Chapter Text
Stiles staggered back, his heel colliding with the gnarled roots of the Nemeton. Panic surged through him as Scott's claws dug into his throat, sharp and unforgiving. The world around him blurred, the shadows of the trees closing in like a noose. This was not the reunion he had imagined with his best friend, and the realization cut deeper than any physical wound.
Allison stood off to the side, her lips curled into a mocking smile, eyes dancing with unrestrained glee. He had once thought of her as fiercely loyal, but now he understood the dark game they were all playing. Tongues of betrayal slithered around him, tightening their grip. She had been the one to push Scott, the instigator whispering poison into his ear, urging him to strike.
“Why are you doing this?” Stiles wheezed, his heart racing against the encroaching darkness. All around him, the whispering wind through the trees felt like the lament of his own impending downfall. Blood spilt through his fingers, hot and sticky as he tried to grip his own throat.
Scott’s expression was a twisted mask of conflict and anger, a battle raging within him as he stood under Allison's influence. The desperation clawed at Stiles' chest; he had come here to meet Lydia—one last attempt to reclaim the friendships he had once held dear. He should have known better than to trust anyone, given that they had all played a part in his downfall. Lydia had promised him something—an explanation, and perhaps, a way to move past their tangled history. Instead, she had delivered him to this twisted scene.
“Scott… please, think… about this!” Stiles pleaded, the breath catching in his throat. Stiles thought he could see the flickers of hesitation in Scott's eyes, the remnants of the boy who had stood by him through countless battles.
But Allison stepped forward, her voice dripping with sweet poison. “You think you’re special?
In that moment, everything shifted. Stiles was no longer just a victim; a cold determination surged through him, igniting a fire within. Stiles lay sprawled on the forest floor, his pulse racing, his blood pumping out of the wounds on his throat as he struggled to breathe through the weight of disillusionment. Above him, the trees loomed like silent sentinels, their branches whispering secrets he would never understand.
“Do you think that this is about you?” she asked, her voice dripping with scorn. The smirk on her lips twisted into something cruel. “It’s never been about you, but Derek Hale. He’s the one who needs to suffer!”
Stiles blinked up at her, a whirlwind of confusion and betrayal swirling in his gut. “He… hates… me,” he gasped, the ground beneath him feeling like a grave he couldn’t escape.
Allison knelt down, leaning close, her words laced with venom. “You really think Derek hates you? That’s cute.” She laughed softly, mockingly. “No, he only wishes he could hate you. He’s in love with you. So, hurting you? That will make him suffer.”
The revelation clawed at Stiles’ mind, a whirlwind of emotions colliding within him. He’d always known that Derek’s demeanor was complicated—brooding, protective, and suffocatingly distant—but love? The very notion seemed like a twisted joke.
“Derek doesn’t… love me,” he whispered, shaken by the intensity of Allison’s claim.
“Oh, but he does. Just like you love him, though you’d never admit it. That’s why this hurts so much. You’re meant to be the center of his world, but look how far you’ve fallen.” Her eyes sparkled with malice, and Stiles could see the satisfaction she derived from his distress.
“No, you’re wrong…” Stiles protested, though the words felt hollow even to him. He could feel the sting of tears threatening to spill as memories flickered through his mind. Derek’s warmth in a moment where darkness threatened to engulf him, the way Derek’s gaze softened when they shared a fleeting laugh, the protective stance he took every time trouble approached.
“Derek will suffer, and you will be dead,” Allison hissed.
“What do… you… want?” Stiles demanded, desperation clawing at him. “Is… this about… revenge?”
“He killed my mother, Stiles. Wouldn’t you want revenge if you were in my place?” Allison asked with her gaze unwavering.
