Title: My Head is an Animal - Side A

Author: ANTchan

Fandom: Teen Wolf

Rating/Genre: Romance/T

Pairings: Derek Hale/Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski

Summary: There's a lot of things John Stilinski wants. He wants his family safe, he wants people to stop dropping violently dead in his town, and most importantly, he wants his son to stop. Lying. To him. But John can't have everything he wants. So he's forced to chase after his son and his almost-son and do his best to keep them safe, even if that means running into the town's sweetheart-turned-delinquent, Derek Hale, more times than he's comfortable with.

OR the s2 AU where Sheriff Stilinski accidentally adopts a werewolf pack.

Side A - The wolf and I, we share the same cold meal

Chapter 6

Before:

Side B, Ch4

He knew it. He knew it. He should have known. Derek should have…

"I've done everything you asked of me!" Scott hisses to Gerard. Gerard.

Jackson Whittemore is dead. A child is dead, murdered right in front of John and everyone on that field, and no one saw a damned thing. That should be bad enough. That should be the height of John's current worries. But it's barely even a fraction of it.

His son is missing. Stiles is nowhere to be found and no matter what Scott or Isaac Lahey tell him, it's not because his son is hiding out somewhere because of stage fright. They know something - it's painfully obvious to see. Scott has always been a terrible liar.

And John is so goddamn sick of these kids lying to him.

Luckily, he knows just who to start with.

He catches a glimpse of Derek in the school's parking lot. Surprise, surprise. Derek Hale has shown up at another crime scene he has no business being at. "Goddamnit, son," he mutters through gritted teeth and begins to make his way through the crowd. Derek is speaking with a dark-haired man, whose back is to John as he approaches. He catches Derek's eyes over the man's shoulder, but both men tense at the same time. He barely catches Derek's mouth forming the word "leave," and his unknown companion all but melts into the crowd.

John spies the straight line of the man's nose and the angle of his jaw, just enough of a hint of a profile that he stops short.

Was that- No. No, definitely not.

"I've had enough of this bullshit," John all but shouts instead. Derek doesn't quite flinch, but he looks for all the world like he'd much rather the ground open up and swallow him. "You are not supposed to be anywhere near here."

"I came to see Isaac's game…" is the man's utterly weak protest.

"Don't start with that." He points imperiously at this man, this foolish boy. "We both know that's a lie, and you know what, Derek? I'm fucking sick hearing lies. My son has gone missing and you've got the nerve to lie to my face? You promised me, Derek!"

At the very least, Derek seems affected by his tirade. Even remorseful - not that it matters in the long run; remorseful or not, Derek Hale still continues on with his shady business that's so strange John can't even put a name to it yet. "It wasn't me," he croaks out. "You have to believe me, I wouldn't hurt Stiles." It's actually a passable attempt at imploring.

"But you know something."

Derek is tellingly silent for a moment. And John wonders how this man has ever gotten away with anything. He may not babble or stumble over his lies like both of John's boys do, but his tells are obvious all the same. There's no deception in his stony silence whatsoever. "Boyd and Erica have gone missing," Derek admits at length. "I know it's connected with what happened tonight. That's why I'm here."

If John thinks to wait for an elaboration on that - on who killed Jackson Whittemore, on who has taken Stiles, it becomes a futile effort. Because Derek says nothing more on the matter. "So Stiles was taken," he insists.

"Yes."

"Okay. ...Okay." He can work with that. He will solve whatever Derek is involved in, but right now this is enough. "Do you know where?"

Derek shakes his head, dashing any hopes John had of a quick resolution to this. "But I'll help look for him, if you'll help me look for Erica and Boyd," he says.

Well, maybe John can get through to this boy after all.

They agree to split up in their search. Derek advises him to pay special attention to the neighborhoods with access to the Preserve and any of the abandoned industry yards. Exactly why is only met with vexing silence. And while John desperately wants to shake the man until he talks, he'll take that advice if it helps him find his son faster.

He drives around for nearly two hours with little to show for it. It had been a long shot, going out with a search criteria that included " three missing teens" and "anything out of place." But still John continues to patrol the streets of Beacon Hills. The idea of doing anything else, of sitting at his desk at the station or, even worse, at home only makes him feel ill.

John's taking Route 32 along the edge of the Preserve when the howling starts. It's so loud that he hears it over the cruiser's engine, almost making him put on the brakes.

Wolves? In California? No, that's impossible. Coyotes, maybe. Or even some hounds that have gotten lost in the Preserve. But it's louder than a family of coyotes or a couple of lost dogs, and sounds like more of them. And they're close.

