7. Route 59

The absence of another body breathing in the confines of the car bothered Stiles, though there were many reasons Derek could have got out. A trickle of the spark that always lived under his breast bone let him test the wards he'd put up. Nothing had disturbed them. That didn't mean Derek was inside the wards, because Stiles' wards ignored Derek even when he tried to key them solely to himself. The only thing that ever kept Derek away from Stiles was a solid line of mountain ash and that had to be unbroken and reinforced with the sort of brute power magic Stiles tried to avoid.

He succeeded in tangling his legs in his blanket and pushing his pillow onto the floor before fighting his way free and lifting his head far enough to peer over the edge of the door window.

"Gaaaaaa!" Stiles lurched back before his brain computed that he knew who was watching him from the other side of the glass.

Crimson eyes gleamed back at him from a hulking black shadow just outside, close enough Derek could lick the glass and then give him a tongue-lolling, wolfy smirk.

"You – you jerk!" Stiles shouted. "Holy God, I think I lost a year off my life expectancy." Derek had left the keys in the ignition, so he was locked out, and Stiles vindictively decided he wouldn't let him back in for his clothes, until he noticed Derek had left his clothes folded on the hood. "Asshole."

Derek padded around the car and picked up something from in front while Stiles scrambled his way into the front seat, only bumping his head against the roof and pulling on his wound once. He had to gasp through the pain that caused, but it eased away much faster than before. The antibiotics, pain killers and rest he'd had in the last days had made a major difference.

Outside the car, Derek whined and then stood against the door, scratching at the window with one massive paw to get Stiles' attention again. The car rocked under his weight. Stiles had already begun blurting, "I do not need to see – " when he realized Derek had something in his razor-toothed maw. Stiles had to squint to make anything out, because as far as his definition went, it wasn't morning until the freaking sun made it all the way above the horizon, and said sun had not initiated even the first edging peep, but he thought it was something furry and limp.

Possibly bloody.

Stiles yelped and scooted back in disgust. "Dude, did you kill Thumper? Not cool, so not cool… " He unlocked the door and got out anyway, the interior light from car proving that Derek had brought back a very dead rabbit.

His body language, all perked ears and pride, tail high and waving, said, _Look, look, look what I brought back for you!_ Stiles was probably lucky Derek hadn't dragged back an entire cow, but…

"I'm not eating that," Stiles told him. For one thing, it was raw. "I'm not Frodo! Or Sam! There will be no stew making. And you didn't bring back any po-tay-toes … " Stiles drifted to the same places Samwise's did. He wanted curly fries.

Derek backed away, with his ears pinned back and his tail drooping. Stiles refused to be sorry or charmed and crossed his arms over his chest, shivering a little in the pre-dawn chill. "No. Bad werewolf."

Derek eyed him, then straightened and padded away, his body radiating a clear _fuck you_ in Stiles' direction. He dropped to the dirt, pinned the carcass to the ground with one paw and bit into it hungrily. The bones crushed under the pressure from his jaws with a squelching crackle that sent a shiver of disgust and sensible fear up Stiles' spine.

"Don't think I'm kissing that mouth again until you've brushed and gargled, either," Stiles declaimed, unwilling to let Derek have the last word or crunch in any argument between them. He muttered under his breath, knowing Derek would still hear him, "You just ruined BJs for me forever." Watching Derek eat in wolf form gave new meaning to 'watch the teeth'.

Derek lifted his head, one sad floppy ear dangling from his mouth, and gave Stiles a flat-eyed stare that said any kissing or other making out would not be happening any time soon.

Stiles stomach growled and he made a face at the prospect of eating more sardines. Especially the nasty ones packed in tomato sauce, because he had strong opinions on herring and what should and should not go with it, that being saltine crackers and nothing else. He wasn't sure he could stomach them again anyway, thinking about how they had all the little bones still inside them.

That would sort of make him a hypocrite too, eating whole fish when he objected to Derek chowing down on Bugs Bunny.

He settled for a bag of gummy bears, seated in the Monte Carlo with his legs hanging out, and listening to the birds waking up outside. He fished out a stolen hotel wash cloth, half a piece of soap and a bottle of water for when Derek finished and shifted back.

Pale fingers of sunlight broke through the stacks of hay. Particles hung in them, bright and golden as fairy dust. Derek's midnight fur gleamed a deep red-ebony before marble pale, smooth skin replaced it. The muscles under that skin rippled as he straightened up. The black triskele tattooed between Derek's shoulder blades looked stark and sharp as fresh ink.

Maybe it was fresh ink. Maybe the wolfsbane that must have been mixed with it to make the tattoo take on a werewolf kept it from ever really healing.

What if it hurt all the time?

It would have been just like Derek to do something that would never, ever stop hurting him as a reminder to never forgive himself.

The question of whether the tattoo still hurt preoccupied Stiles to the point he almost didn't stop to appreciate what Derek looked like as he cleaned himself up, wiping blood out of the dark stubble that was more a scruffy beard at this point. The blood didn't bother Derek, but then, Derek never tried to hide that he was pure predator; he'd never apologized or been sorry he was a wolf.

And Derek was. Derek was a wolf who could look like a man, not like Scott and the other bitten werewolves, who were all humans who sometimes looked like wolves… werewolves anyway.

Derek had never been human.

Stiles watched Derek's throat work as he took a swallow of water from the bottle. A trickle escaped the corner of his mouth and slid down Derek's throat to his collar bone in a glistening silver trail. He stood naked and unashamed, silhouetted against the brightness at the other end of the barn and framed in shadow. He poured the rest of the water over his hair and then full-body shook. Water sprayed in a diamond bright mist around him.

Stiles's throat went dry. Derek wasn't human and Stiles was fine with that. He swallowed hard, his throat clicking, and scooted forward to the edge of the seat, hoping to create a little more room in his pants. Derek hadn't even looked at him and Stiles felt turned on, but who wouldn't be? Derek was objectively beautiful, his broad shoulders and lean waist and dense muscle fitted to some Golden Mean of proportion and perfection in a male body. Isaac was taller than Derek, Boyd was taller and built like freight train, and even Stiles had caught up that last inch between his height and Derek's the last year of high school, but he made them all look insubstantial by comparison, as if being alpha or just his intense personality added mass that could be sensed.

His stomach gurgled and turned queasy when he stuffed another handful of candy in his mouth. He wasn't fine with being hungry.

"I want breakfast," Stiles announced.

"I brought you breakfast," Derek replied after he'd pulled his jeans on. He shoved his feet in his shoes and walked over to stand between Stiles' sprawled legs. Stiles eyed the happy trail of dark hair that disappeared under the low waistband of Derek's pants. "You didn't want it."

