Chapter Text
The leather-bound notebook stared at Stiles mockingly from the coffee table, waiting to be picked up and read. He had been sitting in the same position for ten minutes straight, like the small journal might suddenly explode or start whispering dark druid prophecies at him.
He hadn’t even cracked it open yet, feeling the weight of knowledge at his fingertips, hope circling his chest with the dark image of the notebook’s owner coming back to haunt him like the whisper of a ghost. If he was being honest with himself, Stiles was scared. So fucking scared, because he knew whatever was inside was going to change things. And things were already a mess.
The first thing Stiles had done when they arrived at the house was check on his dad, hoping it was just a bad dream. But it wasn’t. His dad had seemed the same as always, talking calmly with Melissa about everything and nothing at the same time.
Stiles didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
His gaze shifted back to the notebook. It had been the only thing on Deaton’s desk, everything else destroyed or thrown across the floor. They’d questioned whether it was even worth taking, but Stiles had never seen it before in the months he’d been training with the druid—albeit only three times, tops, but Stiles liked to “borrow” his books now and then.
Besides, Deaton’s last words had seemed to be about notes, and what better place to keep them than in a notebook? So they grabbed it and headed back to the house with more questions than answers.
“You’re not going to open it?” Melissa’s voice snapped him back. Her face wore a soft smile, and in her hand was a cup of warm tea. She placed it in front of him, right next to the object of Stiles’ thoughts. “It won’t bite, you know?”
Stiles huffed a laugh, reaching for the cup. “I’m just waiting for the rest of the pack to arrive.”
“If you say so.” Melissa sat beside him, her hand coming to rest over his. “Your dad…” She trailed off, her gaze shifting away at the mention of John.
“What is it? Did something happen?” He shifted uncomfortably in his place, leaving the cup back on the table. His voice came out strained as his chest constricted, hand gripping Melissa’s tightly enough to leave a mark.
“He has a light fever, and his eyes are a bit red.”
Stiles knew there was more she wasn’t saying. It had been a couple of hours since they arrived, and about an hour since he’d last checked on his dad. Melissa had asked him to let the Sheriff rest and had refused every one of his protests. That was how he’d ended up watching the book so intently.
He held his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop as Melissa took a deep breath and started again.
“He’s also… he was asking about your mom.”
Stiles nodded, his hand raking through his hair as shaky exhales left his body. His dad never talked about his mom. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.
“Is that—” He cut himself off, clearing his throat with a cough. “He’s hallucinating?”
Melissa’s silence was all the answer he needed. Tears pricked his eyes. He gave a sharp nod and stood, grabbing the notebook and heading toward the room where his dad was resting.
Stiles hovered at the bedroom door, debating whether he should go in and face his dad. The notebook was clutched tight against his chest, his hand barely brushing the frame when the front door slammed open. Heavy footsteps pounded across the floorboards, a panicked voice shouting his and Derek’s names.
He froze. The notebook slipped from his grasp as chaos crashed into the silence, echoing off the walls of the house.
Jackson was half-carrying, half-dragging Isaac, whose body thrashed like a live wire. Feral growls tore from his throat, teeth bared, eyes flashing gold as his claws raked at the air. He wasn’t lunging to bite, but he wasn’t Isaac either—his wolf was bleeding through, raw and wild, leaving him caught between instincts and reason. His flailing made it nearly impossible for Jackson to keep hold.
On the other side, Scott tried to help, his arms and sleeves drenched in blood. His face was pale, stricken, but he kept his distance from Isaac’s snapping jaws, as if afraid of getting closer.
“What happened?!” Derek roared from the staircase, Erica and Boyd close behind, their eyes widening at the sight.
“Fucking McCall happened,” Jackson snarled, shifting Isaac’s weight so he bore it alone.
“What?” Erica snapped, hurrying to take Scott’s place. Jackson grunted in relief as she slid under Isaac’s arm, trying to keep him steady.
“He was bitten,” Allison said as she stepped into the house, her face tight with fear.
The words hit Stiles like a slap. His legs moved before he could think, dragging him toward the chaos. His chest tightened when he caught sight of Isaac’s flannel sleeve. Soaked through, clinging to his forearm, dark teeth marks glaring angry red and black beneath the fabric. The wound looked alive, pulsing and threatening, not healing like it was supposed to, blood still oozing from it and dropping on the floor. Veins spiderwebbing out in sick patterns, spreading like ink through his skin around the wound.
Isaac’s claws flexed against the sofa cushions as Erica and Jackson lowered him down. His chest heaved like every breath was a battle, sweat slicking his curls to his forehead. His golden eyes darted, unfocused, lips pulled back in a low snarl that cracked into something more like a whimper.
“Easy, pup. Easy,” Erica murmured, crouching low to steady him. Her hands hovered near his shoulders, firm enough to keep him down but gentle enough to remind him she wasn’t a threat.
Melissa was already at his side, snapping on gloves she’d grabbed from her bag. “I need space. Now.” Her voice cut sharp through the noise.