Stiles' eyes widened. Derek hadn’t killed Allison’s mother that night at the Jungle when they were hunting the Kanima. Derek had been trying to save Scott, but the wolfbane in the air had confused him, and he bit Victoria Argent out of instinct. Stiles tried to tell Allison this as he choked out, “Not…Derek’s…fault, Scott—” but he was cut off when Scott slashed at Stiles' throat again, digging in his claws, and ripping out his larynx, spilling Stiles' blood on the roots of the Nemeton… killing Stiles instantly.
**
Stiles stood silently amidst the gathering shadows, the world he once knew fading into a hushed murmur. He found himself in a place beyond life, an ethereal realm where colors bled softly into one another. Giving the church an otherworldly glow, candlelight adds to the ornate building's ambiance. The setting sun cast a warm glow, but Stiles felt no warmth; he was merely an observer of his own funeral. The pews were adorned with dark suits and somber expressions. His friends, as the town of Beacon Hills would call them, enveloped in a mock show of grief, were scattered among the gathered crowd.
Stiles caught glimpses of Scott’s face, haunted and pale, his eyes welling with unshed tears. To an outsider, it would look like grief, but Stiles had known Scott since they were five years old. He knew what Scott looked like when he was trying to suppress laughter.
Derek stood beside the coffin that bore Stiles’ name —his legal name on a golden plaque, along with his date of birth and when Stiles had died. He had only been twenty-six, almost twenty-seven. Derek stood stoic but visibly shaken, with clenched fists and a fierceness that often masked his vulnerability. Stiles couldn’t shake the feeling of being an interloper, watching the people who once meant everything to him as they drifted further into sorrow. He floated closer, wanting to reach out, to be seen, but he was trapped in this liminal space where the living could not hear him or feel his presence.
Allison stepped forward, her voice a quivering whisper, her eyes glistening like polished stones, yet a smirk rested on her lips, “I can’t believe he’s really gone.”
The words struck Stiles like a punch, his heart clenching painfully in remembrance of their shared moments. All gone with one act of betrayal, he wanted it all to be a misunderstanding, a joke gone awry. But no sound escaped his lips. How could it? When she was the one to put the duct tape over them?
Peter Hale lingered at the back. A strained expression etched across his face. “He would have fought tooth and nail to stay with us,” he remarked, a hint of pride intermingled with his sorrow. “We didn’t get to say goodbye. He always knew how to lighten the mood, and now…” His voice faltered, fading into choked silence.
Stiles felt an ache in his chest; he wished he could tell Peter how much the words meant to him. Peter Hale had been the only person who hadn’t treated Stiles as if he were less for being an Omega. He hadn’t been actively trying to bring Stiles down, not like the other people in this room. Stiles, now, knew none of them were worth the trust he had put in them.
As the ceremony progressed, Stiles felt a swell of unexplainable emotions. Derek spoke of his bravery and relentless loyalty, and frowned at the mocking laughter the others shared at his words. Derek’s look of confusion tore at Stiles's soul. Derek had always been too gullible when it came to the people in this room. Always believing the lies they told him about Stiles. Yet, never believed Stiles when he tried to defend himself from their words.
Scott spoke of their late-night adventures, while Lydia recounted the time Stiles had unknowingly saved them all simply by being himself. She was leaning into Jordan Parrish’s side while holding Jackson's hand. Aiden looked at the sight with envy; he didn’t bother to hide. In one corner of the back pew, Theo gestured animatedly to Chris Argent about a plan they might have come up with together—it was all lies, of course. Danny and Ethan made out in a dark corner of the church.
Stiles couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing for the time he had wasted on these faithless people—and their futile attempts at lightheartedness amidst the heaviness of loss that fell flat.
Kira stood beside Malia and Mason, her hand spiraling anxiously in her hair. “We should have done more to protect him,” she whispered, and as the words left her lips, Stiles wished he could assure her that it wasn’t her fault, Kira may have been blind to the treatment Stiles had suffered at the hands of the others, but she had been a friend in her own way, it was fate’s twisted design that had led to this moment.