Stiles contorted his face at the idea of eating uncooked bunny. He didn't even want rabbit fricassee. He was totally a supermarket predator. He liked to think all meat was really grown in magic vats somewhere and appeared wrapped in plastic and Styrofoam without any bloody butchering and death involved. He'd gone through most of his life in that happy state of denial and wasn't ready to abandon it until it was absolutely necessary.

The light caught in Derek's pale eyes, inky black lashes making them look even lighter, sage green and a center starburst of amber, flicked with gray and blue that fascinated Stiles every time.

He hooked his fingers under Derek's waistband, letting his knuckles press against Derek's navel and grinning when Derek sucked in his breath, abs flexing unconsciously.

"I want pancakes."

"Do I look like a short order cook?"

Stiles rubbed the back of his fingers along Derek's happy trail. "No," he admitted. He looked up at Derek through his eyelashes. Derek's eyes looked darker, his pupils taking up more of the iris. Stiles let himself look down again. God, Derek was cut, muscles taut under baby fine, unscarred skin.

"Are you trying to bribe me?"

"Is it working?" He wasn't, he just wanted to touch, wanted Derek to know that nothing he'd seen meant he didn't.

"Better than it should." Derek sounded hoarse and rocked forward restlessly, shoes scuffing the dirt, all leashed power held back by determination. Derek always had superb control of anything physical. Stiles ran his free hand up one denim-clad thigh, thinking of all the ways he wanted to take his time and work Derek right to brink and beyond. Derek breathed out harshly and stepped back, reluctance visible in his body language and the way he bit his lip. "Let's go."

"What!?"

What the hell? Stiles had thought he was going to reciprocate the blow job from the day before. Now Derek was stalking to the driver's side of the car.

Stiles settled back in his seat and sulked. "Do you enjoy blue balls or something?"

"No," Derek said through gritted teeth. He started the Monte Carlo and backed out. "But you're still recovering, so you need more to eat. Sex can wait."

Stiles put his seat belt on then pushed his lip out in a pout. "Yeah, yeah, that's what everyone told me all through high school. It sucked then and it sucks now, and by the way, I was ready to suck too."

Derek pushed his foot down on the gas and they fishtailed out onto the road in a cloud of dust.

"Discreet, Lon Chaney, really discreet," Stiles remarked.

Derek side-eyed him and pushed the Monte Carlo up to eighty. Stiles pulled the seat belt tight, reminded of how insanely fast Derek liked to drive his Camaro. They passed one intersection and then another and then Derek turned the car into a long driveway leading to a lonely house and barn surrounded by cotton fields.

"What if someone's here?"

Derek slowed the car and let it roll to a stop in the shade of a single orange tree.

"I scouted it."

The engine died with a turn of the key and the quiet was back, the quiet that wormed under Stiles' skin and left him tense and waiting for something to attack. He glanced at Derek, wondering if it got to him or if it was an amazing relief after a life of being bombarded by noise pollution. Derek stared through the windshield. His face gave little away until he rolled his shoulders before turning toward Stiles. "The people living here were old. There were two of them. They left on foot days ago."

"You don't think they'll be back?"

Derek tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Finally, he answered, "I think they were going to turn back they already would be here."

Stiles decided he didn't want to ask any more questions when he could hear the real answers in the spaces between what Derek did say. "Okay."

Derek forced the back door with a shoulder push and werewolf strength. Stiles hooked the creaky screen door behind them out of habit. Breaking and entering, a not so new crime on his rap sheet if he'd had one, Stiles noted. Sometimes he wondered how he and the others hadn't been convicted of at least some of the crimes they'd committed in the last four years. With the exception of Derek's one arrest thanks to Stiles and Scott and the restraining order Jackson's parents had had taken out against Stiles after the whole kidnapping and keeping him in a police transport thing, they'd been incredibly lucky. No one in the pack had ever been convicted of anything.

It still felt wrong to walk into a stranger's house the way they were. At the same time, the place had an abandoned feel. He doubted the people it belonged to would ever know someone had been there after them. The dark rooms, with only light coming through the edges of the pulled curtains, added to the effect.

The screened in porch opened into a long room that served as laundry, a washer and dryer that looked like they dated from the nineteen-fifties sitting against one wall. Stiles gaped when he realized a hand pump proved water for the deep, cast iron sinks next to them.

"Wow," he blurted and then pointed, "Dude, you think it works?"

Derek eyed the pump before taking the long handle in one hand a lifting it. The pipes groaned. He worked the pump until abruptly, water gushed into the sink. Rust discolored the stream briefly, then the water cleared and ran clean.

Stiles did a little jig. "That is awesome!" The way Derek's biceps looked as he pumped the water had been awesome too.

The water stopped and Stiles realized he was staring, because when he raised his gaze to Derek's face, a smile tipped up the corner of Derek's mouth. Derek only said, "It'll work easier next time, now it's been primed."

Stiles' stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly.

They padded into the kitchen, which had been modernized in places, but the old wiring was still on the outside of the walls, the refrigerator was that terrible, pebble textured avocado green from the seventies, and there was a wood stove.

Two months ago, Stiles would not have had a clue how to fire that monster up. He grinned, because after living with Consuelo, he not only knew how to get a fire going in a wood stove, that baby was going to cook up some food that would blow Derek's mind. . As far Consuelo had been concerned, teaching Stiles had meant that he was her kitchen slave. She'd made him cook for her every day.

"All right," he said and cracked his knuckles. "I've got this."

"You're sure?" Derek looked deeply skeptical, but Stiles was serious. He'd handle the stove and that would keep Derek from having to deal with lighting anything on fire. He hadn't forgotten how badly the burned pack house had affected Derek. Derek always made himself do what had to be done, but he didn't have to do this.

"I am the king of cooking on wood stoves. At least between the two of us, I am. Now, find me stuff to cook," Stiles declared.

Derek opened doors until he found the pantry. Stiles opened the stove, checking it was in working order and not just sitting there like a giant piece of floor art. "Hey," he called, "did you see any firewood around here?"

"Outside the door there," Derek said, pointing to the other end of the kitchen.

"Got it."

By the time Stiles had the stove lit and heating, Derek had found ingredients for a meal, including the pancakes Stiles wanted, though made from box mix and powdered milk. There were no eggs or anything fresh, but Derek brought out three dusty cans of Spam and a jar of strawberry jam. After turning up his nose at the rabbit, Stiles knew better than to comment on the less than healthy aspects of the Spam. Exploring the kitchen also provided a heavy cast iron pan, cured black and better than Teflon. Once it was sizzling hot, Stiles started making pancakes on it.

Derek surprised him by crowding close behind Stiles and hooking his chin over Stiles' shoulder as he flipped a pancake. His hands came to rest on Stiles' hips. "You really do know how to cook on that thing."

"You doubted me?" Stiles tried to place his hand over his heart in mock sorrow and managed to slap himself with the spatula he'd forgotten he still held. He scowled at the spatula and then at Derek. "You could have stopped me from doing that."