Two figures burst from the treeline, and John nearly swerves left of center in shock. The headlights illuminate the pair for a brief instant. And then he really does slam on the brakes.

It's Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd.

They look ready to bolt as John pulls the cruiser over, cringing away from the bright headlights. Now that he's closer, John can see just how terrified they are, clinging to each other as if fighting to push the other behind them. Shaking, panicking. Their clothes are torn.

A thousand awful scenarios leap into John's mind as he climbs out of his car. "Are you kids hurt?" he calls to them.

At least some of the fear seems to ease at his voice. "M-Mister Stilinski?" Erica calls back.

"It's me. Do I need to call an ambulance?" He moves a few steps out of the way of the glare of the headlights, if for no other reason than to reassure the obviously frightened teenagers. "Are you alright?"

Something moves in the forest off to their right.

Their bodies snap into taut lines of tension, heads whipping to stare into the dark forest mere yards from them. The forest is eerily silent.

"Get in the car," John quietly orders them, his eyes trained on the treeline. The teens hesitate for barely a moment before ducking behind him towards his cruiser. He hears them climb into the backseat, a flurry of fearful whispers. John stays where he is, all of his senses honed on the shadowed forest, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He can't see anything past the first foot of underbrush. But every instinct he has tells him that something is out there. His hand lowers to his holster, flicking it open.

"Sheriff," Boyd calls from the car. "Sheriff Stilinski, please get in the car."

"Please," Erica begs. Their voices are desperate, high-pitched and afraid. "Please."

John lingers for another moment, breaking out in chills, before he thinks better of it. "...Yeah. Yeah, okay," he concedes, and hurries back into the driver's seat. The cruiser is swung around with more force than is probably necessary, and soon they're speeding off back towards Beacon Hills.

There's only the sound of the wind whipping past the car outside. John wonders, for a dizzying instant, if he'd somehow just imagined the howling.

But there are two scared, hurt teens huddled in his backseat. John watches them in the rearview mirror. They shake and cling to each other, sometimes their mouths move in tense whispers. Their faces are drawn and dirt-smudged. And while John can't see any wounds, they move as if they're both in pain, and there are faint bloodstains on their ripped clothes.

"Should I take you both to the hospital?"

The pair shake their heads at him.

"You're not hurt?"

"No, sir," Boyd answers. John wants to see a lie there, but there's only fear.

"Alright… want me to take you both home then?"

"No!" This time the answer comes from both of them in matching panicked cries.

"Sheriff, please. I don't want them to see-" Erica stammers, hands tucked close to her chest protectively. "They'll follow us home. I can't- Our families-" She takes a deep breath, and John can physically see her pulling herself together. "We need to see Derek."

And John really shouldn't be surprised by that anymore, that these kids all answer to Derek. And yet it's surprise and horror that fills him. "Who's following you?" he asks. That's the most pressing matter. He can sit them all down and order them to give him some goddamn answers when everyone is out of danger.

Including his son.

The teenagers are frustratingly silent to his question. It seems to be another thing they've picked up from Derek Hale - the inability to share important information. If John wasn't so worried about them, he might have considered taking them straight down to the station for some real questioning.

"Did Stiles tell you to come get us? Did he make it out?" Vernon Boyd's hesitant questions have John swiveling around in the driver's seat even before he finishes.

"Were you with my son?" John asks, his voice low. When he feels the lapse back into silence coming, he grits his teeth. "Listen to me. I don't want lies and I don't want silence. I need to find my son. Do you know where Stiles is?"

Boyd's jaw clenches, and John can see the conflict being worked out in his face. "They let him go before we got out," the boy says at last. "They said they were letting him go. You haven't…" And now he looks truly worried, which does nothing to ease the panic that is rising in John's throat. "You haven't found him yet?"

This time it's John that falls into telling silence. In the rearview mirror he can see the two of them hunch closer together, sharing glances that are now dreadful and far, far too old on their teenage faces. John's hands are shaking on the steering wheel.

And then his phone rings, startling all three of them.

"Stilinski," he grunts after fumbling to retrieve the phone from his coat.

"I found him." Hale's curt voice in his ear sends his heart rocketing, doing a dizzying swoop that actually hurts.

"Stiles?"

Derek hums a low affirmative, but it's not a happy sound.

"Where?" he chokes out.

"Greenvale Park," Derek says roughly. And then he utters the words that might as well drag the soul from his body: "He's hurt, Sheriff." His voice is thick when he says it, as if each word is like a knife between his ribs. But John barely registers it over the sudden rush of blood in his ears.

"I'll be there," he says, and hangs up without further warning. The phone is carelessly tossed onto the passenger seat. He flicks the sirens on and guns the engine. "Alright back there," he says over his shoulder. "Hold on. We have a detour to make."

