Black Love [SUPERWOLF]

Family Ties

"Fuck, fuck, and more fuck. But let's not forget about the fuck on the side." Stiles, clinging to the alpha's hand in hopes to reserve whatever little sanity he had left, asked: "What is Alison trying to pull? What is Chris trying to pull? Do you think the Winchesters and Argents are plotting something?"

Subconsciously, Derek found himself leaning in toward Stiles, their bodies molding against one another as though they were one. "I don't know," he answered truthfully―the truth both he and Stiles resigned.

In defeat, Stiles bowed his head and leant against Derek, without a word spared between them. Chris ― whomed been listening to the pair distantly ― stepped out from the door frame, coughing roughly to make his presence known. "Dinner is ready," Chris explained curtly when their eyes asked the question their voices hadn't. "Derek, do you mind helping Alison and Scott set the table?"

Derek glared heavily at the hunter, but the hunter returned a stronger glare. "Scott and Allison are perfectly capable of setting the table themselves." Derek acknowledged, taking a single step forward that spoke nearly a hundred words. "So, what is it you want with Stiles?"

"Is it so hard to believe that perhaps I wanted to offer my condolences to Stiles? Privately." the Argent includes narrowly.

Stiles, without truly believing in the words Chris Argent had spoken, ushered Derek away―and though he was reluctantly, the former Alpha left with minimal fuss. As Derek cleared from view, Stiles faced the Argent with little interest. "For a Hunter," Stiles begun, his tone dull, "that was an awfully bad lie."

"We need to talk."

Stiles, with a fowl attempt in being intimidating, circled the spacious living room, his hands folded behind his back. "This is talking."

"Stiles," Chris frowned, "I have seen that look in your eyes nearly a thousand times."

"What look?" Stiles inquired innocently.

"That exact look, when you are one puzzle piece closer, to solving it."

"I don't play with puzzles," Stiles confessed, absently. "Chess is a much better game. Less messy."

Chris, lashing out for Stiles' wrist, caught the mundane. Steadying his movements. "Stiles, I am trying to help you. You've figured it out, haven't you?"―Chris leaned in closer toward Stiles―"Sam and Dean aren't nearly as merciful as I was, Stiles. The second Dean recognizes Derek, he'll kill him. And he won't hesitate."

Stiles, twisting in Chris' grasp to face the Argent eye-to-eye, asked in a voice almost unrecognizable to himself, "What do you mean... recognizes?"

"Who do you think helped Kate Argent?"

"Chris!"

. . .

Stiles couldn't remember. He couldn't remember striking at Chris' face―he couldn't remember why he'd strike the man who'd warned him. He couldn't remember Sam, watching him. He couldn't remember Sam, screaming his name in a constant echo. And he couldn't remember Derek, calling his name just as Sam had.

He couldn't remember when he became so numb.

".... Stiles―Stiles―Stiles!"

Stiles, slowly, turned to face Derek―his eyes a dull void, that made Derek nearly cringe at the sight. "Stiles, Stiles, hey," Derek spoke softly, as though calming a child, his hands layering themselves Stiles' own. "Stiles, tell me what happened."

"I..." They're hunters. He couldn't speak. They killed your Family. He couldn't hear over his own thoughts. My blood, took their lives. "I didn't know... I didn't know."

"Didn't know what?" Derek asked, and Stiles pretended he didn't hear the desperation in his voice. Pretended he couldn't. "Stiles, baby, please. I don't understand." The mundane faced Derek, torn. What would Derek do, what would he say? If he were to discover the truth of the Winchesters―of his blood? Stiles knew, with nearly the entirety of his heart, Derek wouldn't blame him; nor lcompare him to his brothers.

But the doubt overpowered the knowing.

There was a silence that stretched in their presence, a silence neither dared to fill―not even daring to take a breathe. But the black impala, lighted beneath the full moon, was enough to draw in conversation. "Did you tell them where you live?" Stiles inquired, his voice rising. "How do they know―"

"I told Sam you'd be coming here, Stiles." Derek answered with innocence, but guilt screaming in his eyes. "He texted me, asking where we were going. You wouldn't answer your phone."

"Der, we can't trust them."

"Why?" Derek inquired ,leaning in toward Stiles with nothing but desperation to make his eyes whole. "What are you keeping from me, Stiles?"

Stiles' head drooped between his shoulders, hiding his face as he cursed at his faith bitterly. "John Winchester helped Kate Argent, Derek. They're Hunters."

Before Stiles could so much as blink, or further his statement, the Jeep door was opening and slamming within the second. Stiles, ungracefully tumbling from his Jeep, reached out for Derek as he approached Sam Winchester―but it was as though Stiles wasn't there. "Derek, wait! Wait!" Stiles chanted, clinging to his arm as Derek's fingers twisted into a fist. "It was John! It was John!" If Derek had heard Stiles, he didn't show it.

Sam, retreating back with hands raised in surrender said: "I don't know what Chris told you―" Derek was balanced and posed, as though there weren't a hundred pound mundane, anchoring his heels to the ground. "Derek, stop!" Stiles pleaded, but it was too late. His fist slashed at Sam, his teeth fangs.

"Derek, stop it!" Stiles tried again, his upper half clutching the raged werewolf from behind as he tugged. "It was John! It was John!" he tries once more. "It wasn't them! They were just teenagers!"

Derek's only response, was a buckled growl.

Sam, shielding his face, did nothing more to defend himself. Only stuttering excuses of how he and his Father were not the same man. But nothing in that moment could stop Derek. "Let go of him! Let go of him!" Stiles chanted, lashing at Derek's back. "It was John Winchester! It wasn't Sam! Derek, stop!"

Derek took his hands away from Sam and looked about at Stiles. Stiles palm had been swinging when Derek reached for it. Within the blink, Stiles knees had buckled and he'd fallen to the ground without so much as a thud, and his hand was lost in Derek's tightening fist.

Sam watched in terror the thrashing mundane who Derek held. Blood ran down Sam's face, the blood blinding him―but his ears were far from deaf as Stiles' agonizing please screeched in both. "Stiles!" Sam called, and for a moment, he felt the sensation of a older brother―the needing in his blood to protect. Stiles was white and shrunken in on himself, his struggling had grown weak. He laid there with dulled screams, as the bones beneath his skin begun to break in the hands of Derek's.

"Derek, stop it!"