vehicles were pulled across the path—a hastily thrown-together barricade—and beyond them, dark silhouettes moved. Sentinels.

Shit.

Her heart thundered as she slowed the bike to a crawl. They’d gotten an APB out—of course they had. She’d underestimated how quickly they could move. Her gloves tightened on the handlebars as one of the figures stepped forward, shouting something she couldn’t hear over the wind and the low rumble of the bike’s engine. Others followed, running toward her now, motioning for her to stop.

Stiles’s lips curled into a tight, defiant smile. She flipped them the bird.

Then she twisted the throttle and gunned the engine.

The Yamaha roared to life beneath her, and she tore off the path, veering wildly onto open ground. Shouts rang out behind her, the figures scrambling to their vehicles as she made her escape. Snow flew around her, and the bike bucked under the uneven terrain, but she held on, teeth gritted and heart pounding.

She was not going back.

The tree line loomed ahead, her salvation within reach. She was maybe half a mile out when the sharp crack of a rifle split the air.

The rear tire exploded beneath her, the bike jerking violently as she fought for control.

“No, no, no!” she shouted, wrestling with the handlebars as the Yamaha bucked and slid, the ruined tire shredding beneath her. She willed the bike to keep going, her entire body trembling as she leaned into the skid, forcing it toward the cover of the trees. She was so close.

The bike hit a snowbank, and she lost the battle.

It pitched sideways, the momentum throwing her like a ragdoll. She hit the ground hard, the breath slamming out of her lungs. A second later, the bike toppled after her, pinning her leg beneath its weight. Pain lanced up her side as her head slammed into the ground.

And then there was nothing.

When she woke, the world was still.

Stiles blinked against the glaring white of the snow, her vision swimming. Her body screamed in protest as she tried to move, the heavy weight of the Yamaha pressing down on her leg. The sky above was still the same gray, bit the air had grown colder, the wind picking up and biting into her exposed skin.

Her mind felt sluggish, her thoughts scattered. She’d been out—what? Ten, fifteen minutes? Too long. Way too long. Panic clawed at her chest as she realised how exposed she was. They’d be coming for her. They always came for her.

“Shit,” she hissed, her breath fogging in the frigid air. She gritted her teeth and squirmed beneath the bike, her muscles trembling as she fought to free herself. The metal dug into her leg, the weight unrelenting, and frustration boiled over into anger.

“Get the fuck up, Stiles,” she snarled, her voice hoarse and shaking. “Don’t be a fucking pussy.”

She shoved at the bike with everything she had, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she kicked and wriggled. The pain was blinding, her body screaming for her to stop, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

With one final, desperate push, the bike shifted. She yanked her leg free and collapsed onto her back, panting and trembling. The urge to vomit rose in her throat, and for a moment, she let her head fall back against the snow, her body heavy with exhaustion.

No.

She forced her eyes open, blinking against the brightness. She didn’t have time for this. Groaning, she rolled onto her side, her breath hitching at the sharp pain in her ribs. She had to fight the overwhelming urge to just stay down.

North.

The thought pushed through the fog in her mind. North meant trees, cover. Safety. She forced herself to her feet, staggering slightly as the world tilted around her.

She’d barely taken two steps when she heard it: voices.

Men’s voices, shouting orders in the distance. And then the low, unmistakable hum of a helicopter.

Her stomach twisted in fear, and her pulse skyrocketed. They were close. Too close.

“Move your ass, Stiles,” she muttered to herself, her voice trembling as she broke into a stumbling, uneven run. Snow clung to her boots, the cold biting at her skin, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

The sound of the helicopter grew louder, the voices more distinct. They were coming.

And she was running out of time.

Chapter Text

Dean shifted in the helicopter seat, his body tense and ready. His eagle-sharp eyes scanned the rugged terrain below, effortlessly picking out details without the need for binoculars. His heightened senses, cranked to their max, had never been so finely tuned. The headset muffled the relentless vroom of the rotors, but the thrum still grated on his nerves. A guide would’ve helped him balance the sensory overload, but no matter. His focus was singular, primal, and unshakable. His body knew what had to be done to bring her home.

This time, there would be no clever escapes. The chase was nearing its inevitable end, and Dean was on her trail. The stunt she’d pulled at the bar had been a good one—hell, it had almost worked—but luck only stretched so far. And Dean Winchester wasn’t just any sentinel. He didn’t say it to boast, but he’d been trained by the best, and he knew he was damn good at what he did. Another hunter might’ve lost her in this weather, but not him.

He shifted again, leaning forward as the wilderness blurred beneath the helicopter. She won’t last one night out here, he thought grimly. The snow, the freezing temperatures, the unforgiving terrain—it was no place for anyone, guide or not. This was for the best. They needed to bring her in before things got worse.

A strange sensation tugged at him, sharp and undeniable. He realised with a small start, that he’d already started thinking of her as his guide. He couldn’t pinpoint when the shift had happened, but it felt right. Natural. His sentinel instincts coiled in hot anticipation, whispering through his veins, Mine. Mine. Mine. The claim was possessive, dark, and relentless, tightening its hold on him with every passing second.

Out of the corner of his eye, a flicker of movement. Dean’s breath hitched as he zeroed in, his lips curling into a triumphant smirk. “There you are,” he murmured, with dark satisfaction.

“Hoo-fucking-rah,” he growled, motioning to the pilot. “There. Circle around.”

The pilot, squinting through the blowing snow, couldn’t see a damn thing, but he didn’t argue. The chopper tilted as it banked, lowering altitude.

“Call it in,” Dean ordered, his eyes locked on the figure below. He couldn’t tell if she was hurt, but she was moving, her small form weaving through the trees. She’d been thrown in the crash—no way she’d come out of that unscathed—but she was still running.

“I have a visual on the unsub,” the pilot reported over the radio, rattling off coordinates. “Sir, weather’s closing in, and we’re burning fuel fast. Twenty minutes of flight time, tops.”

Dean frowned. “Can we set down?”

“Negative. No clearance for at least five miles.”

“Damn it.” Dean’s jaw clenched as he considered their options. “Then keep us low. If we can keep her pinned, the ground crew can catch up.”

The pilot grunted, and in a superb show of airmanship, brought them hovering just above the snow topped trees. Dean could swear he could have leant out and touched the tips with his foot. He leaned forward, squinting through the swirling flurries as the downdraft kicked up a storm of white, battering the figure below. She stumbled, briefly knocked off her feet.

In the distance, he caught sight of the ground team. Derek was leading the charge, his strides sure and relentless despite the deep snow. They were sentinels, built for this, and closing the distance fast. One klick out—maybe less than five minutes in these conditions.

“Sir, we’ve got a problem,” the pilot called out, motioning ahead.

Dean followed his gaze, and his gut sank. The ground ahead dropped off into an open cliff, the jagged edge disappearing into a roaring mountain river. Swollen from the winter thaw, the water churned violently as it thundered through the pass.

“Shit,” Dean muttered.

Grabbing his radio, he barked into it. “Derek. Don’t hold back.”

The wind howled around them, snow whipping into a frenzy, but Dean’s focus never wavered. She was getting desperate—he could feel it in her erratic movements. Her panic bled into his senses, sharp and raw, and his possessive instincts surged in response.

“Not much longer now,” he murmured, eyes fixed on her as the chopper hovered closer. “You’re not getting away this time, sweetheart. This ends here.”

o|o

Stiles was in agony. Every nerve in her body screamed, every breath rattled painfully in her chest. The world was spinning, chaotic and deafening. The roar of the helicopter above was relentless. The downdraft tore at her, stealing what little warmth she had left. But none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was escaping.

Get away. Get away from them. She was beyond any other rational thought.

The sentinels were closing in, loud and overbearing, their presence scraping against her raw, overstimulated senses. They’d drag her back to that place, to the cold walls and the crushing silence. Lock her away. Make her submit. She’d seen the sky again—tasted freedom. She wasn’t going back. She’d rather die.

“Guide, stop!” The voice boomed from the helicopter. “Put your hands in the air. You are surrounded.”

Stiles flinched, her head snapping toward another echo from her guide senses. Her heart thundered in her chest as her gaze locked on the sentinels emerging from the trees. Big men, strong and unrelenting, their faces set with grim determination.

Fuck. No.

Her breath hitched, panic clawing at her throat as she turned and bolted toward the cliff. The freezing wind bit at her face, but she didn’t care. She didn’t hesitate. Scrambling over the edge, she started climbing down, her fingers gripping the icy rocks desperately. Her boots slipped on the loose debris, but she kept going. She didn’t have a choice.

Above her, a figure appeared at the edge of the cliff, silhouetted against the bleak sky. He crouched, his dark eyes locked onto hers.

“Guide,” he called, his voice deep and steady despite his laboured breathing. “It’s over. There’s nowhere left to run.”

“Fuck off!” she snarled, her voice hoarse and raw. “Just leave me alone!”

The man sighed, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “No can do, kiddo. You’ve been running for too long. You’re exhausted. You’re not thinking straight.”

“I don’t care!” she shouted, her voice cracking as she clung to the freezing rock face. “I don’t care—just stay away from me!”

“Listen to me,” the man said, his tone shifting to something softer, almost coaxing. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to keep running. Let us help you.”

Stiles’ fingers tightened around a jagged outcrop, her breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. “I don’t want your help! I don’t want anything from you!”

The man took a cautious step closer, lowering himself onto his stomach as he peered down at her. “I’m Derek,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “Remember me? From the bar? You pulled a neat trick back there. Had everyone fooled. Can I call you Stiles?”

She froze, her wild gaze snapping to his face. His expression was calm, almost gentle, but she didn’t trust it. She didn’t trust him.

“Go to hell,” she spat.

“Fair enough,” Derek said, his lips twitching into a faint, humourless smile. “But first, how about we get you off this cliff? You’re shaking like a leaf, kid. You can’t stay out here much longer.”

A faint whirring sound caught her attention, and she twisted her head to look up. The other sentinels were setting up ropes and harnesses, their movements swift and efficient. The metallic clinks and hisses sent fresh waves of panic coursing through her.

“Stiles,” Derek said sharply, drawing her attention back to him. “Focus on me. Just me. Don’t think about them, don’t think about the chopper. Just breathe with me, alright?”

Her chest heaved, the panic threatening to drown her, but she nodded—just barely.

“That’s it,” Derek said, his voice low and soothing. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Nice and easy. Just like that.”

Her breathing hitched and stuttered, but she tried to follow his lead. The panic didn’t disappear, but it dimmed slightly, enough for her to think.

“There we go,” Derek murmured. “That’s better, isn’t it? Now here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re going to trust me. We’re going to get you off this ledge, nice and safe. Then we’ll get you checked out—warm blankets, hot tea. Doesn’t that sound good?”

“No,” Stiles whispered, her voice trembling. “No, it doesn’t.”

Derek sighed. “I get it. I do. You don’t want to trust me, and I can’t blame you for that. But I’m not your enemy, Stiles. I’m trying to help you.”

“I know what you’re doing,” she hissed, her voice shaking with fury. “Negotiation protocols. Parker’s Guide & Sentinel Handbook, Chapter 5.”

Derek blinked, surprise flickering across his face before he gave a low, laugh. “Smart kid. You read the playbook. Alright, then. No games, no bullshit. Just you and me. Let’s talk.”

“I don’t want to talk!” she snapped, her voice rising in desperation. “I just want you to leave me alone!”

“Can’t do that,” Derek said, his voice firm now, edged with steel. “Look at me, Stiles. Just look at me. Take my hand.”

He stretched his arm out, his hand steady and unwavering.

Stiles stared at it, her heart pounding in her chest. She looked back at his face, at the quiet determination in his eyes, and something inside her wavered. A part of her wanted to reach out, to let him take the weight off her shoulders, just for a moment.

“No,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

“Stiles, please,” Derek said, his voice softening again. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

“Yes, I do!” she screamed, her voice breaking.

The words hung in the air, raw and jagged. Derek flinched, just barely, but she saw it.

“I’m here now,” he said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She shook her head, her grip slipping on the rocks. There was no more ledge, no more options. She glanced back at the icy water below, then at Derek’s outstretched hand.

“No,” she said again, her voice breaking. “Just… no.”

And then she let go.

o|o

Derek saw it. Saw it in the way her trembling hands slipped from the rock, in the defeated slump of her shoulders, in the resigned tilt of her head. Stiles closed her eyes, took one shuddering breath, and let herself go.

“No!” The word tore from Derek’s chest, his voice raw, desperate, but it was too late.

She fell silently, her body twisting in the cold air, tumbling toward the merciless river below. The whitewater churned with a ferocity that left no doubt: those rapids were a death trap. Rocks jutted up like teeth along the river bank, slick with frost. Derek’s gut twisted as she disappeared into the chaos.

“Fuck.” His breath fogged in the freezing air, his entire body locking up for a split second. He could feel her, faint but still there—alive. The bond, fragile and new, tethered them just enough to let him know she hadn’t been claimed by the river yet.

Not yet.

“Bring the pack,” Derek snarled.

He yanked the earpiece free before anyone else could argue, tossing it to the side. The roar of the helicopter faded to a dull hum, leaving only the sound of the river below and the pounding of his heartbeat.

There was no turning back.

With a guttural snarl, Derek surged forward and leapt off the cliff. The wind screamed past him, icy and biting, as he fell. His body twisted mid-air, instinct taking over as he adjusted for the impact.

The river slammed into him like a brick wall, the freezing water punching the air from his lungs. Pain exploded through him, sharp and unforgiving, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

The current dragged at him, clawing and relentless, but Derek pushed against it, forcing his way through the chaos. His sentinel instincts locked onto her presence, faint and flickering but still there, guiding him like a beacon.

‘Hold on, Stiles.’

Chapter Text

For a fleeting second, as Stiles plummeted, the world seemed to still. There was no fear, no pain—just an eerie, weightless peace. Then she slammed into the water.

The river swallowed her whole, a violent, icy fist that punched the air from her lungs. Her body screamed in pain, and the shock of the cold kept her from slipping into unconsciousness. She sank fast, her clothes dragging her under, the dark currents tugging her downward as she clawed wildly, desperate to find the surface.

Her head burst above the water, and she sucked in a raw, ragged gasp of air. It was short-lived. The current grabbed her again. OShe tumbled, twisted, spun like a leaf in a storm. Panic overrode thought, her instincts reduced to a single primal urge: survive.