Stiles' gaze drifted to Derek and Scott once more. The two alphas stood shoulder to shoulder. Scott was talking, but Stiles couldn’t catch the words; the tone was soft and provoking as Derek’s head bowed low, his strong frame trembling ever so slightly.
Stiles felt a pang of regret. Well, at least up until Stiles remembered that it had been Scott’s claws that had lashed across his throat. Right, Stiles should have mentioned that the whole reason he was dead in the first place was because of every single person here. Although all of them contributed to Stiles' circumstances over the past decade, ultimately leading to his demise, it was Scott who ultimately did the deed. It was that betrayal that stung the most, because he had done it in an effort to hurt Derek, all because Allison still held a grudge against Derek for the death of her mother. She also blamed the surviving Hales for well, surviving.
Stiles snorted, as if Derek had any control over the fact that his older sister, Laura, was having an affair with Allison’s aunt, Kate. Or the fact that Kate was a few French fries short of a happy meal and killed most of the Hale family when Laura broke up with her. Or that Peter Hale had been the one to kill Kate Argent, when the blonde woman overplayed her hand and killed Laura. Not that Stiles cares that Kate had killed Laura, the woman had never been kind to Stiles, ever. And Stiles, in his darkest moments, had thought Laura and Kate deserved each other and that their deaths were fitting for them. His only regret about Laura’s death was how much it hurt Derek.
Derek stood at the edge of the gathering in the dimly lit church, the weight of grief pressing down on him like an anchor. Stiles' coffin, small yet monumental, rested at the front, impossibly heavy with memories, laughter, and unspoken words. The air was thick with sorrow, but beneath it, a simmering anger roiled within Derek.
The whispers of the gathered mourners faded as he scanned the sea of familiar faces—Scott, Allison, Peter, the rest of the pack, all marked by sorrow —but Derek couldn't shake the feeling of betrayal that wormed its way into his heart. As Scott stepped closer, speaking some comforting words that fell flat, Derek felt something snap.
“Get away from me!” Derek growled, shoving Scott away with a force that surprised even himself.
“What the hell, Derek?” Scott exclaimed, stumbling back, confusion and offense etched on his face.
“You think I don’t know what you had to do with Stiles’ death, Scott?” Derek’s voice was low, crackling with fury, and he turned his blazing gaze toward the assembled crowd. “What you all had to do with it?”
Surprised murmurs rippled through the attendees. Stiles, watching in his ethereal state, felt his heart twist. He had always thought Derek was on their side, that he believed the lies they’d painted about Stiles. A part of him had hoped Derek would see through the facade and understand the truth of how they had all betrayed him. He did wonder how Derek found out Scott and Allison had killed him, but in the end, it didn’t matter. Stiles was dead, and that wouldn’t change.
“Derek, this isn’t the time—” Allison started, but he cut her off, his fury building.
“THIS IS EXACTLY the time!” Derek shouted, his voice echoing off the stained glass and wooden beams as the anger spilled over. “Stiles deserves more than this charade! He deserves the truth!”
“Derek, please,” Peter said, stepping forward, trying to calm him. But Derek wasn’t listening. The pain and loss morphed into something vengeful, a raw need to uphold Stiles’ memory in a way few could understand.
“Today, Stiles will have his revenge!” Derek declared, striding with purpose toward an ornate candle stand adorned with the church's symbols. Without a second thought, he shoved it over into the thick drapes nearby. The moment the flame made contact, it caught fire immediately, licking up the fray in a brilliant, horrifying blaze.
Gasps filled the space as the fire roared to life, licking hungrily at the rich fabric. The flickering flames spread fast, illuminating the shocked faces surrounding him.
“Run! Get out!” Kira yelled, but panic had already set in. The cacophony of shouts filled the air as people scrambled toward the exit, only to find the doors firmly locked.
Derek stood amid the chaos, the glow of the flames reflecting on his tortured face. “You wanted your lies to go unanswered? You wanted to forget what you did to him?” he growled, looking at the panicking crowd, drawing strength from the fire's heat. “You wanted to pretend he didn’t exist? Well, he’s not gone, not in here!”
