Chapter Text
Derek woke slowly. The antiseptic scent of the hospital, a constant, itching presence, was a smell he barely registered anymore. He opened his eyes, scanning the sterile room, finding no change.
A moment later, the Sheriff walked in, balancing a warm coffee and a box of donuts.
“Here you go, son. You need to eat something.” His face was lined with an exhaustion that went beyond lack of sleep, heavy with sadness. “Scott called; he needs you tonight.”
Derek’s throat felt rough and unused. “I’ll be there, then.”
They settled into their routine silence, broken only by the steady, monotonous beep of the machines confirming the room's occupant held a constant pulse.
“Scott also told me that you feel responsible.” Derek felt his shoulders tense, pulling tight in immediate response. The Sheriff’s voice wavered slightly. “I know it wasn’t your fault. I know my son. I know how much he cares for everyone in the pack.”
The words came a little easier this time, thick with self-loathing. “He’s human. I’m not. It should be me in that hospital bed.”
The older man placed a warm, heavy hand on Derek’s shoulder, letting the silent weight of his comfort rest there for a moment.
“You shouldn’t say that. He did it to save you. And you brought him back to me. He will wake up. I know it.”
“Sheriff...”
“It’s John. I’m not on duty.”
Derek met his eyes, holding the gaze steadily so John could read the silent, absolute promise etched in his expression.
“I will find a way.”
“I know you will, Derek.”
They ceased talking, simply watching the gentle, shallow rise and fall of Stiles’s chest. In the sterile quiet, there was no more need for words.
They sat in silence like they usually did, listening to the beep of machinery that signified the room's occupant's steady pulse.
-.-
Three months ago, the pack had been fighting Dream Demons. Stiles had devised the plan; Lydia and Chris were the strategists who made it possible. Scott was the leader, and the rest of the pack followed. Predictably, Derek had ended up captured and tortured, he probably shouldn't have been surprised at this point.
The creatures fed off their victims' worst nightmares, forcing them to relive every second. In Derek’s mind, he failed to save his family a thousand times over those short days, choked on the phantom scent of burnt flesh, and watched his siblings engulfed by flames again and again.
But the pack came, as they always did.
In the end, using a powerful spell from Deaton, they came to his rescue. They killed most of the creatures, but the last and strongest of them tried one final, desperate move to finish Derek. No one was sure of the exact mechanics, but all Derek remembered was Stiles throwing his slight body into the path of whatever raw, pulsing force erupted from the demon's palms.
The next thing he knew, he was holding Stiles's limp, unresponsive body in his arms.
Stiles had been non-responsive ever since.
No matter what anyone said, Derek knew Malia was right. It was supposed to be him in that hospital bed.
-.-
Back at the loft that night, the pack met to plan the attack against a rogue witch coven. Everyone was grave and restless, craving action to distract them from the dull, aching reality of their emissary's absence.
Scott was struggling to control his anger and his shifted form. He desperately needed Stiles, his best friend and his brother, to ground him. Scott dealt with the grief by pushing himself to be a better Alpha, constantly insisting he needed to have everything under control for when Stiles finally woke up.
Malia hardly participated. Focused on researching her mother, she kept her distance from Derek as much as she could. The last time they’d talked -which was really just her screaming at Derek- she'd made her feelings about his responsibility very clear.
Kira was trying to be supportive, but often ended up standing quietly next to Derek, unable to meet his eyes. Her smile, once so bright, was now infrequent, and that silence made Derek feel even worse.
Lydia, on the other hand, was terribly irritated with how slow the rest of the pack was. They never quite understood her abstract way of thinking or kept pace with her research the way the missing boy had.
Liam was adjusting to werewolf life little by little, but sometimes Derek wished Stiles was there to explain things to him with the familiar blend of sarcasm and genuine enthusiasm he’d always used with Scott.
In their different ways, they all felt the staggering weight of his loss.
Derek had never said it out loud, but now, the truth was unavoidable. Stiles was more vital to this pack than Derek had ever given him credit for. He missed the snarky comments, the dry wit, and the endless, good-natured arguments, even the incessant, low background chatter. Lydia was a genius, but it just wasn't the same.
Derek missed Stiles. He needed the boy back.
It hurt him almost physically to see him so still and silent in that sparse, stale bed; a dull, constant throbbing in the back of his mind that seemed to sync with the hospital machinery. He wouldn't have had that painful, steady rhythm stop for anything. Every second he watched, he hoped it would be the last of this nightmare, that Stiles would open those smart eyes and unleash that smart mouth with some crude joke to annoy the hell out of him.