Coughing. Retching. Choking. The river battered her relentlessly, tossing her against submerged boulders that scraped and bruised her back. She barely registered the pain; every ounce of energy was focused on fighting for breath.

“Oh God, I’m dying,” she thought, before she was yanked under again.

The world spun until—suddenly—a massive hand seized her. Her body convulsed, struggling against the iron grip that hauled her up.

“Stiles!” a voice bellowed over the roar of the river.

She kicked weakly, struggling, her nails scraping against thick fabric. Panic spiked as an arm clamped around her neck and squeezed inexorably. She felt the pressure grow until the world tipped into blackness.

Moments flickered like fractured images in a dream.

She was being towed toward the riverbank, her body limp in the current.

“Hang on, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” the voice growled, low and commanding.

Then came the relentless pressure on her chest, compressions that forced the river water from her lungs. She vomited violently, gasping as frothy bile and dank icy river water gushed from her mouth. Her face pressed against the sharp, wet gravel, too weak to lift her head. The man crouched beside her, his hand heavy on her back, steadying her as they both coughed, retched and spat.

“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice tight with anger.

She tried to respond, but all she managed was a rasping cough. Her chest burned, her body shaking uncontrollably.

She blacked out again.

The next time she woke, she was draped over a broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The man carrying her was impossibly strong, his gait steady as he jogged through the snow-covered forest. The falling flakes melted on her face, tickling her nose, but she could barely feel it. Her limbs were stiff, her hands and feet bound tightly.

At her weak struggles, the man stopped and gently set her down against a tree. A small flashlight clicked on, the beam cutting through the dark.

“How’re you holding up, kid?” he asked, crouching to her level.

She batted at the light weakly, her fingers trembling. “F-fuck… off,” she croaked, barely louder than a whisper.

He huffed a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, you and me both.”

Gripping her chin, he tilted her face toward the light, assessing her. His lips pressed into a tight line, his jaw tense. “Damn it. You’re done. You hear me? …What the hell were you thinking, pulling a stunt like that?”

Her only answer was a weak heave as she retched again, nothing but slimy spit spilling out this time. She wasn’t even shivering anymore. A small part of her recognised that was bad, but she didn’t care. It was over.

‘Oh God, it’s over,’ she thought, a broken sob escaping her lips.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” the man said, his tone softening. His hand rubbed her back in slow circles. “Focus on my voice, sweetheart. Just breathe. In and out. That’s it.”

She closed her eyes.

“Okay,” he muttered, his voice tightening with frustration. “Lecture’s gonna have to wait. Let’s find some shelter before you crash on me.”

This time, he scooped her up in his arms, cradling her like she weighed nothing. His steps quickened, snow crunching underfoot as he moved deeper into the forest. His breath came heavier now, but he didn’t slow.

“Must be nice to be a Sentinel,” Stiles thought faintly, her head lolling against his chest. She drifted in and out, the rhythm of his footsteps lulling her into a hazy, dreamlike state.

o|o

When Stiles next woke, it was to someone trying to tug her clothes off. She was lying on a bed—no, a pallet—in some sort of hut, a fire crackling softly in a quaint old school log burner tucked into the corner.

“Fuck you, bastard, not on the first date,” she rasped, her voice shaky but defiant. It was the most coherent thing she’d managed to string together, and a small part of her felt a flicker of pride for it.

A snort, low and unamused, cut through the room.

“You’re back with me. Would’ve been easier if you’d stayed out,” came the gruff reply. “Look, you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before. You’re soaked to the bone and hypothermic. We need to get you dry, and I need to check for injuries. Sorry, not sorry.”

A humiliating tussle ensued, leaving her cursing as the man finally pulled out a Swiss penknife and, with a quick flick, began slicing her clothes off. There was no leering, no suggestive remarks, just clinical efficiency as he worked. The blade made short work of the fabric, and a towel—more like a scratchy old curtain with faded flowers—was roughly rubbed up and down her freezing skin, the friction chasing away the worst of the cold. Another grunt, and a second curtain was wrapped tightly around her like a makeshift burrito.

Stiles felt the tears before she could stop them. One slipped down her cheek, then another, hot against her chilled skin.

“Aww, sweetheart, don’t look like that,” Derek muttered with a sigh.

Without a shred of modesty or hesitation, Derek peeled off his own drenched clothes, wringing them out and draping them around the hut to dry. He rubbed himself down with quick, no-nonsense motions, the flickering firelight casting warm hues over his bronzed skin.

Stiles watched silently, her misery too heavy to put into words, her mind blessedly numb.

Derek crouched in front of her, his expression unreadable but his voice surprisingly gentle. “Stiles, you’re in shock and halfway through stage two hypothermia. You need warmth, or it’s going to get worse. Try to trust me, just a little. I’m not going to hurt you. I swear, pinkie promise.”

Before she could protest, he slipped his arms beneath her, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. He settled her between his legs, his larger body caging hers. Stiles squirmed weakly, her mouth opening as though to argue, but nothing came out.

“Hush, Guide,” Derek murmured, his voice commanding, a tone that brooked no argument. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

The heat from him was overwhelming, seeping into her frozen bones like a furnace. His arms wrapped around her, strong but strangely gentle, velvet steel anchoring her against him. Despite herself, she leaned back into him, her body betraying her as the warmth soothed her trembling. Her eyelids grew heavier, drooping in spite of her protests.

A hand carded through her damp hair, slow and methodical.

“Just relax,” Derek murmured. “You’ve got nothing left in the tank, kid. Sleep now. You can fight again tomorrow.”

The next time Stiles woke, her head felt stuffed with cotton, her limbs leaden, and her mouth dry as old leather. But it was the absence of warmth at her back that roused her.

She cracked her eyes open just enough to see Derek crouched by the log burner, feeding it with more wood. He moved to a nearby table, utterly unbothered by the cold or his state of undress, his broad back turned to her.

Stiles tried her hands, flexing and twisting her wrists, only to feel the sharp bite of hard plastic. Cable ties. Great. She let her gaze drift to the nearby penknife Derek had discarded. Hmmm helpful.

The Sentinel turned suddenly, his sharp eyes locking onto her. “I know you’re awake, Stiles,” he said gruffly. “Sentinel hearing, kid. I can hear your heart racing from here. How’re you doing?”

He paused, then strode toward her with deliberate steps, crouching down so they were face-to-face. “I’m going to need an answer, kid.”

Stiles shrugged weakly, her gaze sliding away. She felt like absolute shit, but she wasn’t about to give this bastard the satisfaction of saying it.

Derek hummed thoughtfully, his fingers brushing against her wrist, warm against the cold bite of the cable ties.

“Wh… where?” she rasped, her voice cracking embarrassingly.

“It’s a fishing hut,” Derek replied, his tone even and matter-of-fact. “You find them up and down this river. Summer city folk like their creature comforts when they come out here. It was a damn stroke of luck finding this one so close to where we washed up, even if it is a bit basic.”

He crouched in front of her and motioned to her wrists. “Okay, let’s snip these off.” His fingers tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his steady gaze. “It’s minus five out there, with a wind chill of minus fifteen. You won’t last ten minutes, so don’t get any cute Guide ideas, okay?If I have to I will knock you out, Im not so easily fooled as Dean.”

His tone left no room for argument, and when Derek seemed to wait for a response, Stiles muttered a sulky, “Yes.” She watched with unconcealed relief as he carefully knelt and cut through the ties binding her wrists. Not that she had anywhere to go—no clothes, no boots—but it still felt good to be free of restraints. For a brief, fleeting moment, her mind raced with possibilities.

But that moment came to a crashing halt when Derek, in one smooth motion, whipped out a pair of cuffs and shackled her ankles together.

She sputtered, wheezing in disbelief. Her eyes wide with outrage, darted down to her ankles, now cruelly caged and then back up to Derek.

Derek held up a single key, dangling it between his fingers like a prize. “You’re a cop’s kid, right?”

Stiles nodded slowly, her confusion mounting as she tried to figure out where this was going.

“Well, you know cops like me. We tend to carry spares. Doesn’t pay to be careless.”

At her bewildered expression, Derek suddenly grinned, his mood shifting to something infuriatingly cheerful. A second key appeared in his other hand, and Stiles stared at him, realisation dawning too late.

Before she could do anything, Derek strode to the door, yanked it open, and hurled the keys far into the snow-laden distance.

“Noooo!” Stiles whispered, her voice breaking with pure, unfiltered outrage.

Derek grinned, slamming the door shut with an air of finality that made her heart plummet. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet as he made his way back to her.

“You’re an arsehole,” Stiles hissed, her voice trembling with fury.

“Yup,” Derek agreed amicably, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But a smart one. So keep a lid on things, okay, kid? We’ll get along just fine.”

Without waiting for her retort, he turned to the stove, retrieving a mug of something steaming and fragrant. He approached her with deliberate care, his intention clear.

Stiles turned her head away sharply. “No,” she muttered, her voice defiant but weak.

“Stiles,” Derek said, his voice low and firm, brooking no argument. “You’re in shock and still suffering from hypothermia. Drink.”

His hand tipped her chin back gently as he pressed the warm cup to her lips. Reluctantly, her fingers slipped from their tight grip on the thin covering around her, her body betraying her need. The liquid trickled into her mouth—a flavoured concoction, sweet and soothing—and she swallowed without meaning to. Her throat burned and ached, but the relief was almost blissful.

She let out an involuntary moan, barely realising it until it escaped.

“Steady, kid,” Derek murmured, his hand steadying hers as she gulped greedily at the warmth.

All too soon, the mug was pulled away, leaving her longing for more.

“Let that settle,” Derek said, his voice softening. “I’ll give you some more in a bit.”

Before she knew it, he was behind her again, his movements so quiet she hadn’t even noticed. Stiles shivered more violently now, the chill creeping back in. She stiffened at first, but Derek’s voice crooned low and steady in her ear, like a calming hum.

“Shut your eyes, sweetheart,” he murmured, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “Relax. I’ve got you.”

She must have lost time again. The next time she woke, warmth seeped into her bones, the little log burner in the corner cranking out heat. The small hut they were in was starting to feel almost… cosy. Outside, daylight filtered weakly through the frosted windows, but the storm still raged, the wind howling in relentless gusts. Every now and then, small puffs of freezing air slipped in through small gaps in the bottom of the hut’s doorframe.

The Sentinel—Derek—was seated at the table, carefully sorting through a pile of items. Stiles squinted, and her stomach sank with irritation. It was her gear from her rucksack.

“That’s mine,” she snapped, her voice sharp. But the moment she registered that Derek was still completely nude, she flushed and looked away, embarrassed.

Derek glanced up, not at all surprised to see her awake and glaring. “And good morning to you too, sleepyhead,” he drawled with an easy grin.

His calm dismissal only fanned the flames of her fury. Her jaw tightened as her anger spiked, her body tense with frustration.

But Derek seemed oblivious—or worse, completely unbothered. He simply returned his attention to her pack, continuing to rifle through its contents.

“Mr. Deacon,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What?” Stiles replied, confused, her gaze darting around the room in a futile attempt to avoid looking directly at him.

“The pack,” Derek clarified. “It belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Deacon. I’m going to go ahead and assume all the stuff in here is from their holiday cottage. Stuff you, uh…” He paused, as though searching for the right word, before settling on, “…liberated.”

Her anger deflated instantly, her shoulders slumping as heat flooded her face. Oh. Right. She had stolen it. She looked away, her cheeks burning both from the rebuke and the awkward proximity of a naked Sentinel. Did he have no shame?

Derek snorted, clearly catching her discomfort, and snagged a pair of long johns that had been drying near the fire. He pulled them on without ceremony, even though they were still visibly damp.

As he worked, Derek kept up a dry, steady monologue, sifting through the bag’s contents with surprising efficiency. Most of it was ruined from the river, and occasionally he’d glance at her as though inviting her to comment, though he carried on without waiting for a response. Stiles couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t usually this talkative, which only added to her unease.

In the end, there wasn’t much to salvage. All the papers were waterlogged, which Derek carefully set near the fire to dry. A small knife earned a wry glance before he pocketed it. The remaining food was pitiful: a small tin of peaches, an energy bar that looked barely edible, and a mushy pile of what used to be crackers.

“Stiles,” Derek said, breaking the silence again. “Is there anything here you want before I toss the rest?”

She glanced over the ruined mess and shook her head. What was even the point? She didn’t have anything left to call her own. Hell, she didn’t even have a pair of underwear anymore—not after her clothes had been shredded.

Derek sighed—a sound she was starting to think he was fond of. He retrieved another mug that had been warming on the stove, tested the heat with his finger, and brought it over. This time, instead of hovering, he sat down beside her, his presence solid and grounding.

She sipped the warm, syrupy concoction in silence, grateful for the heat even as her shoulders remained stiff with tension.

“Look, Stiles,” Derek began, his tone softer now. “Let me level with you. You’re a walking bruise right now, and I know everything hurts. But I don’t have anything to properly clean your cuts. I’m not a medic—I’ve only had basic first-aid training. So help me out here, okay? Let me know if you’re having trouble breathing, if you feel faint, nauseous, or if you get any sudden sharp or dull pains.”

He waited for her response, then added more sternly, “Okay?”

Stiles nodded glumly, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor as Derek crowded her space.

“Not much for talking, are you?” he observed, his voice almost amused.

She just shrugged, her shoulders tight with exhaustion and frustration. The weight of the situation hung heavy in the small hut, and Stiles couldn’t bring herself to say anything at all.

“We might be here a while,” Derek said, his voice calm and steady as the wind howled against the walls of the cabin. He glanced over at Stiles, who was curled up under the curtain blanket, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She’d barely spoken since she’d woken up, and Derek could see the tension in her jaw, the way she avoided looking at him for too long. “At least until the storm ends. So, we’ve got two options: sit here in awkward silence or actually talk to each other.”

Stiles didn’t respond, just shifted slightly under the blanket, her gaze fixed on the tiny wood burner cranking out heat.

Derek tried again, his tone lighter this time. “Come on, I’m not that bad. I’m a decent conversationalist…okay well maybe not quite true but still people actually like me, you know.”

That got a faint snort from her, though she still didn’t look at him.