The questions, he decides, can be answered later.

Greenvale is nearly pitch black at this time of night. The city park is lit by only a few lamps, and is generally deserted after sunset. The Preserve and the more abandoned sections of the industrial districts are more attractive to both the nefarious population and to teenagers looking for stupid thrills after curfew, and so the now-familiar black Camaro is easy to spot in the otherwise empty visitor's lot. It's not until he rolls the cruiser up alongside it that he sees its driver. And his son.

Stiles is sitting hunched against the concrete garden box that's across from the cars. He's still in his lacrosse uniform, a detail that somehow baffles John, as if it's unthinkable that Stiles has only been missing for a few hours. Derek is a black shape crouching in front of him, invisible until the cruiser floods the area with light. They might have been talking, John considers distractedly as he throws the car into park. But they're… close. They're in each other's space.

And there's the fact that Derek has a hand cupped around the back of Stiles' neck.

The sight has John frowning as he lets Boyd and Erica out of the back. It's not the first time he's seen casual, intimate touches between his son and Derek. He's not sure he would call it a problem by itself. But considering how Stiles keeps insisting that he's not wrapped up in whatever mess Hale is in…

Well okay, it is a problem.

It's not until John moves closer that Stiles raises his head, and he gets a good look at his son's face. That stops him in his tracks. He looks even paler than usual in the car's headlights. It makes the bloody side of his face stand out so much more. His cheek is scraped and inflamed, blood pooling under the skin where it hasn't broken. It goes from his brow all the way to his jaw, like someone has struck him repeatedly. Stiles is keeping that eye closed, and at best it's going to be a horrible black eye in a few hours. At worst… John doesn't even want to think about it. His lip is split in more than one place on that side, and there's dried blood that has trickled from his nose all the way down to his chin.

Stiles' expression pulls tight in pain as he stands, favoring his side like his ribs are hurting him. Derek rises with him, still standing only a step away, as if he's ready to catch the boy if his legs give out. And John cannot be blamed for how his throat goes tight. Or how the anger and the pain chokes him for a moment.

"Hey, Dad," Stiles rasps.

Something in him breaks, and he lunges forward to pull Stiles into a hug, mumbling an apology when his son winces in pain. He wants to cry. He wants to rage. But mostly he just wants to take his son home and lock all the doors - keep him safe.

"Who did this?" he hisses through clenched teeth. He reaches out to cup Stiles' chin, gently examining the scrapes and forming bruises and praying that nothing's broken.

Stiles' eyes go down and away. It throws the injured side of his face into even starker contrast with his pale skin and glassy eyes. "There… There were these guys, you know? From the other team. They were pissed off and sore over the game. And I was running my mouth, y'know? Like always."

"Stiles," he growls in warning. All it is is another lie. There'd been no time between the game ending in Jackson Whittemore's death and Stiles going missing for members of the opposing team to grab anyone, let alone three teenagers. And especially not to keep them captive for hours.

"Dad, seriously-"

"So they grabbed you, huh? And Mister Boyd? And Miss Reyes?" Stiles isn't the only one that flinches. But, predictably, no one offers an explanation. And just like that the rage comes pouring out of his mouth, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw starts to ache. "I swear, I'm going to find out who did this, and I'm going to pistol whip those sick bastards so hard they won't know what day it is-"

"Dad!" Stiles' voice pitches high. "Dad, I'm okay," he pleads.

"You are not- okay, Stiles." And to John's horror, his voice cracks around the words. "Look at you. You're not okay."

Stiles' eyes take on a telling wet gleam, and it reminds John so much of the little boy he'd scoop up in his arms to soothe skinned knees and bumped heads. He wants to badly to do it now, but there's so many things in the way. Too many secrets and too many lies. Including the one's spewing from his son's mouth even now. "I will be. I just wanna go home."

"We should be taking you to a hospital."

"It's not that serious. I promise. It's just a few bumps and bruises."

John relents, not because he wants to, but because he's just tired of fighting. "Okay. But I'm going to have Melissa look at you when we get home. Got it?"

He relieved when Stiles doesn't fight him on that one, only nodding with a soft, "Okay, Dad." He slips past John, walking stiffly towards his classmates. Erica is the first to reach him, stepping forward and pulling him into a hug that makes Stiles suck in a sharp breath that probably hurts just as much as the embrace does.

"Sorry," Erica mumbles into his shoulder. She loosens her grip only fractionally.

