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It had been hours since Stiles had come home, bloodied and bruised, his clothes torn from the fight with Gerard and his pack of hunters. He hadn’t wanted to worry his dad, but the sight of his father standing in the doorway, watching his son limp into his room, left Stiles speechless.
"Stiles..." his dad’s voice was tight, a mix of concern and something darker Stiles couldn’t quite place.
The younger Stilinski winced, slowly lowering himself onto the couch. "I’m fine, Dad," he tried to say, but it came out strained.
"Don't give me that," his dad snapped, crossing the room in a few long strides. His hands trembled as he gripped Stiles' shoulder to steady him. "You look like you just went ten rounds with a freight train. Who did this to you?"
Stiles felt a lump form in his throat, a wave of guilt washing over him. His dad shouldn’t have to deal with this. Not with everything he already had to face. But as he met his father’s eyes, the unspeakable weight of everything that had happened came crashing down. He opened his mouth, and the words he’d buried deep inside came spilling out like water from a dam.
"Not… not just someone, Dad," Stiles whispered. "It was Gerard. He’s a hunter. He and his people—they’re coming after us. After me. After Scott."
Sheriff Stilinski’s grip tightened, but he stayed silent, waiting for his son to continue.
“I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want anyone to know, but I can't... I can’t hide it anymore. They’ve been hunting us—wolves, Dad. Werewolves. They—" Stiles choked, the weight of the truth crushing him under the exhaustion and fear. "Scott’s a werewolf. Derek too. And me? I’m just a human who’s trying to keep up. Trying to survive." His voice cracked, and for the first time, the tears he'd been fighting against slipped free.
His dad’s eyes softened, but there was still a hardness in them. Not disbelief—no, Sheriff Stilinski had seen too much to deny it anymore. He just... couldn’t understand. No one could.
Gerard, the twisted psychopath who had come to town with his band of rogue hunters, had nearly killed Stiles’ friends. Had nearly killed him.
The sheriff took a deep breath, steadying himself. “You’re not alone in this, Stiles. You’ve never been alone."
Stiles nodded, but he couldn’t hold back the sob that racked his body. The pain was too much. Everything was too much. His dad had no idea what he had been through, what they’d all been through.
“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” Stiles whispered.
The sheriff finally sighed, standing straight. He ran a hand over his face. “I’m angry at you. But right now, that doesn’t matter.”
The sound of the window sliding opening interrupted their conversation, and Derek Hale stepped into the room, face tight with anger. He barely spared a glance at Sheriff Stilinski before turning to Stiles.
"You’re lucky you’re not dead," Derek growled, stepping closer. "You and Scott, you forced me to bite Gerard. You made me do that! Now he’s more dangerous than ever." His voice was sharp, demanding an explanation.
Stiles blinked, feeling too broken to respond, his body still aching from the brutal fight. But as Derek reached him, a flash of something else flickered in the werewolf’s eyes—something that Stiles couldn't quite place, but it wasn’t anger. It was... concern.
“I didn’t know,” Stiles whispered.
“Didn’t know? That plan had you written all over it.” Derek scowled, but he still reached out and tilted Stiles’ face to look him over.
“Don’t know if I should be proud of Scott thinking up something that devious,” he chuckled humorlessly, wincing when it jostled his ribs too much.
Derek knelt down beside him, gently turning Stiles to face him. “What happened to you?” he murmured, voice low. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”
Stiles didn’t know why, but the way Derek’s usual gruffness softened made him feel like he could breathe again. Derek was being protective, not pushing him away for the mess he had become. Derek placed a hand on Stiles' shoulder and rubbed his neck in slow, soothing motions ad black lines traced up his arm, drawing his pain.
“Gerard happened, he had Erica, Boyd and I locked in their basement. Tortured us for information on you.” He sighed, freezing for a moment before looking up in fright. “Erica, Boyd!”
“Relax, I found them and they’re back at the loft resting.” Derek reassured him. “You really knew nothing?”
“No, if you couldn’t tell, I had a date with a creepy old man.” He deadpanned.
“Alright, let’s get you cleaned up,” Derek muttered, rolling his eyes and before Stiles could protest, Derek was pulling him gently to his feet, guiding him toward the bathroom.
Sheriff Stilinski, standing in the doorway, watched them with unreadable eyes, but didn’t say a word. All he did was leave the house. He knew he could leave Stiles in Derek’s capable hands, he had work to do.