The smug look Derek gave him was familiar. "You're such a jerk."

Derek plucked the spatula from Stiles' fingers and neatly flipped the latest pancake onto a plate.

"Oh, ho, if you're that good at it, you can finish the rest of the batter while I feast on my delicious, hot, wonderful pancakes," Stiles declared. He reached for the plate with the pancakes and snagged several, hissing when his fingertips overheated. Derek huffed out a breath against his neck and caught the pancakes before they hit the floor. He placed them on another plate without even wincing.

"Don't forget the Spam," Derek said and deftly poured batter onto the center of the pan while Stiles blew on his fingertips.

"Flip it when the bubbles come through," Stiles told him.

"I've got it. Eat before your stomach crawls out on its own and – "

"Ugh. Like something from a horror movie or, ooops, there's this Theodore Sturgeon story – "

Derek interrupted him, "Please don't tell me it." He paused. "Crap. I remember that one."

"You read Sturgeon." Stiles stopped everything and stared at Derek, taking in the black and gray Metallica t-shirt stretched over his broad should shoulders and chest, the beard that couldn't blur the sharpness of his jawline, the way his black hair, though a little greasy now, was normally so silky that without gel it clung to his head and had a wave. He was as guilty as anyone else of missing that there was a person inside the spectacular packaging, a quirky bastard with a dark, dry sense of humor and penchant for reading books and surprising Stiles with the odd things he knew. But that guy, the one who read classic science fiction, that guy was even sexier than the growling creature of the night male model Stiles had once pegged Derek as. The guy that was both? He made Stiles toes curl. "Dude. Duuuuude. If I didn't love you already, I would fall in love with you for that."

Derek tensed visibly.

Shit, Stiles thought weakly, maybe he shouldn't have come out with it like that. Maybe he shouldn't have said it at all. Derek was spooky as any abused animal and the word love coming from a human's mouth had meant nothing but pain and loss for him before.

Derek flipped the pancake, perfectly golden brown, out of the pan and set the spatula down. His shoulders hunched slightly and he looked like he wanted to brace himself against the stove, but couldn't because it was too hot.

Stiles could have said Derek didn't need to say it back or feel the same, but he had learned some tact, and that sometimes silence, especially around Derek, worked best.

Derek plucked the plate in Stiles' hand away and crowded close enough Stiles could feel the swift beat of his heart through his chest. Before he could think of anything to say, Derek had his arms around Stiles. He tipped his head and their foreheads pressed together. Derek's breath heated Stiles' lips and Stiles gulped hard.

"Stiles."

"Yeah?" So his voice sounded a little higher and breathier than normal. A shudder, half terror and half arousal, ran down his spine and Derek's hands seemed to chase after it, smoothing down Stiles' back in a soothing movement.

They'd already kissed, back in Baja, under the borealis. Stiles knew to angle his head just enough their noses didn't collide. Knew Derek's breath would be sweet because he'd brushed his teeth and he found out now his lips tasted of the strawberry jam. Blunt human teeth caught at his lower lip and tugged, no more than that, when Stiles licked at Derek's mouth. The second kiss turned fierce, their teeth clicked and Stiles bit back, harder than Derek did. He laughed a little, low and turned on, when Derek drew back, but Derek had gone tense as one of Allison's bow-strings.

"I do not love you when you call me dude," Derek said. If he held onto Stiles any harder, Stiles would start worrying about his ribs. Werewolves could really give rib cracking hugs, though what Stiles really had to watch out for are the we-almost-died-again hugs that succeeded in breaking already cracked ribs... and his brain was officially trying to run in five different directions at the same time, something it still did once in a while, though he had mostly aged out of the ADHD and hadn't had an Adderall script for two years.

Derek closed his eyes and whispered, "I do, though. I do."

"Do… ?"

Every wandering thought was dismissed and Stiles predator-focused on Derek and Derek's words.

"That thing you said." Derek's eyes stayed closed, like it was barely possible to force the words out, but not looking made it fractionally easier. He tended to speak softly, but his voice didn't usually crack into nothingness. The sound of him swallowing once he'd spoken seemed louder than his voice had been.

"Oooooh."

Stiles swallowed too, joy and a sympathetic ache blooming inside him. He couldn't say _how_ hard it had been for Derek to say that much, but he knew it had been, and he always ached when he thought how much damage Derek had endured. He loved the Derek he knew now, the man Derek had become, the alpha and the wolf, but he'd always ache for the kid Kate Argent had done her best to destroy.

"I just can't say it."

"That's okay," Stiles said and it was. It was more than okay. He pecked a kiss to the thin, straight line of Derek's unhappy mouth. "I'm smart. I can infer and deduce. Tell me what it isn't and I can tell you what it is." He kissed Derek again and got his hands down far enough to suggestively squeeze Derek's ass through his jeans. "Though I prefer to seduce."

A log in the stove crackled and spit loudly and Derek jolted under Stiles' hands. The hands on his back curled into fists.

"Later, though," Stiles said as a distraction. "Not here, though, that would feel too weird. I know, why's cooking in here okay, but sex isn't, but it just isn't, it's like if someone burglarized my house, them eating the food could be because they're just that hungry, but if they had sex there, that would just be freaky. So, uh, food now, and then we'll hit the road, and I swear there's car sex in your very near future. Okay?"

Derek let him go and went back to the stove. Stiles made himself retrieve his plate and the Spam and a jar of jam and made pancake roll-ups that oozed and dripped and made Derek watch him with a sort of fascinated nausea as he ate.

"Mmmm," Stiles moaned happily and stuffed the roll-up deeper in his mouth. "Meat and sweet."

"That's not as hot as you think it is," Derek said.

"Whatever, dude, you're the one who is burning the food cause you can't look away."

The blackened, rigid pancake went into the garbage. "It's like a train wreck."

"That's your life. Hah. Go ahead, keep telling yourself that, but you know you want this."

"I'm re-evaluating my life."

Stiles bobbed his head and spoke with a mouth full of half-chewed pancake. He wiggled his entire body as lasciviously as he could and did a Vanna White hand gesture to himself. "I know, you're wondering why you haven't been tapping this since it was legal, right?" He made another roll-up. The Spam was not half-bad that way.

"Jesus," Derek muttered and turned his back. He made quick work of cooking the rest of the pancakes and Stiles alternated between gorging himself and feeding sticky-sweet pieces to Derek with his fingers. The first offering took Derek by surprise, but he licked Stiles' fingers clean with the sort of eyelid fluttering pleasure on his face that meant Stiles would be having inappropriate boners over strawberry jam the rest of his life. Derek leaned into him, pliant and tactile and grateful. Great waves of affection crested through Stiles and he had to kiss away any little jam smears on Derek's lips.