-.-
The raid on the coven went as expected. Only one witch got away.
-.-
Derek returned to Stiles's room in time to say goodbye to John, who had to start his shift.
“Everything okay?” John asked. Derek nodded. “You’re staying the night again?”
Derek sat on the familiar chair. He never touched Stiles or held his hand, it felt profoundly wrong, a luxury he hadn’t been able to afford for years and one he no longer deserved, given it was his fault Stiles was here.
John exhaled a quiet acknowledgment. “Okay then. I’ll see you after my shift. Melissa-”
The glass of the window shattered.
A powerful wind gathered the shards, lifting them into the air like a cloud of throwing knives. Derek reacted instantly, his protective instincts screaming at him: he threw his body over Stiles, shielding him from the invisible attack. The impact drove the air from his lungs. John, his years of instinct kicking in, was already moving to take cover.
After ensuring Stiles's protected body was safely out of the way, Derek looked up to their attacker.
The surviving witch, of course it had to be her.
The woman’s face was wild, her crazed glare mostly obscured by a cascade of long, dark, filthy hair that only partially covered deep scars on her face and neck. She wore a shabby shirt and blood-splattered jeans. She let out a low, threatening sneer, and her eyes flashed with a terrible, virulent purple glow.
Derek wasted no time, launching into the offensive. With the Sheriff’s crucial distraction, they were quick to defeat her.
The witch was mortally wounded, blood pooling around her, yet she rasped out a laugh. It was an ugly, sickening sound.
“I’ll have our vengeance, and finally the spell will be complete.”
Derek felt a sudden, animal dread, a beastly part of him recognizing the mortal danger before his mind registered the threat. He tackled her and hurled himself and the witch out the shattered window just as her body began to pulse with dark energy.
The explosion reverberated for miles around before they hit the pavement below.
-.-
There was nothing... no pain, no light, just nothingness... for a while.
Derek was dead, or he was supposed to be.
Instead, he opened his eyes to a profound sense of calm warmth. He was on his feet, and three great thrones stood before him.
Sitting on a throne of cold, rough stone was an older woman with a wrinkled, careworn face.
On a throne of dark, living wood, with fresh leaves blossoming from jutting branches, sat a young woman.
The last throne was constantly shape-shifting: sometimes gleaming bright, sometimes looking rusty and dusty. A small girl sat there.
All three females had long white hair, deep brown skin, and big, round golden eyes.
“Rise, Derek Hale,” the three spoke in perfect, resonant unison. “Let us thank you for releasing the world from a very dangerous and dark force. Those witches were trying to meddle with time, and their work could have destroyed us.”
Derek stared at them in utter wonder.
“We represent Time,” they continued. “Past, set in stone. Present, ever-changing, growing like a tree throughout the seasons. Future, sometimes bright, sometimes doomed, changing with the choices you choose to make.”
The small child stood up. “We know you and admire your sacrifice. Your life was full of sorrow and regret. And yet you still did your best. You fought bravely.” Her sweet, reedy voice was endearing; it reminded him of his youngest sisters.
The young woman stood next. “That’s why we want to offer you a chance to go back. Return to a time before you started losing. You will remember, you’ll still carry that loss with you. But you will have a chance to heal and change your story.”
Derek’s heart almost stopped. A chance to go back? Before everything had gone to hell?
“Worse things may happen,” she warned, her voice firm. “Horrible losses, painful mistakes. You change one thing, and a world of possibilities will form before you.”
The old woman stood last. Her voice was soft, heavy with ancient wisdom. “But that’s life.”
The three spoke together again: “Or you could say no and rest in peace.”
Derek thought about it, he could rest, at last. He wouldn’t have to worry about the inevitable new enemy threatening Beacon Hills every week. Maybe he would be reunited with his loved ones, finally able to ask for forgiveness and apologize for causing their deaths.
On the other hand, if he went back, he could prevent it from ever even happening. He could stop himself from making those mistakes, stop himself from losing everything. He could change his fate -and theirs- for the better, preventing more than one useless death.
It was hard. He had suffered for so long.
What if he didn't go back?
He thought about the McCall pack, about the Sheriff, and mainly about Stiles, the sight of his still, pale face.
No. He owed it to himself to make one last effort. He owed it to those he loved to make things right.
“I say yes.” And a blinding, cleansing light consumed him.