15. Private Road - No Trespassing

Stiles stopped at Derek's side as they crested a ridge deep in one of the National Forests that surrounded the Preserve. He didn't have to look for the triskele carved deep into a boulder to know they were at the edge of the Hale Pack territory. He yipped his hilarity though as he caught a whiff that he never would have as a human. Those lying dogs – werewolves – they so did pee on stuff. Though it was old and faint enough Stiles could only identify it as Hale and pack, not Derek or Peter or any of their pack, so he wouldn't tease Derek over it, because it might date back to before Derek's family burned.

Wildfires lit the nights, scarily close, and since the burn-over, they'd had to detour twice and run with the rest of the animals once as a wall of flame engulfed a mountain side they were traversing. Stiles had learned to pay attention to even the smallest game, though it was the bigger animals that had the best chance of getting away. Derek was calmer now, but Stiles understood the deep fear he'd felt, not just through the pack bond, but from experience.

Behind them, if the trees had been a little thinner, he could have picked out an orange glow on the western horizon. Where once that would have been light pollution from a city, now it was fire on the mountain tops, burning unchecked higher and higher until it starved on the scree and last remnants of last winter's snow, where nothing lived or grew.

Stiles was glad for the night. The days were worse, with ramparts of smoke in every direction.

It felt like a miracle to breathe without coughing, never mind smell anything after the fire-choked country past Redding. There had been moments when the smoke blocked out everything in the sky, obscuring sun or stars, and only Derek's innate instinct had kept them on course for his territory. Stiles was convinced their fur would stink of burning until it all fell out. Seeing Derek coated in white ash as they picked their way through miles of blackened ground still hot enough to burn their paw pads wasn't anything Stiles wanted to experience again. Derek had curled next to Stiles when they slept, with his nose tucked into Stiles' fur, and wouldn't shift into human at all until they were clear of the worst fire zones.

Stiles suspected it was Derek's way of coping: the wolf lived more in the now, so he didn't dwell on horrific memories and losses in that shape. He would have worried more about it, if he hadn't been going through the days and nights the same way. Worry for the pack and his father were more distant while he was a wolf; he knew he was heading toward them, toward home territory, so all he had to think about was the journey and Derek.

He snorted to clear his nose and thought about catching a scent from the past: that he might be picking up traces of something close to a decade past. No wonder Derek had held onto the wreckage of the Hale House until the country condemned and seized it. Even ruined, it must have held so many memories locked in the scents of generations of Hales.

It wasn't the scent or sight that told Stiles they'd reached the border, though, nor Derek's weird mixture of relief and tension.

Stiles could feel it, the sense of home, and nearer, stronger the pack bond that had always been more mental and magic for him than the sudden visceral connection that flowed in to fill in his empty spaces with his pack mates.

Derek gave himself a shake, lifted his head to the stars and loosed a long, hopeful howl that echoed back from the ravines and hills that sloped down to the valley below Beacon Hills and the forested mountains beyond.

Stiles shoved his shoulder into Derek's as they waited for an answer. He could feel the quiver of fear and hope running through Derek's massive frame.

It came.

First one uncertain howl, calling to the moon, calling back to their alpha, and then another, until Stiles could pick out everyone of their pack, even Lydia, who refused to let a human throat stop her from joining in.

Derek howled again and Stiles added his voice to the wild, eerie chorus of the pack.

They broke into a run as the last howl died away, racing toward Beacon Hills and the pack that had found its way home before them. Derek bounded through the forest with all the knowledge of someone who grew up doing so right there. Stiles gloried in how easy it was to follow behind him. He was able to see despite the darkness, no clumsiness slowed him down, he was muscle and instinct and strength and it all came together with the sheer relief of knowing everyone else was out there. He could feel them, everyone he cared about except for his Dad and Mrs. McCall, through the pack bond. As they raced down into the valley, Stiles began to be able to hear the betas as they tore through the forest toward them, still confined to two feet, but shifted to beta form enough to go on four at least some of the time. He couldn't wait to prove to them that the full shift could be achieved by any werewolf that believed enough.

