The trip back to Beacon Hills so far is a long and tiring one. He's not even sure where they are anymore, other than some highway in Washington (or have they made it to Oregon yet?). It's been a few hours, that he knows at least.

It's snowing heavily enough that they have to pull over to the side of the road about six hours in. Stiles' jeep isn't really made for winter traveling, but they need to find a hotel or risk ending up getting stuck out here. His phone doesn't have a signal, but Stiles seems to have enough of one to boot up Google Maps and find the closest hotel.

When they get there, very slowly, it turns out to be a sleazy hole in the wall motel. But neither one of them really wants to risk getting stuck in an attempt to find another one. The only vacancy is apparently the honeymoon suite and he barely manages to stop Stiles from cracking one of what he's sure would be a series of several jokes. The pretty young woman behind the counter gives it to them with an apology and a discount she could probably get fired for, but she seems a bit past caring-so is he, given that it's nearly two in the morning and there's a blizzard going on.

The room itself is less tacky than he'd expected. There is a mirror on the ceiling, but the bed doesn't vibrate and isn't shaped like a heart, so he's decided to take what he can get.

They don't speak as they peel off layers of wet clothing and their completely soaked shoes. His socks make an incredibly disgusting squelching sound as he stands to turn up the heat, and he hurries to peel them off as well. Stiles manages to sneak into the bathroom to shower first, so he starts hanging their clothes off any horizontal surface he can find to get them drying.

He's leaning against the wall over the heating register, drying off what little he still has on when someone knocks. The shower is still going, so he walks to the door and peers through the peep-hole. The check-in girl is bundled in coats and carrying oversized plastic sack and a couple of blankets, so he opens it up.

"I figured you could use a few extra blankets. I've got some coats and gloves and such here, too. They're mostly ones people left but they've all been washed. I'm sorry I don't have any extra clothes too, we only keep the winter wear in case of storms."

He takes the blankets and the bag from her with what he hopes is an appreciative smile, but the wind is blowing snow and ice inside and he's practically naked at the moment.

"Thanks. We'll return them in the morn-" He's interrupted by Stiles yelping behind him. He turns to see him still fairly wet from the shower and wearing nothing but a fairly small fluffy white towel.

The check-in girl giggles and shuts the door before either Stiles or himself can say anything.

"I was not expecting this," is all Stiles says as he walks towards the bed.

He barely stops himself from snorting and instead throws the blankets at Stiles. He sits the bag down and slips into the bathroom for his own shower.

When he comes out some time later, Stiles is huddled in blankets on one side of the bed, a television remote sticking out right under his chin. The volume is low on the tv, playing some sort of animated Disney movie that he only vaguely recognises.

"What are you, six?" He's not even sure why he says it, but Stiles seems unperturbed.

"It's this or Latina Lovers 6, and I'm fairly certain watching lesbian porn is a bit much for tonight." Stiles pipes up in a tone that is much too cheery for this time of night. He watches Stiles for a minute, the thought going through his head that all Stiles is missing right then is red licorice to chew on.

It's a disconcerting thought, and he pulls away to see how dry the clothes have gotten. It doesn't help.

They don't talk about the fact they're about to share a bed, it's just an understood something between them. It makes him a little uneasy, the idea of sharing a bed with anyone does. But there is only one bed, and he really doesn't like the idea of either of them sleeping on the floor here.

So they end up sitting next to each other on the bed, neither one of them dressed very much and both of them covered in separate blankets.

"I wish we had licorice," Stiles says as he flips through the mostly static channels once the movie is over. He feels incredibly strange then, wondering just when he started to know Stiles that well.

"Oh, Iron Man. We are totally watching this."

Stiles does watch Iron Man, even though it's probably close to four in the morning and they're both exhausted. He doesn't watch much of the movie himself, mostly only turning back to it when he realises he's staring at Stiles. Again.

A phone suddenly goes off and startles both of them enough that they end up smacking their shoulders together. Stiles winces, and then blindly searches for the ringing phone.

"Hello?"

He tunes out the phone call as soon as he hears the Sheriff reassuring Stiles that everything was fine back in Beacon Hills except for the fact that Scott didn't know where he was.

And yeah, that gave him plenty to think about.

It wasn't like he'd expected Stiles to drop everything and race to pick him up, let alone not tell anyone. And yeah, it sounded like the sheriff was aware of what Stiles was doing. But he'd meant for him to pick him up as soon as he had nothing else planned, and pre arranged hanging out with Scott sounded a lot like having plans.

As soon as Stiles hangs up, it occurs to him that Stiles drove the fourteen hours to pick him up and then another six to bring him back and he hasn't slept at all since before then. He reaches for the remote and switches the television off before Stiles can go back to it.

"Get some sleep." He phrases it as a command, not a request. Stiles looks like he wants to argue, but then nods instead.

He turns away from Stiles and stares at the wall. He doesn't sleep, not yet. Instead, he wonders how much sleep that Stiles has gotten in the past few days, weeks, months. Since Scott was bitten and everything changed. Once Stiles' breathing slows and he can tell he's asleep, Derek closes his eyes and succumbs to sleep himself.