Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
Stiles feels the moment the hit collides.
He is on the floor, surrounded by nothing but pain and death. Everything hurts, and he can barely process what is happening around him, can barely focus on anything that isn't the smell of burning, of blood, of pure and utter destruction.
There is smoke everywhere. He is on the ground, with half of his body crushed, every breath a challenge. One of his eardrums has definitely burst. He can barely hear, let alone see farther than his nose.
But the second the hit lands on Derek he knows.
He knows.
He knows that Derek has been hit, and he knows that Derek is dying.
It's weird.
Stiles has never thought Derek would die.
Of course he has always been aware that Derek was as mortal as the rest of them. He has been tasked with rescuing Derek from the brink of death often enough to know this.
But Derek has never died.
He has always survived, always managed to not die.
Except now.
Except now, because shit has finally hit the fan, Derek has been hit, and Derek is dying.
Because everyone has been hit, and everybody is dying or dead and it's just Stiles.
It's just Stiles, because Derek was the last one standing, and now Derek is not standing anymore. Derek is not standing anymore, because Derek has been shot, and there is not even enough strength or energy in his body to save him from the earlier wolfsbane, to keep him awake long enough for...
For what?
For what?
Erica died first (brave, proud, crazy Erica). The Alpha pack kidnapped her, and then they killed her. And after they were done killing her, they took Boyd (strong, lonely, quiet Boyd).
Then Allison (fearless, lost, tough Allison) was taken out by Stiles the Nogitsune.
Stiles had joked - it had not been a joke - back then that the town was cursed.
He was right.
He is still right.
In the end, the entire Hale Pack is going to be wiped out a second time. The original Hale Pack was decimated by Kate Argent and now the hellmouth that is Beacon Hills will claim the last two members of the pack (because Stiles is pack, he is the emissary, and he was meant to save them. He was meant to protect them).
Except-
He almost laughs. Because there is one member that has, hilariously enough, survived the slaughter.
Jackson.
Jackson fucking Whittemore is still alive. He was still alive last they heard of him, so maybe... Maybe one last beta remains.
Derek's first beta, the last one standing.
Or maybe he's dead too.
Maybe he's already dead because this is Beacon Hills, and Beacon Hills is a hellmouth that has claimed everything and everyone. And who says that being in London has somehow saved Jackson?
Even Danny is dead.
A wendigo the pack had been chasing had ripped him apart right as he was leaving the town.
Lydia had not screamed for him.
She had already been dead, by then.
Stiles had not even had the strength to cry, at his funeral.
It had been a week after they had buried Malia and his dad, and Stiles had been out of tears.
And now Derek is also gone.
Now everyone is gone (Erica, Boyd, Allison, Deaton, Melissa, Lydia, dad (god, dad), Malia, Danny, Peter, Isaac, Chris, Kira, Cora, Scott, Derek).
Now everyone is gone, and Stiles is the last one standing.
And it's not funny, because Stiles was never meant to be the last one standing. Stiles should not be the last one standing, he should-
He isn't sure how his body still manages to produce tears as he hears the sound of the beast dragging itself away, a growl that sounds like a strange gurgling coming from his chest.
He wants to tell it to stop.
To come back, because Stiles is not dead yet. Stiles is still alive, he's still breathing, and he doesn't want to go like this.
He doesn't want to be left for dead, when it has made sure to kill Kira, Cora, Scott and Derek.
Why spare him? Why let him live?
It wasn't letting him live.
Not really.
Stiles was simply not worth the effort, apparently, to be mauled to death, and his entire body shakes with the weight of his grief.
It's too much. It's just too much.
Because why? Why them? Why him? Why...?
He wants to wail. He wants to beg the world to just end it, to just end him.
Because the sudden quiet as the beast leaves them there, as it leaves both of them dying behind is too much.
Because Derek is quiet as he dies (and Derek has never been loud, but couldn't he be now? Couldn't he die as vividly as he had lived?), and Stiles knows, knows, Derek will die before Stiles does.
And Stiles cannot do it.
He cannot feel Derek's bond snap. He cannot sense Derek's death beside him, he just cannot.
But Stiles' body is half crushed, and his breathing is harder and harder, and how can he save him when he can't even save himself?
And then Derek stops breathing.
"No," said Stiles, eyes pressed closed. "Derek... Please don't. Don't."
But Derek does not open his eyes.
Derek does not breathe.
Derek is dead.
+++
Stiles does not know how he manages to drag himself to Derek.
He does not know where the energy comes, where he finds the strength to push himself until he is laying directly next to the man.
Maybe it's not energy. Maybe it's just desperation.
Maybe it's the knowledge that nothing will matter anyway.
