Count your fingers

5. Not here

Trigger warnings: light non-con, drowning

Trees rustle above his head, a slight breeze making goosebumps break out over his arms. Stiles realises he's standing in The Preserve, not that far from the old Hale house, at the same time that he sees Derek standing a few steps away from him. "Derek!"

The werewolf turns to him, the relief visible on his face. "Stiles."

"You okay?" Stiles looks around them. He feels nothing out of the ordinary and he recognises the trees around them. There's a cluster of three young trees growing close together, their roots intertwined while the distance between their stems increases if you get further up from the ground. Across from it is the tree that got uprooted years ago and still found a way to grow skywards from its new horizontal position. Stiles is always reminded of Dr. Ian Malcom's quote of "Nature, uh, finds a way" when he sees the thing.

"Yeah," Derek confirms, flexing his hand as he makes claws appear and disappear. Still a werewolf then. Ten fingers too, so it's not a dream.

"Do you think it worked?" It's the million dollar question.

"Everything smells familiar." The werewolf is equally hesitant in getting his hopes up.

Stiles feels in his jeans pockets and gets a phone out. It's his own phone, the date and time saying it's early Fall and late in the afternoon. That seems to correspond with the chill he feels, standing here in his T-shirt. He can't remember what day it was when they disappeared from their own reality, but today seems as good a day as any.

"Who are you gonna call?" Derek pops up next to him, looking down at the phone in his hands.

Stiles shrugs. "Nobody. I've got no signal here."

Derek takes out his own phone, but the screen stays black. "The battery died."

"At least we know where we are. We could walk back to town, I guess." He ignores the nagging feeling in his stomach that this doesn't bode well. Derek seems to do the same, agreeing with him with a curt nod and a small, wry smile on his face.

They steer clear of the area where the old Hale House is, walking around it so the trees will always block their sight of the burnt out shell of what once was Derek's home. After everything that happened, Stiles doesn't like to see it any more than Derek does. They walk in silence, their arms brushing every once in a while. They're both tense, even though everything seems to be alright.

"Stop right there." The voice from behind startles them both. They turn to find Scott and Jackson behind them, both dressed in track pants and a sleeveless shirt as if they are going for a run.

"Scott!" Stiles can't help but exclaim when he sees his friend.

"You're not Stiles."

"Well, shit." His shoulders slump with disappointment. They're not back in their own reality.

Next to him, Derek bristles and positions himself slightly before the human. "I can't smell them," he urges quietly, holding one arm out to keep Stiles back.

Jackson tilts his head, grinning viciously. "That's not Derek either, though he acts like a guard dog just the same."

Stiles' eyes catch on the tattoo that sits on the left side of Jackson's neck. It looks like Derek's triskelion, but instead of round swirls this one has warped and pointy lines. Scott has the same one, also on the left side of his neck.

Scott holds a phone to his ear, talking into it while he keeps his eyes locked on Derek and Stiles. "We've got them. I think you'll want to see this for yourself." There's no audible confirmation, but he disconnects the call anyway and puts the phone away again. "So," he says conversationally, "who are you?" It doesn't really come out as a pleasant question, especially paired with the red glow of his eyes.