“See? Progress,” Derek said with a small smile. He leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. “Alright, how about this? I’ll go first. My name’s Derek Ellison. I work for Cascade Police Department and serve as the lead sentinel for the county. I’m a Gemini. I’ll be 30 on May 27th, and I’m planning a once-in-a-lifetime fishing trip with my stepdad, Jim. I live alone—no pets, though I’m a dog person. Favourite food? Tacos. And I love Britney.”

That finally got her attention. Stiles turned her head slightly, raising an eyebrow at him. “Britney? Seriously?”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve danced to ‘Toxic’ at full volume,” Derek said with a grin. “Alright, your turn.”

“My turn for what?” she muttered.

“To tell me something about you,” he said easily. “Anything. We’re stuck here anyway, might as well pass the time.”

Stiles hesitated, clearly debating whether to engage or shut him down.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Derek said, leaning forward slightly. “You share something about yourself, and I’ll answer any question you want. No dodging, no lying.”

Her lips twitched faintly, the barest hint of a smirk. “Anything?”

“Anything,” Derek confirmed.

Stiles deliberated for another moment before sighing. “Fine. I’m Stiles. No job, thanks to a crazy, mother-fucking psychopath. Capricorn. Just turned 21. I love burgers and fries—especially Burger King’s. God, I miss them…” Her voice faltered, and for a moment, her expression turned distant. But she quickly rallied, shooting him a pointed look. “And Britney sucks. Adele rules.”

Derek threw his head back and laughed, the sound rich and unrestrained.

“Okay, fair enough,” he said, still chuckling. “So how’d you end up with a name like Stiles?” His voice was gentle, his expression inviting as he tilted his head.

Stiles hesitated again, but this time, she let the smile tugging at her lips win. “First day of kindergarten. The teacher couldn’t pronounce my name, and everyone laughed. Everyone except Scott—though I didn’t know him yet. He became my best friend after that. Anyway, he nicknamed me Stiles, and it just… stuck.”

“You’d think the teacher would’ve practiced beforehand,” Derek said, frowning. “That’s pretty unprofessional.”

“Yeah, my mom thought so too. She was pissed. Especially when I started refusing to answer to anything but Stiles after that.”

Derek’s lips twitched in amusement. “Alright, I’ll bite. Teach me how to say it.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Absolutely.”

Stiles sat up a little straighter, raising an eyebrow. “Fine.” She took a breath and broke her name down carefully. “Miec-zy-slaw. Then Still-in-ski. You’ve got to use your diaphragm for the first part.”

“Miek…zeez…slow Stillinski,” Derek tried, stretching out the syllables awkwardly.

Stiles sniggered, shaking her head. “Not bad. You butchered the first part, but the second half was almost perfect.” She repeated the name for him, slower this time, and on his second attempt, Derek nailed it.

“Colour me impressed,” Stiles admitted, smiling despite herself. “Most people give up after one try. Or don’t even bother to ask.”

Derek shrugged, his expression earnest. “Well, Stiles, I don’t give up. Ever. It’s not in my nature.”

Stiles sobered slightly, meeting his eyes. “Yeah… I guess not.”

Derek grunted softly and turned back to the fire. For a good five minutes, he busied himself poking at it, adding more logs, and rearranging the embers until the flames burned steady and warm. Then he grabbed one of the tops hanging near the fire, giving it a shake to dislodge any lingering dampness.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “It’s dry. Might make you less jumpy.”

Stiles blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. For a moment, she hesitated, her fingers twitching as if unsure whether to take it, but practicality won out. She snatched the shirt and tugged it over her head without a word.

It was warm from the fire, and as the soft fabric slid over her skin, some knot of tension inside her eased. The shirt was a thin thermal—probably form-fitting on Derek—but on her, it hung loose and baggy, falling to mid-thigh. It was strangely comforting, like a security blanket she hadn’t realised she needed. It smelled like him too, a mix of wood smoke and something earthy and clean.

Derek watched her settle into the shirt, his expression unreadable. “Better?” he asked.

She nodded begrudgingly, tugging at the hem of the shirt. “Yeah… thanks.”

He gave her a slight smile before turning back to the fire. “So… your best mate, Scott, huh? He sounds like a good guy.”

“Scott’s the best,” Stiles said, her voice softening as she spoke of him. “He’s been my rock since, well… forever. He’s the kind of guy who’d show up at three in the morning with tacos and no questions asked. We kind of lost touch after my dad died and then well you know…”

“Sounds like a keeper,” Derek said quickly. “My best friend’s Dean. We met in college. Pain in the ass, but he’s always had my back. We used to have these ridiculous movie marathons, and the guy makes a killer chili. One time, he helped me pull the biggest prank on the chief when I was a rookie.”

Stiles tilted her head, curiosity piqued. “The chief?”

Derek nodded. “Yeah, Jim Ellison. He’s the chief sentinel for the state, paired with his guide, Blair.”

Her blank expression made Derek pause. He studied her carefully, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “You don’t know who that is, do you?”

Stiles shifted uncomfortably, her cheeks flushing. “Should I?”

A flicker of something crossed Derek’s face but he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back, his voice softening as he explained. “Jim’s… well, he’s more than my boss. He’s like a surrogate stepdad. I was bounced around the foster system a lot growing up. Angry kid, wrong crowd, all that cliché stuff. Jim saw something in me—something more than just a screwed-up loser. He took me under his wing, sent me to college, gave me a chance when no one else would. If it weren’t for him, I’d probably be in jail. Or worse.”

Stiles’ expression softened as she listened. “He sounds like a good man,” she said quietly.

Derek nodded, his lips twitching into a small smile. “He is. The best.”

For a while, they talked in an easy rhythm, their earlier tension slowly dissolving. Derek shared stories of pranks and late-night stakeouts, while Stiles spoke of Scott and the misadventures they used to get into. The conversation was only broken by Derek tending to the fire or urging her to sip the warm, sweet drink he’d brewed on the stove.

Eventually, Stiles’ eyes grew heavy, and Derek noticed her struggling to stay awake. “Get some rest,” he said gently, nudging her to lie down. “I’ll keep watch.”

Too tired to argue, she stretched out by the fire, letting the warmth lull her into sleep.

Derek sat back, watching her for a long moment. She looked so small like that, curled up in the oversized shirt, her features soft in the firelight. Cute! Sexy! Lovable!

He sighed and shifted, pulling his jacket closer to grab the waterproof notepad and pencil he kept tucked inside.

He began scribbling notes—details about her, what little he’d learned so far. At least they had a full name now. But something about it all felt… wrong. How long had Peter Hale kept her locked away? She knew nothing—nothing about sentinel history, the clan structure, or her own abilities. She was like a baby guide: touch-starved and desperate for connection, but also skittish, like a stray feral kitten ready to hiss and claw at the slightest movement.

Derek frowned, his pencil pausing mid-word. It didn’t sit right with him. Protecting her was his duty as a sentinel, yes, but there was more to it than that. He’d gone after her for Dean, sure—but now, he could feel it. That pull, the faint, unmistakable thread of a partial bond already forming.

He sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced at her sleeping form. This was going to get complicated.

Chapter Text

“Hey, rise and shine, Sweetheart.” Derek’s voice was a gentle murmur in the dim light. He crouched beside her, holding out a warm mug. “You gotta stay hydrated.”

Stiles blinked up at him, eyes bleary and exhausted, her body aching in a way that had settled deep in her bones. The drink was sweet with a faint chemical tang, but it went down easily, the warmth a small comfort as the storm outside finally started to relent.

“What’s this?” Her voice was rough, throat tight.

“Energy gel packs heated with freshly melted virgin snow.” Derek deadpanned, making it sound like some high-class cocktail.

A ghost of a smile flickered across her face. “Fancy.”

“Well, it should keep you going until we get help. Finish it all kid. It’s three a.m., but I had to get some fluid in you.”

She sipped at the mug, then handed it back with trembling fingers, sinking down into the makeshift bed. She felt wrecked, but sleep still wouldn’t come. Anxiety gnawed at her, made worse by the clink of her cuffed feet. The sound burrowed into her skull, setting her teeth on edge. She couldn’t take it anymore.

“What’s…” Her voice cracked. She swallowed, tried again. “What’s going to happen to me?”

Derek, who had been tending the fire, turned in surprise at the question. His expression shifted, a frown pulling at his brows as he studied her. “Don’t worry about that now, kid.” His voice was firm. “Get some rest and try to relax.”

“No.” She pushed herself up on shaky arms, frustration burning in her gut. She needed to know. Dread curled tight in her stomach, but the words lodged in her throat. The more she fought to get them out, the worse it got. Her breath hitched, eyes stinging, traitorous tears threatening to fall. Damn it. She hated this—hated feeling weak, hated how she couldn’t seem to get a grip.

Derek’s gaze softened, the sharp edges of his expression easing. He exhaled slowly, then crossed the floor with quiet purpose, crouching in front of her. His fingers brushed under her chin, tilting her face up so their eyes met.

“Stiles. Look at me.” His voice was low, firm, an unshakable presence. “I stick by my promises, okay? You’re going to be okay. Just breathe with me.”

He took her hand in his own, pressing her palm flat against his chest, right over his heartbeat. “Just breathe with me.”

Her wide brown eyes flickered up to his, uncertainty warring with raw emotion. But she did as he asked, matching his slow, even breaths. The panic eased, just enough that she could think again. Derek was too warm, his body heat radiating like a furnace, and his skin—hot velvet over steel—was grounding in a way that made her chest tighten with something unfamiliar. But the soul-gutting terror that had gripped her moments ago had receded, leaving only a simmering unease.

“Here’s the plan, Guide.” Derek’s voice was measured, calm. “As soon as we get you back, you’re heading straight to Carson Hospital for a full medical check-up, food, and rest. There’ll be a guide counsellor to assess you and provide support. And there’ll be a lot— a lot—of rehab and therapy.”

“That’s all?” Stiles hated how small her voice sounded.

Derek hesitated, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I won’t lie. There are a lot of answers we need. But we need you to cooperate. No more running, no more stupid stunts. You’re safe now. You don’t have to be scared anymore.”

She swallowed, then forced out the question that had been clawing at her mind. “Am I… going to jail?” Her throat closed up again. “I—I…” The words refused to come. Fuck.

Derek sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “Aw, sweetheart.” His voice was quieter now, almost gentle. “That bastard got what was coming to him. There’s not a jury on the planet that would convict you—and that’s assuming they’d even find a prosecutor willing to touch this mess. My best guess? They’ll go for a self-defense clause and close this up fast.”

He let that sink in before addressing the bigger issue. “You’re a victim, Stiles. A survivor of what looks like the biggest serial killer case in the county—maybe worse. We’ll keep you safe. Trust me on that.”

She nodded, but her teeth worried at her bottom lip, raw and chapped. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“What is it, Guide?” Derek’s voice was suspicious. “Spit it out. What’s bugging you?”

She hesitated, then finally whispered, “I’m… I’m unregistered. What will the Tower do to me?”

Derek froze. His expression shuttered, tension coiling in his shoulders. Shit. An unregistered guide was a massive complication—especially with Article 13 still in place. That explained why they’d struggled to pin down her identity. She wasn’t even in the damn system. He exhaled slowly. “Stiles… how long did he have you?”

Her eyes darted away. “I came online after my dad died. Nearly seventeen.” A bitter, humourless smile tugged at her lips. “That’s how he got me. So, yeah… over four years.”

Derek clenched his jaw. Four years. Jesus.

“It wasn’t sexual,” Stiles blurted, suddenly defensive. “I know what you’re thinking. But it wasn’t like that. Except when he was drunk. Mostly, he treated us like lab monkeys.”

The atmosphere in the small cabin was thick with emotion, the fire crackling softly in the background. Derek exhaled heavily, running a hand through his dark hair before settling his gaze on Stiles. “I’m sorry, kid. For what it’s worth, I am sorry. That’s a shitload of crap cards.”

Stiles stayed quiet for a long moment. She was rebalancing, Derek knew, trying to get her feet under her. He let her.

Finally, she broke the silence. “You were in the foster system?” Her voice was quieter than before, hesitant.

“Yeah,” Derek admitted. “It was bad at times. More than one placement. I ended up busting heads or getting mine busted.” His mouth twitched, something like a grim smile. “But things got better. I had to learn to trust people again. People like Dean and Jim, they helped. It’s still a work in progress for me, but things get better.” He let that settle, let her hear the truth in it. If opening up would make her trust him, he’d do it. A sentinel provided. That was a core belief.

Stiles took a deep breath, then exhaled through her nose. “Yeah… me too, I guess.” She hesitated, chewing her bottom lip before glancing up at him. “And the Tower?” Her voice wobbled, but she held firm.

Derek sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “The Tower is a problem, kid. An unregistered guide is an even bigger problem, especially if it’s proven you tried to evade detection. But that’s my problem now. Don’t worry about it.”

Stiles didn’t look convinced. Her fingers curled into the blanket, her eyes darting around the small space as if searching for an escape.

Then, her voice dropped, barely a whisper. “Let me go? Just let me go. I won’t say anything. I’ll slip away, go off the grid for a while. I can hike up to Canada…” She sounded soft, trembling, persuasive.

Derek sneezed—his senses prickled with something peppery and unnatural. Shaking his head, he leaned down and tweaked her nose, a sharp but careful rebuke.

“Stop, guide.”

Stiles went very still. Fear bloomed in her wide brown eyes.

The peppery sensation vanished. Derek held her gaze, steady and unyielding. “Do you know what you just did?”

She shook her head, confused, scared.

“It’s called guide persuasion. It’s very rude without permission. Especially outside of clan bonds.” He watched her, waiting to see if she understood. “Normally, it’s used to help a sentinel ground himself or come out of a zone-out.”

“I didn’t—” She looked stricken. “I don’t— I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, kid.” He let that sit before continuing. “You know nothing about this, do you?”

Something in her snapped. Her breath hitched, her body coiled tight, and then suddenly, she was spitting fire. “I’m not going to the Tower. Whatever happens, I’m not going to their training camps or detention centres. I won’t take their supervision. I don’t care what happens—I’m not going.”

“Hey, hey, Stiles.” Derek raised his hands, voice steady, calm. “I promise you, I will look after you. But sometimes, you will need help that only guide experts can provide.”