"Nah," Stiles huffs back. "S'okay. I'm pretty sturdy for being the squishy one. Gotta show some love for Catwoman, right?" He steps out of the girls arms, his eyes turning to Boyd. He seems to move before his thoughts catch up with him, as Stiles is wont to do, and he throws an arm around the taller boy's shoulders. Both of them stiffen, for about half a moment. And then Boyd carefully wraps an arm around Stiles' back for a decidedly awkward squeeze.

"Uh." Stiles clears his throat as he steps back. "You guys okay? I was going to… I tried to call for help after they threw me out, but, y'know." He waves his hand, and with an icy jolt John can see that his fingers are stiff and bloody, the faintest scrape of a shoe tread pressed into the back of his hand.

"We're okay," Erica says quietly. Her mouth opens, and closes the instant her eyes land on John. "We… um, one of them- he let us go."

"He-?" Predictably, Stiles goes quiet as well once he remembers John is there. He turns back to Erica and his hands to a series of gestures that… don't seem to mean anything. "Really?" he says in a pseudo-whisper. "He just let you go."

"He said 'you'd be surprised what side you end up on,'" the girl replies.

"Oh. Good. Great. Does he want point for not being as much of an asshole as he usually is?"

Do they think they're being subtle?

"Alright, enough," John declares irritably. "Everyone pack up. You'll be heading to my place tonight." His words are met with silent stares. "If Mister Boyd and Miss Reyes refuse to go home, I'm not letting them roam the streets. And no, Derek, you cannot keep them tonight." The young man's shoulders hunch, looking particularly guilty. "You'll be staying with me. We'll call your parents in the morning. Got it?"

They nod, eyes downcast. None of them, it seems, want to look him in the eye.

Horrible liars. The lot of them.

John lets Erica and Boyd pile into Derek's backseat, because he's sure his silent glares and express instructions to follow him home are enough to keep Derek from running off with the two teens. The ride back to the house is awkward to say the least. Stiles slumps against the door, visibly drawing in on himself for the interrogation he knows is coming. And John doesn't know how to ask without getting lies or making his son shut down entirely in return. So he refrains from the questions buzzing incessantly around his head. Leaving them to sit in painful silence.

'Who hurt you like this?' he wants to ask Stiles, over and over again until Stiles actually gives him an answer. 'Just what have you gotten mixed up in? How does it connect to the murders - not just the ones perpetrated by Matt Daehler, but the ones since the beginning of the year as well?'

He's not going to get any of those answers, he knows that. At the very least, the suspicion that Stiles was involved with Matt Daehler has been long put to rest. If anything Stiles and Scott had seemed interested in apprehending the other boy. At first, it'd only seemed like one of their invasive fascinations with a case involving their classmates. But now...

Now John wishes he had put his foot down harder, and kept them completely out of the case.

Once home, he helps Stiles from the car, wincing in worry and sympathy as his son's face goes bone white with pain. "It's okay, Dad," he soothes, as if John is the one who needs comforting. "It's just sore."

His voices lodges in his throat, making arguing difficult. It's all he can do to hover at Stiles' side as they all head up the front steps and into the house. Their guests haven't said a word since getting out of Derek's Camaro. They stand in the doorway once inside, quiet and watchful. John would call them stoic, if not for the fact that Boyd and Erica keep huddling into Derek's space.

They continue to hover even as John beckons them into the living room, where he goes about fixing them places to sleep. Erica can easily fit into Stiles' sleepwear, but Boyd is a bit harder to provide for, being both broader and taller than John has ever been. He ends up giving the boy the biggest pair of sleep pants he owns in hopes that it will fit comfortably.

"Thank you," Boyd murmurs, with this awed little gleam in his eye. As if John has offered him something much more valuable than a place to sleep for the night. Erica has the same look reflected in her eyes when John presents her with her borrowed sleepwear. The pair of them share a glance with Derek, as if John is a strange mystery the other man can somehow solve.

John, overwhelmed with worry and questions, leaves them to puzzle it out, whatever it is.

Melissa isn't answering her phone - odd, since she's not on shift. He'd just seen her at the lacrosse game. Two tries later and still nothing, John settles for leaving her a short voicemail for her to call him as soon as possible and tries to squash the anxiety knotting in his stomach.

"Bullshit. I'm fine," Stiles' low hiss comes from the living room.

"Stiles." And that's Derek, admonishing his son in a tone that he recognizes from his own - part weary exasperation, part threat. "You're not going anywhere."

"Uh. Right. Okay, sure. Keep telling yourself that, big guy."

"I'm serious."

"Yeah, I can tell. You've got that surly, danger brow thing going on there. It doesn't mean you're getting what you want. I'm fine."

"I wouldn't call this… fine," Erica says next. "Boyd and I were there, remember? This looks pretty bad, Stiles."