Derek made a choked off noise in the back of his throat and then sighed against Stiles' mouth before ending the kiss.

They cleaned up the kitchen and put out the fire in the stove without discussion. Derek filled paper bags with canned goods from the pantry, but left more than they took.

Before they left, Derek filled a bucket of water and poured it into a trough outside, then took a bag of cat food outside and cut it open. Stiles didn't comment, because Derek still didn't like it when anyone noticed his gentle side. Like he was still fooling anyone in the pack. Not even Scott bought the heartless hard ass facade any more.

Fifty miles up the road, Stiles made Derek pull off behind a shutdown cannery that smelled of tomatoes and they fucked in the backseat, in the shade, because they were going to go through a town soon. Detours would eat up their gas too quick otherwise. An hour later they were back on the road and Stiles was reading road signs and trying to figure out how it would take them to get back to Beacon Hills. He missed cell phones and talking to his Dad. He wanted to know his Dad was okay. He read one declaring they were closing in on Los Banos and declared, "I've got a bad feeling."

"About?"

"Town."

Derek nodded. "We can avoid Los Banos."

"I'm not psychic," Stiles said. He didn't know if it was Los Banos that was the problem or just any town or just him.

Derek turned the car north onto Route 59. The uneasy feeling in Stiles' gut didn't ease at all. He probably shouldn't have had sex after eating so much, it was probably like swimming, you could give yourself cramps… It totally had nothing to do with the prospect of meeting people, just because the last stranger Stiles met had stabbed him and Stiles had killed him.

Holy God, he didn't want to think about that any more. How did Derek stand it, feeling like anyone could be after him? No wonder Derek isolated himself so much. He risked a glance at Derek, who looked grim. He wasn't looking forward to seeing new people either. Of course, Derek had distrusted people on principle even before this, even without witnessing soldiers shooting civilians.

It didn't take a cynic to guess anyone in any town wouldn't be happy to see strangers from the south since the broadcasts about the Bleed, either.

Stiles noted the sign announcing they were coming up on El Nido and reached for the .45 in the glove box.

Derek saw and said nothing.

So much for the afterglow.

~*~

Around an hour before sundown, maybe around seven – neither Stiles nor Derek had a working watch at the moment – Derek slowed the car abruptly, needle falling back toward zero steadily, and Stiles realized Derek had taken his foot of the gas. His heartbeat steadied from the jolt of _oh shit_ panic. Derek could see farther than him, so Stiles focused forward. It took him a minute to figure out what he was seeing, but by then the brakes were engaging.

Ahead, he saw raw, red-brown earth embankments. They were new, built up and compacted and still incomplete in places. A faded yellow Caterpillar tractor chugged at work on one of them, front loader tipping to dump a load of dirt in place. Black exhaust belched from its smokestack. Stiles stared in disbelief and amazement. Further out, a backhoe thirty years older than Stiles operated too, excavating trenches like something from World War I. The dirt was going straight to the walls.

Derek said, "Shit."

Stiles‛ heartbeat hurried back up.

They were close enough now that he could make out more than the new embankments. The sun glinted off hastily erected chain-link fencing at the top, all of it topped with rusty old barbed wire. The fencing was different enough, some of it threaded through with green slats for privacy, that it must have been scavenged from more than one location. Route 59 headed straight toward the earth walls and a makeshift but solid looking gate. Anything outside the walls had been knocked down and scraped down to bare earth starting just beyond a road sign saying Welcome to Historic El Nido. It looked like Stiles imagined a brand new mine field would look or a … a killing ground.

"Holy God," Stiles breathed. Someone had moved fast. Someone paranoid and smart and charismatic enough that he or she had people acting on a plan.

Someone in El Nido was dangerous and on the way to becoming a warlord. Probably some nasty old fucker like Gerard Argent, ready to pull strings and shit on anyone in his way, innocent or not. Just the thought made Stiles grit his teeth. The people in El Nido might like to think they were saving themselves, but it wasn't worth it to live under the thumb of someone like that. Stiles picked out sentries carrying rifles on top of the wall. A glint off glass proved some of them had seen the car too. They were being watched.

"Check behind us," Derek ordered in a tight voice.

Stiles tore his gaze away from the fortifications and looked back along the road. He sighed in relief. "Empty." So they hadn't rolled into another ambush.

Derek exhaled in a rush. "Okay. Keep watching."

Just weeks ago this had been a half forgotten wide spot on the road with only a couple hundred people still living there who had to drive north to Merced just to gas up their cars.

"I thought the damn road was too clear," Derek commented. The V8 gave an uneven hiccup as it idled, running rough on unleaded gas even with a bottle of additive poured in the tank to smooth it out. Derek's left hand tightened on the steering wheel. His right rested on the automatic's shift gear. Stiles could see him calculating their situation. The gas tank was over half full and they still had two cans of gas in the trunk.

"Huh. You're right. The only cars we saw were on the siding." He'd bet they wouldn't find any gas in their tanks if they stopped to check. "Derek, it's not worth it."

Derek glanced over to him, a mulish set to his eyebrows, but his expression softened immediately. "Yeah," he agreed. He shifted into reverse.

The bullet punched through the driver's side of the windshield and into Derek's chest. His body snapped back with the impact and he slumped over. The car lurched backward with a throaty roar a Derek's foot pushed down on the gas pedal.

"Der – crap, crap, Derek, _Derek_ – " Stiles shouted. The car was rolling back crazily, more bullets punching through the glass, and Derek was – he couldn't tell if Derek was breathing. He was just limp, with blood spreading through his t-shirt, turning it wet and shiny black. Derek's body jolted as he took two more hits and his head lolled sickeningly to the side.

Stiles ducked down, shoved Derek's knee so his foot hit the gas again and steered from the side, while cursing the assholes shooting at them and the world and Derek and praying in a panicked rush of words that made no sense even to him. The car wove from side to side, slowing and speeding whenever Stiles lost his grip on the wheel or Derek's knee. Bullet holes starred the windshield, the crazed cracks intersecting so that nothing could be seen through it. The rear window suffered nearly as badly and tufts of stuffing bulged through holes in the rear seat back.

Stiles used the side mirror and had to keep blinking over and over. He was half lying over Derek's lap, trying to keep his own head under the dash, and the smell of blood threatened to make him puke on his self it was so thick.

"Please, please, please, c'mon, Derek, snap out of it, you're the fucking alpha, you eat bullets for breakfast … " Stiles pleaded. "Wake up, c'mon, you've got to – "

There were no more bullets hitting the car. Stiles didn't know if they were out of range or the rifle shooter had run out of ammo. He didn't care. He just took the chance to drop the car into neutral and pull Derek's body out of the driver's seat and take it himself. They were nearly in the ditch, still rolling with momentum, when Stiles slammed his foot on the brake, shifted into drive with a screeching protest from the transmission, turned the car around and sent it screaming down the road they'd rolled up less than fifteen minutes before. The heat gauge climbed steadily and steam billowed from under the perforated hood when he stuck his head out the window to see. A racketing noise from the engine warned that they wouldn't be going much farther, while the steering and ride got steadily worse, telling him one of the tires was losing air fast too.