They stared at each other, locked in a battle of wills. One distrustful, furious, and scared. The other calm, certain, unwavering in his belief.

“I don’t wanna talk.” Stiles lowered her head, the tension leaving her in one long, exhausted sigh. A clear dismissal.

Derek closed his eyes briefly, then exhaled. “Come on, guide.” He shifted, rearranging himself until he was lying next to her, almost spooning.

She tensed—then slowly, gradually, let herself relax into him. Boneless, exhausted. Maybe accepting that this was happening, or maybe, just maybe, trusting him in some small part of her mind. A good sign, Derek hoped.

Later, Derek woke to the steady thrum of a quickening heartbeat. For a moment, he was surprised he’d drifted off. Then he glanced down. Stiles was curled in the crook of his body, warm, soft, and small against him. Her eyes blinking up at him owlishly, still lost in that foggy space between sleep and wakefulness.

Then, her face turned beet red. “I need to pee.”

Derek smothered a grin. “Sure, kid.” He sat up, yawning as he tossed another log onto the fire. His eyes landed on a small pail in the corner, one he’d noted earlier before shackling her legs. He picked it up and swung it toward her. Along with the paper he had meticulously dried earlier.

Stiles recoiled. “No fucking way. You can fuck right off.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Look, we just got your core temperature up sweetheart. No way are we going outside.”

Stiles, now fully awake, glared at him with mutinous fury.

“Look, I’ll turn around. Won’t peek. Just holler when you’re done.”

Silence. Then a short scuffling, the scrape of the pail. A minute later, the soft tinkling sound of urine hitting metal, followed by the acrid smell. Derek felt only relief. Half-remembered first aid facts flickered in his mind—peeing was a good sign. It meant she was stabilising.

The next few hours passed in a quiet rhythm. Drink, chat, snooze. Repeat.

Stiles studiously avoided any talk of the Tower. Derek let her. Instead, he kept the conversation light—stories of Dean, Jim, and college life. She even started explaining the joys of lacrosse before trailing off as Derek held up a hand, tilting his head.

His eyes went distant. A second later, he strode to the door and cracked it open. Three sharp whistles. Silence. He repeated it.

A moment later, an answering whistle carried through the cold air.

Derek grinned. “Finally.”

Stiles stiffened. The blood drained from her face. She twisted her hands in the blanket, going even paler.

Minutes later, the sound of boots crunching over snow filled the cabin. Then—The door swung open, and a figure stepped inside. Dean. Snow-covered, windswept, but looking might pleased with himself. “Holy crap, colder than a witch’s tit out there.”

Derek whooped, grabbing him in a bear hug, uncaring of the cold clumps of snow sticking to his own clothes.

There was warmth, easy camaraderie between them. It made Stiles look away, uncomfortable. Like she was intruding on something private. And—God—was that a tiny flicker of… irritation? Like she didn’t want their strange little cocoon of her and Derek to be broken? Jesus, was she going Stockholm that fast?

Then, Dean’s sharp green eyes landed on her. He took her in, every inch of her, and smiled. Warm. Easy. But there was something intense about the way he looked at her.

“You must be Stiles.”

Stiles looked away.

Chapter Text

Dean crouched in front of her. “Easy, Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice steady. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

His gloved hand cupped Stiles’ cheek briefly, a grounding touch, before he pulled away. The absence left her disoriented. Her fingers twitched before pressing to the lingering cold on her skin, chasing the comfort his palm had provided.

Dean caught the movement and offered a reassuring half-smile. Then, without hesitation, he stripped off his heavy parka and dropped it to the side. His fleece followed, the fabric still radiating his body heat as he wrapped it around her shoulders. The scent of cedar and something faintly metallic—gun oil, maybe—clung to it. Warmth seeped into her skin, and she curled deeper into the fabric, gripping the edges with trembling fingers.

Dean exhaled, rubbing his hands together for warmth before glancing at Derek, who was unpacking a medical pack that had to weigh at least 40 kilos. Stiles blinked sluggishly at watched as they set out supplies. Dean must have noticed her staring because he spoke up, his tone deliberately casual. “Emergency rescue and survival pack—standard issue," he added with a wink and a crooked grin "but I’ve added a few Winchester specials.”
Derek snorted, placing a silver drinks flask to the side.

The two exchanged quiet hushed words Stiles couldn’t quite hear which annoyed her. Derek approached first, a lightweight, thermal emergency sleeping bag in his hands. He crouched in front of her, unfolding it carefully before tucking it around her. Dean followed, kneeling beside her and cracking open a trauma kit. His intense green eyes locked onto hers, waiting until she met his gaze.

“Hey, Stiles.” His voice was unexpectedly gentle as he addressed. “I’m Dean Winchester. Sentinel Marshal and hunter with the Cascade Pack. I’m trained in wilderness first aid and emergency rescue. I need to check you over, make sure nothing’s gonna sneak up on us. You okay with that?”

She swallowed hard, looking to Derek. He smiled and nodded to her. She hesitated before offering a small, jerky shrug.

Dean’s smile softened. “That’s good, sweetheart. I’m gonna walk you through everything, so nothing takes you by surprise. If anything feels off, just holler or just tap me, alright?” His fingers found her chin, tilting her face so their eyes met. “Okay, Guide?”

She stared at him blankly and then nodded. Everything seemed to be moving so fast, and her thoughts so slow, her earlier feeling of ease completely disappearing as he stomach knotted in anxiety. Dean frowned at her, exchanging a glance at Derek “What’s her stats?” he asked, still focused on her.

Derek was already rattling off vitals. “Initially Shock, Stage 2 hypothermia. Initial pupil response was sluggish, but reactivity has normalised. Heart rate fluctuating but we were both so cold I could have called it wrong, Motor function impaired from cold stress, but no apparent frostbite. Stabilised in the last few hours and she passed urine less than thirty minutes ago. Colour like whisky ”

Stiles blushed red, she understood some of what Derek was saying, but the clipped, clinical rundown made her feel strangely… small. Fragile in a way she didn’t want to be.

Dean, oblivious to her spiralling thoughts, was already working. He pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves before pressing two fingers to the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse directly. “Still thready,” he murmured. “She needs fluids.”

He unclipped a small penlight and checked her pupils again. “Stiles, I need you to follow my finger, alright?”

She obeyed sluggishly, her body heavy with exhaustion. He frowned but nodded, seemingly satisfied.

He clipped a small pulse oximeter to her fingertip, watching as the screen blinked to life. A quick glance at the reading made him frown.

“Possible hypoxia,” he muttered. “I’ll set up an IV with Ringer’s solution once we’re done and start broad-spectrum antibiotics if you have no allergies —just in case, given your, uh… swim.”

His gaze flicked up. “Stiles, on a scale of one to ten, how bad is the pain?”

Stiles shrugged, jaw tightening as she pointedly ignored Dean. She knew he was just trying to help, but that didn’t make it any less irritating. Fucking sentinels.

Derek handed him a small canister, and before she could protest, Dean was slipping the nasal prongs of an oxygen cannula into place. Cool, dry air flowed in short bursts. “Just a little boost,” he reassured her. “It’ll help.”

A blood pressure cuff wrapped around her arm next, inflating with a low hiss. The tightness was irritating, her anxiety and irritation rising as his hands glided over her limbs and torso as he rattled off injuries and observations.

She hated it, she hated them. Fuck them. Stiles barely noticed Derek shifting beside her until she felt his palm curl over hers, his thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles against her skin. Her breath hitched. She wasn’t in control of anything anymore—her chest felt too tight, her gasps too sharp. The panic was coming too fast, clawing at her throat.

Dean’s voice cut through the haze. “Easy, sweetheart. You’re okay. We’ve got you.”

He pressed his palm over her sternum. “Breathe with me baby girl,” he instructed. “In for four, out for six.”

Derek squeezed her hand. She yanked it back. The walls seemed to be closing in. She hated them, fucking sentinels, her breathing became ragged. Dean and Derek exchanged a look. A silent conversation passed between them, something unspoken but understood.

Stiles hated it. Hated how easily they communicated without words, how they made decisions about her without her consent. Fuck them. She could see their mouths opening and shutting as they tried to tell her what to do. Their voices just lost in white noise. Her breath hitched as frustration swelled in her chest, sharp and suffocating. She wrenched her arms inward, fingers scrabbling at the medical leads stuck to her skin. The portable ECG protested as she tore at the sensors, the adhesive pulling sharply.

They moved before she could rip it free.

Derek’s arms locked around her from behind, his body a solid, immovable weight. His legs hooked around hers, keeping her from kicking out. Dean caught her wrists in a firm but careful grip, grounding her before she could do real damage.

Her chest heaved as she struggled, panic and fury intertwining until she couldn’t tell one from the other. Tears burned hot down her cheeks, her breath coming in jagged, broken gasps. The room was too small, too stifling, her heart hammering too fast.

But they didn’t fight her. They didn’t shout or restrain her harder.

Instead, their voices wove through the chaos—low, steady, insistent.

“Breathe, Stiles.”

“You’re safe. Just breathe.”

A warm hand combed through her hair, slow and rhythmic. Derek.

The grounding touch sent a conflicting wave of emotion through her. She wanted to shove him away, to scream at them both to let her go. But at the same time, exhaustion tugged at her, the fight bleeding out of her limbs with every t breath.

She didn’t know how long they stayed like that—minutes, hours?—until the worst of it ebbed, leaving her limp and trembling in their grasp.

Her first coherent breath came with a choked growl. “Fuck off.” Her voice was raw, thick with tears. “Just—fuck off, get off me.”

Derek huffed a quiet breath against her hair, something like amusement in the sound. “You’ve got quite a mouth on you, sweetheart.” He teased, before he grew serious. “I know you’re pissed, but I need you to breathe for me. In, out. That’s it Stiles.”

The patience in his voice only made her chest tighten again. But they didn’t push. They didn’t lecture or try to talk her down. They just waited. The silence pressed in, their slow, steady breathing the only sound against the wind howling outside and the fire crackling inside.

Dean finally spoke, his voice calm but edged with authority. “Okay, sweetheart, I need you to listen. Listen properly this time.” His grip on her wrists loosened slightly, but his presence remained firm. “If you feel scared, if you need to lash out, if you just need to catch your breath—you tell me. No more ripping off equipment, no more silent panicking. I need a verbal response, Guide.”

A reassuring squeeze from Derek. A grounding touch, not a restraint.

Stiles swallowed hard, her throat aching. “…Yes.”

Dean’s gaze sharpened. “Yes, what?”

She clenched her jaw, forcing out, “Yes, I understand.”

The tension in Dean’s shoulders eased slightly. “Good. Thank you. Now, I know you’re exhausted, but we’re a long way from a hospital, and I need to check you for internal injuries, secondary drowning, and hypothermia. This is happening, with or without your cooperation.” His tone remained firm, leaving no room for argument. “Under the Guide Capacity Act, as the only trained medical Sentinel here, I’m making that call. Do you understand, Guide?”

Her stomach twisted.

“…Yes,” she muttered.

Dean arched a brow, waiting.

Stiles flushed, the heat crawling up her neck. “Yes, I understand, Sentinel.” The soporific slipped out before she could stop it.

Dean nodded, approval flickering across his face. “Good. You’re doing so well Stiles, just a little bit more. Let’s take this one step at a time.”

True to his word, he explained everything before he did it. No surprises, no sudden movements. Just clear instructions, one after the other. The tension in her body never fully left, but she forced herself to stay still as he worked.

Dean asked again, his voice steady but insistent. “Scale of one to ten, how bad?”

Stiles hesitated, then muttered, “Four. Maybe five.”

Dean hummed noncommittally. “Where?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “I feel bruised all over. Some of the cuts sting. A few big bruises really ache.” Her fingers curled slightly. “My left wrist feels bad.”

Dean took her hand, careful and deliberate, his touch clinical as he pressed gently along the joint, feeling for swelling or instability. “I’ll wrap it up once we’re done here,” he said, his tone reassuring.

Stiles hesitated before adding, “It… hurts to breathe sometimes.”

Dean’s eyes sharpened with concern. Without a word, he reached for the hem of her top. The second he lifted it, panic surged, sharp and unrelenting. Her breath hitched.

Dean didn’t hesitate, didn’t comment, didn’t pull away. He simply pressed the stethoscope to her skin.

“You’re doing so well for me, honey,” he murmured. “Deep breath now, Stiles.”

She tried.

Failed.

Dean adjusted, listening again. “Another one. Come on darling , you git this one deep breath and again. You are doing so good for us." He praised.

The vulnerability settled deep in her ribs, heavy and awful. Her chest felt too tight, her skin too exposed. She hated this. Hated how weak she felt, how she couldn’t stop the memories from surfacing—Derek’s voice cut through the static in her head. “You’re here, Guide.” A firm squeeze against her ribs. “Stay with us.”

Later the antiseptic sting of an alcohol wipe brought her back briefly. steri strips pressed into place. Grazes and cuts attended to. Her limbs felt heavier with each passing second, exhaustion creeping in now that the adrenaline had run its course. She barely registered the shift of fabric as she was bundled into a sleeping bag and eased against a warm chest. A hand threaded through her hair again, steady and rhythmic, the motion lulling her further under.

By the time Derek kitted up and slipped out into the storm, Dean’s pack slung over his shoulder, Stiles had already started to drift. She was only vaguely aware of a hand smoothing over her scalp, of the steady, grounding warmth against her back.

The last thing she heard before sleep claimed her was a quiet murmur.

“Rest, Guide. We’ve got you.”

o|o

Jim leaned back in his chair, accepting the double espresso Blair handed him with a grateful groan. He needed it. The shift had been long, and it wasn’t over yet. Wouldn’t be until his boys were back safe and the guide was in custody.

Most of the team had been sent home—no point in keeping them on standby when all they could do was wait for Dean’s call. Might as well let them rest while they could. If needed, Jim could catch a few winks on the camp bed in his office. Blair, though… convincing him to head home would be another story.

Dean had the latest satellite phone and should be checking in soon—maybe a couple more hours at most. Jim wasn’t worried about him or Derek. They could handle themselves. The only real question was the guide.

Jim had already arranged a private hospital room with sentinel protection. Now, it was just a waiting game.

