Beacon Hills descends into a blanket of eerie darkness as the sun sets over the horizon. Inside of Stiles' head, screams echo and bloodied corpses flash like a broken movie reel. He presses down harder on the accelerator. Warm air whips in through the open window of the Jeep. It makes a whirling sort of noise that temporarily battles out the silence. He doesn't know how to stop the people he loves from being murdered. He doesn't know how to combat a force that they can't see to fight.

But what he does know is what he remembers: the last time they were all together. A week ago, the pack had all convened in the expanse of the McCall living room with snacks and a stack of movies, and everything was picture perfect. Scott and Kira were sandwiched together in the armchair kissing and cooing at one another. Stiles and Derek threw popcorn at them, sprawled out across the couch with Derek's feet propped in Stiles' lap. Lydia, Parrish, and Liam lounged in the floor in front of the couch, ignoring the others' antics in favor of their own arguments of which movie to start with. Everyone was there, the pack, and it was safe, and Stiles had reveled in even second of it. Now, he knew that was long in the past.

Things had been so utterly peaceful since Mexico. Looking back on it, things had been too peaceful. Stiles really should have been prepared for the other shoe to drop, but he wasn't. No one was. Things were finally good for them. They had grown so much as a pack, and they all had so many plans for life. Stiles aches at the thought of them now. He can see the first inclinations of them in all in his mind's eye and picture them now. Across town, an acceptance letter to Brown is collecting dust on Lydia's desk. Kira's suitcase sits half packed upon her bed, a UCLA t-shirt draped over the edge. Then there was Liam—

Liam, whose blood is still splattered over Scott, Stiles and Derek's faces.

Stiles swallowed around the lump in the back of his throat. Something akin to horror clawed in his chest, banging up his heart and constricting his lungs. He could feel the blood on his face like fire. He slams his foot down even harder on the accelerator, despite the fact it is already to the floor, and he prays the Jeep will go just a little bit faster.

Scott sits rigid and silent in the passenger seat speed through red lights the blood from his would mixing with Liam's. Horns blare, and vehicles swerve out of their path. The Sheriff and Parrish are leading the way in the cruiser—sirens on, lights flashing—but, even with the escort, Stiles doesn't know if they will make it to Deaton's in time.

They have one last hope of survival, and it is clutched in the pages of an ancient grimoire from the Hale vault. Stiles had found the precious black leather-bound book on one of the higher forgotten shelves only last night. But it was Deaton who had managed to uncover a combination of ancient runes from the grimoire that just might tip the scales of a certain ritual into a way out—and a way out do they need.

The plan is a long shot, at best, but they are out of time. They had ran out of time long ago.

The preparation for the ritual is supposed to be simple, but the execution of it is another matter altogether. Deaton had warned them all the ritual was serious business. A mere belief in it would not be sufficient. They would need to have a need that was so deep that death must be a promise on the horizon.

They were sobering words, back when Deaton had first uttered them, but now, as Stiles sped down the highway with Liam's blood sticky on his skin and Scott in tow, they were reality. Or they had better be. Because this is their own chance of survival.

Death really is a promise on the horizon.

The runes were all swirls and dark lines, and they had made Stiles' eyes cross when Deaton had first showed them to him. Stiles had memorized them anyway. They all had. They knew, even as the words had sounded nothing more than empty and sobering, there was a distinct possibility this would be their only way out. If survival meant having some ancient symbol caved into their bodies, they were all willing perform the ritual.

Death was final. Death meant they had failed. But survival—survival meant they had a second chance to beat this monster. And it looks like they are going to need it.

A Banshee's ghostly wail rips through the chaos of the night, knocking Stiles out of his thoughts. Stiles rolls up his window. There is a chill in the air. He glances in the rearview mirror. Darkness follows them.

In the backseat, Derek's eyes glow a luminescent blue. He is so quiet that Stiles had almost forgotten he was there. He is staring deep into the darkness, searching for any sign of a threat. He will see them long before Stiles would. In his lap, barely visible in the moonlight, he clutches the old leather-bound book. Through the mirror, he meets Stiles' eyes.

