Chapter Text
When he sees the headlights, and feels the vibration of the road against his cheek, Derek knows he won't be able to get up. He struggles anyway, fingers scraping against the uneven pavement, because he doesn't want to die. His limbs aren't cooperating. His heart is pounding and the sound is deafening. He finds himself hoping, even as he struggles, that his death will be quick. He's so tired of feeling pain.
The driver stops, and Derek winces when he hears footsteps. The human's smell isn't familiar, but he knows well enough by now not to hope this is just a friendly stranger. He bites half-heartedly at the hands hauling him up.
"Hey hey hey, none of that! I can't get the wolfsbane out of your system if you bite my fingers off."
Derek groans as he's pulled haphazardly into the back of the car- an ambulance? It smells like medical supplies, and there's a red cross on the side. It might just be a truck that's been retrofitted, hard to tell with his vision going black around the edges. He doesn't let himself get hopeful. He's heard of bounty hunters who catch their prey by lulling them into a false sense of safety. It would be just his luck to be found by one of those guys when he's too injured for the charade.
The driver, definitely a human, underneath the smell of antiseptic and motor oil, is taking scissors to his torn shirt. He doesn't fight, but he's not really able to.
"Man, you really pissed off the wrong people. Do you think they're far behind?"
Derek shakes his head.
"They'll follow my smell. They don't have to rush."
He sees the human smirking through his heavy lashes.
"Or so they think. This is gonna suck, but you'll feel a lot better once it's through your system."
Derek feels something sharp and cold in his arm, and he whimpers without meaning to. He's been drugged too many times to count, and he hates it. He didn't even know werewolves could be drugged, before. This new world has taught him a lot of uncomfortable lessons.
He shudders, waiting for whatever it is to take hold, but his head doesn't feel fuzzy. He hurts, but the hurt is clearer, more precise, like his focus is pin-pointed on his injuries, which are at turns searing hot and frigidly sharp, depending on what caused them. The bullets burn as they're forced out of his skin, the cuts and slashes knit together, his blood working as a natural disinfectant.
The car rumbles underneath him. He didn't see the driver get up.
Derek struggles to open his eyes, groaning when he looks directly into the overhead light, so much brighter than his night-accustomed eyes are used to.
"You awake back there?"
Derek coughs in reply. He doesn't need to look to know the liquid trickling from his lips is black.
"There's a bucket to the right of your head. Aim for that if you can. It's gonna hit you real fast."
Derek lunges as the driver gives the understatement of the century; what feels like gallons of black bile forces its way up with barely any warning. He heaves, his entire body tensing. He doesn't know how much he'd ingested while he was being held captive, but it appears he'd underestimated the amount. If he'd been given it all in one dose, the wolfsbane alone would have been enough to kill him. But months of tiny doses have kept him alive, and weak.
He leans back down when it's over, only to realize the car has stopped moving. He opens his eyes, and the driver is sitting a few feet away, holding a bottle of water.
"It's sealed. And if I wanted to hurt you, I probably could have. Y'know, when you were heaving your guts out."
Derek doesn't take the water.
"What I'm trying to say is, I don't want to hurt you, so please don't kill me."
Derek grimaces as his stomach convulses once more, but it seems that he doesn't have anything left to purge.
"Don't lie." His voice is so raspy even he doesn't recognize it.
The driver rolls his eyes, and takes Derek's hand, pressing his fingers against his pulse point.
"I'm betting you're usually able to hear this, but you're in pretty bad shape right now, so I'm gonna help you out, ok. Now," he looks right into Derek's eyes, and Derek can't remember the last time anyone's looked at him like that. "I don't want to hurt you, and I really don't want you to kill me. Does it feel like I'm lying?"
Derek barely has the energy to shake his head, and his vision is getting blurry.
"Are you gonna take the water now?"
He does, in lieu of responding. The driver helps him open it, and Derek realizes his fingers are trembling. He doesn't want this stranger to help him drink, but his body isn't giving him much of a choice, and when the fresh water trickles into his mouth, he gasps and nearly chokes himself because it's been so long since he's had fresh, clean water.
"Easy now. That's it." The driver leans back, capping the water.
"I'll leave this here with you, okay? Try to drink a little more before you go to sleep. I want to cover more ground before sunup."
Derek takes the water, closing his eyes.
"Who are you?"
He feels the stranger's hand on his knee, and cringes. But it's friendly, nothing more.
"My name's Stiles. Try not to worry too much. You're not the first stray I've picked up."
Derek's mouth works, fighting exhaustion.
"Stiles..." the name feels odd to him, but what isn't odd these days? "Stiles, where are you taking me?"
He feels the stranger- Stiles, standing up beside him.
"Beacon Hills."
At first he's relieved; it's not San Quentin, or any of the other workhouses under the Leanwulf's control. It'll give him time, at least.
"That's not a jail I'm familiar with."
And then the stranger's leaning in, and Derek can't help but open his eyes, wide and fearful. But Stiles is smiling, if sadly, and he doesn't smell angry or cruel, or even anxious. He smells... like concern. It's such an unfamiliar smell, and this human, Stiles, he wears it like cotton, light and sturdy.
And his heartbeat doesn't flutter. Not once.
"That's because it's not a jail. It's a 'stead up north. We don't chain our wolves up there, unless there's a full moon and they don't have an anchor yet. You probably won't stay forever, but we won't turn you in while you rest up."
Derek allows Stiles to lift his head, just enough to slip a pillow underneath him. His breath is still raspy, but the searing pain in his abdomen is slowly becoming a dull ache, and if he's choosing to believe this stranger, he's driving in the right direction.
The lights dim around him, and he hears Stiles taking the bucket from beside him, replacing it with a new one, and a whispered "just in case", though he could have imagined it. Then the motor starts up beneath him, and Derek allows himself to fall asleep, knowing he'll need the rest if this isn't what it looks like.
He drifts off with a smile on his lips; what this looks like is kindness, and Derek's sure there's no more of that.