Blair perched on the edge of the desk, cradling one of his usual sugar-loaded monstrosities—spiced pumpkin, cream, sprinkles, the works. Jim hid a smile behind his cup. The little things never changed.

Then his phone buzzed. No caller ID. His stomach tightened. He snatched it up. “Ellison.”

A deep voice rumbled through the speaker, slightly muffled. “Cleaners have been called in. Better bunker down.”

Jim’s pulse kicked up. Damn it.

“How long?”

“Ten, maybe twelve hours. Someone’s in a tizzy. They’d be there sooner if the storm wasn’t blocking the main highway. No flights. They pulled in an out-of-town crew. No details, but trust me, you don’t wanna mess with these guys.”

Jim exhaled slowly. The Tower had just made its first move.

“Appreciate the heads-up.”

A grunt, then the line went dead. He set the phone down carefully, forcing his pulse to steady.

Blair, watching him closely, didn’t bother with preamble. “Trouble?”

“Yeah.” Jim flexed his fingers, jaw tight. “The Tower called in the cleaners. We’ve got ten, maybe twelve hours.”

Blair swore under his breath.

Jim nodded. “Yeah.”

Blair chewed his lip, thinking. “Right now, the case is still under your jurisdiction. So we keep pushing. Dig up what we can, make noise—enough that it can’t just disappear. But we have to be smart about it. Piss off the Tower too much, and we won’t get the chance to fight back.”

Jim considered it, rolling the idea around in his head. “If we play it by the book, anyone trying to bury this will stand out. Even the Tower will have to take action.”

Blair’s expression darkened. “If they still care about optics.”

Jim let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t much, but it was all they had.

And it meant waking the team.

He pushed to his feet, rolling his shoulders back. He was about to be the least popular man in Cascade. “Erikson!” He hollered.

His IT specialist appeared in the doorway, looking mildly surprised. A tall beta sentinel with salt-and-pepper hair, Erikson preferred working nights, when it was quiet and no one bothered him.

“Yes, boss?”

Jim met his gaze. “Call the team back in. We’ve got work to do, and not much time to do it.”

Erikson hesitated for half a second, then nodded, already pulling out his phone as he disappeared down the hall.

Blair exhaled, grabbing his coat. “I’ll get coffee. And donuts. We’re gonna need them.”

Jim caught his wrist before he could move away, pressing a brief, firm kiss to his forehead. Earlier, he’d planned to send Blair home. That thought was gone now. Wouldn’t insult him like that. Besides, Jim needed him here. In any case he needed the guiding touch that Blair could provide and Blair god bless him completed him, in ways that still took his breath away.

It took the team thirty minutes to fully assemble, and the mismatched state of their clothing spoke volumes—some still wore sleep shirts under thick jumpers, evidence of how quickly they had dropped everything to be here.

Jim scanned the room, then exhaled sharply. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this. The Tower has taken notice. Looks like a team will hit us as soon as the storm eases up.”

The reaction was immediate. Voices rose in a mixture of frustration and unease, a low swell of murmurs and sharp expletives filling the room. Jim let it go for a moment before raising a hand. The noise died down.

“I don’t like it either,” he said. “But until they get here, this is still a Cascade investigation. That said, you all have families. Think carefully. If you leave now, you can claim plausible deniability. No one—no one—will hold it against you.” His voice dropped into a growl as he swept his gaze across the room, making sure they all understood.

Silence settled, heavy and expectant. People exchanged looks, tension thick in the air. Then, from the back, a hesitant hand rose.

“Boss, I’m sorry,” Anne said, voice tight. She swallowed hard, shame flickering across her face. “I’m pregnant. I… I can’t—” She broke off, looking away, unable to finish.

Jim’s expression shifted, his usual sharp focus momentarily replaced by surprise. Then concern. “Oh, Anne. Go home. Erikson will backdate a two-week leave. Maybe stay with your guide’s parents for a while. Just in case.”

Anne nodded, her face strained but relieved. As she stood, Blair moved to her side, placing a steadying hand on her arm. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly under the Guide’s stabilising touch.

“And Anne,” Jim added, softer now, “congratulations. When this is over, we’ll have a team night out to celebrate.”

A wan smile flickered across her face. Whatever guilt she’d carried eased a little at his words.

They waited in silence as Anne left with Blair walking her out. Jim scanned the room again. “Anyone else?” He let the question hang. “This isn’t a small thing, having the Tower’s attention on you. And while I’ll take the brunt of any fallout, they can make life… difficult. No judgment here.”

More silence. Then Erikson stood.

“Boss,” he said, voice firm. “I can’t speak for everyone, but I saw the pictures of that room. I couldn’t live with myself if we walked away now. We owe it to all of Hale’s victims to do what we can. That’s what I signed up for. That’s what I intend to do.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then came murmurs of agreement, a few hollers of well said. Erikson, a man of few words, flushed slightly as the men closest to him clapped him on the shoulder in quiet solidarity.

Jim gave a brief nod. “Alright. We have maybe ten hours before we get shut down. That’s ten hours to dig into Hale’s operation, log everything, and spread the data to as many agencies as possible.” His expression hardened. “Means before motive.”

A ripple of acknowledgment moved through the team.

“Means before motive,” they echoed.

Jim nodded. “How did Peter afford this? A half-million-dollar airtight bunker, a fully equipped lab, feeding captives—all on a standard military pension? He hasn’t worked for years, yet his savings are largely untouched. And how the hell did he get his hands on multiple sentinels and a guide without anyone noticing? No one is that lucky.

“So… accomplices? Third parties? Co-conspirators?” His jaw tightened. “It seems highly likely he had outside help.”

Around the room, heads nodded, faces grim with renewed focus.

“We need to know everything about Hale—where he spent his money, his time, who he associated with. Some of you have already been working in these areas, but we need to step it up. Work some miracles.”

Jim surveyed the room. These were his people, and he knew them inside out. The trust they placed in him was a responsibility he never took lightly. He inhaled deeply before rattling off orders.

“Steph, handle any court orders we need. Tell Paul I’m calling in that favour.”

“On it.”

“Graham, round up the beat cops. I want them pounding the pavement at first light—shops, bars, neighbours, anywhere Hale had regular contact. Signed statements go in the system as soon as they’re done.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Marjorie, you’re already working on the victims. Expand your team. Focus on missing sentinels and make noise, especially with outside agencies.”

“Clark, wake up the coroner. I want the full autopsy report ready to go in six hours.Yeah he will bitch but we need it in the system and accessible so if they try to bury it, it will stand out. Tell him they will likely try and discredit his autopsy. That will make him pissed.”

“Erikson, you’re on Hale’s finances. Dig deeper. He had regular payments for his car and daily expenses, but I want to know if he ever paid through alternative means—cash, unknown accounts, anything off the books. Get creative if you have to. Rick, John, follow up on anything Erikson finds.”

“June, work with Mulhaney on cataloging items found in the cell. There’s a list here, some with serial numbers. Find out where, when, and how he got them. If he didn’t buy them himself, figure out who did. Pull in favours across state lines if necessary.”

“Deacon, track his electricity usage.”

Deacon groaned. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Jim held up a hand. “I know it’s boring, but we need to establish patterns of usage. The phone records were a bust, so check mobile towers—see if there were any other signals hitting his place.”

“Jamie, you’re on the bunker. The manufacturer is in Seattle. A half-million-dollar custom build doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. Find out when it was built, who paid for it.”

“You know the drill people. Let’s get to work.”

A chorus of 'yes boss', followed, chairs scraping as people moved out with purpose.

Blair remained behind, his expression unreadable as he ambled closer. “Even now, you still take my breath away. What do you need me to do?”

Jim exhaled. “Once we get a positive ID from Derek, I’ll need your help with the guide. Until then, keep reading the journals. If you find anything useful, fill me in.”

Blair hummed thoughtfully. “The journals read more like scientific logs. Hale numbered his ‘specimens’ instead of using names, so there’s very little that ties him directly to the victims. But I’ve compiled basic details—age, sex, ethnicity, basic medical details and the dates they entered the bunker. I’m almost finished with a tabulated excel file. I’ll send it over.” He hesitated. “The Tower’s going to ask where you got this information.”

Jim considered. “Can you doctor a sheet? Make it look like we miraculously uncovered it in the bunker?”

Blair nodded. “Yeah, I can do that. But we need to burn the original journals soon. We can’t risk them falling into the wrong hands.”

Jim conceded the point with a tight nod.

“You still friendly with that journalist?” he asked suddenly. “The one with the annoying voice?”

Blair smirked. “Ruby? Yeah, why?”

Jim grinned. He needed Dean to check in first, but Blair was right—they needed to make noise. His gaze flicked to his phone.

Come on, Dean. Call, goddamn it.

Chapter Text

Derek trudged through the snow, wincing at its depth in the aftermath of the storm. Not ideal for the inevitable trek back to civilisation. Reaching a partially cleared area with open sky, he glanced up at the patchy sky and decided it would do. He stopped, shrugged off his pack, and carefully unpacked the satellite phone.

Dialling a number he knew by heart, notebook in hand, he listened as the line connected.

“Dean?”

“Jim, it’s me.”

A pause. Then—“Son.”

The word carried weight, deep and unspoken. Derek closed his eyes for a moment, grounding himself in the familiar voice. No need to say I was worried or I love you. It was understood.

“What’s the situation?”

“All good. Our guide’s pretty banged up but no serious injuries. Name’s Stillenski Mileckvon, 21. Father was a cop, small-town kid from Beacon Hill. Lacrosse player. Held in Peter Hale’s custody for four years.”

“Jesus.”

“Yep.”

“Hold on.” Derek could hear Jim hollering for Erickson, the rustle of paper as details were passed along. “Give it five minutes, son, and Erickson will be able to tell you what Stiles’ first-grade teacher’s name was.” A brief pause. Then, softer—“That was good work, son. Can’t say I completely approve of your leap into the abyss, but I am proud of you.”

Derek swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. Jim didn’t hand out praise lightly. “We have a problem,” Derek admitted after a second. “Stiles is an unregistered guide. I don’t have all the details yet, but it looks like she was trying to stay off the grid when Hale got her.”

A long pause, followed by a muffled conversation with Blair. Then Jim’s voice came through grim. “Well, your day’s not about to get any better. The Tower’s sending in the cleaners. We’ve got nine hours, max, before they reach the city. The storm will slow them down, and they’re unlikely to have a team assembled for wilderness tracking, so that buys you maybe another twenty-four. But the second they track you down? They’ll take the guide...So Blair says Dean needs to make up his mind.”

"Ah… about that.” Derek grimaced. Yeah, this was not a conversation he was looking forward to.

o|o

Stiles stirred. She woke sluggishly, lashes fluttering, disoriented, the exhaustion deep in her bones.

“You’re back with us, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice was warm, amused. Stiles blinked back stupidly, her body aching in ways she couldn’t yet process. The air was thick with the scent of something rich and meaty, and the crackling of a fire filled the otherwise quiet space.

Dean stood at the stove, stirring a pot. “Let’s get some liquid into you,” he said, not waiting for a reply as he poured steaming broth into a battered mug. “Derek will be back soon,” he said, setting the mug down within reach before crouching beside her. He didn’t try to touch her, but his presence was just there. “It’s okay, Stiles. I know this is overwhelming. But you’re safe. Trust me.”

She wanted to snap back, tell him exactly where he could shove his trust, but the words tangled in her throat, and she barely had the energy to glare.

Dean chuckled, like he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Derek’s scoping things out,” he continued easily. “Weather’s bad, so we’re staying put for a while. You need to get some calories in you, build your strength back up before we move.” He nudged the mug toward her, the aroma curling invitingly in the air. “Hope you like beef stew.”

Stiles hesitated, her fingers twitching before she finally wrapped them around the tin cup. The heat seeped into her palms, chasing away some of the lingering chill, but she still eyed the contents warily. It was thinner than she expected.

Dean must have noticed. “It’s mixed with water,” he explained, watching her carefully. “Easier to digest. You need help?”

She didn't answer, just lifted the mug to her lips and sipped. The broth was salty and rich, and the warmth that spread through her was almost enough to make her feel human again. Almost.

Time blurred after that. The fire crackled softly, the storm howled outside, and somewhere in between careful sips, exhaustion started pulling her down again.

Derek returned, shedding snow and cold as he stepped inside. His presence shifted something in the air. He and Dean slipped into an easy rhythm, teasing, nudging, making quiet jokes at each other’s expense, all the while casting sneaky glances her way.

Occasionally she would snark back, when Deans would prod and needle at her. Derek huffed in amusement. But she couldn’t hold onto it for long. Her limbs felt heavy, her eyelids impossible to keep open.

“Sleep, guide,” Dean murmured, the words slipping past her defences like silk. She barely had time to register the order before she was sinking, warmth pulling her under. And this time, she didn’t fight it.

Dean watched as her breathing slowed, measured and steady, then turned to Derek with a silent nod. “I’ll hear her if she stirs,” he assured. “So. You called it in. What’s the situation?”

Derek’s expression darkened. He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Not a great line, but Jim pulled up our stubborn guide files. She’s a cold case,” Derek continued. “Missing, presumed dead for four years. Official verdict: likely suicide. Her father was killed in a hit-and-run a few months before she vanished. Her mother died when she was young. No other family. She was down as a normal, not even a hint of a guide in family history”

“Jesus,” Dean muttered. “Four years..."

“Yep. But that's not the worst of it.” Derek hesitated, then pressed on. “The Tower’s sniffing around. Blair had a message for you—was mighty surprised to hear we’ve both partially bonded with her. So I guess now it’s on both of us.”

Dean stiffened. “Okay. Hit me with it.”

“The Tower has jurisdiction. Blair and Jim both agree they’ll claim it. If we want this guide—if she accepts—we have to make the call now and push the bond further. If we don’t, the Tower will take her. And she’ll disappear into one of their centres.”

Dean’s stomach dropped.

“She might never get out,” Derek said grimly.

“Christ, no,” Dean whispered. He looked over at her sleeping form, feeling sick. “She’s not ready. She’s just a traumatised kid.”

“She’s not a kid,” Derek countered, though his voice was tight. “But we don’t have much time.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “Fuck.”

“Yup.” Derek popped the ‘p’ unhappily.