Stiles knows, in that string of a few seconds, that Derek doesn't see a way out. The doubt and fear is bleeding into Derek's usually blank expression. He looks broken in a way that only Derek Hale can, crushed and defeated and hopeless.

Stiles averts his gaze back to the road just in time to whip the Jeep into the parking lot behind Deaton's animal clinic. He parks next to the cruiser and cuts the engine. The silence it brings is almost deafening.

Up in the alleyway, Deaton is fumbling for his keys. The Sheriff and Parrish hurry to help Scott out of the Jeep. Scott groans as he moves, but, between the Sheriff and Parrish, they start the labored journey toward the clinic, where the ritual could be preformed.

Stiles' heart beats in his throat. He climbs out of the Jeep. Derek does so in the next moment. Anticipation swirls in the air around them, making it hard to breathe. Derek thrusts the grimoire into Stiles' chest. Stiles wraps his fingers around it automatically. His hands are stained with the dried blood of his pack. The sight of them alone against the black leather of the journal is enough to make Stiles' stomach churn.

He looks up at Derek instead. He finds a goodbye there in Derek's somber expression, in the way that Derek parts his lips with the words there on his tongue poised to fall.

Stiles wants to say something—anything—but he can't find his voice to speak. His lips are chapped, and he wets them with his tongue, but it doesn't help. He doesn't feel any more up to speaking than before—he can't—so he settles for shaking his head firmly.

He won't say goodbye.

He takes a step closer. The book is the only barrier between them. They are so close Stiles can feel the heat from Derek's body. It serves as a momentary comfort. Derek has become a positive constant in Stiles' life, and Stiles can remember the first night Derek sought out his company.

Malia's denim jacket still hangs on his computer chair, but her scent has long faded from the unclaimed fabric. She left months ago with Breaden in search of the Desert Wolf. Derek sits in that chair now. It is Derek's scent that clings to the walls of his room and the fabric of his couch. There is a harmony between them when they set leisurely in his room, perfectly content with the silence.

It was two weeks after Mexico, and Stiles was rummaging through his kitchen in search of junk food for his gaming marathon. Scott and he had planned to spend the night pigging out on pizza and playing every video game until their eyes bled and Stiles had his fill of beating Scott's stupid werewolf ass.

But the plans had fallen through—something that was occurring more and more often as of late—when Scott, Stiles' best bro, had dumped him once again in favor of his foxy lady. It was no big surprise there, and, really, Stiles understood that girls would always out rank him when it came to Scott's free time.

Stiles managed to dig out a hidden bag of potato chips and a couple cans of coke that he had stashed away from his dad. It was a minor victory. Tonight was not all lost, after all.

He climbed the stairs two at a time before stumbling into his room with his arms full to the max with his junk food. He halted just inside of the door, startling nearly almost a full foot into the air. Derek sat in front of the window in his fully shifted form. He stared at Stiles like he had been waiting for him, his head cocked to the side in obvious amusement.

"Oh my God, Derek! I thought you might be louder as a wolf, but noooo. You're like a freaking ninja wolf. Holy hell, you scared the shit outta me!"

Derek barked, the sound sharp and demanding. Stiles idly wondered how he could understand Derek's wolf language so well, but he quickly pushed that thought aside, chalking it up to all the years they have known each other.

He set his spoils on the desk then started poking around in his dresser drawers, looking for Derek something to wear. He settled on a pair of his oversized pajama pants and a t-shirt that he hadn't worn in a while. He flung them at Derek's paws and turned to wait while he shifted.

"Thanks," Derek grumbled, a few seconds later. "I'm decent."

Stiles turned back around, facing him with a grin. The pants fit Derek perfectly, but the shirt was more than a little tight."No problem, wolfy. What brings you to my humble abode?"

Derek's shoulders tensed.

"I was in the neighborhood."

Stiles rolled his eyes. He didn't need werewolf senses to know that was a complete and utter lie. Derek turned his head to gaze back out the window. Stiles tossed a coke at him. Derek caught it in midair without even turning to look. A grin crept onto his face when he glanced down at the bright red aluminum. Stiles flopped down on his bed and patted the space next to him. Derek only sighed before accepting the offer.

