So, this is my first foray into writing for Teen Wolf. I usually play in the Criminal Minds sandbox, but I finally discovered this show a few months ago and I'm a bit obsessed with Sterek now. I just can't help it. I have no regrets.

This fic was inspired by a Teen Wolf fan video on youtube to the song Permanent by David Cook. I would highly recommend giving it a watch, but fair warning, it's sad. Really, really sad. I can assure you that this story ends much happier than that one.

I'm just gonna go ahead and list all the warnings I posted on another site here to cover all the bases: Porn with Plot, Porn with Feelings, Underage, Sick Stiles, Frontotemporal Dementia, Stilinski Family Feels, No Nogitsune, Angst, Comfort, Stiles has Panic Attacks, Mildly Dubious Consent, because Stiles is seventeen and sort of emotionally vulnerable, but he knows what he wants, Loss of Virginity, Blow Jobs, Barebacking, Alpha Derek, Top Derek Hale, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Scenting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Gentle Sex, Comeplay, NSFW, Werewolf Pain-Relief Magic, Caring Derek, Derek is not a Failwolf, his wolf does get a little possessive though, Getting Together, Hopeful Ending

Chapter One

Wrong

.

Is this the moment where I look you in the eye?
Forgive my broken promise that you'll never see me cry.
And everything, it will surely change even if I tell you I won't go away today.

.

"Frontotemporal dementia."

Those two words echo in Stiles' mind, a cold snap stealing his breath and leaving him numb.

This is wrong. So wrong.

It has to be wrong.

He's in shock.

"Are...are you sure?" he hears his dad ask beside him, the man's voice hoarse and tired.

You see, this whole thing started with a tremor in his hand. It was a tiny little thing, really, barely even detectable. A blip on the radar of worrisome things that happen in and around Beacon Hills. At the time he'd merely chalked it up to too much Adderall, especially since everyone knows he has a bad habit of abusing the dosage amounts in order to fit his own needs.

But then he'd started having trouble sleeping—or rather, staying asleep. He'd woken up in a cold sweat nearly every single night for the past two weeks, a scream in his throat and the lingering remnants of nightmares ghosting through his mind, haunting him well into the dawn.

Of course, the lack of sleep had then led to an inability to concentrate on his school work; and in turn, he'd also had no desire to spend time with his friends.

He doesn't even seem to care about his dad's diet anymore—which, okay, major red flag right there.

He's always irritable, and tired, and jittery; and he can't find the right words to express how he's feeling half the time. They get jumbled up in his mind; and it's all so infuriating, and exhausting, and he just...feels lost in his own skin.

The tipping point, however, came when he'd thought he'd seen a monster in his room—an honest to god, flesh and blood creature of the fucking night—which, again, Beacon Hills, so...totally possible, right?

Right.

Sure.

Definitely.

Wrong.

It hadn't been a monster. It hadn't been anything at all.

He'd been alone in his room, safe and sound, and he'd had a hallucination.

That's when his dad had decided to bring him to the hospital for tests; and now they were sitting across from his doctor, a specialist, a neurologist. Actually, it was the same neurologist who'd diagnosed his mother, ironically.

Stiles can't remember the guy's name, but he tries not to dwell on that troubling fact too much. That's the sort of thinking that inevitably leads to falling into an abyss of worry and fear—a void, dark and cold and massive—and absolutely terrifying unlike anything he's ever faced before.

Werewolves, kanimas, geriatric fucking hunters...you name it, none of them hold a candle to what he's facing now.

He closes his eyes and tries not to fidget as he wrings his hands together, nails digging into his palms, clammy with sweat. He knows he's on the verge of hyperventilating, can feel his eyes stinging and his body trying to shut down. The chair he's sitting in is hard and unforgiving beneath him.