Dean dragged a hand down his face before stepping closer, pressing his forehead to Derek’s. Their breaths mingled in the quiet, more intimate than a kiss. “I could feel it,” Dean admitted. “The second I walked in. The bond, between all of us. It feels right. Like she’s the missing piece.”

Derek’s eyes flickered shut. “Fuck.”

“Yup.” Dean smiled unhappily. “I want this. God, I want this.” His gaze drifted back to Stiles, so small beneath the blanket. Fragile. “The shackles were a bit much, no?”

Derek smirked, grateful for the shift in topic. “Ha. After the shit this gremlin pulled? She’s lucky I left her hands free. When she wakes, I’ll take them off. Between the two of us, we can handle a baby guide.”

Dean huffed. “She’s gonna be a pain in the ass, isn’t she?”

“A bit.” Derek’s smirk softened. “But she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Without a sentinel to ground her or a guide to instruct her, it’s no wonder she’s unraveling.”

Dean hummed in thought. “She’s doing okay, all things considered. No sign of secondary drowning. No internal damage that I can see. Lots of bruises, though.” He hesitated. “Derek… you saw her back?”

Derek’s expression shuttered. “Yeah.” His voice was rough. “I had to strip her down when we got here. She was practically catatonic. For a while… I thought—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

Dean exhaled sharply. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

“Yeah,” Derek murmured. His green eyes burned. “Can’t you feel it? This is what we’ve been missing. I’d love to take time, to court her properly. But we don’t have time.”

Dean grimaced. “She’ll never agree.”

“Nope,” Derek agreed. “But we don’t have to fully claim her. Just take the bond further. Unless she’s got Blair-level strength, it’ll feel sealed. Blair says he can dissolve it later if needed, though it’ll hurt like hell.”

Dean swallowed hard. “And if she wants to end it?”

Derek looked away. “I’d like to think I’d let her go,” he admitted. “But I don’t know. Seems I’m not as progressive as I thought.”

Dean let out a humourless laugh. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Silence stretched.

“She said it wasn’t sexual,” Derek mused.

“And you believe her?”

“Yeah,” Derek said quietly. “She’s touch-starved, no doubt. But she leans into it. Blushes like a virgin.”

Dean raised a brow. “A virgin?”

Derek’s jaw tightened. “Peter took her when she was seventeen. Her father had just died.”

Dean inhaled sharply.

“We’re not all like you, Dean,” Derek added dryly. “What was it, lost yours in a pickup with a neighbour's au pair?”

Dean groaned in remembered pleasure. “Yeah. That was hot.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Point is, we don’t need to get her pants off. We just need to strengthen the bond.”

Dean sighed. “I don’t know who’s trying to convince who.”

Derek smirked. “So. Are we doing this?”

Dean was silent for a long moment. Then—“Yeah. We are.”

“She’ll fight us.”

Dean nodded. “Good. She should. We have to earn her trust. But first…” He exhaled. “We have to break it.”

“It should bother me more,” Derek muttered. “It worries me that it doesn’t.”

Dean’s expression was grim. “It doesn’t sit right with me, either. But she needs this. And if I’m honest?” He looked at Derek. “So do we.”

Derek inhaled deeply.

Dean spread the map out between them, marking a route. “If we go cross-country, we can hit a secondary road here. Jim can pick us up. Safe house after the hospital. Enough time to get the bond registered.” Dean exhaled slowly. “So,” Dean murmured. “We’ve got about twenty-four hours to seduce a guide.”

o|o

The two sentinels exchanged glances, their faces etched with concern and strain as they fought against their instincts. Every fibre of their being urged them to move—to reach for her, to gather her close, to press soothing kisses to her temple and murmur reassurances. But they knew it would be a lie. Stiles deserved the truth, no matter how much it hurt.

And time was slipping away too fast.

Stiles glared at them, her red-rimmed eyes burning with fury, before grinding the heels of her hands into her face.

“Fuck… fuck,” she spat, her voice raw with emotion. “So that’s it? A fuck-or-die choice?”

Dean winced, reaching out to catch one of her hands before she could claw at her hair. “No, Stiles, it’s not like that,” he said quickly, his grip firm but gentle. “It doesn’t have to be purely sexual. This is about strengthening the partial bond—enough to deceive everyone, to give you breathing room, to keep you away from the tower. It might take months, but in the end, you’ll have the power to decide. When it’s safe, you can choose to dissolve the bond… if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t want this,” Stiles whispered, looking up at them with eyes full of hurt, her expression so lost and broken that it made Dean’s chest ache. Every instinct screamed at him to pull her close, to kiss away the worry creasing her brow.

“I know,” he murmured instead.

“Fuck,” she snarled, shaking her head. “Why can’t you just let me go? Just let me disappear.”

“That’s not an option, Guide,” Derek said, his voice steady, unwavering.

“Fuck you,” she spat. Her hands curled into fists, her shoulders trembling. “You should’ve let me drown.”

“Again, not an option… never will be,” Derek said firmly. He reached out, his fingers tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Even without a bond, we would protect you. We will protect you. But the law isn’t on our side. If the tower sees us as a threat, they will use lethal force. This—” he gestured between them, “—this is the only way we can keep you safe.”

Stiles closed her eyes, her breath hitching as a single tear slipped down her cheek.

“The choice is yours, Stiles,” Derek continued, his voice softer now. “I know you haven’t had many choices in the last four years. But this one, here and now, is yours.”

She swallowed hard, then glanced away. “And you…” her voice wavered. “Do you want this?”

Dean’s lips curled into something small and aching. “I won’t lie to you. Just being near you feels right. Can’t you feel it? The way we fit? It’s strange, inexplicable, but it’s there. I’ve never felt this drawn to a guide before.” He glanced at Derek, making an unsubtle shooing motion with his eyes.

Derek rolled his eyes. “And I like you too,” he muttered.

Stiles blinked at them. Then, suddenly, she gave a short, sharp bark of laughter—thin, almost hysterical—but some of the tension in her frame eased.

“So,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter, uncertain. “How do we do this? If… if I want to do this.” Her face flamed pink as she stumbled over the words.

Dean cleared his throat. “Well… umm… there are these stages. It’s, uh, about going through the senses to strengthen the bond. That way we avoid most of the sexual elements, and… um… something about chakras?” He shot Derek a helpless look, silently cursing himself for not paying more attention to the theory.

Derek snorted. “Stiles, sweetheart, we know the basics, but usually, we’d have support. We’d have time to do this right. As it is…” He exhaled, shaking his head with something like amusement. “I guess we’re all bonding virgins here.”

Stiles blushed, a delicate shade of pink blooming across her cheeks, her pupils blown wide with nerves. Her throat worked in a tight swallow, and Derek, for a fleeting moment, wondered how far down that blush might travel. The realisation struck him belatedly—Stiles was, for all intents and purposes, practically untouched. His stomach tightened at the thought, not from frustration, but from the sheer weight of responsibility pressing against his ribs.

Dean, ever the smoother talker, filled the charged silence with his low, reassuring voice. “There will be intimacy,” he admitted, his green eyes steady on hers. “Skin-to-skin contact, a connection through touch and breath. But it’s not about sex. It’s about anchoring you to us, stabilising the bond. It’s supposed to be… grounding. Intense, yeah, but also safe.”

Stiles made a small, strangled sound of acknowledgment, her fingers flexing against her thighs. Then, suddenly, she straightened. “Fine. Let’s do it. Let’s just… get it over with.”

Both sentinels stilled, exchanging glances before looking back at her in quiet disbelief.

“Really?” Dean asked, almost warily.

Her chin lifted in defiance, though her lower lip trembled ever so slightly. “Yes. I mean—no, not really. But what choice do I have?” Her voice softened, raw and wounded.

Derek studied her, every instinct in his body screaming to shelter her, to protect her from the world and even from herself. “Once we start, there’s no going back,” he cautioned. “So trust us, Stiles. I know you don’t have a reason to, but believe me when I say we will never deliberately hurt you. We will always have your best interests at heart.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, her gaze darting between them, searching their faces for cracks, for deception. Finding none, she exhaled shakily, pressing her hands into her lap as though grounding herself.

Dean broke the moment with a clap of his hands, a deliberate shift in energy. “Right. Let’s eat first. Get some energy in you. Then we can figure out our next move.”

Derek grunted in agreement, unfolding a map onto the rough-hewn table. The scent of old parchment and coffee filled the air as he traced possible routes with his finger. Stiles leaned in, drawn despite herself into the discussion, the methodical analysis of terrain lines and extraction points. She barely noticed the subtle ways the sentinels pulled her in—the gentle press of Dean’s shoulder against hers as he pointed out alternate paths, the way Derek’s fingers brushed absently over the back of her hand as he shifted the map.

It was nice, in a way. A distraction, a reprieve from the suffocating tension that had been her constant companion.

She missed the exact moment the atmosphere shifted.

At some point, Derek had risen to prepare food, his touch featherlight as he smoothed a hand over her hair in passing. She barely reacted, lulled by the soft hum of their voices. Later, they ate from the same pot, warm food passed between them.. The fire crackled, throwing flickering shadows across the walls, and the temperature in the cabin steadily climbed.

Somewhere along the way, she began to drift, her body sinking into a languid, almost dreamlike state. She didn’t even realise it until Derek pressed a segment of chocolate against her lips, and she instinctively sucked it from his fingers, tongue brushing the calloused pads.

The moment stretched between them, thick with something unspoken.

Heat rushed to her cheeks, her dazed mind snapping back into focus. She blinked rapidly, sitting up straighter. “Umm… so when do we start?”

Dean smiled at her then, soft and knowing. His lips curled in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. Her “Sweetheart,” he murmured, “we already have.”

Stiles’ eyes widened. “What?” Her pulse spiked, her breath coming quicker.

“Hush, guide,” Derek soothed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We’ve got you.”

She barely registered the way they guided her to the floor, where blankets and sleeping bags had been arranged into something that resembled a nest. Had it been there before? She couldn’t remember.

The heat of their bodies pressed in on either side of her, an overwhelming, searing presence. Too much. Too hot. She squirmed, tugging at the hem of her shirt, desperate to rid herself of the suffocating fabric.

A soft whimper escaped her as she got tangled, but before frustration could set in, hands—strong, capable—eased the garment over her head, fingers grazing along the newly bared skin. She gasped at the contact, at the strange, heady relief that followed. Feeling no shame as she bared her body to the two sentinels.

Better.

Her mind buzzed, flooded with a sensation she had no name for, a deep ache that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with connection. She was surrounded, cradled, the hum of their presence thrumming against her bones like a heartbeat.

Gentle touches traced down her arms, carded through her hair. Soft words of reassurance, murmured against her temple, her cheek.

Segments of peaches were pressed against her lips, their sweetness melting on her tongue. When she licked the lingering juice from Dean’s fingers, his breath stuttered, and before she could process what was happening, he returned the favour, sucking her fingers between his lips, slow and deliberate. A hand caressing her skin along her side, then flickering touches against the underside of her breasts. A segment of peach was drawn over nipples, a hot mouth following it, kitten like kisses, licks and nips that had her arching her back.

Pleasure curled through her like a lazy flame.

She shivered as Derek’s nose brushed against her throat, his breath warm against her skin. “You smell like home,” he murmured, voice thick with something raw and unguarded.

Her own breath hitched as she turned her head slightly, rubbing her cheek against the sharp cut of his jaw. The scent of cedar, smoke, and something uniquely Derek filled her lungs, grounding and intoxicating all at once.

She barely had time to process before Dean pressed in from the other side, his lips skimming the line of her collarbone. She felt the warmth of his breath before his tongue darted out, tasting her skin.

Her lips parted on a soundless gasp.

They were waiting. Holding back, just barely.

Waiting for her.

Something inside her clenched, not with fear, but with the sheer weight of their restraint. Their devotion.

For the first time in a long time, Stiles felt powerful. She was the centre of their world, the axis upon which they spun.

A slow, shuddering exhale left her lips.

She tilted her head, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat, a silent invitation.

Dean groaned softly. Derek’s grip tightened fractionally.

Then, as if by unspoken agreement, their mouths descended on her, lips and tongues mapping the delicate terrain of her skin.

Salt. Smoke. Chocolate. Coffee. The taste of them seeped into her, intoxicating and irrevocable.

Pleasure pulsed through her veins, a slow, deliberate burn.

But it never quite tipped over into something more.

It wasn’t about that. Not yet.

For now, it was about this—connection, safety, trust.

And Stiles, caught between them, let herself surrender to it.

She panted, breath hitching, her body flushed and trembling, desperate and aching for something she couldn’t quite name. Need coiled tight in her belly, winding hotter with every second, every teasing touch of her sentinels. She didn’t understand what she needed—only that she needed them. More. Closer.

Her head tipped back in a surrender both instinctual and raw, baring her throat in a silent plea. A biological imperative she didn’t understand, only that it made the heat inside her spike into something nearly unbearable.

“Sentinel, sentinel,” she gasped, voice breaking, a sob of want spilling from her lips. She didn’t know what she was asking for, only that they could give it to her. Her hips rolled of their own accord, grinding against the hard muscle of a bare thigh, the rough scrape of hair against sensitive flesh sending shockwaves through her. She whimpered, pressing down harder, chasing something just out of reach.

Above her, voices trembled, thick with restraint.

“Fuck, Derek, I— I can’t—”

“I know. I know, Dean. Just hold on.”

A breath against her ear, a hushed murmur of praise, meant only for her. “So sweet, so perfect, our pretty guide.”

Her body clenched at the words, at the hands stroking down her sides, teasing her nipples, mapping her out like she was something precious, something treasured. She keened, the sound raw and needy, her back arching—and then, with a strangled cry, pleasure detonated inside her. It was fireworks behind her eyes, lightning through her veins, something cosmic and shattering and more than she ever could have imagined. She came apart in their arms, boneless, adrift.

Soft lips brushed over her forehead, her cheeks, her temple. Gentle hands guided her back down, grounding her with whispered words and featherlight kisses. She turned to them, breathless, dazed, a little bit wrecked. A strand of drool clung to her kiss-bruised lips as she blinked up at them, pupils still wide, her body trembling with aftershocks.

“Oh...oh,” she whispered, voice hoarse, “that was amazing.”

And then, to her sentinels’ absolute horror—she burst into tears.

