Stiles thought it was like watching a trainwreck in slow motion, every screech of metal and screams from within amplified. It was like watching the axe fall and being unable to stop it, watching its deadly arc complete with a flick of a wrist.

Yes, watching Derek was like opening a wound over and over again, prolonging the suffering and unable to staunch the blood.

Stiles tried not to scream that awful night at the school, when Derek was lifted into the air and thrown like a rag doll, black blood pouring out of his mouth like a fountain. He watched him choke and writhe and eventually grow still, horrified.

Somehow, he survived.

Stiles obeyed Derek's orders to get out of the way after he knocked that horrible nurse out cold, facing his uncle for the first time, teeth glinting and somehow not out of place with the sharp, sterile objects in that cold hospital. Stiles scrambled back, his fingers scrabbling against the slick tile as Derek fell time and time again, each time shakily rising to his feet and kept going, kept fighting.

Again, he made it.

It was by pure accident that Stiles saw the burns Kate had caused on Derek's side. He had been taking off his jacket and his shirt caught and before Stiles could even register his surprise, a tiny gasp had escaped, the dull ache of pity blooming in his chest for the pain Derek must have been through. The noise, however small, immediately caught Derek's attention-and before Stiles could say anything, the shirt was tugged back down over the charred, blackened skin, Derek's seemingly permanent frown deepening further as he turned away. Stiles didn't know what to say, couldn't fathom the amount of damage Kate must of done to ensure that Derek's body couldn't heal itself.

But he had persevered.

Peter's final stand was ended by Derek, and Stiles didn't need werewolf senses to feel Derek's simmering anger and pain turn to absolute mirth as his uncle's chest rose and fell for the last time. And Stiles, to an extent, understood-because even though Derek was an enigma, one thing was clear: through it all, Derek had carried the weight of his past on his shoulders, hurt and grief and a burning desire to revenge his family, and somehow, he had kept going. Derek had kicked and bit and shoved and to be honest, Stiles knew hell would've frozen over before Derek had given up.

And then Derek came from that last battle like a phoenix rising from its ashes, fresh and new and reborn, his thirst for revenge finally quenched by the metaphorical gravestones bearing 'Peter Hale' and 'Kate Argent'. He was stronger now, stronger than ever before, powerful enough to fight even harder, because the demons of his past were buried six feet under.

Stiles watched as the werewolf on a crash course with fate pulled himself back together, little by little, piece by piece. There were still scars-of course there were, they'd always be there-but Derek was healing, slowly but surely. He was an Alpha now, and Stiles knew he could take care of himself, he always had, but he couldn't help but worry about what else might happen, what else Derek would have to keep battling.

They grew closer, their friendship forming a bond that eventually grew to rival the one Stiles had with Scott. They were there for each other, whether it be a ride or a helping hand or just someone to talk to. Time began to heal wounds, both physical and emotional, and scars began to fade. Events in the little town never dipped below controlled chaos, and really, they all liked it best that way. Above all, Derek remained a fighter. He gave his opponents hell and seemed to live on adrenaline.

This one's a fighter, everyone said. He's a head-turning, hell-raising fighter.

In the end, it was Stiles that Derek had been fighting for.