14. Medicine Lake Road

Stiles had taken to being a werewolf gleefully. He'd worried about regrets – of course he had, he'd been human, would always have that side of him – but found himself happier than he'd anticipated. He appreciated the chance to keep up with Derek as they loped eastward through the Shasta Trinity National Forest. The toxic black cloud of smoke over Redding had been warning enough to stay away, but they'd already learned from experience and never meant to approach the city itself, rather scavenging in one of the little outlying towns to the southeast, before leaving them behind. Even when his paw pads grew worn and sore, it only took a few minutes pause for them to heal again. Being a werewolf turned out to be as awesome as he'd thought it sounded as a teenager. He wasn't as tuned in to his new senses as Derek was, however.

When Derek hackled up and stopped, head dipping lower than his massive shoulders as he growled, Stiles froze, ready to bolt or pounce snarling on the threat to his alpha. His ears pinned back and his lips peeled away from his own sharp canines, while he tried to identify whatever Derek had scented.

The smell of the ragged black bear – _heavy musk, male, dirt, smoke, angry/afraid_ – crashing out of the dry brush a second later left Stiles nose deaf to anything else. He leaped almost straight into the air and had to twist to get himself out of the bear's path when it veered away from Derek. When Stiles landed in a crackle of old leaf litter and pine needles, all four legs splayed and his claws digging into the soil beneath, the bear had already disappeared.

Stiles snarled at its retreating form and shook his fur back into place.

Derek stayed where he'd been, a subvocal growl still vibrating from his throat, intent on something beyond the bear.

Stiles pranced close enough to duck his head and lick at Derek's ear. Derek flicked it back toward Stiles but ignored him otherwise.

A tiny shift in the wind opened Stiles' nose to what Derek had already identified: smoke. Not the distant, pleasant scent of barbeques or wood stoves in autumn or winter, but the gut-clenching, toxic stench of a whole forest burning. Stiles shuddered all over, human mind warring with wolf instinct that said turn and run, run faster than the bear, run faster than a deer, out run the fire. He whined into Derek's ear, remembering the bear's fear, feeling Derek's jolt of terror through the pack bond.

Derek turned his head and gave Stiles a quick, comforting lick, then shoulder-checked him and took off at a run, but not the way the bear had gone. The bear had been running from the wind, away from the direction it would push the fire. Derek headed away at an angle from the wind direction, running up hill. Stiles couldn't remember if you were supposed to do that or not, just that you should try to find water and mud for protection if a wildfire over ran you. Which should have meant running downhill … Why hadn't he researched this instead of learning how to curse people?

His Dad's only advise on wildfires had been, "Stiles, stay out of the damned Preserve.' Well, and 'if I catch you playing with matches there will be no Scott. Ever again,' which as a threat had dampened any incipient leanings toward arson on Stiles' part. Stiles would argue the wit and wisdom of the elder Stilinski, while usually awesome, constituted major fail in the keeping your kid alive stakes right now.

He bolted after Derek, tearing through brush and jumping everything from fallen logs to inconveniently placed boulders and even some bushes. Despite the circumstances, it was exhilarating to move with such speed and power, to see and hear and smell so much more of the world, and to keep up with the dark flag of Derek's tail ahead of him.

But he could smell the fire ahead of them and he knew that was a bad sign. If you could smell smoke, you were close enough to suffer from smoke inhalation. It didn't need to be so thick it blinded, not when carbon dioxide could take someone down and kill them before the fire itself licked over the body. He remembered overhearing Cal Fire fighters talking about fellows who had died like that in a coffee shop one fire season. It had pretty much put paid to any childish notions of growing up to be a firefighter for Stiles.

Derek was taking them up hill rather than down, which Stiles knew meant they were moving away from any watercourses.

If he'd been in human or even beta form, Stiles would have demanded Derek tell him his strategy, but as a wolf, he could only follow and hope Derek actually knew what he was doing and wasn't in a panic.

Derek led him up the ridge, through thinning digger pines into an area Stiles thought had been logged off at some point in the last twenty years. The only large, older trees left were split trunks and other distorted examples. Anything with a straight log had been taken down and even most of the non-useful trees had been clear cut to provide access. The brush that had grown up in the absence of the trees blocked any view and provided perfect fuel for fires. He started to believe he understood Derek's strategy however: he was trying to get them high enough to see where the fire was coming from and steer a course away from it, or to somewhere with little or no fuel for the fire, somewhere they could hold while the front swept past them. If they tried to simply outrun it with no clue which way it might spread, jump or turn they could easily end up trapped

They burst out of the brush into a clear area.

