A/N: sorry this is, yet again, horrendously late. i've sort of been phasing out my FFN account since i don't get nearly the same response here for my TW fics as i used to my Merlin ones, lol, while i have the opposite reaction on my AO3 account. so when i get back into writing Merlin stuff i'll post it here. otherwise look for me as clotpolesonly on AO3! =)

but this one's finally done! enjoy the last chapter!

Stiles' tattoos were sore to the touch. It was a very strange sensation and not one he had ever experienced before, but then he had never overextended his magic to that extent either.

Thankfully the initial fainting spell had only lasted a few minutes. He'd come to in the back of the Impala, wedged into the much too small space between Allison and the door and with Chris on her other side, still unresponsive. Allison had let go of her father's hand just long enough to hug Stiles and call him many colorful names for daring to almost die when she wasn't near enough to have his back.

She hadn't cried though, not even when Stiles had been too exhausted and woozy to contribute to the re-telling of events. She hadn't cried when they got Chris to the hospital and bullshitted through some story that wouldn't get the cops called on them. She hadn't cried as they hooked Chris up to a half a dozen IVs, treating him for dehydration and malnutrition. She hadn't cried when a nurse insisted on treating Stiles for the same, even though he knew his own condition was of a different nature.

It wasn't until Chris had woken up—when Allison's name was the first off his lips, followed immediately by Victoria's because, in his perfect world, his wife was still alive—that she finally broke. Stiles had held her after Chris had fallen into a healthy sleep, petting her hair and hoping she wouldn't notice how heavily he was leaning on her to stay upright.

Stiles had managed to hold onto consciousness until he got back to the motel, he and the brothers leaving Allison at the hospital with her dad. He'd barely kicked off his boots and shucked out of his jeans before he'd collapsed into bed and slept for nineteen hours straight.

He had a vague memory of waking up after that, even being upright long enough to pee, down a granola bar and a gatorade, and be shepherded outside. He thought he remembered Dean's voice, close and sounding very concerned, but he might have dreamed that part.

Now he was awake again, but for real this time. He felt like he'd barely slept at all, still wiped and completely out of magic for at least another day or two, and the tattooed sigils that were there to enhance his spark felt like they'd been rubbed raw by what he'd done. He'd have to ask Deaton why that was when he got back.

He was once again in the Impala, laid out in the backseat that felt positively spacious now that he had it all to himself. Someone must have manhandled him out to the car in that brief period of almost-lucidity. A quick glimpse of a road sign as it flew past the window at 80mph told Stiles they were just a few miles outside of Beacon Hills, which meant he had slept for another seven and a half hours, which made for a total of twenty-six and a half. That explained why he was so damn hungry, but that could wait.

He didn't bother to sit up properly until they were passing the city line, using that time to order his thoughts and get himself running at full capacity again. After everything that had gone down in Sutter Creek, during the final boss battle and especially after it, he had plenty to think about.

Stiles waited until they were pulling into the Argent's apartment complex parking lot before he sat up to prop his chin on the back of Dean's seat and say, "Heya, fellas! How's it going?"

Dean seemed to be very easily startled for a hunter, or maybe it was only Stiles that could catch him off guard like this. Either way he cursed up a storm as he threw the car in park, then shoved his way out the door with a huff.

Stiles followed him out, every underused muscle creaking as he stretched hard enough to make himself a little lightheaded. It felt good though, and it felt even better opening his eyes to find Dean's focused on where his shirt had ridden up with the motion. Stiles tugged his shirt back down, blocking Dean's view, and leaned back against the trunk as Sam came around the other side to clap him on the shoulder.

"You're alright!" Sam said with a huge grin. "I mean, sure, Allison told us you'd sleep it off eventually, but you really gave us a scare back there."

Stiles waved a hand, dismissing his concern.

"Nah, I'm fine," he said. "Starving though. I'll probably eat my dad out of house and home later today, maybe take another eight hour nap before bedtime, but I'll be fine by tomorrow."

"I'm glad." Sam squeezed his shoulder, giving him a little shake, and the look on his face was downright fond. "That was a hell of a thing you did back there, Stiles. I had no idea sparks were so powerful."

"Well, 'modesty' is my middle name," Stiles said, as if he'd had any idea that he was actually capable of something like that. Deaton had always said he was strong, true, but Stiles had sort of taken that as a pat on the head, just reassurance to keep him from giving up on his training every time he got frustrated. Apparently the vet had actually been serious about it.

"Is it?" Dean asked, looking innocently surprised. "I would've thought 'reckless' or maybe 'has no self preservation instinct.'"

A slow smile crept up on Stiles' face.

"Aw, Dean, sweetheart," he said, enjoying the way Dean made a noise of indignant protest at the pet name. "Do I detect a hint of concern?"

"You know what?" Sam said quickly. "I'm gonna go...call Bobby." He pulled out his phone and gave it a little shake, thumbing over his shoulder toward the other side of the empty parking lot. "See if he...has a job for us, or...something."