Maybe it's the unwillingness to lay down and die all by himself.
The Hale pack has fallen.
The police force is a ghost of what it was.
The hospital is still reeling from the Nogitsune.
Beacon Hills, if it hasn't already, will fall soon.
It's dead.
Maybe some hunters will come. Maybe they will hear that the Hale Pack is no more, and the Argents are no more, and the Bête du Gévaudan is in Beacon Hills, and they will try themselves at killing it.
Maybe they will succeed.
After all, the pack killed many monsters before all of them had fallen.
It does not matter.
It does not matter because Stiles' pack and family are both dead, and Stiles is dying, and when the Beast is dead, more will come.
Because Beacon Hills' core is dark and cursed, and poisoned and it does not matter.
Until the Nemeton and the magic-
Stiles has closed his eyes, head resting on Derek's shoulder despite the pain in all of his limbs, but then he is opening them again.
Because...
Because they died for this town. The pack has died to protect Beacon Hills (and failed).
Stiles had only been trying to keep his pack safe (and failed), but they had been trying to keep Beacon Hills safe.
But Beacon Hills was cursed.
Beacon Hills was cursed because the Nemeton was cursed.
And the Nemeton was cursed because the blood of an innocent had been spilled.
'So the Nemeton.'
'Yes?'
'Can it be, like... fixed?'
'...Yes.'
'Cool. Let's-'
'But we can't do it.'
'Of course we can't. Why would we be able to, after you said that we could? How stupid of me-'
'You are powerful, Stiles. For your age, you are scaringly powerful. But even you are just a spark. And the amount of belief and energy necessary to exorcise the Nemeton is not something even you could do without dying.'
'But-'
'Remember when you saved Derek after he was attacked by those yetis? You nearly died. Not even you are powerful enough to save the infection that is killing the Nemeton. Not without dying.'
Stiles had still thought they could win, back then. They had all thought they could win.
Then Deaton had died.
And now everyone is dead.
Everyone is dead, and Stiles knows he's dying and for once he does not care. He does not care because, one way or another, the pain is going to stop. One way or another he and the pack are gonna be free of all of this.
He failed to protect them.
He was meant to keep them safe, and he had not.
They had wanted to keep Beacon Hills safe.
And Stiles, Stiles could try.
He looks at Derek, and pretends he can still hear his heart beating, like his entire body isn't hurting more at the sight of his... his Derek dead under him than it is at at his broken body.
"I'm sorry," he tells him, fresh tears gathering in his eyes. "I'm sorry I failed."
Then, he closes his eyes, reaching for the golden core inside of him, the centre of what Deaton had always called the source of all of his magic and energy.
He imagines Beacon Hills all around him, and the Nemeton, in the middle of it.
He imagines the magic of the Preserve, the energy that is, unknowingly, fuelling the hellmouth call for everything evil coming to Beacon Hills.
He does not blame the tree for it.
He did not ask the Nogitsune to get into him, after all.
He knows.
Stiles reaches for the magic inside of him and thinks of his pack.
His dear dead pack.
He reaches for his magic, and then he pulls.
He screams.
He screams at the pain, and he knows that if his injuries don't kill him, this will.
And it hurts, it hurts so badly Stiles should stop, but he can't, and he won't.
He won't because Derek is dead.
He won't because Derek is dead, and his Scott is dead, and his Cora is dead, and his Kira is dead, and Chris is dead, and his Isaac is dead, and Peter is dead, and Danny is dead, and his Malia is dead, and his dad is dead, and his Lydia is dead, and Deaton is dead, and his Allison is dead, and his Boyd is dead, and his Erica is dead, and they are all dead, they are all dead,
and Stiles is the last one standing, and he can't do this, he can't be the last one and god, god, god, they are all dead
And he screams, and he screams, and he screams-
Chris Argent woke up to the sound of a body hitting the ground.
His heart was racing in his chest for no reason he could understand as he sat up, eyes snapping around the room in search for the source of the threat.
But Victoria was asleep beside him, and the window was locked.
But something had woken him up, something-
The door of the room opened, and Chris blinked at the sight of his daughter in the doorway, tears in her eyes.
"Allison," he said, right as she lunged at him, bawling her eyes out. His hands were shaking as he pulled her up and she clutched his shirt in her hands, and he did not understand why he was shaking so hard as he held her in his arms. "Shh. Shh, it's okay, baby. I have you. I have you."
"Chris?" asked Victoria, looking sleepy beside him, and another of those painful feelings wrapped around his chest as he reached for his wife.
She looked incredibly confused, and Chris had no idea of how to explain himself.
So, he didn't, holding both of them close to him.