"Yes, Mr. Stilinski, I'm fairly certain," the doctor answers, his tone soft, expression calm and collected—kind of soothing, in its own way. Dude's probably used to giving horrible news to people on the daily, breaking their hearts and shattering their lives, killing all their hopes and dreams just like a goddamned Disney villain. It has to be a prerequisite or something, in his line of work. Pausing, he pulls Stiles' brain scans and MRI images up on his computer before turning the screen around to face them. "You see this?" he points the end of his pen to a spot on the scan, waiting patiently for both Stiles and his father to focus on the image, "Both those spots are showing signs of atrophy."

Again, he feels numb, like he's not really there. It's like he's watching a movie, one of those Lifetime ones—a real tear-jerker—and this is all happening to someone else, some other poor high school kid who just can't seem to catch a break.

"Your symptoms are consistent with the MRI results, Stiles," the neurologist continues, addressing him directly, "I know this isn't what you want to hear—"

Stiles scoffs at that. He just can't fucking help it. His dad's hand comes up to latch onto both of his, holding tight. Painfully tight.

"—but, there are new therapies we can try, and some very promising trials we should look into. I'll get you the information."

"How—" his dad chokes on the words he's trying to say, clears his throat, holds his hand tighter. This has to be killing him. "How long are we talking about here, doc?"

The doctor hesitates before he answers. It's just a fraction of a second, but Stiles notices.

"The length of progression varies from case to case, as I'm sure you're aware, but...the median life expectancy is eight years from the onset of symptoms. I can't give a more definitive answer. It may be more, may be less. Every patient is different."

No shit. His mother didn't have eight years, why the hell should he be any different?

He shouldn't.

He's not.

He's not different.

No, he's just like her. He's going to die just like his mother did, and his dad's gonna have to watch as it happens. His dad's going to have to suffer through that shit storm of pain all over again. How fair is that?

It's so not fair.

It's wrong.

It's a fucking nightmare—one they've both lived through before; and now fate has decided that Stiles Stilinski's luck has finally run out.

He's going to die.

Oh god, he's gonna die.

The revelation hits him like a ton of bricks.

He's gonna die, and suddenly he can't breathe, can barely see past the black spots dancing around in his vision.

Something's wrong with him.

So wrong.

There's a tightness curling icy tendrils around his chest, and a pressure, like a fucking elephant sitting on his ribs, and it hurts. It fucking hurts, and it's too much.

It's all too much, and he can't deal right now. He can't handle this. How is he supposed to handle this?

He tries to gulp in air but he can't fucking do that either. His throat's closed up tight, heart pounding out an erratic rhythm in his ears, the roar of it mingling with the buzzing in his head, and he can't stop shaking. Can't move past the sudden nausea flooding his mouth with waves of salt and saliva, bile creeping up his esophagus, burning through him.

He doesn't wanna die.

He doesn't wanna leave his dad, or Scott. Lydia or Allison. Or even Derek fucking Hale.

He wants to be here for all the things he's gonna miss.

It's not fucking fair!

He hears his dad's voice, but it sounds far away. Too far.

He wraps his arms around his middle, trying desperately to hold himself together even though it feels like an impossible task. He's shattering into a million jagged pieces and he can't catch them all.

"You're gonna be okay, son." A warm hand cups the back of his neck, pulls him into a firm chest, arms wrapping securely around him, holding him close. He can smell his dad's aftershave, can hear the rapid beat of his heart and the tremor in his voice. His dad's scared, and something about that just about breaks Stiles. "You hear me? No matter what happens, I'm...I'm gonna be with you, and it's all gonna be okay."

"No no no, it's not. It's not. Daddy..." his voice cracks, breath hitching in his throat, cutting off his words with a sob, and then he's just full out crying. He can't help it. His eyes are burning as hot tears stream down his face. Everything hurts, and he's so scared. He's so, so fucking scared. He's that frightened little eight year old boy again, alone in the hospital, crying out for his daddy as he watches a hateful disease kill his mother right before his very eyes.

The same disease that's gonna kill him.

He's dizzy, and hot, and everything still hurts.

And fuck, he can't breathe!