From the ridge top, Stiles could see the fire shooting high over the tops of the trees on the next ridge. The thick, gray-white smoke billowed before the wind, pushed at an angle away from where he stood at Derek's shoulder. The fire was spreading laterally too and if there was any kind of creek still running in the narrow valley between their ridge and the next, it wouldn't be enough keep the flames from jumping to the other side.

Stiles panted and shifted uneasily. Fire could move at least ten miles an hour with a good wind and they were much closer than ten miles to the fire line.

Derek whined and shuddered. A wave of heat rolled over them and Stiles whimpered at the idea of how hot it must be at the fire line. Derek actually backed up a step, telegraphing his sudden doubt. Stiles crowded as close as he could, trying to communicate his support, ending up actually supporting a little of Derek's weight.

They could hear the fire, a sound of rushing wind and the crack of wood and stone along with a steaming hiss audible beneath the louder roar.

Derek whined again, long and terrified, before moving. Stiles moved with him, staying in contact as much as he could.

Derek started down the slope of the ridge, angling away from the fire, taking them out of the scraggly tree cover and down toward a talus, where the winter's rain had eroded a section of ridge, sending it tumbling down in a mass of bare dirt, broken boulders and gravel. There was nothing there to act as fuel. Even though it was closer to the fire, they'd be safer than if they just ran.

Loose rocks and summer dry soil slipped and rolled under Stiles' paws as they picked their way toward the center of the unstable scree. Smoked whipped cinders into his eyes in the next second, blinding him and he stumbled and slipped.

Derek staggered but took Stiles' weight and kept them both from falling. The heat gained force, choking hot with every breath, the fire's noise amplified off the rocks, until Stiles felt like they were in a giant oven. The wind direction had changed. The air he struggled to bring into his lungs felt like it was cooking them.

Derek herded him into the high side lee of a massive boulder and began digging into the debris piled at its base.

After brief second of confusion, Stiles joined him, werewolf strength and sheer desperation deepening the hole fast. Three feet deep. He dug harder, tunneling deep, tearing the claws on his front feet and ignoring the blood seeping into the hard earth. Five feet. He couldn't smell fresh earth through the miasma of smoke that blocked out the sun above, dark as a storm overhead, even when they reached it. Six feet deep and Stiles refused to let himself think how much their hole resembled a grave. This was a den, a safe refuge. He just kept digging beside Derek until Derek twisted around in the den and squeezed past Stiles to crawl up and out of the tunnel.

Stiles scrabbled through the narrow passage, pulled himself out, paused and looked up.

Derek was gazing up. Sparks flowered from the tops of the trees that grew thicker and taller along the edges of the creek bed, spreading licking yellow and orange flames from the far side to theirs. The trees lit fast, sap exploding some like bombs, sending broken limbs spearing high, outlined black against the crimson wall behind them.

Derek let loose a raspy, pained howl, snapping Stiles' attention back to him. He had no chance to brace himself as Derek bowled into him, knocking Stiles into the tunnel they'd dug. Derek scrambled down after him, pushing Stiles ahead of him, until they were both in the den, and then began clawing bits of dirt and gravel and rocks into the only opening. After an instant of pure _what-the-fuck_ , Stiles got it and joined in.

They ended huddled at the other end of the den, deep beneath an insulating layer of rock and soil, the tunnel loosely filled in. Derek lay on top of Stiles, both of them next to the still cool base of the boulder, noses pressed to the hollow of air between the earth and the stone to breathe. Stiles hoped the oxygen would hold out until the fire passed the den.

The deafening explosion of sound as the fire crested over the talus and swept past muffled Stiles' whimpers and everything else, but he could feel Derek shaking against him and the damp touch of his exhalations against his nose. He could feel the burn, different from Derek's body heat, and vibrations of Derek howling in agony when the flames shot down the tunnel and through the loose dirt blocking off the den before he ran out of breath and went limp above Stiles.

Stiles panted and whined and tried to twist his body to somehow shield Derek instead, intent on finding, _feeling_ , some proof Derek was still breathing, that the tiny thread of _thereness_ that still came through the pack bond meant Derek was alive. He found it as he felt Derek's chest move and sagged in relief. He didn't mean to shift back into human form, it was far more vulnerable than his wolf body, but the shiver of power swept through him and he found himself with his arms wrapped around Derek, fingers snatching away from the places Derek's fur had burned away. His skin blistered in sympathy.