Stiles felt the anger swell within him as well—could they genuinely think they could erase him from their lives so easily? The fire crackled and sizzled, the pungent smell of smoke filling the air, and Stiles focused on Derek, hoping to reach him.
“Derek, stop!” he tried to shout, but it was futile. He was still trapped in the liminal space between the living world and the afterlife, unable to intervene.
Derek turned, his brow furrowing as he felt a shift in the atmosphere. For a brief moment, he could almost feel Stiles beside him, a presence radiating warmth and determination. The fire crackled louder, the heat intensifying as shadows danced across the room, illuminating the faces of those who once meant so much to him.
Scott made a desperate attempt at the door again, pulling at the handle, panic etched across his face. “It’s locked! We can’t get out!” Scott looked back at Derek and saw the smirk on the other alpha’s face and knew this had been a part of Derek’s plan.
“Stiles wouldn’t have wanted this!” Allison screamed over the growing roar of the flames.
‘What would you know about what I wanted, hunting bitch?’ Stiles said. Even though he knew no one could hear him. ‘You were the one who said I was lying about Isaac’s father locking him in a freezer! You caused his death because my dad wouldn’t believe me!’
Once Stiles started to air his grievances, he couldn’t stop, ‘You had your father murder mine when he got too close to the truth of your family’s gun-running business! You got Erica and Boyd banished from Beacon Hills because you hated the fact that Erica got the better of you, time and again. You had Lydia and Jackson kill Liam and had Parrish cover it up! And Scott kills me on your say so! What could you possibly know about what I want!!!!’
The reality of the pack’s situation was dawning on them, the truth rising alongside the fire.
“Stiles deserves to be remembered!” Derek shouted back. “For once, you all owe him the truth!”
As the fire spread, engulfing the church in chaos, Stiles could feel his anger morphing into something else—something far more powerful. The realization flooded him: they had taken his life, yes, but they would never take his truth.
In a burst of energy fueled by regret and love, Stiles found his voice, a feeling echoing around him. The fire shimmered, dancing gracefully, and for a fleeting moment, he felt as if he could be heard, as if he could reach across to Derek.
Derek’s eyes widened, and in that moment, he felt Stiles’ essence flow through the flames, invigorating him with a renewed purpose. Maybe today was about revenge. But perhaps it could be about forgiveness; maybe Stiles could forgive Derek for being such a fool for believing the pack's lies.
Derek turned back to face Scott, his heart heavy but resolute. “We need to own our mistakes, all of us.”
A loud crack like thunder echoed as a beam fell, the flames dancing in feral delight, as if it had become the vehicle for Stiles' rage. In those desperate moments, the pack fought not just against the flames but against the weight of guilt and betrayal.
Derek's laughter rang out, an unhinged sound that cut through the chaos of the burning church. Flames danced wildly in the air, throwing shadows across the terrified faces of those trapped inside. Smoke spiraled upward, thick and acrid, filling their lungs as they clawed at the doors, desperately trying to escape. But here Derek was, standing almost defiantly amid the chaos. He stalked over to Stiles’ coffin, a sense of purpose driving him. This was the moment he’d been waiting for, a moment to reclaim whatever bits of control he could in this spiraling nightmare. With a swift motion, he threw open the coffin lid, and there lay Stiles, looking as if he were asleep, his face bathed in an ethereal glow that contrasted sharply with the inferno around them.
“Just sleep, my spark,” Derek murmured, brushing a stray hair from Stiles's forehead, a mixture of rage and sorrow coursing through him. “Just sleep while they all pay for what they did to you.”
But then a sharp, stinging pain erupted in his back, five distinct points that felt like fire. Derek let out a roar of pain, his eyes glowing; he spun around, his instincts flaring. Scott stood there, eyes wild with fury and desperation. “You deserve to join him, you insane bastard!” Scott spat, his voice strained as he pressed forward through the smoke. “You’ve killed us all by locking us in here!”