He could hear their breath and feel their hearts beating and another howl of excitement lifted from his throat when he heard Scott tearing toward them, yelling at the top of his voice, "Stiles! Stiles! Stiles!"

Stiles howled in response and Derek joined him, so their voices spiraled together until they trailed away and returned to running.

They were close now, so close Stiles could hear the leaf mulch and fallen pine needles crushing under the pack's feet and smell the burst of earth, damp, mold, pine sap and tannin bursting up with step and he could smell the pack: Scott, running ahead of everyone, kindness-musk-anise-male, followed by Isaac's sweet happy-sawdust-cherry scent, then the leather-celery-acetone scent that had to be Boyd if the plastic-ozone-green grass scent belonged to Danny. All of them carried wisps of other scents, of Allison's peach blossom gun oil and Lydia's sandalwood and poppies perfume.

Derek outstripped Stiles, bursting into the tiny open meadow in time to tackle and bowl Scott over and into Boyd, so they both went down. The rest of the betas reached the meadow as Stiles loped into the scene, golden eyes going wide at the sight of Derek in full wolf form, effortlessly dominating the betas on the ground and reasserting his control of the pack. Mouths fitted with long fangs dropped open as they caught sight of Stiles.

"Stiles?" Isaac questioned. "That you … ?"

Stiles let out a yip of laughter and pounced on him, knocking him down into the grass and licking his face.

"Holy crap, you're both really wolves," Scott said after Derek stepped off him and he'd rolled to his knees. Stiles abandoned Isaac to rush over to Scott and head butt him. Scott wrapped his arms around Stiles' neck and hugged him tight.

"I didn't know you could do that," Isaac said.

"Laura could," Scott mentioned. He gave Derek an apologetic look that Derek acknowledged with an ear flick. "But I thought it was only alphas." He hugged Stiles tighter. "Dude, I thought you didn't want the Bite?"

Stiles stepped away, gave himself a good shake to get his fur back in order, and looked Scott directly in the eyes. Of course, he wanted Scott to see he was serious and telling the truth, but it was also a dominance posture that he reinforced with a big, tooth-baring yawn. Not wanting the Bite was history. He'd taken it and found being a werewolf good; Derek was right, it was a gift.

After an instant, Scott looked away and dipped his head. If Stiles could have grinned – and he sort of could – he would have. He'd never admitted it, but he'd missed being on an equal basis with Scott. Being able to boss him around a bit would be fun, because he had just moved himself up the pack hierarchy over Scott.

All the other betas were looking at them too. Stiles glanced at Derek, who inclined his head. Shifting back still felt strange, but Stiles only needed to concentrate for a moment before the shift took over and he was in beta form, human enough to talk, wolf enough he wasn't embarrassed at having no clothes.

"I got the Bleed in Sac," he explained.

"They burned Sacramento last week," Boyd said.

Stiles nodded. "They were shooting anyone trying to get out when we left. It was already bad."

Scott looked conflicted. "So Derek bit you to save you?"

"Only after we found out shifting cured him." Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. "We thought … anyway, Derek went full wolf and healed so I asked him to give me the Bite. If we'd done it in Baja, we could have made it home a lot sooner and I wouldn't have ended up stabbed."

"You were stabbed!?"

"I'm fine now. Werewolf. Derek took care of me anyway."

Derek padded over and leaned against Stiles. Stiles absently played with one soft ear tip. Scott looked at them round-eyed. Scott wasn't _always_ oblivious. "Oh," he said, then smiled at Stiles and Derek. "I'm glad for you. Both of you." And that was why Scott was his best bro and would always be.

Derek gave out a pleased rumble in response.

"Look, I want to get the rest of the way home," Stiles said. "And I'd like to see my Dad … " Anxiety lifted his voice. Derek nosed his hand, a warm, heavy presence beside him and through the pack bond.

"Your dad's good," Boyd assured him. "We've been looking out for him and patrolling the town as much as possible since we got here. Things are decent here. People are getting stuff back up and running. Your dad and the Mayor and Mr. Argent are keeping everything under control."

Stiles sucked in a deep breath and nodded his thanks to Boyd.