The fire had moved past the top of the ridge, its deafening voice fading with distance, still noisy but Stiles could hear his voice as he repeated Derek's name over and over. He couldn't stop thinking that fire had killed Derek's family, that fire could kill werewolves, had scarred and driven Peter into madness: it could take the last Hale. He wanted to shake Derek and yell at him to wake up, but didn't, not when he knew Derek was hurt.

Smoke lingered and set Stiles coughing and thrashing despite himself. Derek's body slid off him and he found himself looking up at a circle of the gray-yellow overcast framed by blackened earth walls. Beside him, Derek jerked and made hurt sounds, shifting his head like he couldn't see Stiles. He seemed to lock onto Stiles for a second, but then he moved and whined, twisting his neck to snap in confusion at the bits of fur still smoldering on his hindquarters.

The burnt fur wasn't the worst though. Stiles could see areas on Derek's side and back where the fire had seared away fur _and_ skin, blackening the bleeding flesh beneath. Derek tried to get to his feet and failed twice before sinking down and panting.

Stiles curled around him and tangled his fingers through a spot with unburnt fur to find skin. He could at least do the werewolf pain drain. Maybe that would help Derek heal faster.

His breath stopped in his lungs as the heavy lines of black ran up his hands and arms as soon as he made the connection. Stiles had had cooking burns, nothing more, and he hadn't had any clue how much Derek was hurt. He snatched his hand away out of instinctive self-preservation and immediately cursed himself as Derek mewled in renewed pain.

"Here, here, let me," Stiles muttered and pressed both hands to Derek's skin, bracing himself as he sucked up the pain. This time he didn't jerk away and as his body processed the pain (he supposed it was easier when he wasn't actually injured), Derek went slack with relief. Stiles couldn't see much from his position, but he could feel ripples running through Derek's flesh, and hoped it meant Derek's alpha healing had kicked in. He told himself Derek would be okay and focused all his belief, the belief that once went with his spark, on it.

It didn't do anything any longer and Stiles had a breathless instant of wishing for his magic back so he could try to heal Derek, but it dissolved with the knowledge that if he hadn't given it up to become a werewolf, he wouldn't be alive to use it. Wishing for what was did no good and he'd made the right call.

Since they were both still breathing, so had Derek.

He'd never had any luck with healing spells anyway, not on himself or anyone else. Deaton had said he just didn't have a healer's touch.

He pulled Derek closer and said, lips brushing against one furry ear, "You were right. You saved us."

Derek's ear twitched in response to Stile's breath and he twisted in Stiles' arms and then shifted, returning to human form. It left him sprawled over Stiles, heavy enough Stiles could feel his ribcage protest, but all that pale bare skin had healed, and Derek nosed against his neck and mumbled, "Hurt?"

"No, you were," Stiles told him. "I'm fine. You got us through. Safe and sound."

Derek tensed over him then lifted a little of his weight away, rearranging their limbs so they weren't elbowing or crushing each other. Then he went limp against Stiles, breathing hard, and Stiles pretended he didn't feel the hot wet of tears on his neck or hear the soft noises that weren't quite words yet.

"Fucking fire," Derek muttered.

Stiles patted him. "I know." He wanted to say 'you got it right this time,' but it felt cruel and unnecessary. Derek knew his own ghosts and demons. He didn't need Stiles to remind him, especially if this would allow him to let some of them go. Instead, he added, "You beat it."

Derek nodded, the movement grazing his hair against Stiles' jaw, tickling. His hand found Stiles' nearest and he threaded their fingers together. No calluses, never any calluses for either of them, and Stiles had to smile at that thought. People had commented on his hands and his fingers since he started college, but he loved Derek's hands, the dichotomy of how soft they were and how lethal they could be, when the strength and the claws came out.

"We're going to be okay," Derek said, his voice hoarse and shaky, tinged with what Stiles could only characterize as wonder.

"Yup," Stiles agreed. "You saved me this time."

Derek lifted his face and pressed a closed mouth kiss to Stiles' chin. "Was it my turn?"

Stiles shrugged, grimacing when his shoulder blade encountered a large rock underneath him. "Does it matter? It's what we do."

"We should stay down here a while longer, until things up there can cool down enough we won't burn ourselves on the rocks and embers," Derek said.

"Want to shift back?" Stiles asked. "I think we'd be more comfortable."

Derek pressed closer to him.

"In a little while," he murmured, "I like wolf you. I like this you too and we'll need to be in wolf form when we leave."

Stiles rubbed his nose against the top of Derek's head. A little pulse of relief ran through him. Derek might like being a wolf, but he wasn't abandoning humanity entirely. Not yet.

"Four feet later it is," he said.