Stiles watched in horror as Derek coughed, causing blood to run freely from his wounds. Derek felt the blood pooling in his mouth as he gritted his teeth against the pain. “And you deserve the same end you gave Stiles!” he growled, his feral rage igniting further. With a swift motion, he raked his claws across Scott’s throat, blood spraying in an arc, and feeling the satisfaction of striking back, as the warm blood hit Derek in the face.
Scott stumbled backward, hands flying up to his neck as crimson spilled between his fingers. Shock flickered across his face, transformed by the realization of the consequences his choices brought, he choked out, “Derek, what the hell—”
“Do you think you're innocent in this?” Derek snarled, his voice a low growl as he used the moment to advance further, pushing Scott back against the coffin. “You took him from me! You and the Argents took everything from me!”
Behind them, the flames crackled, leaping higher, licking at the wooden beams above. Derek could feel the heat intensifying, the room becoming a furnace. Around them, other faces blurred in the smoke, as panic and confusion reigned while the reality of their situation settled in. Stiles was gone, and they were all trapped in the aftermath of their own failings.
Scott gasped, eyes widening with panic as he pressed against the coffin, his breath hitching, his healing factor slowly kicking in, yet trying to heal from the smoke inhalation was causing the wound at his neck not to recover as fast as it should have, as the flames crept closer. “You don’t…. have to…. do… this!”
“Yes, I do. No more lies. This is the only ending we all deserve,” Derek spat, his heart racing as the anger pulsed through him, urging him on. He thought back to all the moments they had shared, the laughter, the adventures, and the betrayal that had led to this moment.
“You’re not… thinking…. straight!” Scott choked, desperation bleeding through his voice as he stammered backward, trying to create distance. “Please, let’s…just get out…of here. We…. need to… survive!”
But Derek felt a different kind of clarity wash over him. He had lost Stiles; the betrayal echoed in his mind like an unending nightmare. The flames danced, casting a surreal glow over everything, illuminating Scott’s fear. “Survive?” Derek paused, letting the weight of the word sink in. “What about him? What about Stiles?”
The room was starting to feel like a trap that had been sprung, and they were caught in it, the heat closing in, the smoke thickening. Derek took a deep breath, believing that the fire—though destructive—was, in a way, cleansing, a fitting end to the lies they had lived.
“Just like you left him to die,” Derek hissed, feeling the savage part of himself surging forward. It was all or nothing now. He lunged forward, ready to put an end to this twisted game. But before he could reach Scott, a loud crack echoed above them, and a section of the ceiling gave way, sending debris crashing down. The five points of pain in his back began to thrum with life again, and as Derek collided with Scott, Stiles felt his presence reach out, an echoing call that hung in the air like a whisper. Amidst the turmoil, Stiles felt a surge of energy, a desperate flicker of resolve; he wouldn’t let this madness consume Derek.
“Derek, don’t lose yourself! Not like this!”
The chaos around them mirrored the tumult within Derek, and for a heartbeat, everything hung suspended. Would he let rage consume him, or would he grasp the thread of connection that still bound him to Stiles? In that moment of clarity amid the flames, Derek hesitated. He glanced back at the coffin, the embodiment of everything he cherished and lost, and he heard Stiles’ voice echoing in his mind.
“Don’t let it end like this.”
But Stiles' pleas went unheard, and Derek rushed Scott, claws and fangs bared.
Scott could only stare as the other wolf sliced his healing throat, and this time Scott didn’t fight it; he accepted his death at Derek’s hands. Out of the corner of his eye, before everything went dark. Scott could have sworn he saw Stiles bathed in white light, but that was just the wish-thinking of a dying werewolf, right?