Sam turned on a dime and walked away, more quickly than was probably warranted, and left the two of them behind. Dean watched him go with a tightly clenched jaw, like he was considering calling his brother out on what he was doing. Stiles just let him go; he couldn't say he didn't appreciate the opportunity to talk to Dean alone. He didn't break the silence himself though, just waited to see what it was that Dean had to say to him.

"Did you really think you could do it?" is what Dean came out with, his voice gruff and quiet after the long, silent moment. Stiles didn't need to ask what he meant.

"'Course I did," he said easily. "Wouldn't've done it otherwise."

Dean shook his head, narrowed eyes never leaving Stiles' face. His expression was hard to read, something caught between anger and what almost seemed like disappointment. It made Stiles want to squirm and fidget, made him feel naked in a way he hadn't even back in the motel room with two pairs of eyes on his bare chest.

"Not what I meant," Dean said. "Let me rephrase: did you really think you would survive it?"

Stiles licked his lips, but his mouth was dry so it didn't do much. Suddenly he was glad there were no werewolves around because his heartbeat was going crazy and he wasn't even sure why. He was fairly certain it wasn't over the reminder of his near-death experience though, which just left the way that Dean's voice rumbled through his chest to take up residence there.

"Maybe not," Stiles said into the heavy silence that had fallen between them, heavy with something he didn't know how to name.

He felt like maybe it should've cost him to admit that, but Dean already knew. He had known as soon as Stiles had held out his hands in that warehouse; it had been there in his eyes when he'd called Stiles' name. There was nothing to lose here by being honest, not when his feelings had already been made pretty damn clear.

"Maybe I didn't expect to come out the other side," Stiles said with a shrug that was probably more cavalier than the statement warranted, but it was far from the first time he'd had that thought anyway. "But you would have."

Dean was already shaking his head again, frowning like he didn't understand, like it wasn't obvious what Stiles wasn't saying here. He opened his mouth, probably to say something noble and self-effacing, but Stiles cut him off.

"Don't say you're not worth it. Pretty sure I get to decide that."

"You don't get to decide my worth," Dean said, almost indignant, and Stiles chuckled.

"Not objectively, no," he allowed. "But I do get to decide what you're worth to me."

Stiles could see it when the words clicked in Dean's head, when he really heard them and understood what they meant: that Stiles thought Dean was worth dying for. Dean's eyes widened and his throat worked around a swallow. He shifted on his feet. His hands flexed at his sides, twitching open and closed before dragging open palms up his thighs.

"You, uh—" He stopped to clear his throat. "You barely know me. Why would you—"

"Eight hours trapped in a car with someone is rarely a pleasant endeavor," Stiles said, giving the Impala at his back and affectionate pat, "but it is a pretty good way to get the measure of a man, I'd say. And by the same token, why do you care so much if I live or die?"

Dean's open mouth snapped closed and, honestly, his lack of a comeback was practically a return confession. Stiles pushed himself off the car and moved closer. Dean didn't step back, just watched Stiles cautiously. He stayed perfectly still even as Stiles moved closer yet, right up into Dean's space until they were mere inches apart. This near, Stiles could smell Dean's aftershave, a hint of spice that lingered on his skin long past the point when smooth cheek gave way to stubble.

Dean licked his lips, leaving them wet and glistening, and that was all it took to cut through Stiles' half-thought out plan to entice Dean into making the first move. It wasn't some dramatic, passionate kiss right off a movie screen or anything, but it still sent tingles down Stiles' spine when Dean gasped against his mouth and opened up for him.

When he pulled back, Dean's eyes were still closed, his lips red and kiss-swollen. Before Stiles had a chance to feel too smug about it, he caught a glimpse of movement over Dean's shoulder and looked back to see Sam watching them from across the parking lot. He was punching the air in triumph, talking excitedly on the phone, and Stiles was willing to bet it was Allison on the other end of the line.

As much as he appreciated Sam's stamp of approval on this, Dean's brother was a sobering reminder of who Dean was, what he did. He was a hunter. His life was a nomadic one, always on the road, always searching for the next case, the next hunt, the next monster. And yeah, maybe Stiles didn't know Dean all that well, but he knew Dean would never be satisfied with anything less.

Stiles stepped back to lean on the car again, hands shoved in his pockets. It took Dean a moment to rejoin the world, which had Stiles smirking and mentally patting himself on the back for a man well kissed, but when he did he gave himself a shake and cleared his throat again.

"Well," he said, but he was apparently too flustered to follow it up with anything.

How a grown man strong and fierce enough to take a vamp's head off its shoulders with one swing could look so cute was a mystery, but apparently it was Stiles' new kink. He sort of wanted to see it every day, but he knew better. Sam was still hovering on the far side of the lot, pretending to be occupied but really just waiting for their private conversation to be over.

Stiles didn't want it to be over, not when it was such a moment—the kind they weren't guaranteed to have again—but it couldn't last. And he should probably put Dean out of his awkwardness-induced misery.

"So, you and Sam," he said finally. "You'll be hitting the road now, right?"