"I've got you." Strong hands cradle either side of his face then, pulling him away just enough for him to meet his dad's watery gaze. "Stiles, please—I need you to calm down for me. Try to take a deep breath, okay? With me..." He watches through blurred vision as his dad breathes in and holds it, then let's the air back out slowly. "Come on, kiddo. Just try. Deep breath in..."

He gives a jerky nod, studying his dad's face like breathing is some sort of nuclear fucking science instead of a simple biological drive. It shouldn't be this hard. Still, he tries, relaxing his shoulders, swallowing down the lump in his throat and taking a deep inhale in time with his dad's. Instantly his body sags with relief as oxygen rushes in, and he takes another breath, then another, and another. He keeps going until his head's less fuzzy and he's not seeing spots anymore.

"There you go, kid. There you go...you're doing great. Keep it up, now." The praise is given on the tail end of a shaky exhale, as though his dad didn't truly believe he was gonna be able to pull it off or something. "Just breathe, and we'll get through this."

We'll get through this.

Get through what, exactly?

The panic attack? The illness? Dying?

Stiles doesn't really know what they're supposed to get through.

"You're okay, Stiles. We're..." there's a pause, and he's being pulled back into a fierce hug, "I've got you, son, and we're gonna be okay."

"Yeah," he rasps, wrapping his arms around his dad and clinging to him like a lifeline, the only thing keeping him afloat, "Yeah, okay."

He doesn't believe it, though.

He doesn't think anything's ever gonna be okay again.

His dad has to work the late shift, but they have a few hours before he needs to leave so they go home and spend the evening watching The Avengers and eating pizza. Meat lovers, extra bacon because...well, why the hell not? He's not sure if his apathy is due to the stress of the day or his illness at this point, and he doesn't really care, which he guesses is sort of fitting. Irony and all that. He doesn't actually end up eating much, though, just picks at it with his fingers; but the little bit of joy he can see when his dad takes a bite is good enough for him.

Right as the Hulk is slamming Loki around in the Avenger's Tower he hears his phone chime with a new text, so he picks it up and unlocks it, reading the message while he pops a piece of pepperoni in his mouth.

[Received: 6:46pm]
Rogue omega in the Preserve. Get to the loft asap. - Derek

Not long ago Stiles would have jumped at the chance to get out into the thick of another Beacon Hills catastrophe waiting to happen, but now he just wants to pretend that nothing exists outside his house. He has bigger monsters to deal with, and he can't handle anything else so he chooses to go the way of total avoidance, ignoring the message altogether and bringing his attention fully back to the movie. The others, the ones with actual supernatural abilities, can deal with the werewolf. He'll just sit here and try not to fall apart.

After a while, though, when he doesn't respond to Derek, the texts grow more persistent, and Scott seems to get in on the action as well.

[Received: 7:28 pm]
Stiles, where are you? - Derek

[Received: 7:55 pm]
Get here. Now. - Derek

[Received: 8:11 pm]
Dude, Derek's flipping. Where r u? - Scotty

[Received: 8:24 pm]
Wanted 2 let u know everything's cool. Guy was just passing thru. What happened w/ u? Hope ur ok. Call me! - Scotty

[Received: 8:29 pm]
If you're not dead, I'm gonna kill you. - Derek

Finally, his dad gives him a questioning glare and Stiles huffs in annoyance, making a big show out of turning his phone to silent before shoving it in his pocket.

The funny thing is, if he were being totally honest with himself, there was a time when Stiles would have loved to receive so much attention from the alpha of the Hale pack—although, he could definitely do without the homicidal undertones. Hell, he'd been holding a torch for Derek Hale since the first time they'd met out in the Preserve. He'd spent hours pining over him and his ridiculously stubbled jaw, overly judgmental eyebrows, gorgeous green eyes, and rock hard abs. Oh, and the leather...let's not forget about the leather.

Of course, sometimes it was hard to see past the whole throw-you-up-against-a-wall or slam-your-head-into-a-steering-wheel persona the guy had going on.

Seriously, dude could benefit from some fucking therapy.

Or a chill pill.

Or maybe both.