The stupid chrome angel hood ornament had been blown off.

_"Shit, shit, shit, fuck,"_ Stiles muttered to himself. "Fucking douchenozzle asswipe bastard shit stain _fuckers_ , what the fuck is wrong with them, we didn't _do_ anything – " He had no idea if they'd started shooting because the car sat there too long or because when Derek shifted they thought it was going to come onward or because they wanted to kill anyone inside before they could get away. "If Derek dies I'm going to come back and make sure you all end up _infected and sorry!"_ he screamed out the window uselessly. "And I'm going to curse you with genital warts, Consuelo taught me how, and then I'm going to fucking _zombie animate_ Derek and he'll kill you again!"

"I think Peter's the only zombie werewolf we need," Derek said, rough and sardonic and then, disbelieving, _"Genital warts?"_

Stiles yelped and nearly put them in the ditch. _"Fucker!"_ Derek didn't respond, which proved he was still hurting like a bastard, because Derek never missed an opportunity to mock Stiles' driving.

Instead, Derek got the passenger window down while coughing brutally, then hung his head out and vomited black and bloody bile, so it flew behind them. Stiles didn't see why he bothered, since the interior of the car was soaked in his blood already anyway. He doubted puke could make it any worse.

Stiles spotted the intersection where they'd left the east-west highway to go north. He barely slowed to make a hard right, rocking Derek hard enough he cursed, because his instincts had been all wrong already. That put the sun directly in his eyes, the glare fracturing through the ruined windshield with crazy brilliance.

"I don't know if we'll make it as far as Los Banos," Stiles announced.

"Try." Derek collapsed back into the car. Stiles risked a side glance at him because he was desperate for reassurance. Derek didn't look particularly reassuring, but his eyes were open in his pale face, and he was scowling.

"Well," Stiles blurted since Derek wasn't saying anything, "at least they weren't wolfsbane bullets, right?"

Derek struggled to sit up enough to level a real glare at Stiles, but his eyes didn't flash red, so it rolled right off. Not that the whole 'I'm the alpha now, hear me growl' thing had ever intimidated him much either. He'd figured out early that Derek didn't actually get off on scaring people, so he wouldn't bother threatening anyone he actually meant to hurt.

"I mean really, it's not exactly fair. I get stabbed days ago and I'm still hurting and you just got shot like three times and I think your heart may have stopped – by the way, I think mine did too – and I'd bet if you took off that shirt, you wouldn't even have a scar or bruise to show for it now."

"Are you okay?" Derek asked. He didn't even hide the concern anymore.

"Not a scratch," Stiles replied with manic cheer. He clutched at the steering wheel. He thought if he didn't, his hands would shake right off his wrists.

Derek plucked at the fabric still clinging wetly to his chest in distaste, then skinned it off and threw it out of the car. Only three dimpled pink spots marked where the bullets hit him but his pecs and belly were smeared red. Stiles made a noise like a dying cat.

~*~

Los Banos was empty.

The town sat squarely between the parallel north-south routes of Interstate 5 and Highway 99. It made for a natural place to stop for gas or convenience store snacks.

The Monte Carlo died on the outskirts outside the city limits. Stiles was no gearhead, but he felt bad over what happened to it, almost as bad as he'd felt over the Jeep. Even Derek gave it a regretful look.

The swollen sun dyed them red as Stiles and Derek hurriedly made up packs of what they worried most about replacing before starting out on foot. Derek wanted to find another vehicle so they could get back on the road to Beacon Hills, but Stiles knew he wasn't counting on just 'finding' one no one else wanted. The question was how far would they go to get what they wanted. Stiles wanted to find a place he could sit down and have hysterics for at least five minutes. He also foresaw a lot of walking in his future. Derek wasn't cold enough to off anyone for their wheels any more than Stiles was.

He had the .45 shoved down the front of his pants and a shirt tail over it, though, because plenty of people were plenty cold enough to kill for the pain killers in the heavy pack pulling on his shoulders and his aching side, even before the world went to shit.

The last light lingering after the sun slipped away let Stiles keep walking fast enough to keep up with Derek. It let him see Derek getting tenser and tenser as they skirted along the graveled edge of the tarmac too. "What's wrong?" he whispered.

"I can't hear anything," Derek admitted.

Stiles made an effort to keep his voice down. "You mean, the 'it's quiet, too quiet' kind of can't hear or did you go deaf, because, dude, you're hearing me fine, right?" He knew he was being an annoying asshole, but he was also on the fine edge of freaking out and the fact that Derek didn't look much better made that _worse_. Sarcasm would always be his first line of defense.

Derek stopped and caught Stiles' arm. "I mean I can't hear anyone. There's supposed to be over thirty-six thousand people there according to the sign we just walked by and I should be able to hear voices and movement by now, even if I'm not close enough to pick up heartbeats. Even the smell isn't right, I don't think anything's fresher than three days ago."

A shudder rolled through Stiles. Derek wordlessly maneuvered them close enough to press together. Stiles leaned into him hard, feeling cold despite the heat and the lingering stench of blood. They were losing the last of the light, but neither of them moved until the sky turned the deepest indigo and the first stars appeared beyond it. He needed the moment to pull himself together and it was both comforting and alarming that Derek seemed to need it just as bad.

The scuff of their shoes made Stiles wince when they started walking again. A piece of gravel skidded under his heel and he flailed to keep his balance until Derek caught his elbow and steadied him. Derek left his hand wrapped around Stiles' elbow afterward and they walked parallel.

The chill running through Stiles reminded him of all the blood Derek had lost and that he couldn't be feeling his best. Magic werewolf mojo healing took energy and the breakfast bunny, plus Spam and pancakes, had been a long time ago. There were things Stiles could do that Derek couldn't, too; things he should have already thought of doing. Why had he been studying magic with Consuelo after all?

Stiles began chanting a protection mantra under his breath, building power so his fingers tingled and Derek twitched. He reviewed several fast acting curses he could throw, though curses were dangerous weapons. They could ricochet.

"I can feel that and so can other things," Derek warned. "You're waving a magical flashlight around in the dark." Magic attracted the supernatural like blood attracted sharks or gunshots attracted cops or money attracted gold diggers … Stiles made himself stop muttering. Derek was right and he was letting fear make him paint an illuminated, phosphorescent target on his back. He let the magic dissolve back into the nature he'd drawn it from. The land gave a sleepy hum. At least it wasn't sick.