"You should know by now that you can't lie to me about wolfy things. I'm sort of an expert now. Wolves don't like being alone, and with Braeden being gone with Malia to search for the Desert Wolf, it is just you and that big ol' empty loft. Scott is always with Kira or Liam, and Parrish is with Lydia. That leaves me. Despite being a last resort, I'm happy to satisfy your wolfy need for pack time."

Derek shook his head, an unbelieving smile splashed across on his face. He snorted in laughter. Stiles cocks his head at Derek, confused.

"Do you honestly believe that you are my last choice?" he asked.

Stiles frowns. "Well, yeah. I sort of live to annoy you—you said that to me once."

"That was around the time you threatened to leave me for dead. You are the only one I would voluntarily seek out for company at this point. Now shut up."

The memory is bittersweet. He smiles at the thought of it, about how, after that day, the two of them spent most of their time together. Scott had been jealous at first, but he and Stiles still had bro time when he wasn't looking after Liam or cavorting around with Kira. But Derek and Styles, they just clicked, and, over time, Scott grew to accept that. It was just like Stiles had grown to accept—to rely upon—Derek always being there for him, whether it was to curl up on Stiles' bed in wolf form to sleep or to nose Stiles awake when the nightmares began to haunt him after the Nogitsune.

Stiles wishes that this were only one of his nightmares.

"Do you think Peter is behind this?" Derek asks.

This pulls Stiles out of his thoughts. It takes him a couple of seconds to reorient himself. He blinks, staring at Derek, but Derek is looking down at their hands, where their fingers are overlapped around the book. Stiles glances down and immediately wishes he hadn't. His fingers are still stained with his friends' blood. Anxiety churns in his stomach. It rushes up his throat, tasting like bile. He swallows against it.

They aren't going to survive this.

"He is kind of the bad guy-to-end-all-bad-guys when it comes to our lives, but I don't know." Derek grimaces. Stiles' answer hadn't been the one for which he had been searching, but it doesn't surprise him. He moves to turn away, but Stiles grabs his arm, stopping him. Derek meets Stiles' eyes, and there is worry etched deep in the lines of Derek's face.

"We are going to get through this, Derek. This is going to work."

Derek gives him a firm nod, though it isn't very convincing. It is as close to a smile Stiles can get in their situation, so he takes it. Derek steps away from Stiles, leaving the leather-bound book with him. They start to walk toward the clinic.

Deaton slots the key into the lock to open the back door when several shots ring out. Derek knocks Stiles to the cold concrete next to the rear tires of the jeep. He brackets himself around Stiles' body—shielding Stiles from any bullets aimed their way. Stiles' shoulder throbs painfully from the fall.

"They're using guns now?"

Stiles breathes hard, gritting his teeth against the pain throbbing in his shoulder. His voice comes out raspy, but given how Derek is laying atop him, it doesn't matter anyhow.

Derek doesn't respond. The entire world is echoingly silent, palpable in the air. Derek tenses above him and whimpers. It is a quiet pained sound that makes Stiles' heart leap to his throat. He buries his nose into Stiles' neck.

"Derek? Derek, what's wrong? Are you hit?" Stiles frantically tugs on Derek's jacket, looking for a bullet wound and fearing for the worst.

Derek's lifts his head, and Stiles stops tugging at him. The devastated look on Derek's face does nothing to ease the panic building rapidly in Stiles' chest.

"Not me," he chokes out.

He turns to look beneath the Jeep, and Stiles follows his line of vision with dread rising like molten lava in his chest. The next breath he draws turns to steel in his lungs. Red stains the chipped paint of the walls of the clinic. On the hard concrete, all of them—the rest remaining members of their pack—lay on the ground, blood pooling all around them. Scott. Parrish. His father. Deaton.

"No, no, no. NO! We have to help them!" Stiles wails.

His heart is ripping apart right inside of his chest as he looks at what was left of their family. He thrashes against Derek, desperate to get away, but Derek's weight atop him is heavy and strong. Stiles can't much more than move. His shoulder aches with the attempt. He can't break away, not with force against Derek's full strength, so he desperately tries to claw his way out from under Derek instead.