"Look, we'll tell you everything at the house, with Lydia and Allison and everyone there," Stiles said. "When we've cleaned up and eaten something besides raw jackrabbit and have some clothes on. Okay?"

Derek stood up, chuffed once deep in his throat, and headed back into the forest, toward the rebuilt Hale House and home. Stiles shifted back to his wolf form and followed. Wordless, the betas fell in behind them.

~*~

Derek didn't much like that he could smell Argent – gun oil, cordite, wolfsbane and spearmint – in his home when the pack flowed out of the woods around his restored house. His lip curled up over one fang, but he didn't snarl when he spotted Chris Argent standing on the rebuilt porch, a shotgun resting against his shoulder. Allison had already bounded down the steps to greet Scott before staring with wide dark eyes at Derek and Stiles' wolf forms.

Argent's mouth folded into something less than amazed, his expression tinted with disapproval, and his hand spasmed on the shotgun, but he said nothing, so Derek let out a huff of air and ignored him otherwise as he padded past Allison and him into the house. Behind him, Stiles was bouncing around, showing off for the rest of the pack.

Argent was still on the porch when Derek came back outside after shifting, washing and dressing in his own clothes. He leaned against the wall next to him and they watched Stiles rough house with the rest of the werewolves in the long, dry grass of the still overgrown yard.

"Allison wanted me here with the pack," Argent said eventually. His explanation managed to communicate the question of whether Derek, as alpha, would tolerate his presence.

"Okay," Derek said. Allison was pack. Allison's father was … not pack, but not an outsider either. Hunters and werewolves were both secretive and clannish, both lived on the other side of a veil most people never peered past. Argent had proved himself both ruthless and honorable in the past. He made a good ally and keeping him close would ease Allison's worries, if nothing else.

Argent lifted his brows a little so that Derek shrugged and nodded at Argent's shotgun. "Has the military come through town?"

"It's been quiet here."

Derek found another word, left it there for Argent to parse.

"Lucky."

Argent didn't comment, but sour odor of worry tainted his normal scent, making it even more stressful to be around. The air on the porch held enough pack scent, along with the lingering smell of the dark green paint they'd used for it, that Derek didn't wrinkle his nose. It changed with a shift of the breeze soughing through the pine needles. The relief of the moment when the night let go of the day's heat a release that untensed Derek's muscles. The smell of cool earth, damp and trees always gave him ease. He breathed deep.

Though if he inhaled deeply enough, he could still smell the smoke that hung thick in the valleys and roiled high into the skies even hundreds of miles from the fires. It didn't bother him as much as it would have only days before.

Argent moved, stretching so that something popped in his back. He needed a shave and gray glinted in the whiskers on his chin. The creases in his face were deeper than Derek remembered. The fan of crow's feet at the corners of his eyes hadn't disappeared, even though the man wasn't squinting through a target scope. Stress and age were catching up with Argent in the same cruel way they did every hunter when their human bodies began losing the fight with time.

Stiles knocked Scott's legs out from under him, pounced on his chest, and growled, lips peeled back from his teeth, until Scott went limp and rolled his head back to bare his throat in submission. Once Scott did, Stiles licked him from chin to forehead and left him to trot to the porch. He snuffled at Argent, butted Derek's leg, and then went in.

"Jesus," Argent muttered. He turned his head and waited, the question of why Derek had given Stiles the Bite after four years of Stiles having no interest in it between them. "Why now?"

Derek stared out at the forest that ran on into the Preserve and then the National Forest Lands, if not empty of threats, at least mostly empty of people, and wished he could still be running through it, with the moon a silver eye blinking between the dark lashes of the tree tops.

"The Bite beats the Bleed," Stiles said as he stepped out, now dressed in clothes that were his, but a little worn and tight after two years in storage. Of course he'd heard Argent's question, even inside: his hearing was as good as Derek's now.

Argent flicked a glance at Stiles, who had moved to lean against Derek's side, then looked back the yard. His gaze settled on Allison. Derek wrapped one arm around Stiles' waist. Argent glanced back at them both. "That's good news," he said, an oblique declaration that he'd rather see his daughter a werewolf than dead; a significant turnaround from when Argent had assisted his wife when Victoria chose suicide over turning.