"You think something's here?" Something not natural, Stiles meant, and wanted to slap himself because what else would Derek mean?

"I don't know." Derek sounded pissed with the whole sucktastic blackhole of a situation.

The city made Stiles' skin crawl as they walked further toward downtown. There were no cars. Not just no traffic, but no vehicles stalled and abandoned or even rolled to the gutter that they'd seen elsewhere. Without discussing it, they moved to the sidewalks once they appeared, because the main street left them completely exposed.

The street lights were out. Neon unlit. Signs dark. No blue-tinted flicker of fluorescent light shone in the gas station bays. No headlights or tail lights, no bright glare of braking, no swish of wheels, no squeal from dusty brake drums, no bass thump from someone playing the radio too loud inside their car. No smell of exhaust mingling with fryer grease from the fast food place. Just the pervasive taint of wildfire smoke no matter which way the wind gusted.

When Stiles looked up, the _aurora borealis_ had begun twisting across the sky again, one color spilling and morphing into another in a mesmerizing display. His mouth hung open for a moment before he shook it off. He didn't even consider it pretty anymore.

Store faces with their expanses of window glass were dark mirrors reflecting the dancing colors in the sky. Anything could be behind them.

Curious, Stiles tried the door to hair salon. It opened, unlocked. He locked eyes with Derek. Neither of them stepped inside. The door to the antique store beside the salon was propped open.

Derek tried the next door. It, too, opened like an invitation.

"Keep moving?" Stiles whispered.

Fallen leaves and an empty plastic bag skittered on the rising breeze and a wind chime in front of a furniture outlet sounded, glassy high and lonely. It stopped them both, but no other noise followed, nothing had moved it but the air.

"Keep moving," Derek confirmed softly.

Absently he read the street sign and put it together. Main Street and Mercy Springs Road, aka Highways 152 and 165 intersected a block ahead. That would be the center of town. It seemed like if there were going to be answers, they'd find them there, but Stiles already knew they wouldn't.

They picked up their pace. A sudden stench as they approached the center of town made them both stop. "Can you smell that?" Derek asked.

Stiles nodded. Dead men could smell that, but Derek never had a good grasp on what humans could and couldn't smell or why some things made them want to barf. He didn't process most odors as good and bad. Like a dog … Thinking of dogs … Stiles murmured, "You know what else is wrong here?"

"You're going to tell me."

"Interrogative inflection, dude. Never mind. Just – No people, no dogs, no cats, no birds or rats or pet iguanas – Don't tell me everyone took their animals with them. People suck even when they aren't running away from something. Someone forgot Fluffy and Mr. Muffins and Grandpa Stan's heart medicine and the pictures from Aunt Ethel's cruise." Stiles took a deep breath and wished he hadn't. No one had taken away the garbage since the Crash. "Tell me you can sense something left alive here."

"Yes," Derek replied and looked freaked out.

"What?" Stiles thought he might not want to know, if it could freak Derek out.

"Fluffy and Mr. Muffins," Derek said and pointed ahead.

The dog pack should have been as funny as the names Stiles had thrown out there. The black giant poodle was still groomed into poofy powder-puff shapes after all. He picked out a couple of Labradors, a Dalmatian and some kind of setter. The rest were good-sized mixed breeds, except for the two Dobermans. They were all dirty, fur beginning to mat, with ribs beginning to show.

"Ha. Ha." Stiles swallowed. "You get points for making a funny, but I'm going to have to deduct them all, because this is not funny. At all."

The Dobermans would have been frightening even before they were abandoned to starve and went feral. The poodle though … Stiles got why Derek was freaked out. It looked meaner than the rest of them. Monsieur Maurice, man's best friend, should not look murderous.

"They look more like they ate Fluffy and Mr. Muffins," Stiles added. He rested his hand on the .45's butt. The dog pack stalked closer. Stiles didn't think any of them wanted a good ear scratch. "Actually, they look like they want to eat _us_."

Stiles could hear toe nails clicking against the tarmac as the dogs slunk down the street, eyes reflecting the aurora overhead, heads sunk lower than their shoulders, all hackled up and hungry.

Stiles had been appreciating the way the little breeze blowing had relieved some of the ripe garbage smell, if nothing else, despite the way it chilled the sweat at his back and under his arms. His skull prickled though when it picked up enough to make the metal street signs flex and bang like a shot, while the wind chimes tinkled madly. He nearly leaped out of his shoes. His heart seemed to be trying to beat its way out of his chest before something could jump out and rip it out first. The dogs snarled and edged closer, lips peeling back from their teeth, radiating fear and savagery.

He reminded himself he was a bad ass now. Or at least not utterly useless in a fight. And if he wasn't exactly Sam Winchester – that guy was a moose – he still had Derek and no one would ever argue Derek wasn't the baddest of bad ass alpha werewolves. He'd, like, leveled up three times when they took out the Alpha pack, so the betas wouldn't have to actually kill. Stiles and Allison and the high school guidance counselor – he'd _never_ get over that – had taken out the other alphas.

Derek rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, shifting just enough to flash alpha eyes, long canines, and let out his claws. A deep, threatening growl rumbled out of his chest.

The giant poodle held its ground and growled.

"I thought poodles were supposed to be smart."

"It smells blood. Thinks I'm wounded."

"You were," Stiles pointed out.

"I'm not now." Derek shrugged off his pack and his jacket.

"Great, next comes the – " Yep, there came the shirt off. Stiles couldn't exactly blame Derek. He'd already had one shirt wrecked today. Derek's growl grew louder as he finished the shift into beta form. The setter yelped and backed away, but the other dogs weren't ready to back down.

"I'm really sorry about this, guys," Stiles said, because he was. It wasn't the dogs' fault they'd been left to revert to old instinct as they fended for themselves. "You've got so many reasons to be pissed with humans, but Derek here? He isn't human and, me, I already passed on the Bite, and I'm so not interested in being your chow du jour. Or nuit. Whatever." He tugged the .45 free and aimed it at the poodle, because it was clearly the most aggressive dog there. "Warning shot?" he asked Derek.

"Don't waste ammo," Derek slurred around his fangs.

Stiles took a deep breath, braced his stance the way his dad had taught him long ago, squinted in the low light, and fired at the poodle. The impact threw the dog off its feet to the pavement. Several of the mutts yelped and tore away, but the Labs must have belonged to actual hunters. The gunshot didn't terrify them.

The Dobermans bolted toward Stiles and Derek like they'd been trained to attack anyone shooting a gun.

They moved much too fast for Stiles to take a safe shot at either and Derek was leaping forward to meet them. Stiles put his back to the plate glass in front of an insurance office, raised the .45 and took a shot at the Dalmatian, since its mostly white coat made it easy to spot even in the darkness. It shrieked as the bullet hit, a rotten shot, and Stiles could taste vomit, this was horrible, he didn't feel this guilty over Weedy Guy, for fuck's sake –

He got over it, because the rest of the feral dogs rushed forward, some going for Derek along with the Dobermans, some pouring past to come at Stiles and if he didn't keep shooting, they were going to tear into him.