Dean looked surprised, like he'd somehow forgotten that he lived out of his car with his little brother. He even looked over his shoulder at Sam, and when he turned back, that pretty mouth of his was turned down at the corners.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I guess we will."

Stiles nodded. Idly, he scuffed the toe of his boot across the asphalt. A pebble went skittering in its wake, coming to rest at Dean's feet instead.

"My classes start back up in a week or two," Stiles said abruptly. "But winter break isn't too far off. And it's not like I'm overbooked on weekends either."

Dean gave him a blank look, obviously confused by the non sequitur. "For what?"

"For when you come back and visit me," Stiles told him, eyebrows raised. "Duh."

"Oh, right, of course," Dean said obediently. He was fighting a smile though, Stiles was sure of it, and as he sauntered forward, the uncertainty had disappeared from his movements. "You'll be waiting for me, will you?"

"I might could be persuaded to pencil you in once in a while," Stiles said, reaching out to hook his fingers through Dean's belt loops and tug him in further. Dean came willingly, smirking down at him. "And you know," Stiles went on, "there's always spring break. Who knows? Maybe I'll ride with you for a while, offer up my skills for a case or two."

"You mean your spark skills or your tripping-over-air-in-the-middle-of-a-mission skills?" Dean asked, all faux innocence and curiosity. He yelped with Stiles pinched his side in retaliation, but he was laughing anyway.

"Hey, we both know who carried that mission," Stiles protested. "And it was me, thank you very much. I was the real hero there."

"I don't know about that," Dean said. Then his face went suddenly stern. "But Stiles, I swear to god: you try to pull a stunt a like that again and even if you don't die, I will kill you myself."

"That is unreasonable and ultimately counterproductive," Stiles felt compelled to point out. "But if you can keep yourself out of immediate danger, then I can promise I won't need to resort to drastic measures."

Dean rolled his eyes. "That's as good as I'm gonna get from you, isn't it?"

"Oh, you wanna get something good?" Stiles asked, quirking an eyebrow at him and manfully resisting the urge to squeeze his ass. "I can give it to you real good."

He was rewarded with another of those beautiful flushes of color on Dean's cheeks. It was immensely gratifying, and Stiles was just about to keep teasing, or maybe go for that ass squeeze after all, when a cleared throat sounded. Sam was approaching with a grimace on his face and his phone held up in the air.

"Hate to interrupt your moment," he said to Dean, "but it turns out Bobby does actually have a case for us. Nearby and sort of urgent."

Dean turned back to Stiles with a sigh, an apology written all over his face, but Stiles didn't need to hear it. He just waved a hand.

"Go on," he said. "Go save lives and gank things and whatever. Do your thing."

Dean cocked his head to the side.

"Just like that, huh?" he asked. "No weeping and wailing? No lamenting our star-crossed circumstances? No being offended that the job takes top billing?"

Stiles had to laugh at that.

"I try to keep my weeping and wailing to a minimum, and the lamenting stays behind closed doors," he assured him. "Besides, I'm aware of my own brand of animal magnetism. I know you'll be back."

"God help me," Dean muttered, "but I think I will."

Sam, around the other side of the car now and supposedly pretending not to listen in, coughed in a way that was either a hint that they needed to finish this up or a way of hiding a laugh. Either way, Dean finally stepped back. Stiles kept a hold of his belt loops until the last minute, finally releasing him a sigh. He pushed off the Impala, throwing a nod to Sam, and turned back to Dean one more time.

"Time for you to go," he said plainly, ignoring the sad ache in his chest. It wasn't the worst feeling, honestly, not when he knew this wasn't the end of it. "How 'bout a kiss for the road?"

Smiling, Dean leaned in to press their lips together, one hand warm and wide on Stiles' waist and the other cupping his cheek. Stiles hummed into it contentedly. Dean's thumb trailed across his jaw as he pulled back, a gentle touch that made Stiles' shiver.

"See you around, kid," Dean said.

He got as far as opening the Impala's driver-side door before Stiles was reeling him back in, pressing him up against the car and kissing the everloving daylights out of him. He made a noise of protest when Stiles finally came up for air, looking nothing short of stunned.

"Okay, two for the road then," he said, breathless and agreeable.

Stiles bumped their noses together and couldn't fight the urge to nip at Dean's upper lip.

"The first one was for the road," he said. "This one was just for me."

All Dean could do was nod. When Stiles released him, falling back to give him room to breathe, Dean collapsed into his seat and started the car up. Neither of them said anything else; they'd said more than enough already, and anything else they might have wanted each other to know didn't need words anyway. There'd be time for all that later.

Stiles watched them drive away, a smile on his face. And when he made for the jeep, ready to go home for some well-earned rest and relaxation, there was a definite spring in his step. As he climbed in behind the wheel, he pulled out his phone to find two text messages from Allison, timestamped a few minutes ago.

[Sam says you got some tongue, congrats XD]

[so when do you get to touch the butt?]

Stiles snorted, shaking his head as he tucked the phone away. He didn't have an answer for her just yet, but he didn't think he'd be wrong in saying it wouldn't be too long.