Later between breathy little hiccups and cheeks burning with mortification, Stiles tried to explain, but the words kept tumbling out in broken, nonsensical pieces. A jumbled mess of overwhelmed emotions and scrambled thoughts. But she never let go of them. Her hands clung tight, fingers curled into their skin, refusing to be pulled from their embrace.

That alone was enough to calm their panic.

So they held her, kissed her, murmured quiet reassurances. Strong hands stroked her hair, traced comforting patterns along her back, soothed her to sleep with steady, grounding touches. “We’ll talk later,” Derek promised against her temple.

“She asleep?”

“Yeah. All tuckered out.”

Dean exhaled a quiet laugh, running a hand down his face. “Jesus. They didn’t teach that in sentinel classes.”

Derek huffed out a breath of amusement, but his focus was on the woman curled between them, still tucked so neatly against Dean’s chest, small, contented sounds slipping from her lips. She was snuggled close, her soft breaths warm against Dean’s collarbone.

Sweet. Soft. Adorable.

Derek nearly felt like cooing—if he hadn’t been so damn wrecked himself. He would have given anything for a camera, something to capture the moment, the sheer perfection of it.

Dean groaned, stretching slightly before grimacing. “That was something else. But I’ve got blue balls like you wouldn’t believe.”

Derek’s lips quirked. “Snow baths?”

Dean groaned again. “Fuck.”

They shared a look—one full of heat and a promise of later.

Then, leaning over her sleeping form, they shared a slow, smouldering kiss that left them both panting—and did absolutely nothing to help with their problem.

Chapter Text

Stiles really thought there should be a new English word for the level of awkwardness that made you want to curl up and die.

She had woke up warm and cocooned, surrounded by steady breathing, and for a minute… everything felt perfect. Her limbs tangled between two very large, very warm sentinels. Her mind drifted hazily in that post-sleep bliss, and the bond pulsed around her in a quiet, contented hum—low, steady, protective.

Then it hit her like a brick to the face.

The night before. The intense bonding. The orgasm that had shattered her into pieces. She had cried. She might have begged. There had been touching. There had been licking.

She buried her face in her hands and groaned, muffled by the pillow. “Oh my God,”

Derek just chuckled and leaned over to press a kiss to her temple, ruffling her hair with an affectionate grunt and rolled out of bed to start a fresh pot of coffee.

She was mortified but also the normality, the rightness was just weird. In a million years she wouldn’t be able to explain to someone else how okay this felt. The bond between them pulsed again—satisfied, grounded, thick with a sense of rightness that both exhilarated and terrified her more than she could say.

Dean stood, already layering on fresh thermals. “We’ve been waiting for you to wake up sunshine, sorry but we need to hit the trail.”

Stiles sat bolt upright. “Wait—what? Why?”

“Daylight is a wasting,” Derek answered, tossing her one of Dean’s undershirts. “We’ve got maybe five hours max before the weather turns again and light fades. And critically the tower is sending a team in. We aim to be ten steps ahead of them.”

Any leftover warmth evaporated instantly, replaced by cold dread curling tight in her gut. Her brain whirled unpleasantly.

Dean’s hand was suddenly cupping her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, his expression all gentle steadiness. “Breathe, Stiles. You have us now. You’re our number one priority.”

Derek crouched in front of her. “We are your shield. You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

She swallowed, her throat thick. Part of her still screamed to run—but the bond pulsed again, soothing, reminding her she wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

Outside, the forest was waking up. Birds chirped hesitantly, and the snow-laden trees rustled in the soft breeze. The storm had passed. But danger hadn’t.

Stiles took a deep breath and then another. She focused—on the warmth of the stove, the smell of strong coffee, the weight of her sentinels nearby. The simple grounding rituals that had gotten her through a childhood of too-loud classrooms and people who didn’t understand what it meant to feel too much and then later the basement of horrors.

“Thanks, guys,” she mumbled eventually.

Dean pressed a mug into her hands. “That’s my girl. Drink up. You’re going to need it.”

The next half-hour was a flurry of activity—gear packed down, layers distributed. Dean’s pack was seemingly endless: spare clothing, snacks, space blankets, and even a tiny bottle of tiger balm.

Derek improvised a thermal poncho from the ripped silver foil, reinforced with gaffer tape like it was a damn science project. “It’s ugly, but you’ll thank me when we’re not hauling your frozen ass through three feet of snow.”

They worked together in silent rhythm. Everything was going fine—until they brought out the stretcher.

Stiles froze. The webbing. The straps. The idea of being tied down. Her vision narrowed. Her chest got tight. “No. Fuck no. I can walk,” she snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. She backed up, knocking into the pallet bed with a loud clang.

Dean held his hands up in the universal ‘don’t freak out’ motion. “Stiles, sweetheart—”

“No! I’m not doing it.” She was in full fight-or-flight mode now, her breathing too fast. “I’m not going in that thing. I’m not—” Her voice cracked.

Derek was suddenly between her and the stretcher, blocking it from view, his voice quiet but firm. “Okay. Okay, I get it.”

The bond pulsed with a sharp hit of terror, then softened as Derek turned to face her fully. “How about this—we take turns giving you a piggyback. I’ll rig something with the sleeping bag. You ride where it’s flat, and when we hit rock or incline, you walk. Deal?”

Her eyes welled with reluctant gratitude. They had seen her. Heard what she couldn’t say. That she couldn’t be restrained again. Not yet. She nodded shakily.and was rewarded with warm tender smiles, and a pulse of affection through the bond.

⚔️

The sling was rough but effective. When Derek crouched and said “Climb on,” she didn’t argue.

Wrapped in makeshift layers, arms tight around Derek’s shoulders, her cheek against his neck—Stiles closed her eyes and tried to breathe. The bond hummed between the three of them.

It took over four hours of brutal trekking through wilderness and snow, but they made it. Dean led most of qthe way like a machine, breaking trail and finding the best terrain even through thick drifts and hidden ice patches. Derek carried her without complaint, though she knew she was dead weight most of the time. Occasionally, when they reached a scramble or a downhill slope, she insisted on walking. She needed to keep some semblance of being helpful. Her legs burned after only a short distance.

Still, the world outside was beautiful in a way she hadn’t expected. A winter wonderland under pale sunlight. Everything glittered. The crisp air, the scent of pine, and the weight of two men - her sentinels. She rolled that word around in her brain - ‘My Sentinels,’ it felt okay.

It was later on as they crested a snowy hill and the road came into view—along with two souped-up Land Rovers and a beastly off-road Hummer—her anxiety spiked again.

Dean must’ve felt it, because he glanced back, worry etched in his features. Derek murmured something under his breath, the bond soothing. Still, her hands trembled.

They reached the vehicles, and men in tactical gear emerged—hollering in excitement, clapping Dean on the back, laughing, welcoming them like war heroes.

One man hugged Dean, and Stiles felt a strange hot twist in her stomach.

The bond picked up her distress instantly, and Derek was beside her before she could spiral.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re safe here. These people are safe, I would trust them with my life.”

She barely nodded, eyes skimming the crowd, not sure how to belong in any of it. Until—

A man with shoulder-length dark hair, tied back with a hippy leather thong, stepped forward and smiled. Stiles felt a weird pull towards him.

“Hello, Stiles. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

She blinked, breath catching as she realised who or rather what he was. “You’re a guide.”

He grinned, eyes warm. “I sure am. Blair Sandberg. Clan guide for this district. And that grumpy bastard next to me is my sentinel—and the local Head Sentinel—Jim.”

“Jim… Jim…” Her brain hiccuped. “Wait—Derek’s dad?!”

Laughter broke out, rough and warm, as the men slapped Jim on the back. Derek and Jim flushed faintly pink, but Jim looked quietly satisfied beneath the embarrassment.

Blair smirked and shook his head. “Let’s move. We don’t have time to burn. Come on, guide.”

The term grated on her nerves, but she let it pass. She was too tired to correct him.

Stiles was led—pushed, really—into the back of the Hummer. She moved stiffly, make shift boots dragging through wet gravel, body bruised and burning. Inside, it was cramped. She slid in first, wedged between Derek and Dean. Blair and Jim took the seats in front of them, facing them. The engine growled to life beneath them.

Her body registered warmth on both sides—solid sentinels, radiating intensity. Dean’s arm rested along the back of the seat behind her. And Derek felt like a fucking hot water bottle he radiated so much heat. She breathed them in and tried not to sink. The anxiety was a creeping, acid thing in her chest. She was terrified. Too much had happened too fast. She tracked the roads out the window, watched the trees blur by, counting the distance from freedom and everything she had fought against.

Blair turned in his seat and caught her eyes. He didn’t speak right away, just met her gaze—measured, gentle. But not patronising.

“You’re safe now,” he said finally, his voice low and grounded. “We’ll explain everything. I know this is a lot.”

She didn’t answer. Her throat felt like it was caught in a vice. But she held his gaze. That was answer enough.

The bond thrummed inside her like a second pulse—warmth, tension, restraint. Derek’s presence flared like dry heat. Dean was calmer, a steady cool pressure.

The Hummer rumbled on, the sway of the ride matching the undercurrent of something rising in her—exhaustion, fury, uncertainty. She stared straight ahead.

Dean’s hand found her knee—just a touch, light, but not tentative. A solid weight. A statement. He didn’t ask. He just was. Derek glanced her way. His eyes were steady. His presence brushed hers in the bond: not coaxing, but anchoring.

She swallowed hard. This was happening.

From the front, Jim’s voice reached her like a current. “You’re going to be alright. One step at a time, alright?”

Her jaw ticked, but she nodded. Barely.

Jim focused on her, his keen gaze assessing. “Derek explained the tower’s movement, right?”

“Yeah,” she said hoarsely.

“Normally we’d have a few days—get you checked, give you space. But the tower’s getting bolder. We’ve got a six hour window maybe less now, and then I want you tucked away somewhere impossible to reach. That alright with you?”

She snorted quietly. “Do I have a choice?”

“No,” Jim said, honest. “But I figured you would appreciate being asked.”

She tilted her head. A wry little smile. “Points for manners.”

He nodded, satisfied. But as silence stretched, her fingers twitched—scratching unconsciously at her hands, the old defensive habit surfacing like instinct. She didn’t notice until Dean’s hand curled around hers. She froze.

“You’re safe,” he murmured.

The words weren’t the comfort. His bond was. Steady. Commanding. Not soft. She could surrender to that kind of strength—if she chose to.

“I’ll wake you when we get there. Rest if you can.”

She hesitated, then leaned her head back—not quite against him, but close. The rhythm of the road, the hum of sentinel energy around her… she let herself drift.

She jerked awake as the Hummer stopped, muscles tense, heart punching against her ribs. Her head had fallen against Dean’s chest. His arm tightened a fraction, keeping her steady.

“Easy,” he murmured.

She blinked. Through the windshield, the hospital loomed, floodlights haloing the entrance. A man in a police parka climbed in with a folder in hand.

“All prepped. Just needs signatures. Registrar’s waiting on my submission.”

“Thanks, Bill,” Jim muttered, taking the documents. He turned in his seat to face her. “Okay, Stiles. This is backdated registration paperwork. Makes your bond to Derek and Dean official under clan protection. Once it’s filed, you’re safer from tower interference. It’s our shield.”

She stared at the pen.

Her body didn’t move.

Dean shifted beside her, silent. Derek held perfectly still.

Stiles exhaled, sharp and shaky. Her fingers twitched.

She was proud. Stubborn. But this… this was a surrender. A branding. Signing meant she was no longer her own.

Her hands refused to lift.

Jim stayed quiet. Blair watched her with careful eyes. No pressure. Not yet.

“I know it’s not fair,” Blair said gently. “But this is the cleanest legal way to lock them out. The tower respects clan law. Or at least… fears it. You sign this, and it will help protect you, helps us keep you safe. And it means your sentinels have the full backing of the clan.”

Still, she didn’t move. The silence turned thick.

Dean’s hand slid over hers again, slow, confident. You’re not alone, his touch said.

She looked at them—her sentinels. And saw the truth. They wouldn’t make her. But they would stand by her without compliant, if she did not sign. And they would suffer for it.

Her hand moved—fast, before doubt could rise again. She scrawled her name. Angry lines. A tremble in the wrist. Done.

Dean signed. Then Derek. The soft scratch of the pens was deafening in the silence.

Bill slid out the vehicle with the documents clutched in his hands, calling, “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” over his shoulder.

Jim gave her a warm look. “You’re under clan protection now. That means something. I know it’s not what you wanted, but it is safety.”

She didn’t, couldn’t respond. Not yet.

Jim’s face sobered. “One last thing, and I’m sorry, Stiles. But this part—we have to do. It’ll feel invasive, but it’s a legal lock. Stops the tower cold.”

Derek sat upright tense, bristling.

Dean’s voice was tight. “Sir—this isn’t the time. She’s—”

“She’s strong,” Jim said. “But we don’t get a second chance. Not with this. We have to seal it now.”

Stiles sat straighter. “Just say it.”

Jim met her eyes. “Have you ever heard of the Castiel Protocol?”

“No.”

“It’s like Miranda rights… for guides. At-risk guides. If we invoke it, no court, no agency—not even the tower—can touch you without a full country clan tribunal. It’s ugly, archaic… but airtight.”

Her heart beat once, twice.

“You’re arresting me?”

“No. You’ll be in protective custody, with Derek and Dean. But under Castiel law, no one can challenge your bond or try to reassign you. They can’t even test you without clan approval.”

“You’re putting me in a fucking cage, like Brittany.” she whispered horrified.

“No,” Blair said softly. “We’re locking the door behind you.”

Stiles didn’t flinch, but her jaw clenched.

“Do it,” she said finally. “But don’t dress it up like it’s mercy.”

Dean inhaled sharply. Derek’s fists were clenched.

Jim nodded, his eyes sad as he he proceeded, his voice oddly formal. “Stiles Mieczyslaw. As Clan Sentinel, I hereby inform you that you are now under the Castiel Guide Protocol Act. Your evasion and subterfuge necessitate this for your own protection. You are placed under the authority of the sentinels safeguarding you. You may consult with a Sentinel Guardian. If you do not choose, one will be appointed. Compliance is required for your safety. Do you understand and accept?”

She didn’t answer. The tears came, silent and hot, sliding down her cheeks.