Derek sliced open the first Doberman's throat, so fast it kept moving several steps before it bled out in a spray of arterial blood. The second one leaped for Derek's throat. He didn't react the way a human would, though: Derek ducked his head down and sank his teeth into the dog's muzzle instead of recoiling to protect his face. It howled in surprise followed by pain as Derek grabbed it with a clawed hand and threw the dog across the street and through another plate glass window.

The glass exploded with the impact. Stiles noted it distantly as he shot the yellow Lab scrambling toward him, lips peeled back from its teeth and snarling. Derek waded into the pack and it turned into a whirling dervish of growls and howls and yelps, more dogs flying through the air to hit walls or the pavement with bone crushing force and lie where they fell or try to crawl away, while Stiles carefully shot the animals too cowardly to attack Derek directly.

His ears rang painfully and his wrists hurt from the .45's recoil when Derek dropped the last dog, a collie mix that had probably slept in the house every night before its owner disappeared.

Derek's arms were running with blood from multiple bites. His pants were torn too. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his wrist and spat, repeatedly, onto the street, before asking, his voice echoing and distant, "Are you okay, Stiles?" He was asking Stiles that a lot lately.

"Fine, fine and dandy, peachy in fact," Stiles replied though his voice shook. "But let's not ever do that again. Let's just get the fuck out of here, okay?" He wanted to say, I want to go home, like a little kid, sure somehow that once he saw his dad everything would be okay again. It wouldn't. It wouldn't and that made him shake.

"Okay," Derek said gently. He approached Stiles slowly, but didn't try to remove the .45 from Stiles' grip, didn't touch him. Stiles nodded to himself, pleased Derek believed he could handle it, and his lungs loosened up a little. Derek picked up his shirt and pulled it back on with a grimace. The dog bites were already healing up, but the blood and dirt didn't magically disappear.

Stiles stuffed the .45 back in his waistband, then jerked it back out with a hiss. The muzzle was still hot. So he carried it, while Derek jerked his jacket back on and grabbed up the other pack. His hands, if he'd sniffed them, had to reek of cordite.

He felt better with it in his hand anyway.

After a few steps, he pulled himself together a little more and dug the spare ammo out and reloaded.

~*~

They veered off the main drag onto a street that paralleled a set of train tracks, looking for a more industrial or agricultural part of town, where the odds of scavenging an older farm vehicle would be better. Walking through places where there wouldn't have been people at night anyway was less creepy too. Even the lack of lighting seemed less alarming; supernatural creatures tended to lair up in abandoned industrial parks and other empty places that were often vandalized and had no electricity. Empty warehouses wouldn't seem as alarming as an empty suburban neighborhood. It didn't smell as bad, either.

Stiles spotted a scrawny cat padding across an aurora-lit dirt lot behind a radio tower, a mouse in its jaws, and felt better just because. At least he wasn't the mouse.

They'd reached the edge of town – maybe passed the official city limits – and Stiles had resigned himself to walking all night, when Derek halted in his tracks. Stiles carefully, silently set his foot back down and stayed where he was, listening and looking himself for whatever Derek sensed. His hand tightened on the .45.

Wind soughed through the trees shading the far side of the railroad track and set the power and telephone lines sagging between poles creaking. Something – mouse, lizard, bug – rustled in the weeds edging the field beyond. The air smelled like night to him, earthy, cooling, damp. He couldn't imagine how much more it must hold for Derek's senses. He'd bet if werewolves had had their own secret language, it would have had a word for the scent of the night, and since they didn't they should invent one.

Stiles even had his mouth open when Derek reached to the side and caught his wrist. He tugged Stiles forward gently without speaking. Stiles obeyed the silent command to stay close and not speak as they began walking again, stopping periodically when Derek would concentrate on whatever he was smelling. He didn't explain.

Stiles had never missed the densely forested area around Beacon Hills so much. Anything might lurk in the trees, but standing on the gravel verge of a farm road with no cover anywhere blew big time. His shoulders were up around his neck from the feeling of exposure.

He scanned around him helplessly, unable to pick out any kind of detail in the darkness but trying anyway. Derek let him. Derek just breathed and then his hand tightened on Stiles' wrist, convulsively, at the same time the breeze freshened and Stiles got a whiff of something bad. He couldn't pick out all the elements, but it made him want to gag. He tugged back on his wrist and Derek loosened up a little, but tugged Stiles forward too.

Great, they were going to head for the bad smell. Stiles sulked a little. Hadn't he already had a shitty day and night? Did they have to find more trouble?

Of course they did. What else were they going to do, turn back to Los Banos and its psycho feral dogs and scary empty houses and unanswered questions, like: where the hell did all the people go? Stiles had strong feelings he would not like the answer, whatever it was, especially if it were to happen to him and Derek also.

They made their way up the grade steadily, passing two different intersections and turn offs into the odd business or farm house. They even crossed the railroad tracks to investigate an equipment yard, walking between harrows and harvesters, looking for any older vehicle that might run. The closest they came was a rusted out International sitting on blocks. They returned to the road, disappointed, and Stiles could feel himself dragging, exhaustion weighing his limbs heavier with every step.

When Derek stopped again, looking at the dark outline of a house and barn just off the road, Stiles walked into his back and just leaned his face and his weight into Derek. "Sorry," he slurred. "Tired." The knife wound might be healing, but it had wrecked his endurance. He was hungry again, too.

Derek turned enough to snake an arm under the backpack and around Stiles' waist and really take up some of his weight. Stiles didn't even care that he smelled like dog and blood. Derek nosed at his temple, warm bad breath and prickling stubble comforting to Stiles' pack-adjusted instincts.

"I want to try in there. You want me to carry you?" he asked quietly with a nod toward the house.

Stiles shook his head. He could keep going. He would.

"You can rest while I search it."

He should have objected but it sounded pretty good to him. He shrugged off Derek's arm and started forward again.

The front door was off the hinges. The interior had been picked through and offered nothing useful except a bottle of Windex Derek used to scrub off some blood, while Stiles sat on a kitchen chair and stared at the broken refrigerator lying on its side, doors hanging open. He set the .45 on the table before him.

Why break it, he wondered, what did anyone gain from that?

Derek squeezed his shoulder as he headed for the back door. "I'm going to check the barn. Just stay here."

Stiles sighed and declined to argue, choosing to poke into every drawer and cabinet, working by feel in the dark. His eyes had adapted enough eventually that he could make out large print by the starlight coming through the windows. His efforts yielded exactly one can of coconut milk and a half bag of blue corn tortilla chips. He took his bounty back to the table and began munching on the chips until Derek returned.