But there were other times when Derek would surprise him. He'd let Stiles see a different side of him, a softer side, one that most people didn't get to see—it was a side that made him think his feeling for the werewolf might possibly be reciprocated. Just little touches and looks that no one else ever noticed. A brush of fingers that seemed to linger just a few seconds longer than necessary. A private smile hidden in shadows that felt like it was just for him. It was all unspoken, but it was there. Stiles knew it was there, and he had no doubt that something was happening between them. He'd never said anything, though, because he also didn't have a death wish.

Too bad all that pining and sexually charged tension is gonna go to waste now.

Stiles has an expiration date looming above his head, and it's all too little, too late.

After the movie ends, he says goodnight to his dad and makes his way up the stairs to his room, changing into a pair of flannel sleep pants and an old t-shirt; and when his phone rings with an actual incoming call, flashing 'Derek' across the screen, he doesn't answer it.

He just turns it off and tries to go to sleep.

When Derek arrives at the Stilinski residence and sees Stiles' Jeep parked in the driveway and a light on in his bedroom window he's livid, to say the least. Stiles hadn't returned any of his or Scott's texts throughout the night, or answered any of his numerous phone calls; and eventually he'd had enough, deciding to just drive over and check on the kid in person, questions and worse case scenarios running through his mind the entire time.

Why hadn't Stiles answered his phone?

Was something or someone keeping him from responding?

Was he in danger?

Had something happened to the Sheriff?

All those questions had vanished, new ones taking their place the moment he'd realized Stiles was indeed home, and apparently safe and sound.

Derek knows Stiles, or at least he likes to think he does, and it's not like him to ignore his friends, especially if there's an edge of danger involved. The kid's survival instincts are shit, in all honesty, so he's usually the first one running into the fray, getting tangled up in every supernatural mess Beacon Hills has to offer.

That's how the two of them had met, in fact. Stiles and Scott had been looking for Scott's inhaler, which they'd lost after Stiles had dragged Scott out into the Preserve in the middle of the night, in search of a dead body.

His sister's dead body.

Admittedly, it hadn't been the best first impression, for either of them.

Derek's grown rather fond of him over the last year, though, relying on him more than he'd care to admit. Stiles has helped save his life on more than one occasion. He's part of the pack, and because of that Derek had thought he would've jumped at the chance to get out there and hunt down a rogue were.

But Stiles hadn't jumped, he'd avoided.

Something's wrong, Derek can feel it in his bones, and he needs to figure out what it is.

He wants answers, and he's going to get them.

When he leaps up onto the roof and peers through the window, he sees Stiles lying on his bed, facing the wall. Carefully and quietly, he opens the window and climbs inside, ignoring how utterly creepy that really is as the teen begins to stir. To his credit, he waits until Stiles rolls over and looks in his general direction before he completely loses his shit, yelling, "Where the hell have you been? And why haven't you answered any of the pack's calls?"

Stiles sits up, closing his eyes and rubbing at the back of his neck, the light from the lamp on the bedside table casting a golden glow across his pale skin. He lets out a long, heaving sigh like he's not even fucking surprised Derek's standing in the middle of his bedroom, then glances back up, his eyes blood shot and red-rimmed. "Well okay, then...nice to fuckin' see you too," he mutters, his tone biting, "I'm so sorry I wasn't at your beck and call, but believe it or not, Derek, there's things that go on around here that don't actually involve you. It's a novel concept, I know."

Derek immediately bristles, hearing the uptick in Stiles' heart rate, how it spikes; and he smells the sour tinge of anxiety, grief, anger and exhaustion wafting off of him. The combination of all those emotions mixing together is thick, filling the space between them and making him nauseous. He doesn't know what's going on, but he's pretty sure it's nothing good.

Worse than some rogue werewolf on the loose, it would seem.

"What happened?" he asks, trying to calm his voice.