Stiles tugged at Derek's belt loops. "Come on, I want see my Dad. We can have breakfast with him."

Derek hesitated and said carefully to Argent, "It's good you came out here. You should stay." The other werewolves were listening, so he didn't outright say he'd give Argent the Bite along with Allison if it came to that, but he hoped Argent would get it anyway.

Argent looked startled, before giving Derek a short little nod.

"Well, good, that's settled, can we get moving?" Stiles asked. He tugged Derek into motion only because Derek went along with it. "I'm thinking waffles and real bacon."

"For your Dad or you?" Derek asked. He wondered if Stiles' father would have any sort of supplies left and the state of the larder in the house behind him for that matter.

"For me, of course. Turkey bacon for Dad." Stiles tone gave away how little he thought that would be available, but then he grinned and Derek almost tripped on the last step as Stiles added, "And strawberry syrup for you."

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~*~

Sheriff Stilinski answered his front door already in uniform, duty weapon in his hand, but without his equipment belt. Despite being cleaned up, shaved and ready to leave for the day, he looked exhausted, with puffy bags under his eyes and deep creases in his forehead.

He stared at Stiles standing in front of him and Derek just behind Stiles with something close to disbelief before smiling and folding his arms around Stiles so tightly Stiles squeaked. Derek plucked the pistol from the Sheriff's – he'd never managed to think of the man by his given name and certainly wouldn't think of calling him Dad the way Stiles did – hand. He checked the safety out of habit; the bounty hunting gig had left him more familiar with firearms than he'd ever imagined being.

"Christ, kiddo, I've been so worried about you," the Sheriff said once he finally loosened his hold on Stiles. Stiles clung to him a minute longer before taking a step back. Both of them kept their hands on each other's shoulder.

Derek ached a little, but at the same time seeing them together, along with the hum of joy through the pack bond, made him smile hard enough he had to look away in embarrassment.

"Not as much as I've been worrying about you and what you've been sneaking for breakfast," Stiles declared. He finally let go of his father but immediately patted the Sheriff's stomach right over his belt buckle. "Your metabolism is slowing down, you know. You just can't eat those heavy meals and fast food anymore." He stepped back, grinning wildly, and caught Derek's wrist with one flailing hand. "Which is why Derek and I are here. To have breakfast with you."

The Sheriff looked past Stiles and inspected Derek, a hint of emotion in his gaze that translated into a loosening of his shoulders that could only have come from concern. It made Derek duck his head, his face heating with that same achy happiness seeing the man with Stiles gave him. "Derek," the Sheriff said.

"Derek," Stiles declared. He pulled Derek closer and looked at his father until the Sheriff's eyebrows went up and he muttered, "Oh."

Derek felt his ears getting hot. "Sir."

Stiles just kept grinning and snaked an arm around Derek's middle to pull him close. Derek stiffened, but didn't draw away. He hadn't expected Stiles to be so obvious, though they were both physically affectionate in wolf form. Maybe they should have talked out how they were going to present themselves to the Sheriff. Maybe, knowing Stiles, Derek should have expected this. Besides, he liked Stiles' hands on him, liked the way Stiles had no intention of apologizing for anything. "We're together." Stiles kept smiling, wide and confident, as though the apprehension Derek felt thrumming through the bond with that declaration didn't exist. Derek didn't smile, but he met the Sheriff's gaze and nodded.

The Sheriff scrubbed his hand over his face and then stepped back, opening the passage into the house. "Get in here, both of you, and tell me everything that's happened." He paused before adding, "Because I can see there've been some changes."

Derek cringed a little because the Sheriff didn't know the half of it. He followed Stiles inside the familiar house and back to the kitchen, where Stiles released him and bee-lined for the stove while Derek handed the pistol back to the Sheriff. "Yes. Bet you're glad I persuaded you to switch to gas for the new stove now." A propane lantern hung hooked from the overhead light fixture, hissing gently, the flame turned down low but illuminating the homey kitchen well enough. On the stove, an enamel coffee pot sat over a small flame, coffee bubbling inside from the scent. Stiles retrieved a mug from a nearby dish cabinet and picked up the pot to pour for himself.