Allison hovered close, knife in hand but shaking her head as if arguing with herself. “He was fine on the ride back when he started growling and saying he was hearing his dad's voice.”
Lydia’s sharp voice followed. “But his dad is dead?”
Allison nodded a wary expression covering her features.
Stiles swallowed hard, inching closer, notebook forgotten on the floor. His stomach twisted as Isaac’s eyes finally landed on him—distant, foggy, but there. A broken sound tore from Isaac’s throat, not quite words, not quite a growl.
“Yeah, hey, buddy,” Stiles said quickly, crouching near Melissa. His voice wobbled but he forced out a crooked smile. “It’s me. You’re fine, okay? You’re safe.”
Isaac’s jaw trembled, another garbled noise leaving his mouth. He clutched his bitten arm to his chest like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. Stiles’ chest ached at the sight.
Meanwhile, across the room, Derek’s voice snapped like a whip, barely understandable with the growl emerging on his chest. “This was your fault?" He was nose-to-nose with Scott, eyes burning red. Boyd flanked him, silent but solid, like a wall of muscle ready to move.
Scott’s hands curled into fists, his shirt still streaked with blood. “You think I wanted this?!” he shot back. “We were ambushed—”
“Because of you,” Jackson cut in, venom dripping from every word. “I told you we had to kill the damn thing!”
“Shut the hell up, Whittemore,” Scott growled, fangs threatening to drop.
“Make me,” Jackson snapped back, already halfway shifted.
The room split like a crack down the middle—Melissa barking orders, Erica and Allison holding Isaac steady, Lydia trying to force logic into the chaos—while Derek’s side bristled for a fight.
And Stiles, heart pounding, torn between staying at Isaac’s side and stepping into the argument about to explode.
With a shaky intake of air, he forced himself still. Fighting wasn’t an option right now — they had to focus on Isaac. There had to be something, anything, they could do to stop the process. Stiles’ mind raced with a million possibilities, each one crashing into the next, none of them solid answers.
His dad hadn’t acted like this. That meant there had to be stages to the infection. The people they’d found on the road earlier had been calm, almost numb, while the ones from the school had been violent. Isaac was a werewolf. His wound wasn’t healing, and his instincts weren’t pushing him to attack — they were pushing him to defend, to survive.
The realization made Stiles move. He shot to his feet and headed straight for the fight about to break out.
“That’s enough!” His voice cut through the growls, sharp and raw. The room froze. “If you want to fight, then get the fuck out. Isaac doesn’t need that right now.”
As if some part of him was still listening, Isaac whined — a small, broken sound that made Derek twitch and step closer.
“Derek, you need to talk to him. Maybe he’ll come back if he hears your voice.” Stiles’ gaze locked on Derek’s burning red eyes. Underneath the glow, he swore he saw panic, maybe even pleading.
Derek obeyed. He crouched at Isaac’s side, leaving enough space for Melissa to keep working. His hand gripped Isaac’s uninjured arm, black veins instantly crawling up his skin as he pulled the pain away. Isaac sagged, head lolling against Derek’s shoulder, each breath ragged and desperate.
“Jackson go to the kitchen, you need to chill.” Stiles' eyes landed on Lydia's, wordlessly asking her to take the wolf with her. Once she had nodded and had dragged Jackson by the arm he turned back around—not before asking Boyd to go fetch the notebook he had dropped—facing his best friend. “What happened, Scott?”
Scott hesitated, scrubbing a bloody hand through his hair. His jaw clenched before he met Stiles’ eyes. “He was acting weird since we got to Steve’s. Then… Isaac attacked him. After that—things are confusing.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes at Scott, then he directed his gaze to Allison. “Is that true?”
Allison chewed her lip, flicking glances at Scott before sighing. “Something like that.”
He didn't trust either of them. Stiles was sure there had to be something more to the story than just Isaac going crazy. He would ask Jackson later, once the wolf was calm enough to tell the story without wanting to claw Scott's heart out.
For all his asshole tendencies, Jackson wouldn’t lie where Isaac was concerned. He had a soft spot for the wolf.
“Stiles.” Isaac’s voice was barely a whisper, afraid and small. His head was still buried in Derek’s shoulder, bandaged arm clutched tight to his chest. Stiles’ heart clenched as he dropped into a seat at his side once Melissa moved away to check Scott’s wounds.
“What is it, pup?” Stiles whispered back, eyes searching Isaac’s face. Derek glanced up, his look strangely gentle, stripped of all heat.
“It hurts.” Isaac’s voice cracked. Stiles frowned, glancing at Derek. The alpha was still pulling the pain, so how could Isaac still feel it?
“I feel—” Isaac stopped, whimpering and shrinking in his place, as he had done something bad.
The sight was too much like the Isaac from before the bite, and Stiles hated every second of it.
“It’s okay, Isaac,” Derek said softly, his scowl replaced by something rawer, worried. His other hand settled firm against Isaac’s neck. “You can tell us. You’re safe.”