"Why the fuck would you care?" Stiles spits back, but as soon as the words are out Derek can see the regret etching itself onto his features—the slight crease of his brow, the grimace sliding across his lips, the tense set of his body, the clench of his jaw. And then he just...deflates, slumping against the headboard and rubbing his hands through his disheveled, sleep-mussed hair. "Sorry," he lets out another huff of air, tired, "I'm...sorry. Look, I went to the doctor, okay? I've been having some...trouble lately. You know, um, with headaches and, and concentration. And some other things."

"What's wrong with you?" Derek doesn't even stop to think about how insensitive the question is. All he'd heard was doctor and trouble and other things, and he just had to know.

"It's called frontotemporal dementia," Stiles murmurs, letting out another heavy sigh, staring at his lap, "It's what my mother had. It's what killed her."

"Stiles..." Suddenly he feels like the floor is flying out from under him, his stomach dropping right along with it as a ball of dread coils deep in his chest. There's ice creeping into his veins, but he listens quietly as Stiles continues.

"You know, I did a lot of research, before, while she was sick and stuff; and I saw it in action, so I pretty much know what's coming. I had a front row seat to my future...I know what's gonna happen to me. It's degenerative, so I'll just keep getting worse and worse. Parts of my brain are going to shrink, the parts that control who I am—my, my personality, and the way I act, even how I fucking walk...how I breathe—it's, it's all going to deteriorate. And then, after all that, do you know what's gonna happen, Derek? Do you know what that means?" He stops, looking directly at Derek as though he wants to punch him square in the fucking face before he moves his gaze away again, down to the floor; and Derek just swallows the lump in his throat, doesn't say anything, "It means I'm gonna die young. Probably from pneumonia or some bullshit." Derek takes a step forward, toward the bed, his heart racing; but he stops when Stiles looks back up at him, eyes misty and glistening. "There's no cure," a single tear rolls down his cheek, and Derek's beside him in an instant, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling him into a hug before he even knows what he's doing, "Derek, there's...there's no cure."

All he can think as he's holding Stiles' trembling body is, No, no, no. Why is this happening? Why him? Please, not him. This is wrong. It has to be a mistake. This is so wrong. But what he says against Stiles' hair is a strangled, "When? When did you find this out?"

"This afternoon."

And then, hesitant, like he's terrified of the answer, he softly asks, "How long?"

Stiles pulls away and rubs the heels of his hands over his face, scrubbing vigorously. "Um, I dunno. I guess...a couple years, maybe? Fuck, my mom, she—" he bites his upper lip, worrying it between his teeth as his eyes bore a hole into the floor again, "She...didn't have that long."

"God, Stiles. I'm so sorry."

"Yeah," he laughs, but there's absolutely no humor in it at all, "Me too."

Derek doesn't know what else to say or do, what would make Stiles feel better. Probably nothing, honestly. All he does know is that he wants to wrap his arms around him and pull him back into his chest, hold on for dear life, protect him from the world and everything in it; but that's probably not a good option either, since Stiles can't even fucking look at him for more than a few seconds. Besides, what can Derek really do about something like this anyway? How can he make it better? It's not like this is some supernatural creature he can vanquish and be done with. He can't hunt it down, defeat it and save the day.

He can't tell Stiles that everything's going to be okay. He wishes to god that he could, but he can't, because he just doesn't know.

He doesn't know if anything's going to be okay.

In the end, he decides it's probably best if he just leaves.

"I'll go," he murmurs, standing from the bed, "...let you get some rest."

"Derek," Stiles grabs his arm, glancing up at him to reveal tear streaked cheeks, shining in the light, "Stay? Please stay. I, um...I don't think I wanna be alone right now."

He gives the request a wary thought. "What about your dad? If he finds me in here—"

"He won't. He's not here. He's, he's working a late shift tonight, won't be back 'til mid-morning."

"Okay." The answer flows from his lips easier than breathing. He wants to stay. Wants to make sure Stiles is okay—or, well, as okay as he can be.

He squares his jaw, gives a quick nod of resolution, and makes his way over to the desk on the other side of the room, psyching himself up for what's sure to be a long night trying to sleep in a torturous rolling chair.

Before he makes it two steps, however, he hears movement on the bed, the rustle of sheets.