He winced and cussed under his breath immediately and sat the pot back down. His hand went to his mouth. "Oops."

"Damn it, Stiles, you never remember to use a mitt," the Sheriff exclaimed. "How bad is it this time – "

Stiles showed his hand to his father. "Look, Dad, no burns."

The Sheriff caught Stiles' hand in his own and examined it. Another frown wrinkled his forehead. He had to know that coffee pot was hot enough to sear skin. He'd seen Stiles holding it and reacting, but couldn't find even a hint of damage. Sharp blue eyes – Stiles' must have his mother's eyes – glanced from Stiles' hand up to his face and then over to Derek, still lingering the doorway to the kitchen.

"So, yeah, a lot of stuff to tell you, like me and Derek, and shit that's been going down in the Valley, and, well, a lot of the stuff that went on here before we all got our acts together – " Stiles blurted.

"You're not going to tell me you had anything to do with the Crash," the Sheriff stated.

"Uh, no?" Stiles answered, bewildered.

"Good." The Sheriff raised his eyebrows at Derek.

"Not that I'm aware of."

Stiles let out a snort of amusement. "And if he was, believe me, Lydia would have let us know about it."

The Sheriff sighed and pushed past Stiles. He pulled two more mugs from the cabinet, set them on the kitchen table, and went back for the coffee pot. He wrapped the handle with a tea towel and brought it over, filling all three cups. "Sit down then. You too, Derek. Stiles, you can begin explaining, but I reserve the right to have Derek take over if you start talking about comic book characters at any point."

Stiles sulked visibly. "But Dad, the Wolverine comparison is crit – "

"Stiles," Derek interrupted him. "Stop."

Stiles gave him a sulky look, but seemed to realize he was pushing Derek's patience and his father's to the limit. "Yeah, okay. We could skip the whole Miguel incident too."

"You think?" Derek wasn't looking forward to the Sheriff learning he'd hid out in his underage son's bedroom while he'd been wanted on suspicion of murder.

Stiles glanced at his father, swallowed hard, but then shook his head. "Naw. That's too good not to tell."

"Keep pushing," Derek warned him.

"You're still pissed," Stiles said. He snickered under his breath and added for his father's benefit, "You should have seen him. Derek was, like, the angriest stripper on the planet."

Derek glared at him.

"That!" Stiles pointed at Derek. "That's the face."

The Sheriff sighed and asked, "Why?" He rolled his eyes upward and Derek smirked.

Stiles face fell and he fiddled with his coffee cup. "I may have _encouraged_ Derek to offer Danny some incentive to do some hacking by getting him to strip for him." The last bits were blurted fast.

Derek took a sip of his coffee. It was sort of funny in retrospect, but not at the time, not when he'd been wanted by the police – thanks to Stiles and Scott – and dependent on their reluctant aid. "The word would be _used_ , not encouraged," he commented.

"This is completely not what we set out to talk about," Stiles said.

"True, oh evasive son of mine, but don't think we won't be discussing it later." The Sheriff fixed his gaze on Derek too. "So, perhaps you'd like to start this ball rolling, Derek? Stiles can start breakfast."

Derek suppressed a put upon sigh as Stiles popped to his feet in relief, saying, "I can do that. You have no idea how hungry I am for something that doesn't have fur – I mean – You know, I'm just going to start the bacon."

The Sheriff gave Derek a long-suffering look. Derek thought to himself, _the rest of my life_ , but it didn't seem as bad as all that.

"Derek. Begin."

Derek lifted his hand away from the coffee mug, thinking it might have been smarter if he hadn't given the Sheriff his weapon back, and let his fingers grow razor sharp claws while his eyes flared scarlet bright. "Werewolves." He let his fangs come out and show as well.

The Sheriff's heart rate spiked briefly and he tensed, but he didn't move. Derek let the fangs go away because they made talking intelligibly difficult.

"Red eyes, fangs and claws," the Sheriff muttered. "Sounds more like vampires."