"He hurt you to prove a point, Stiles," Derek begins again.

But this time Stiles cuts him off, his voice harsh and desperate in a way that John hasn't heard in years. "You seriously think this was meant to hurt me-?!"

He returns to the living room to find his son shirtless and going through the contents of their first aid kit. They all go quiet the moment he enters the room, but that's not what has John pulling up short - has icy fury curling around his heart all over again. There are forming bruises all along Stiles' side. Nasty, painful looking things that speak of bruised ribs, if not fractured ones, and will be horrifying and dark come morning. And, as John takes a subtle step to the side, a vivid red boot print squarely between his shoulder blades.

It's a man's footprint. Too large for a teenage boy, unless they're talking about one who's matured fast.

But John is pretty sure the teenage style runs more towards combat boots these days, and not pointed toe boots.

Stiles has a packaged alcohol wipe between his teeth, in the process of passing a rolls of bandages, gauze pads, and an ointment tube to Boyd. His face is clean of blood now, revealing the inflamed, raw skin. Erica is standing beside him with a pack of frozen vegetables and a towel, face drawn and eyes sharp. He watches with a kind of sick fascination as his son cleans the scrapes on his face and hands, taking the burn of the alcohol with only a mild hiss, and starts slather the ointment on the broken skin and bandage them with ease.

Stiles is… frighteningly proficient at patching himself up. And not just in a "I learned how to ice sore muscles after practice" sort of way. John dreads to consider where he learned it.

Through it all, Derek paces the length of the living room, shoulders hunched and hackles raised. His body is a line of tension. An anxious predator. His eyes flick from the Stiles, Boyd, and Erica, to John, to the windows and back again. Over and over in an endless cycle. As if he's expecting something horrible to come crashing through the living room windows.

But John can't help but notice the way Derek, even as he paces, never seems to stray far from the teens for long. Whenever he stops by them, he hovers, always reaching out to squeeze Erica's shoulder or Boyd's arm, or even just the briefest brush of a touch against their sleeves. John catches him reaching out to Stiles on one pass, but the move is quickly aborted, Derek's hand curling into fist and returning to his side as if he's been stung. It's a peculiar little sequence that Stiles doesn't even appear to notice - too busy cursing under his breath as he fiddles with wrapping his hand.

John watches it all without a word, mind fitting his previous observations together and coming up with a new question:

Just what is Derek's relationship with his son?

'Ah, shit,' he thinks despairingly. It's just one more thing to add to the growing pile of topics he and Stiles need to have an honest discussion about. This one no less distressing than the last.

Derek's phone chimes as things are starting to settle down. The simple sound has all the effect of sucking the air out of the room. The kids go tense, watching avidly as the older man slips the phone from his pocket and glares at the screen for a moment. He taps something out, his jaw clenching into a painfully taut line.

"I have to go," he says evenly.

No one asks him where or why. John figures they don't have to at this point. Whatever strange business they're all involved in isn't done for the night.

"Son," John says wearily. "Don't let anyone catch you out tonight."

Derek flinches as violently as if John has struck him.

"My deputies are out looking for whoever killed Jackson Whittemore," he continues. His meaning is clear: if Derek is arrested for whatever nefarious shit he's going off to do, John isn't going to protect him.

Derek stuffs his hands into his pocket, straightening his stance defensively. "Yes, sir. Thanks… for looking after them," he ventures after a length of silence.

'Not doing this for you,' John wants to reply. At least… it would only be half a lie. He watches Derek the whole way out, even as that showy Camaro pulls out onto the street. After that, the house is painfully silent. The kids don't make a sound, just stare out the window even after Derek's car is long gone.

"Well," he attempts to break the silence, "I can order us some pizza. It's late, but you three could use some food, I bet."

No one answers him.

"Just, uh, get comfortable. I'll go place the order."

"You'd better be ordering veggie pizza for yourself!" Stiles calls as he leaves the room.

Typical. Beaten and bloody and still a mother hen. "Whatever, kid."

He can hear them talking in hushed tones while he's on the phone, too quiet for him to make out anything. The tv comes on, and everything quiets down. At first, John thinks nothing more of it.

And then, John realizes a little too late, it's too quiet.

By the time John comes back into the living room, they're already gone. Only empty space greets him.

He heaves a sigh.

"Shit."

Next:

Side B, Ch5

Everything about the rest of the evening is a blur. Until it all comes to a crashing halt, with Gerard on his deathbed, the kanima impaled on his claws, Jackson Whittemore's miraculous revival and Scott…

Scott. Fuck.

Just thinking his name has Derek feeling ill all over again.

End Chapter 6. Walk on, Traveler of Worlds.