Kira screamed as she sat up on her bed, pulling herself away from the... the thing that had been reaching for her, terrified.
It had been so close, it had almost had her and she screamed even louder as the bulb over her broke, eyes closed as she wrapped her arms around herself, terrified of the thing, the beast-
"Kira!"
She sobbed, but immediately reached out for her dad when he sat on her bed, holding him as tightly as she could.
"Kira?" that was her mom's concerned tone. "What happened-?"
"There was a beast," cried Kira, knowing she sounded nonsensical but unable to take it back. "It got me, mom. It grabbed me, and I didn't know what to do, and-"
"A nightmare," said her dad, relaxing. "She had a nightmare."
"But the bulbs-"
"Probably a fuse," said her dad, cutting her mom off. "A fuse burst and scared her."
Mom did not say anything more.
Cora's howl of pain and terror woke up the entire house.
She knew it did, because she could feel the sudden anxiety in most of the pack bonds, but she could not help it.
The scream was piercing her ears and her skull and she could barely hear her own thoughts as she howled, hands on her ears as she rocked back and forth.
Even when she felt her dad's presence over her, trying to calm her down, it did not help.
All she could do was howl in pain.
Boyd woke up wheezing, a hand pressed against his chest.
"Vernon? Vernon!"
He couldn't breathe. Something was sinking in him, ripping him in shreds and it burned, it burned -
"Vernon!"
"Erica? Erica, honey, what's wrong?"
Erica's eyelids slowly opened, wet and sticky.
Her mother's voice in the baby monitor she was forced to keep in her room was tinny and sleepy, and Erica sniffed, rubbing the wet from her face while a hand massaged her neck.
She sighed. "I'm coming, baby."
Isaac slapped a hand over his mouth before his crying could be heard.
His heart was beating so fast he was afraid the sound would wake his father but, surprisingly, it didn't.
Isaac remained laying where he was, waiting for it to subside.
It took a very long time.
Peter could not stop the scream from leaving his lips at the scream that pierced his ears.
He had been trying to sneak back home, but he could not physically move at the sound, falling to his knees with his hands over his ears.
His body, for the first time in years started shifting by itself, and Peter could not hold it back.
He threw his head back and howled.
Jackson twitched in his sleep, and turned on the other side of the pillow.
The only sound louder than Lydia's scream as she forced herself awake was the sound of her mirror and windows breaking like they had been smashed in.
Lydia did not notice.
She barely noticed anything as she writhed on the bed, kicking her sheets off her, screaming as loudly as she could a wail that almost did not sound human.
She screamed only one word:
"STILES!"
"Scott! Scott!"
Scott could see his mother was worried. He knew he was freaking her out, he knew that he needed to try and breathe.
He knew.
But-
"Stiles!" he shouted, nails - human nails, not long and arched like in the dream - trying to claw him out of his mom's arms. "I nee- he's dying- mom-"
He kept struggling and screaming, Melissa using all of her strength to keep him down.
He only stopped when he passed out.
John Stilinski did not believe in prophetic dreams and all of that mystic stuff.
But there definitely had to be a reason why he had woken up from the worst nightmare he had in his life - a strange nightmare about demons, and kids with elongated jaws, and black wolves, and gold and blue eyes and red eyes, and monsters, and evil humans - to the sound of his son screaming as if he was being ripped apart, so loud he was waiting for the police to call to check in on them.
"They're dead," wailed Stiles, still shaking in his arms, still trying to free himself. "Scott is d-dead, I didn't save them, I couldn't save them, I'm sorry, I'm so-sorry, I'm sorry-"
He hadn't cried this hard at his mother's funeral. He hadn't cried this hard since he was a child making himself sick in the middle of the night because nobody was picking him up.
And this grief, this pain, this terror he could see in his eyes, this pain older than John could understand...
"I tried so hard- the tree, poisoned- and Ger-ard, I should have stay-ed but Derek, Derek-"
It terrified him.
John held Stiles tighter.
Paige was dying in his arms.
Derek was holding her close to his chest, begging, crying, wishing he could take everything back as the black goo kept coming out of her, and he was trying to save her, he had only wanted to help her, to keep her safe but-
For a second, Derek felt every part of him stiffen, as a strange golden something washed over him and Paige.
A cloud of some sort, coming down the Nemeton, washing everything in a strange light.
He did not even have time to wonder what it was, if hunters had found out about his actions and tracked him down.
He did not have time for any of that, because then there was a scream.
Derek's control had already been shaky.
But Derek knew this scream, his wolf knew this scream, and he couldn't stop it.
The howl ripped itself out of his throat.
And the magic exploded.