Derek curled his lips and Stiles blurted, "Nope, nope, vampires stink. I mean, really, even to normal noses, because of being basically re-animated corpses. They're like big, pasty ticks on two legs. Seriously, so not romantic. Rot-mantic, maybe."

"Vampires are real," the Sheriff said.

"Well, sort of. They're more like ghouls. No sparkles, some oozing."

"Tangent," Derek reminded Stiles before addressing the Sheriff, "The only vampires the pack ever ran across were in LA. They prefer dense, urban populations."

"The Pack?"

"Our pack, the Hale Pack," Stiles clarified. "There are others – "

"Our," the Sheriff repeated. The man knew his son well enough to pick out the important details buried in his deluge of words. He quizzed both Stiles and Derek, steering Stiles back on track and prompting more words out of Derek than anyone else ever had. Stiles snagged items from the cabinets and an ice chest that was stashed in the otherwise emptied refrigerator, expertly putting together the ingredients for pancakes and starting those first, while he interjected information between Derek's shorter answers. He let Stiles take over and answer everything about being a Spark and the magic he'd begun studying first with Deaton and then with other practitioners.

"I mean, it's all useful, adding to the Pack's knowledge base," Stiles said and he only sounded a little sad. His father missed it and Derek only heard because he knew Stiles had something to be sad about in regard to magic. "So much got lost in the fire when Derek's mom and the others all died. We were all playing catch up for years. We've kind of got it now, the basics at least, but every little thing helps."

Once the stack of pancakes were finished, Stiles started on a breakfast omelet. Derek winced at some of the things Stiles added to it, but the Sheriff seemed inured. Stiles shuffled the omelet pan over the flame and offered up a PG-rated version of his and Derek's first night together in Baja.

"You went to Mexico to get him?" the Sheriff asked Derek.

"Yes."

"Derek luuuuurves me," Stiles warbled and slid the first omelet from the pan onto a plate. More eggs went into the pan for a second one. The smell had Derek's stomach rumbling in anticipation.

Eventually the Sheriff held up his hand. "Okay, enough for now. Stiles, just tell me you wanted this."

Stiles glanced from him to Derek and then abandoned the stove to take Derek's hand, winding his long fingers through Derek's and holding on tight. "I've wanted Derek for years."

The Sheriff gave Derek an apologetic glance. "I was aware. You're not exactly subtle, son. But he's a werewolf. From what you've told me, there is a world of trouble that comes with that."

"Yeah, like there isn't a world of trouble anyway," Stiles replied. He squeezed Derek's hand. Nerves had his palm sweating.

"I don't like it," the Sheriff said slowly. "I wish you would stay out of it. The … uh, magic too. Couldn't you give it up?"

Stiles' hand tightened painfully on Derek's. His heartbeat picked up speed. Derek's did too. All the happiness Stiles had been feeling, the glee at explaining their hidden world of the supernatural, disappeared from the bond. Sharp claws dug into Derek's palm, but that was the only sign of an involuntary shift Stiles' displayed; pride in his control warred with Derek's own response. The desire to protect Stiles from the emotions running through him sent power shivering through his bones and muscles and he had to clamp down on the shift harder than he had since puberty.

"Dad. I did give it up," Stiles said. "I took the Bite." His eyes brightened from whiskey gold to beta bright.

The Sheriff jerked in his chair and stared at Stiles as if he didn't know him. He took in two fast, deep breaths. "You said _he_ didn't pressure you, that you were part of this 'pack' while still being human!"

"He was," Derek snapped. He hated the hurt he could smell and feel coming from Stiles. It made him want to tear something or someone into pieces. Which didn't help, because Stiles picked up everything Derek used to be able to hide behind a stoic expression. He felt grateful they'd left the rest of the pack behind. The bond could feedback an alpha's emotions until they all spiraled out of control – it was how packs went bad sometimes. He breathed out hard through his nose and shut down as much of his own feelings as he could. This was Stiles' shock and Stiles' hurt and Derek wouldn't make things worse.

"Then why would you change him?" the Sheriff demanded of him. "He didn't want it!"

"I did, Dad."

"But – "

"I had good reasons to stay human, but the reasons stopped being good when staying human meant dying, okay?" Stiles leaned toward his father, reaching across the table for his shoulder, and flinched back when the Sheriff pulled away.

