Call Me Bob Newheart Because This Is All A Dream

The Inevitable Happily (Something) After

A/N: This chapter takes place all in one reality/dream/what-have-you. So all the little scene breaks are just that: scene breaks. No universe jumping here.

Stiles woke with a slap across the face.

Steaming latte milk coated the hardwood floor in the entryway of Derek’s loft. (He must have dropped it. He remembered now, bringing coffees for himself and Derek—Derek! Wooing!). It mixed with tea tree oil cleaner (also dropped; brought from Trader Joe’s, to clean the apartment) and soaked into the old AAA maps he usually kept in his glovebox.

The slap had come from the brick wall, leaving scraping imprints on his cheek. The jagged notches burned like cleansing fire. His ears rang from the impact.

Now wasn’t the time for tidying or map discussion. He needed to join the fight in progress, even if his mind was still sleep-muzzy.

Just ahead of him, Scott and Kira stood back-to-back. They constantly switched opponents to confuse the seven circling hunters. Not that the hunters weren’t already confused, going from Scott-and-Kira in front to Ethan-and-Aiden attacking from behind.

Isaac performed distracting acrobatics and eye flashing, so that Allison could pick off the unwary from above.

Cora and Peter had gone to opposite sides of the room, each protecting a human (Lydia and Danny, respectively).

There was a lot of growling and grunting, twanging and twirling. And over it all, the scent of spilt latte milk and tea tree oil. Which probably wasn’t helping the werewolves navigate the twenty (now nineteen) hunters. Each of whom wore a patch with the three-lined wavy symbol.

The hunters were less bulky than most of the Argent lot, but they still bristled with bows and guns and knives. And is that a metal fan?

Three shots cracked. Scott and Kira had rotated so that she’d bear the brunt of their two, but the third headed for Derek. Stiles nearly saw it too late.

Derek was in a corner, all by himself. His eyes flashed beta blue, but even he couldn’t move quickly enough dodge a bullet.

No! Derek! Stiles couldn’t stop a bullet, but he could render it harmless.

He reached out with his mind and believed. Just like Deaton had taught him. Just like the mountain ash ring falling around evil-Scott’s feet in that other world.

The wolfsbane tugged its way out of the casing and formed a pile in an unobtrusive corner.

Hot and inescapable, the bullet wedged into Derek’s heart. Blood speckled to the floor.

And Derek healed.

The hunter blanched like an almond.

She pulled the trigger five times in quick succession, and Stiles reached out again. His belief deposited the wolfsbane in the same corner. Not even a handful, but moving it exhausted him all the same. He folded to the ground and breathed shallowly. He smelled coffee and coppery blood, all mixed together so he couldn’t tell whose was where.

The room felt quieter here, like someone had muffled Stiles’ ears with linen wraps.

A new clip in her pistol, the hunter aimed again. Once more, Stiles sent wolfsbane to the corner like a delinquent child. He inhaled, and the air rattled wetly in his throat. But he smiled through the slickness in his mouth as Derek advanced on the hunter and sent her sailing up to the balcony where Allison could dispose of her.

“Stiles!” Derek was at his side, lifting Stiles’ head off the floor so that he couldn’t drown in the dark red pooling under his lips. “What happened? Who hurt you?”