The next morning, Stiles had just managed to drag himself out of bed when the sound of a knock on the door to his room caught his attention. His dad walked in, his uniform on, his face unreadable. Stiles froze, certain that his father was about to unload on him finally. Instead, Sheriff Stilinski simply said, “I arrested Gerard this morning. He won’t be a problem anymore.”
Stiles blinked in shock, looking between his dad and Derek, who had just entered the room, obviously confused by the sheriff’s words.
“Wait, what?” Stiles stammered. “How—"
“I arrested him,” Sheriff Stilinski repeated casually, as though it were just another day at the office.
Derek’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. "How?"
"Small town," Sheriff Stilinski said with a shrug. "Gerard was sloppy. Had a history. I got a tip, and—" He paused, glancing at Derek and Stiles before turning his attention to Stiles. “It’s done. Don’t worry about it.”
“Done?” Stiles repeated, still processing the information. “How... how did you even—"
But the sheriff was already walking out the door, cutting the conversation short. “There’s more work to be done. Stay out of trouble and rest.”
The door to Sheriff Stilinski’s office creaked open, and Chris Argent stepped inside, his expression tense, muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap. The sheriff barely looked up from his paperwork, his fingers still tapping rhythmically against the desk. The moment Argent spoke, the tension in the room spiked.
“Stilinski,” Chris said, his voice low and sharp. “You have no idea what you're getting yourself into.”
Sheriff Stilinski raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he gave a slight nod, acknowledging the hunter’s presence without acknowledging the threat in his words.
“I’m not the one you should be worried about,” Argent continued, stepping further into the room. “You’re playing with fire, John. The Hales? You don’t even understand how dangerous they are. If you keep interfering—if you keep taking out my people—you’re going to make a lot of enemies. You think things are bad now? You haven’t seen anything yet.”
The sheriff set the pen down, finally giving Chris Argent his full attention. He stood slowly from behind his desk, his gaze steady and calm. His posture remained relaxed, but there was a coldness to him that Chris hadn’t expected.
“I know about the Hales,” Sheriff Stilinski said quietly, cutting through the tension with a casualness that only added to the unease. “I’ve known for a long time.” He took a slow step forward, crossing the space between them. “I’ve seen things, Chris. I’m not stupid. Werewolves don’t bother me.”
Argent’s brows furrowed in confusion, and he took an involuntary step back, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Sheriff Stilinski leaned forward, his tone taking on a darker edge. “What bothers me—what really bothers me—is when my son gets hurt. When any of your damn hunters come after him, or after his friends. I’m not some naive small-town cop, Chris. I’ve been dealing with this for a while now. And you know what? I’m done being polite about it.”
Argent’s jaw tightened. “You think you’re the only one who’s had to deal with loss? With what’s at stake here?”
Sheriff Stilinski’s voice grew even quieter, but there was a sharpness to it now, a dangerous calm. “No, Chris, I don’t think I’m the only one who’s lost. I think you’ve lost everything, too. But what I do know is that you’re not the only one willing to do whatever it takes to protect their family. The difference between you and me is that I’ve got nothing left to lose, and I don’t need to answer to anyone but my son.”
Argent took a step forward, his anger bubbling just under the surface, but the sheriff’s unflinching gaze stopped him.
“You want to talk about consequences?” Sheriff Stilinski continued, his voice now icy and full of resolve. “Let me tell you this. Arresting you or your people is the least of your problems. I can make sure you never come near this town again. I can do a hell of a lot worse than just throwing you behind bars.”
For a moment, Chris just stared at him, the weight of the sheriff’s words settling in. But then the sheriff’s voice softened just enough for Chris to hear the undercurrent of something else.
“But I won’t,” Sheriff Stilinski said, his eyes flickering briefly to the door, as though considering something else entirely. “I won’t take you down that road. You see, I would feel bad leaving Allison parentless. That’s not the kind of man I am. But don’t mistake that for weakness. If you ever lay a hand on my son again, if anyone in your little group even looks at him wrong, I won’t hesitate to make sure you regret it. Not just for you, but for everyone you care about.”
Chris seemed to falter for a second, his pride clashing with the cold, unyielding stare of the sheriff. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sheriff Stilinski held up a hand, cutting him off.
“I’m done talking, Chris. You walk out that door, you stay the hell away from my son. If you don’t, I’ll make sure the consequences for that mistake will be the least of your worries.”