Derek snarled under his breath. Stiles was blinking, looking away from his father, and swallowing hard enough Derek could see his Adam's apple bob along the long line of his throat.

"So now you turn into an animal."

Stiles let out a loud puff of breath and shook his head. "Well, at least you didn't say monster."

The acrid stink of burning eggs filled the kitchen as the omelet burned in its pan.

"Hale, I want you out."

"Dad, please, please don't do this," Stiles actually begged. "Don't make this some kind of contest. I can't – I can't choose between – "

Derek pushed his chair back and stood. Without thinking about it, he pulled Stiles into his arms and hugged him, tucking his nose into the soft hair at Stiles' temple and breathing him, then rubbing his cheek against Stiles' to leave his scent close for comfort. He wanted Stiles to know it wasn't a choice. Stiles would always have him. The Sheriff didn't understand that: Stiles was pack, not because he was a werewolf, but because he was _Stiles_. Even if Stiles never ran with Derek again, never shifted again, Stiles would be pack as far as Derek was concerned. Stiles whined softly as Derek let go.

That didn't mean he would just walk away without saying anything. He wasn't giving Stiles up.

"Do you want me to wait?" he asked Stiles.

"There's no reason for you to wait, Hale – "

"No, there isn't," Stiles interrupted. His voice cracked. Moving without energy or grace, he went to the stove and turned off the flame before jerking the pan off it. "I'm going with him now. I'm – I need to be with the pack. With Derek. You – they're my family too." He walked to the back door, opened it, and stepped out. A gulp heralded the hitch of half-swallowed tears, tears Stiles didn't mean his father to see or hear. "I can't handle this. You're supposed to – you're my dad and you mean everything to me, but so does Derek."

"Stiles!"

Derek headed for the door while doing his best to ignore the Sheriff. It was the only way he could rein in the anger he felt toward him in that moment.

Stiles was already on the back porch. He'd begun stripping, shifting into beta form, his mole-speckled back a pale blur in the gray dawn light. His hands were shaking and his face was wet.

Derek didn't bother with the beta form. He shifted straight to his wolf and tore his way out of his clothes with teeth and claws. He padded over to Stiles, toenails clicking against worn wood that needed to be re-stained and sealed, before stopping beside him and staring a cold challenge at the Sheriff, who had followed them to the open doorway.

The deep, rolling growl coming from his throat probably didn't help matters, but Derek couldn't stop it, even when Stiles' clawed hand rested on his head.

"Shhhh, Derek," Stiles murmured. "Dad – "

"Jesus Christ." The Sheriff stared at them both, squinting with human eyes that couldn't see as well as Derek and Stiles did. "Jesus fucking Christ. He turned into a wolf. You – Stiles. This – is there some kind of cure? Some way to go back?"

"No, not that I would anyway," Stiles said. His voice broke a little. "Funny, I thought – I thought you'd be happy for me and Derek, happy that we got home alive."

"I – I am happy you're home." He looked at Derek and addressed him, "I'm grateful you brought Stiles back safe and he's here now, no matter what I feel about him being part of your 'pack' or the rest of it. But I can't be happy that my son is something not human anymore."

"I don't know if that's worse than nothing or not," Stiles whispered. It wasn't, Derek thought, because the Sheriff had talked to him, even though he was in wolf form. If he could see past that with Derek, it wouldn't take him long to accept Stiles. He loved his son, after all. That might not make it easy, but it made it inevitable, just as Stiles would forgive the Sheriff for his shocked first reaction.

"You're going."

"Yeah. I mean, for now, we're not leaving town. Phones are out, so you can't call me, but …"

Derek licked Stiles hand. Stiles drew his claws in and stroked Derek's ears, soothing both of them.

"The Hale house?"

"Yeah. You can come over and talk when you get your head out of your ass."

The Sheriff scrubbed at his hair, a gesture that reminded Derek of the way Stiles still did the same thing, years after giving up his buzz cut. "Just … son, tell me you didn't do this because you thought he wanted you to or so he'd be with you."