"You don't have to..." Stiles stops, and Derek listens to the uptick in his heartbeat, smells the scent of uncertainty permeating the air, "You can sleep with me, um, if you want." That has him turning around on his heels, giving Stiles a questioning raise of his brows; and Stiles' eyes immediately go big as saucers, mouth gaping, "Not like that! Geeze...I mean, you can lie down here, and just, you know...sleep."

Stiles' body language and scent tell a completely different story than his words, but Derek shucks off his jacket just the same before sliding into the bed and pulling the covers up, doing his best to stay as close to the edge as possible. He can feel his own heart picking up speed, thudding anxiously in his chest, the tips of his ears and his cheeks burning from being in such close proximity to someone else.

Someone he's had certain stirrings for.

Someone way too young for him to be having those stirrings for, quite fucking frankly.

He feels Stiles shift beside him, moving closer as a timid hand comes up to rest on his bicep; then there's a soft, barely audible voice, imploring, "Would it be okay if, um, I mean...can you just...hold me?"

He does so without even thinking about it, like his body's on autopilot, moving on its own accord. He raises his arm to make room, and Stiles sidles up next to him, head pillowed on his shoulder and hand fisting into the soft fabric of the Henley he's wearing. He wraps his arms around Stiles and lays his cheek atop his head, his lips brushing against Stiles' hairline as he breathes in deep, closing his eyes and relaxing into the scent.

Gradually Stiles' heart rate and breathing patterns begin to slow, evening out as his body loses some of it's tension; and Derek thinks maybe he fell asleep, so he lets his own eyes close and starts to drift off as well.

Before he knows it, though, he's jolting back to hazy awareness.

"Is this weird?" the voice comes from beneath his chin, melancholy and small, "Um, yeah...this is—it's probably weird, right?"

"Yeah, maybe," he answers honestly, his fingers tracing up and down Stiles' back, the fabric of the shirt he's wearing soft from too many washings, "It's a little weird, but I don't mind."

He really doesn't.

It feels different, having stiles in his arms like this, but it doesn't feel bad. It doesn't feel wrong like he'd feared it would. It feels...familiar, comfortable...right. It feels like home. Derek hasn't had a home in so long, and this, right here, holding Stiles, well...it feels exactly like coming home.

Stiles shudders against him, and lets out a strangled sob that seems to go on and on forever, tears quickly soaking through Derek's shirt as long fingers clench tightly to the fabric. "I'm really scared," he whispers, "Der, I'm sorry, but I'm so, so scared."

"Shhh, don't apologize," he murmurs, pulling Stiles in closer, soft hair grazing his chin as he drowns in the fear and sorrow filling the room, "I know you're scared, Stiles. I do. I'm...I'm pretty scared, too."

And then the dam breaks, and Stiles breaks right along with it, bawling, full bodied sobs wracking his frame as Derek tightens his grip. He holds on and lets him cry for as long as he needs, his own eyes burning with the threat of unshed tears. Instead of letting them fall, though, he does his best to blink them away, focusing on rubbing soothing circles along Stiles' back while murmuring whispered words of comfort in his ear.

After a while, when the sobs subside and the only sounds left in their wake are sporadic sniffles and trembling breaths, he quietly says, "I could give it to you, you know. The Bite. I will give it to you, if you want me to."

Stiles' breath hitches at that, and there's a beat of silence, then, "Yeah, I know." He doesn't elaborate further, just nuzzles closer into the warmth of Derek's body, and Derek cards his fingers through Stiles' hair.

The Bite will be a subject for another day, he supposes. He's not going to push it, not right now, but he won't let it go either. It's a viable option, one that could save Stiles' life, and it needs to be considered thoroughly.

But for now, there's nothing left for them to do but sleep.

So they sleep.

.

I know he's living in hell every single day.
And so I ask, "Oh God, is there some way for me to take his place?"

.

I went back and forth over whether to break this up into two chapters or not, but I really felt like this was a natural end to the scene. So, I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! The second chapter will be up soon, and it is very NSFW...