Chris took a long, measured breath. He didn’t like backing down, didn’t like being threatened in his own way, but this was different. There was something in the sheriff’s eyes—something that spoke of a man who had already sacrificed too much to let anything else be taken from him.
Argent slowly backed toward the door, not once breaking eye contact with the sheriff. “You’re making a mistake, Stilinski. You can’t protect them forever.”
“I don’t need to protect them forever,” Sheriff Stilinski replied, his tone calm. “I just need to protect them long enough.”
With one last, heated glare, Chris Argent left the sheriff’s office, the door slamming shut behind him.
Sheriff Stilinski stood in the silence of his office for a moment longer, taking a steadying breath. He didn’t like the situation, didn’t like how dangerous things were getting for his son, for their whole town. But as long as Chris Argent and his hunters wanted to keep pushing? He would be there, ready to push back—because Stiles wasn’t going to fight this fight alone anymore. Not if his father could help it.
The days that followed were even more bizarre. Every time they turned around, there was another hunter off the streets. Gerard's allies—one by one—were disappearing, arrested without warning. It was as if Sheriff Stilinski had become some sort of one-man army, quietly dismantling the group of hunters that had once seemed so powerful.
Stiles couldn’t wrap his head around it. One day it was a hunter who had been stalking the woods, the next it was another one connected to the failed attempt on Derek’s life. Each time, the sheriff was one step ahead of them.
“What is he doing?” Derek asked one day, as they watched Sheriff Stilinski escort another one of Gerard’s old allies out of town in handcuffs. The sheriff didn’t even look back.
Stiles shrugged, still in awe of his dad’s actions. “I don’t know. But he’s doing it... somehow.”
Eventually, the sheriff did come to them, a silent presence that loomed over the pack as he stood in the doorway of the loft.
“You’re confused,” he said with a hint of amusement. “And you’re probably wondering why I’ve been taking care of this on my own. But here’s the thing.” His gaze settled on both Derek and Stiles, unwavering. “It’s not your job to do everything. You don’t need to fix every damn problem. Leave it to me.”
Derek and Stiles exchanged a look. Neither of them had ever been so uncertain, yet so strangely comforted. The sheriff was, somehow, protecting them without even asking for credit.
And they understood now. It wasn’t about doing everything—sometimes, the quiet strength of a father was enough to carry them through. Sheriff Stilinski didn’t need to fight with them. He’d already been fighting his own battle, in his own way.
And, for the first time, Stiles allowed himself to believe that his dad really could keep them all safe. And that he was wrong for not getting him involved sooner, he clearly had no issues handling things.
Weeks had passed since the chaos with Gerard and his hunters had subsided. Stiles and his friends were still recovering, both physically and emotionally, but life in Beacon Hills had started to regain a semblance of normalcy. Sheriff Stilinski had spent his time keeping an eye on his son, trying not to worry too much, but he could see how things were changing. Stiles had been spending more time with Derek Hale—way more time than the sheriff had expected. He’d watched them—whether they realized it or not—dance around whatever it was that was developing between them.
It was almost too obvious. The small looks they exchanged, the hesitance, the way Derek’s voice softened when he spoke to Stiles. It was like watching two people who couldn’t quite figure out what they were doing but also couldn’t stay away from each other.
And the sheriff? He found it hilarious.
Oh, sure, they were both pretending it wasn’t anything serious yet. Stiles would joke about it, Derek would scowl and change the subject, and neither of them would fully acknowledge what was happening. But Sheriff Stilinski had seen enough to know exactly what was going on. He wasn’t blind.
But of course, it wasn’t like he was about to confront either of them about it. He had his own way of letting them figure things out. Sometimes, though, life had other plans.
One afternoon, the sheriff was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking his coffee in relative peace, when Peter Hale—always an unpredictable and insufferable presence—showed up at the front door. It was a little past noon, and Stiles was sprawled out on the couch, scrolling through his phone. Derek, of course, was somewhere nearby—most likely in the garage working on Stiles’ jeep, which had become his usual retreat.
Peter had a knack for showing up at the most inconvenient times, and he wasted no time getting under Stiles' skin.
“Well, well,” Peter said, leaning casually against the doorway with that smug look on his face that made the sheriff wish he could toss him out with a few well-placed words. “I’m not surprised to find Derek here… Again. It must be nice to be so... close.”