"Stiles! Stop! Stop! Look at me!" Stiles glances at Derek through the moisture clouding his vision. He stops clawing at Derek. His fingers feel numb. Derek's face is reddened with scratch marks left behind by Stiles' dull fingernails.

"They're gone—I can't feel them anymore." Derek's eyes flash Alpha red. There is no changing the transfer of power from Scott to Derek. Derek is all he has left. Stiles' heart sinks into his stomach. "Scott's dead."

"Not them, Derek, not them. I can't—" Stiles tries to choke back his sobs, but he fails entirely. Sobs overwhelm him, racking his body until he shakes with them. He presses his head into Derek's chest, all of his earlier fight gone.

"We can't do this without them! My dad—oh God!"

A bullet shatters the windshield of the Jeep. Glass shards rain down on them. They slice into Stiles' arms. White hot and searing pain dances across his skin, and blood rushes out around the glass.

Another bullet rips through the motor. A third punctures the front driver's side tire. A fourth rings out, but its trajectory is off course. It blasts harmlessly over their heads.

Derek leaps to his feet then jerks Stiles upright.

"We have to run!" he yells, dragging Stiles along and holding him close to his side. "We have to run!"

More shots follow them as they run to the tree line. Derek stumbles in their haste, but Stiles is there to catch him. Stiles refuses to let him fall, so he takes the brunt of correcting Derek and keeping him upright. Together, they dart blindly into the unforgiving woods. The cover of darkness offers enough protection against the spray of bullets, and they run harder, faster into oblivion, out of sight of the enemy chasing them.

Stiles loses track of time as they flee. All that he registers is the burning of his legs and the painful lack of oxygen in his lungs and the harsh crunch of the dry leaves and twigs beneath his boots. A year ago, he wouldn't have been able to match Derek in a sprint, but the pack had been training. He and Lydia especially had pushed themselves to the limit to be able to run miles without stopping. He had hated it back then, but he is more thank thankful for it now.

It isn't until Stiles trips over one of the roots of the Nemeton that he realizes how far they have gone. He falls out of Derek's hold, landing hard on his hands and knees. The grimoire tumbles to the ground. The debris of dead twigs and rocks cuts through his palms. He gasps at the biting pain then leans tiredly against the old stump.

Derek drops heavily beside him panting for air and holding his side. They can't run any farther. Their bodies won't hold out. Not even Derek's werewolf strength will allow them to keep going forever.

There is only one thing left that they can possibly doing, other than sit here and wait for the enemy to catch up to them. Stiles grabs the fallen grimoire. He flips it open to the dog-eared page. The print-out of the rune is folded haphazardly between the pages.

"The runes," Derek gasps, eyeing the grimoire in Stiles' lap. "If we want to make it we have to—"

"I know. I know, but I don't know if it will work without Deaton and the tools he had prepared at the clinic."

But when Stiles looks up at Derek—for what, Stiles is not entirely sure—Derek is already staring intently at him. Derek lays a bloody hand on the side of Stile's neck, thumbing at the rapid pulse there. "You can do this, Stiles. I trust you. I believe in you."

Derek's hand is a calming presence. His eyes are filled with fervor and determination, and his gaze is captivating. Stiles couldn't look away even if he had wanted to. These, more than Derek's words, is what has Stiles drawing in a stuttered breath and nodding his head.

"Ok. Yeah, I can do this," he says, quietly at first to himself, then he raises his voice."I can do this. I'm a spark, right?"

He pulls a dagger from his boot, quickly so that he does not lose his nerve. The blade glints in the silver light of the moon. He skims the ritual. It mentions embellishments, like candles, athames, and herbs, that are meant to make the ritual more powerful. But they don't have any of those things, so he sticks to the bare minimum."Think of everything you wish had gone differently," he says."Think of all of the second chances you wish you could have had, Derek."

He carves the first rune into the ground beside of them. Derek's hand drops from his neck.

"You first," Derek demands, claws reaching for Stiles' shirt, to get to the bare skin of his chest. Derek will be able to carve the runes much faster with his claws. "There isn't much time to get this done. They are going to figure out where we are."