Jim waited, his face regretful. Then: “It is noted for the record: the guide refused to respond.”

“Witnessed,” Dean growled.

“Witnessed,” Derek echoed, low and resigned.

The Hummer started forward again.

Stiles looked out the window as emergency staff gathered at the entrance. Trying hard to swallow the sobs.

The next half hour passed in a blur. Stiles, already teetering on the edge of a panic attack, let herself drift. It felt safer somehow—just float, let others take charge. She became a passive observer, watching events unfold without her input being sought or needed.

As soon as the car stopped, she was lifted and placed into a wheelchair. A small swarm of emergency personnel closed in, directing and wheeling her forward. She vaguely registered Derek grumbling beside her, his irritation sharp as he was hustled into his own wheelchair by a stern, no-nonsense nurse who wasn’t having any of it.

Stiles caught sight of two law enforcement officers standing guard outside the entrance. Their gazes followed her with a laser focus as she was wheeled inside and into a private room with four curtained medical bays. The harsh brightness of the fluorescent lights made her squint. The sharp sterile scent of disinfectant and hospital smell hit the back of her throat, nausea curling low in her stomach.

A thickset nurse with silver hair—her badge declaring cheerily, Howdy, I’m Tina!—and a quiet, methodical male nurse named Ben helped her onto a gurney. They affixed a patient ID strap to her wrist with a snap. Stiles closed her eyes, letting their practiced, upbeat chatter wash over her as they removed her outer layers. Her wellington boots were cut free, socks and fleece peeled back. She could feel Dean’s presence hovering nearby, silent and steady, like a rock in the churn.

A nurse leaned in with gentle kindness. “We need to get you into a gown, sweetheart. Want help?”

Stiles shook her head mutely, accepting the thin, sterile garment with trembling fingers. The curtain closed around her, a small barrier of dignity.

Her hands fumbled uselessly at the thermal top. Then Dean was there, steady as ever. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he murmured, helping her peel off the clinging layers and slipping the gown over her shoulders. She flushed hotly, humiliation creeping up her throat as she remembered she had nothing underneath.

Dean pressed a kiss to her temple and fastened the Velcro snugly. “I’ll grab some under things from the shop,” he said quietly, just as Tina and Ben returned. Despite everything, the warm, casual care in his voice eased her tension just a little.

The nurses worked quickly. A cannula was inserted into the back of her hand, making her flinch, and monitors were affixed to her chest. The beeping of her heart echoed through the room, fast and uneven. Dean’s thumb circled her pulse point.

From the next bay, she could hear Derek muttering about how he didn’t need help and could take his own damn clothes off, followed by an irritated “I don’t need to pee in a bottle, thanks.” Dean rolled his eyes and leaned in toward her with a smirk. “Drama queen.”

Stiles didn’t smile back. Her anxiety hadn’t lifted. It pressed in from all sides, thick and cold. Dean’s hand squeezed her shoulder, then he stood. “Be right back.”

She wanted to ask him to stay. The words gathered behind her lips and died there, swallowed down.

A few minutes later, Dean returned—this time with someone else. The man who entered behind him had sharp blue eyes, close-cropped dark hair peppered with gray. He wore dark blue scrubs, his stethoscope looped precisely around his neck. He was lean, tall, composed—the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to take control of a room.

He closed the curtain behind him and offered her a nod, stepping forward with Dean’s notebook in hand.

“Miss Stilinski,” he said, his voice firm, calm, and unhurried. “I’m Dr. Marcus Blake. I’ll be your lead physician during the initial evaluation and—if you agree—your long-term recovery consultant. I’m also a Guide, Category 2, and a licensed bonding practitioner.”

He glanced up from the notebook, fixing her with a steady, piercing gaze. “You’re free to request a different physician at any time, but for now, I’ll be overseeing your care. Is that acceptable?”

She hesitated, then gave a tiny nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Good. May I call you Stiles? I understand you prefer it.”

Another nod.

Derek’s voice echoed faintly through the curtain: “I can take my own damn pants off!” Dr. Blake raised an eyebrow, then casually poked his head through the curtain.

“Sentinel Hale, stop whining. You’re setting a terrible example for our guide over here.”

There was a stunned silence, then a grumpy “Seriously?” from Derek. Stiles gave a quiet, startled snort.

Dr. Blake stepped back in without missing a beat. “Sentinels,” he said flatly, “big babies, all of them.”

Dean coughed to cover a laugh. Stiles’s shoulders eased, just slightly.

The doctor turned back to her. “This process is going to be strange. Unfamiliar. Possibly frightening. But I promise you, you’re in control here. I’ll explain everything before it happens. You can stop me if anything is too much. Understood?”

She nodded again, the lump in her throat too tight to speak.

Dr. Blake exchanged a brief glance with Dean before continuing, his voice shifting into clinical efficiency.

“First, we need a full medical check. Dean mentioned panic attacks, so we’ll go slow. You may feel exposed—this is unfortunately the nature of trauma triage—but my team is trained for both discretion and care - okay?”

At Stiles careful nod, the doctor continued. “We’ll be taking a full panel of labs—blood cultures, electrolytes, CBC, CRP, liver and renal panels. I also want a tox screen and hormone levels, just in case,” Dr. Marcus said, his voice low and professional as he read off the chart. “Urine sample for analysis and infection screen, ECG to check cardiac function post-hypoxia, and I’m ordering a full-body CT scan with contrast.”

He glanced at her over the rim of his glasses. “You’re slightly hypothermic and showing signs of dehydration. I’ll be starting warmed IV fluids, and due to the risk of aspiration pneumonia, we’re administering a broad-spectrum IV antibiotic—Ceftriaxone, possibly combined with Azithromycin, depending on the labs. Wounds will be irrigated, cleaned, and dressed again.”

Stiles blinked up at him, pale and dazed but alert enough to track what he was saying.

“We’ll reassess once we get your scans and lab results. Then we can start building your rehab plan. It’s going to take time—but it’ll be your process, Stiles. We’ll be asking for your input every step of the way.”

He paused, his voice softening. “You have choices. I want you to remember that. None of this happens without your say-so.”

Around them, nurses moved swiftly, prepping gauze, tape, monitors, blood draw kits, and IV lines. Stiles offered a barely-there nod. Dean, seated beside the bed, reached over and took her hand. His thumb rubbed slow circles over her wrist, grounding her.

Dr. Marcus stepped closer, warming the stethoscope with his hand before helping her sit upright.

“I’m going to examine you now—lungs, heart, reflexes, pupils. Let me know if anything feels wrong or painful.”

His hands were firm but gentle as he pressed the stethoscope to her back.

“Deep breath in… and out. Again.”

He listened closely, pausing at each lobe. “Your lung sounds are mostly clear. A little crackling on the right—could be minor fluid retention. Antibiotics should cover it.”

He moved the scope to her chest and listened again. The heart monitor beeped rhythmically—boopity boop, boopity boop—as her heart thudded a little faster. Stiles flushed, and Dean snorted.

Dr. Marcus didn’t react, instead moving on with practiced efficiency.

“Eyes now. Look here.” He shined a penlight into each eye, tracking her pupils.

“Good reaction. Follow the light… alright.”

“What’s your full name?”
“Stiles Stilinski.”
“Date of birth?”
“October 8th, 2003.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-one?”
“Do you know what day it is today?”
“Tuesday… maybe Wednesday?”
“Who’s the current President?”
Stiles blinked, confused. “Is it still… Jones?”

Dr. Marcus tilted his head slightly, lips twitching. “Hmm. You’re a bit behind on current affairs.Let’s pivot—who was the first person to walk on the moon?”

“Neil Armstrong.”
“Your sentinels’ names?”
“Derek and Dean.”

“Good. Now squeeze my fingers.” She complied, weakly. He frowned slightly but moved on.

“Close your eyes, I’m going to tap your knee.”

Her leg kicked out.

“Now along your foot.”

He took the cap off his pen and ran it gently along her instep. She twitched.

“Any pain when I did that?”

“No—just sore. Like… everything’s sore.”

“You’re definitely underweight. I’d also estimate ten to fifteen kilos of muscle loss. But we’ll address that during rehab.” He straightened. “Otherwise, you seem stable. No immediate red flags.”

Relief softened her face. Then a sudden realisation hit her. “Are you… guiding me?”

Dr. Marcus shook his head with a faint smile. “No, Stiles. But a guide can comfort another guide by proximity, especially when you’re wide open like this. I’m not a strong empath, but you’re radiating. I couldn’t block you out if I tried.”

She nodded slowly, unsure but grateful for the explanation.

He continued gently, “Don’t stress over it. We’ll be including one-on-one guide training in your program. Fast-tracked and private.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He picked up a clipboard again. “Now, the CT and MRI scan. It’s the fastest way to check for internal injuries. But you’re on the edge of a panic attack, and I don’t want to push you too hard. I’d like to give you something—just a mild sedative. It’ll calm your system down, but you’ll still be aware and in control. Is that alright?”

Stiles’s eyes darted to Dean instinctively.

Dr. Marcus’s voice cut in, firm but calm. “This is your choice. Not Dean’s. Yours.”

Stiles hesitated, then nodded faintly. “…Yes.”

A nurse gently connected a secondary line to her IV port and pushed the medication. Dr. Marcus watched the monitor for any changes.

“It’ll take effect in about ten minutes. Lie back for now—close your eyes. We’ll take you down shortly.”

The world softened at the edges. Her limbs grew loose and warm. It was a slow, floating feeling—like sinking into a warm bath. She let out a soft breath and murmured, “This is like that time I ate a space brownie at Scott’s birthday. I didn’t know it was that kind of brownie…”

Dr. Marcus huffed a laugh. “Duly noted.”

“You’re really nice,” she added, dreamy.

Dean choked on a laugh, muffling it behind his fist.

Dr. Marcus gave him a sidelong look and dryly muttered, “Flattery under sedation. Always a sign the meds are working.”

He laid a hand briefly on her shoulder—a warm, steady weight.

“Rest easy, Stiles. You’re safe now.”

⚔️

Dean watched silently as Stiles was rolled away towards Radiography. She was drowsy from the sedative, voice slurred as she babbled about chocolate pudding.

Dean’s jaw tightened. She looked small. Fragile in a way that made something primal shift in his chest. His guide—his Stiles—was alive, thank God. But the sight of her being wheeled away sparked something territorial and aching in his chest.

He turned toward the cubicle where Derek had been moved. Jim was already ahead of him, and Dean followed.

“How’re you holding up?” Jim asked Derek, who sat half-reclined on a hospital cot, grumbling.

Derek held up one hand in irritation, the IV line taped along his wrist. “They stuck me,” he said dryly. “And took my blood. Three times. I’m officially violated.”

Dean snorted. “You’ll live.”

Derek scowled but didn’t argue. He leaned forward as Jim took a seat nearby, all humour fading fast.

“What’s going on?” Derek asked. “Don’t bullshit, like you did earlier. What aren’t you saying?”

Jim hesitated for a beat, then sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “We’ve… had to make some moves. Formed a temporary alliance. The kind that comes with strings attached. Stiles—the protective jurisdiction, they insisted on it.”

Derek stiffened. “Who?”

Jim glanced between the two sentinels. “I can’t say, for both your sakes. But somebody powerful. Someone that could take on the tower…and win”

Dean’s voice was low and sharp. “You made a deal with the devil?”

Blair appeared beside Jim, arms crossed and expression hard. “We made a deal,” he corrected. “It was the only way to keep her safe and the public story clean. We couldn’t protect her from this kind of storm on our own.”

Jim glanced at his watch. “I pre recorded with the local news channel earlier today, should be on the six o clock news.” He stood and crossed to the far corner, where a muted hospital TV sat idle. He grabbed the remote and turned it on, flicking to the local news channel. The volume came up just in time for the anchor to begin.

“Good evening, I’m Ruby Smith. We begin with breaking news in the Peter Hale investigation, as shocking developments come to light. With me is Sentinel Jim Ellison, chief investigator into the death of Hale, and the man leading the hunt for his suspected accomplices.”

Jim stepped into frame onscreen, calm and composed.

“Peter Hale,” he began, “was not just a rogue sentinel. He was a serial predator. Our evidence indicates a pattern of targeted abductions, assaults, and—tragically—murders. What we initially believed to be an isolated act of self-defence has opened the door to a wider, darker truth.”

The camera cut between Jim and Ruby, her brow furrowed with performative concern.

“And the person who fought back?” she asked. “What can you tell us about them?”

“They’re a survivor,” Jim said firmly. “A young woman who was kept against her will and managed, finally, to escape. We have every reason to believe she acted out of fear for her life. She is currently in protective custody.”

Dean’s lips tightened as he watched Jim handle the interview with skill—walking the line between transparency and calculated control.

“Will she be charged?” Ruby pressed.

“That’s up to the courts,” Jim replied. “But after reviewing the evidence, the prosecutor’s office has already indicated this may be a textbook case of self-defence. As of now, she is being treated as a key witness and victim.”

The segment continued, with Jim revealing just enough to paint Hale as a predator while shielding Stiles behind court orders and anonymity.

Derek leaned in as the broadcast concluded. “This will keep her safe?”

Jim turned off the screen. “That press conference bought us breathing room—and put the Tower in a public bind. They’ll be forced to either reinstate me or publicly explain why they won’t.”

Dean crossed his arms. “And if they don’t?”

“Then we keep the pressure on. Right now, public scrutiny is another layer to our shield. As long as eyes are on the case, they won’t risk burying her. Or you two.”

“What happens next?”

“As soon as the doctors give the green light,” Jim said, “you take Stiles and go to ground. Derek, I pulled some strings—your cabin’s been prepped. Bobby swept the area, reinforced some boundaries. If it gets compromised, we’ve got a fallback location on standby.”

Derek nodded, visibly relaxing. The idea of retreating to familiar territory—to his den—with Stiles and Dean, brought a rare flicker of peace across his features.

“We’ll need to formally interview her,” Jim added, “but that can wait. It’ll either be me or someone I trust. She’s been through enough.”

“And your deal?” Dean asked.

Jim’s gaze hardened. “Let me carry that weight. You two focus on Stiles. Keep her safe. That was always the priority.”

Derek and Dean exchanged a look, silent understanding passing between them.

“She’s ours,” Derek agreed quietly.