Stiles, still half-paying attention to his phone, shot Peter a glare. “What’s your deal, Peter? Not in the mood for whatever creepy thing you’re about to say.”
Peter didn’t miss a beat, moving closer with an almost predatory smile. “Oh, I don’t know, Stiles. You and Derek seem to be spending a lot of time together. What’s going on? Are you two—” Peter dragged the words out, his tone mocking. “—an item now?”
Sheriff Stilinski, who had been quietly observing the exchange from his spot at the table, felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward. This was going to be good.
Stiles immediately went red in the face, his fingers stammering against his phone screen. Derek, emerging from the garage, shot Peter a deadly glare, his posture tense. It was clear that neither Stiles nor Derek was ready for Peter’s teasing, and the sheriff found it hilarious. He could almost hear the gears turning in their heads as they scrambled to find a way to deny everything that was too obvious to deny.
Before either of them could speak up, Peter, as usual, pressed the issue. “Oh, come on, I’m just asking. You two have been practically joined at the hip lately. What’s the deal? Are we going to get a wedding announcement soon? Or maybe just a little kiss? Or better yet—”
“Peter,” Sheriff Stilinski interrupted, his voice cutting through the room like a knife. He saw how uncomfortable his son was getting, and even though he found it funny, he didn’t want Stiles upset. He stood up, and his posture was casual, but the steel in his voice wasn’t lost on anyone. “Back off.”
Peter, momentarily taken aback by the sheriff’s calm but authoritative tone, paused. But instead of backing down, he smirked, clearly not used to being told what to do.
“No one gets to mess with Stiles’ boyfriend but me,” the sheriff continued, his eyes locking onto Peter’s with a sharpness that brooked no argument. “So unless you want me to start making some calls, I suggest you shut it.”
The words seemed to land heavily, and for a moment, the room was completely still. Peter opened his mouth, no doubt ready to fire back with something biting, but the sheriff held up a hand.
“You’ve made your point, Peter,” he said, his voice dry. “Now, do us all a favor and back off. I’m not in the mood for your games today.”
Peter seemed to weigh his options, clearly amused but realizing that pushing any further was a losing battle. With a theatrical sigh, he straightened up, his smug grin returning in full force. “Alright, alright. I’ll go. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’re both in way over your heads.”
With a final, condescending glance at Derek and Stiles, Peter slipped out of the room, leaving the two of them standing there, completely flustered.
The sheriff sat back down at the table, picking up his coffee once again, the corners of his lips twitching with amusement.
Stiles, still red as a tomato, turned to Derek, trying to explain the awkwardness away. “We’re not— I mean, we’re just friends, alright? Not that it’s any of his business—”
Derek cut him off, running a hand through his hair, looking slightly mortified. “Yeah, yeah. We’re not— I mean, not... not together. Just... spending time. You know?”
Sheriff Stilinski didn’t miss a beat. He set his coffee down with a casual clink and raised an eyebrow at the two of them.
“Look,” he said, his voice smooth, a little too entertained. “I approve of Derek. He’s a good guy. So whenever you two decide to stop pretending, I’ll be fine with it. You don’t need to hide it from me. You know your mother and I had an age gap.”
Stiles’ mouth opened and closed a few times as he tried—and failed—to come up with an explanation that didn’t sound ridiculous. Derek, meanwhile, was doing his best to look anywhere but at the sheriff.
“Just...” the sheriff added, unable to resist one last jab, “try to get your heads out of your asses before you do anything embarrassing, alright? I’m trying to be supportive here.”
Stiles’ face turned even redder, if that was even possible. Derek let out a frustrated sigh and glanced at the sheriff, who was now smirking at them both with a knowing look.
“Oh, and by the way,” Sheriff Stilinski added casually as he picked up his coffee again. “If you hurt my son in any way, I’ll deal with you. But otherwise, I’m fine with it. Just... figure it out, okay?”
Stiles and Derek exchanged a look, both speechless, both clearly mortified and relieved at the same time. The sheriff was leaving them no room to wiggle out of it anymore.
“Well,” Stiles said finally, his voice half-strangled, “this is awkward.”
Derek just shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Yeah, you could say that again.”
And for the rest of the day, Sheriff Stilinski couldn’t help but chuckle to himself every time he saw Stiles and Derek awkwardly avoid each other’s gaze. It was clear that they weren’t ready to admit anything yet, but the sheriff didn’t mind. He was in no rush. Watching them figure it out at their own pace was just too entertaining.