Derek Hale’s heart raced as he looked down at Scott, the other wolf sprawled on the ground, eyes wide and unseeing, reflecting only the flickering flames that danced voraciously overhead. The church, once a sanctuary, had turned into a fiery tomb. The crackling of burning wood mingled with the cries of the living as chaos erupted around them. In their last moments, werewolves and humans alike shared the same fate—consumed by the flames that spared no one.
Derek stumbled back, feeling the weight of grief and regret clawing at his insides. He wanted to deny the reality of it all, but there was no escaping the truth. He had made mistakes, had hurt people he loved—the one he loved most lay encased in a coffin, shrouded in silence. He moved on shaky legs, drawn toward Stiles’ coffin as if it were a beacon in the tempest of sorrow. Each step felt like wading through molasses, the pain of loss dragging him down. The coffin was small, made of polished wood that reflected the dim light beautifully, yet it felt so painfully empty. Looking down, Derek was engulfed by the memory of their laughter, the shared moments that now felt like distant echoes.
“Stiles,” he whispered, his voice trembling. Derek felt a desperation he couldn’t articulate as he unfurled himself over the polished surface, letting his fingers graze the cool wood. “I’m so sorry.”
The grief bubbled within him like molten lava. Each word he spoke felt like a shard of glass cutting through the air, filled with unresolved guilt. With a sudden burst of recklessness, he slipped into the coffin, curling around Stiles’s still form. The world outside faded into nothingness, consumed by the fire and agony of loss.
“If there is an afterlife… I hope to—” Derek’s voice faltered, swallowed by the weight of sorrow, and his eyes began to flutter closed. The darkness enveloped him, pulling him into a cocoon of silence where there were no more regrets, no more battles to fight.
Stiles, in his ghostly form, floated above the scene, watching as Derek surrendered to despair. He had never wanted this to happen—had never wished for Derek to be consumed by guilt. But the moment they had crossed paths in this web of destiny. Everything had spiraled out of control.
Stiles' love had been a beautiful disaster, intertwined with pain and heartache. Derek curled around his lifeless body. Stiles couldn’t ignore the pang of bittersweet longing that washed over him. He remembered their late-night talks, the stolen kisses masked by friends' chatter, lovemaking that had left him breathless, and the countless times Derek had been his rock. Yet, amidst these memories lay the sharp edges of betrayal—the times Derek had believed the lies of others, had pushed him away when Stiles needed him most.
Stiles looked down at Derek, enveloped in a haze of warmth and grief, and felt a twinge of pain as he recalled all the wrongs done between them.
“...If there is an afterlife, let’s not….” he murmured, his voice trailing off the rest unsaid, not knowing if he wanted another chance to love this wolf or never to meet him again, a tear glistening in his ghostly form. The weight of Derek’s choices lingered in the air; choices that had ultimately led to Stiles’ untimely end.
The fire raged on, illuminating the church walls with a haunting glow, while outside, time seemed to pause. The world they had inhabited fell away, consumed not only by the flames but by the memories that would never fade. They were both trapped in a cycle of longing and regret—Stiles, wrestling with the love he had for Derek, and Derek, engulfed in the guilt of a life spent shunning that love.
As the flames crept closer, licking at the edges of the coffin, Stiles reached out with his ethereal -*hand, hovering above Derek’s head. He wanted to reach him, to draw him back from the brink, but knew it was futile. The weight of pain was a burden too heavy for either of them to bear.
With a final glance at the only man he had ever truly loved, Stiles felt the tug of fate pulling him away. “My wolf,” he whispered, a gentle farewell hanging in the smoky air as he drifted further into the unknown. With that, Stiles felt himself slowly fade, a gentle whisper of presence lingering still, a reminder that even in death, they were forever intertwined.
Time stood still for Derek, enveloped in darkness, unaware of the eternal farewell that lingered just beyond his consciousness. And as the flames spread, he remained in that coffin, empty but for the memories—the love—the loss, destined to linger forever in the hope that second chances were a thing granted in the afterlife.