"What!? Wow, you really think I'm that stupid or Derek's that manipulative?" Stiles exclaimed. He'd completely shifted back to human and should have been shivering, bare-chested and barefoot in the morning chill, but it didn't affect him any longer. "Derek and I got together in Mexico. I didn't take the Bite until we were in Sacramento. We got caught by Bleeders just before the city was quarantined."

"Quaran – you were in the hot zone. Damn it, Stiles, it's spreading north fast, the last radio reports had the infection as far north as Chico, what the hell were you doing – "

"Trying to get home! Sac was supposed to still be clean!"

Stiles' scent turned acrid with the memories of what they'd seen and escaped there and elsewhere along the way. They'd seen enough on their journey north to fuel years of new nightmares for them both. Derek whined softly. Sacramento hadn't even been the worst. Ceres and the charnel house reek of Redding tied for that place.

"How'd you keep from getting exposed?" the Sheriff asked softly.

"I didn't."

"But you're not infected."

"Not now, obviously." Stiles flashed his eyes at his father.

The flood of scent from the Sheriff – fear, worry, anger and frustration, rank as the black bear they'd encountered before the wildfire – made Derek wrinkle his nose and sneeze. It zeroed the Sheriff's attention to him for a second and, weirdly, Derek thought he saw the man's mouth twitch upward, as if the sneeze had made Derek less monster and more man, more acceptable. He hoped that meant the Sheriff would come around. Stiles' unhappiness made Derek's own temper fester.

"God. You're both – you're okay, though. Thank God."

"Just so you understand, Dad, Derek's never pushed for me to take the Bite, not even when I got stabbed. He never used the 'save my life' argument. We didn't know if it would. We didn't know if being a werewolf would keep him from catching the Bleed or if he'd survive it if he did," Stiles told his father. Quietly. Bitterly. "It did, but it was so close … the only thing that saved him was shifting. Becoming an animal. But, in case you still don't get it, he's still Derek. He's always Derek, the same way I'm always me. It's not Jekyll and Hyde. Please, don't start thinking like that."

"I'm sorry."

"We're going to go now," Stiles said. "I don't want to lose you, Dad. Please. Give me a chance."

"Son – "

Stiles brightened at the softened tone, the acknowledgment in just one word.

The Sheriff swallowed then spoke. "Son, it's a lot to take in. You need – I need some time. But you're still my kid. That doesn't change." He glanced at Derek. "No matter what else does."

"Okay," Stiles said in a small voice. He reached for the Sheriff again and this time his father pulled him in rather than away. They hugged, a little stiff on both their parts, before letting go.

"So, you can do that? Become a wolf?"

Stiles smiled. "Yeah. Betas aren't supposed to be able to, lots of alphas can't, but, yeah, I did it."

"In that case, I guess you better show me."

Stiles gave a little nod, then he slid his pants off and shifted all the way in one smooth ripple of movement and power, before leaping off the back porch. He stopped in the middle of the backyard and stood still, letting his father look at him as long as he needed. Derek rumbled approvingly before joining Stiles. The dew on the grass chilled his paw pads as they headed for the woods that surrounded the town. Nowhere in Beacon Hills was very far from the forest.

Finally, the Sheriff chuckled, the sound rusty and not quite comfortable. "Pretty impressive, kiddo."

Derek cocked his head and listened, but the Sheriff's heart rate had settled down to near normal.

He went still as the Sheriff approached Stiles, then reached out and touched the tip of one of Stiles' ears. "Jesus. _Werewolves_. I guess this is payback for never letting you have a dog, right?"

Stiles turned his head and licked at his father's hand.

The Sheriff sank down in the wet grass and stroked his hands through Stiles' fur, the dew staining the knees of his pants dark, talking softly.

Derek retreated to the tree line and kept watch, until the sun crested over the tops of the trees, and he could hear people stirring in the nearby houses. Stiles heard them too, his ears flicking, giving away a sudden restlessness Derek felt too. The Sheriff climbed to his feet and Stiles circled him once before trotting over to Derek's side. They waited while the Sheriff walked back to the back porch and turned to watch as Derek and Stiles faded into the wild.