"No," Stiles says, shaking his head.

His voice is deadly calm. It can't be anything less than that—he can't be anything less than calm—because this is going to work. This has to work. This will work. He will not lose the last pack member he has left. Stiles cuts Derek's shirt away with his knife and digs the tip of it into the sweaty skin above his heart. Derek grimaces as the blade carves deeper. He stays deathly still as Stiles carves away at the rune.

"Stiles," he says, quietly, hardly moving except to speak, "you could have done this after I made sure you had a chance."

"No. The blood loss would have been too much. I wouldn't have been able to concentrate enough to help you, and I can't be the only one left, Derek. I can't. I refuse."

Derek makes no other protests. He closes his eyes as Stiles slices through his skin as ifit were butter. The cut don't heal like normal injuries would for a werewolf, making Stiles relax if only a fraction. The magic has taken hold. As he works, he makes sure that every swirl, every dip, every accent will be done exactly like it is meant to be.

It takes a few precious moments to finish the rune precisely as it is drawn on the scrap of paper. Stiles sits back studies the design one last time, comparing it, and decides he is satisfied with the work.

Derek opens his eyes. They glow red, and he looks at Stiles for a long second. Then he slashes Stiles' shirt clean down the middle.

His claws are caked with blood and mud. Derek and Stiles are both soaked in blood—so much blood. Dark rivets run down Stiles' arms and soak into the sleeves that rest at his elbows. His jeans are spotted with patches of deep crimson blood from the drops that have fallen from his hands. The scent of it hangs thickly in the air around them.

"I can't lose you, too," Derek mutters.

"You won't, dude. We are going to be okay. Just get carving."

When a clawed finger sinks deep into his skin, Stiles does his best not to scream out in agony. He manages only a pained whimper through his pale, chapped lips. The pain is hot and raw and endless, and he wants to scream at the top of his lungs. He doesn't. He can't. If he does, he will tip off whoever is hunting them and eat up whatever scant time they have left to spare.

So Stiles grits his teeth and lets Derek carve into him like he is a human etch-a-sketch. The minutes tick slowly by. He grows dizzy with the loss of blood. He wonders, vaguely, how Derek can manage to keep himself together long enough to finish Stiles' rune.

Distantly, Lydia's ghostly screams pick up in the wind. Stiles' first thought is that she is here with them, but when he opens his eyes and looks sluggishly around, their only company is darkness and he see remembers. He watches her die all over again like a sick scene from a horror moving playing in his head. Then a hunter's arrow embeds itself into the meat of Derek's leg.

Derek cries out, the sound harsh against the silence of the woods. Wildlife scatters from the surrounding trees.

"Wolfsbane," he grunts. In the next beat of a second, he rips the arrow out with a wet, sickening noise that gives Stiles the urge to gag. "Hunters are part of this. The bullet at the clinic were wolfsbane."

"We don't deserve this, Derek," says Stiles. His words run together. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. He wants to cry. "We deserve our pack. We deserve a second chance."

A bullet catches Derek in the side. He falls heavily against Stiles' chest with a pained groan. Maybe it is the adrenaline coursing through his veins or maybe it is the fact this is it, no matter how this goes, but Stiles doesn't hurt any more. He isn't scared or angry. He is only thankful that he isn't alone. He wraps an arm around Derek, drawing him nearer.

Stiles runs a bloody hand through Derek's hair and takes a ragged breath. God, after all they had survived, this was how they were going down: killed by faceless bullets and arrows. Vaguely, he wonders if this is how Allison felt when she died at the hands of the Oni, if she felt as cheated as Stiles does right now.

"We're going to be okay," Stiles whispers. He wonders if he is trying to convince Derek or himself more."Everything will be fine."

Derek mutters something in return, but Stiles' thoughts become fuzzy, and he starts to lose his grasp on the world. The last thing of which he is aware is the way Derek's arm tightens briefly around him before it goes lax.

Only Stiles' own heartbeat stutters in the silence of the night.

Then.

He lets go, content to follow Derek into the silence of death.