Honestly, he didn't need light to see to know Derek's eyebrows went up. Stiles just held out the open bag. Without comment, Derek helped himself to a handful, then pulled out one of their – apparently precious – cans of Spam and opened it. A drawer full of silverware had been ignored, so they ate with forks and knives. He opened the coconut milk too and they shared the can back and forth, easily, without discussing it.

It was without doubt one of the worst combinations Stiles had ever consumed, but his stomach didn't mind at all.

"Nothing in the barn," Derek mentioned. He stirred his fingers through the powdery bits left at the bottom of the chip bag, making the plastic crinkle loudly. "You think you can go any farther?"

Stiles patted his stomach. "I am fueled up and ready to roll."

A little snort of amusement escaped Derek. "We could camp here – "

"Ugh, no." Stiles did not want to try sleeping in this already violated house. He tossed the Spam can into the garbage can that had escaped upending somehow. Derek crumpled the chip bag and lofted it after, over his shoulder, and it went in too.

"Show off," Stiles grumbled.

"If we don't find a car or something," Derek said, "I want to pick out a place before dawn where we can rest through the day."

"We should look for water tomorrow too."

"I can find something," Derek assured him.

Stiles gave him an approving smile. Of course he could. "Werewolf nose. I knew you were good for something."

A little shoulder shrug was Derek's almost embarrassed response. "If I catch another rabbit, I'm not sharing."

"Dick. You're going to be on the Easter Bunny's blacklist."

"I don't like chocolate anyway."

"That – that is just not natural." Stiles paused and then grinned, because he'd just thought of the perfect gibe. It was almost too good to use. "Nevermind, I just remembered: chocolate's no good for dogs."

Derek's resulting growl put a perk in Stiles' step for the next mile.

~*~

Two more houses and the office of a scrap yard and they finally ended up sleeping in the back of a lean-to fruit stand. It smelled of strawberries and tomatoes, all gone, but they found a crate of corn overturned in the back and an old cooler, filled with melted water and canned sodas. Neither of them wanted to drink it, but the water worked for washing up and they toasted each other with Dr. Pepper and Slice afterward.

Better yet, a beat to hell, rusting VW bus was parked behind fruit stand.

By noon, the sun beating down on the tin roof heated the lean-to too much for sleep, so Stiles wandered out to the van and spent half an hour cleaning the spark plugs and the battery connections, while Derek shifted into wolf form and loped off to do wolfy shit. He came back about the time Stiles ducked his head under the dash and took a stab at hotwiring the van. He stretched out a little way from the van, head on his paws, and watched, ear twitching with annoyance when a fly buzzed near his eyes. The weight of his gaze reminded Stiles of a firm hand on his shoulder.

The spark snapping between the two wires he'd stripped and brought together startled Stiles enough he almost jerked them apart. A second later, the van's engine turned over, coughed, caught, backfired, and caught again, settling into an uneven idle.

Stiles leaped out of the van and danced around Derek. Derek sat up with ears pricked forward, tongue lolling from the heat, tail sweeping across the dirt.

"C'mon, c'mon, look at that, Mr. Alpha Hotpants, look at that!" Stiles declared gleefully. He did a fist pump to the air and had to clutch at his wound immediately, but that didn't slow him down. "I am the Man! I am the freaking Master Man!"

Derek sort of _whuffed_ at that but joined in the jumping and spastic dancing, tearing around Stiles and nearly knocking him over, until they both collapsed down on the dirt and grass, panting and overheated. Stiles rested his head on Derek's shoulder and absently threaded his fingers through Derek's sun-warmed coat. "I like you like this," he said.

Derek slapped his tail against the earth once.

Stiles sat up. "But!" He looked at Derek directly. "I like when you are your other sexy self too, and you should shift your ass back so you can tell me just how awesome I am, while we drive the fuck away thanks to my amazing mechanical and automotive skills."

He hopped to his feet and headed for the van again. "We're taking that corn, right? We can cook it or if we have to we can eat it raw, I think. Seriously, gas is wasting, day light's burning, and I want to hit the road."

Derek got up and gave himself a lazy shake, then ambled over to the van and jumped inside, still in wolf form.

"Asshole," Stiles griped. "If you don't shift back, I'm not picking up your stuff, including your clothes."

Derek leaped out through the passenger side window and disappeared into the lean-to. He emerged dressed again and carrying his and Stiles' packs in one hand, the crate of corn balanced on his other shoulder.

Stiles climbed into the driver's seat while Derek loaded the van with their pathetic belongings. The interior was stripped back to the metal and it took a length of wire twisted through a hasp to hold the back doors shut. Stiles patted the dashboard as Derek squeezed himself into the front.

"Which way?"

"North."

Stiles peered through the windshield, trying to orient himself. Derek sighed, put upon. "Turn right, Stiles."

"Right. _Right_."

He bounced the van onto the road, shifted, and built up a little speed. Derek settled back in his seat, moved restlessly and settled again to a chorus of protests from the worn out springs beneath him. He let his eyes fall half shut. "Just keep the sun on your left in the afternoon."

Derek didn't really sleep, Stiles knew, but managed something like resting while Stiles steered the van north, sticking with the road they were already on, even as it narrowed and turned patched and rough, far out from anywhere. It still took them north and that's all he cared about for the moment.

They rolled through Gustine and later Newman, Derek wide awake and holding the .45, watching for any threat, but both little towns were as quiet and closed up as Cataviña had been. Stiles got the same feeling of being watched, so they didn't stop to look for fuel or anything else.

The van was running on fumes by the time they reached Crow's Landing, though.

Instead of driving into town, Stiles parked along the road verge, well shaded thanks to the orchards growing on both sides of the road he'd picked for their approach.

Dust floated golden in the air. He thought he could hear bees humming. The afternoon felt nearly peaceful.

"I'll – " Derek started.

"We'll," Stiles corrected him. Derek met his glare with narrowed eyes.

" – go in after dark. I can find a diesel truck to siphon from. I'll need something to carry it, though. Food will be harder."

"Then we won't want to dillydally."

Derek folded his arms and glared back at Stiles.

"I'm not sitting here waiting. I'll ward the van, no one will be able to come near it. Two people can carry more."

"Fine."

"Fine," Stiles echoed. Derek was all gilt and stubble and sulking gorgeousness. He just wanted to keep Stiles safe, though he had to go about it in the most infuriating way. Stiles felt the same way about him, though, and he knew Derek wasn't invincible. They were better together and had been from the beginning, even when all they could do was piss each other off.

He waited until Derek looked at him again to say, "How about I ward the van right now and then we can make out until dark?"

The way Derek's eyes widened and his pupils expanded was reward enough for not escalating the bickering into a real fight.