The beta whimpered again, tears strimming down his cheeks like waterfalls. “I can hear them.” Isaac whispered, like he was afraid to say it out loud.“My dad. My mom. They’re calling me. They want me to go with them.” His voice trembled, half-gasp, half-sob.
Stiles felt his stomach drop.
Isaac’s gaze flickered wildly, landing on Derek before locking on Stiles. His lips trembled. “They say… they say I should take you with me.” His voice cracked into a sob. “They want me to hurt you, Stiles. I'm scared.”
Cold sweat broke across Stiles’ skin, sliding down his back as his heart pounded against his ribs. Derek’s face went rigid with shock, but Stiles couldn’t look away from Isaac’s eyes. Golden, and drowning in fear.
The silence that followed was deafening, as if all happiness had been drained from the house and locked away.
Stiles knew Isaac would never hurt him. The wolf was stubborn like that — he’d fight with everything he had not to lay a single claw on Stiles. But dread still coiled in Stiles’ chest like vines, tangling tighter with every beat of his heart.
Isaac’s face looked younger somehow, scared and ashamed. Stiles would die before being afraid of his own friends. No matter what this thing was or what it wanted from Stiles, Isaac’s attitude only reinforced his theory of it being something magical rather than Isaac’s doing.
Now more than ever, he had to read Deaton’s notebook. He’d been scared before, but right now? Right now, saving Isaac and his dad was all that mattered.
Stiles couldn’t lose more people.
“It’s okay, pup,” he whispered, reaching for Isaac’s injured arm. His fingers curled at the wrist, magic sparking against his palm. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me on purpose.”
The soft, broken sound that left Isaac’s throat gutted him.
Stiles was sick of watching the people he loved die. He was sick of the anxiety that came with loving too hard, caring too much. Sometimes he wondered if that kind of love was a curse — if he’d been cursed with it since birth.
His hand burned warm against Isaac’s unnaturally cold wrist, magic thrumming under his veins, begging to be let out.
Maybe if he begged hard enough, wished hard enough, prayed hard enough, everything would be okay. Maybe Isaac and his dad would live.
Stiles’ eyes landed on Derek’s green ones. The alpha was focused entirely on Isaac, his hand threading carefully through damp curls with a tenderness that didn’t fit his usual scowl.
God, why was life so unfair to them? Hadn’t they lost enough?
Derek would be shattered if Isaac turned into one of those things. He’d just finished fixing up Isaac’s room, even bought that moon lamp the kid had fallen in love with at IKEA. Erica and Boyd had already picked out matching Halloween costumes so the three of them could coordinate. Even Jackson, of all people, had been planning a sleepover — the kind Isaac had never gotten to have as a kid.
Hell, Stiles had been right there with Derek when he’d filled out the paperwork to adopt Isaac.
Anger bubbled hot in Stiles’ chest. He didn’t want to lose anyone else. But more than that, he didn’t want Derek to drown in grief again, not when he was finally smiling more. Not when Isaac had finally started to shine.
f there was anything he could do—
If his magic could heal Isaac—
And for once, it felt like the universe was listening. His magic surged without warning, spilling from his hand in a soft golden glow that poured like honey into Isaac’s wound.
A collective gasp broke through the room. Isaac shifted, leaning heavily against Stiles, color bleeding back into his cheeks, golden eyes clearing to blue as panic faded into lucidity.
“Stiles…” Derek’s voice was barely a whisper. Stiles hadn’t even noticed his own eyes had closed, the sensation of his magic draining from him consuming every part of him. “You’re glowing.”
Stiles didn’t pay attention, unaware of how his friends—his family, really—had gathered around to watch.
Then the magic shifted. What had been pouring outward was suddenly sucked back in. The whiplash made him flinch, pain lancing up his arm as if he were ripping something out of Isaac instead of healing him, but he couldn’t stop. Whatever was happening was helping. He could feel it.
“Stiles, stop it!” Derek’s calm voice broke into a snarl.
“What is he doing?” Scott’s voice cut through the thundering in his ears.
Derek’s hand clamped around his wrist, trying to yank him away. But Stiles was rooted, locked in place, like something had taken him over.
Curious he cracked his eyes open and glanced at where his hand met Isaac’s arm.
Well, now he understood Derek's concern.
Black ooze was seeping from Isaac’s wound, the gauze useless against it. It crawled up Stiles’ hand, vanishing into his skin, turning into veins of shadow.
Stiles choked on a breath, fear slamming into him. It looked too much like the Nogitsune. Feeding, leeching, corrupting. He didn’t know if he was helping or hurting Isaac. But Isaac only looked at him with wonder, no trace of pain or fear.
So he continued willing himself to close his eyes again and tune everyone out. Wary of letting himself go, Stiles looked deep inside him for something to hold onto so he wouldn't suck the life out of Isaac. He felt his chest tighten in fear, his mind coming blank at something to hold him back.
His eyes snapped open. Stiles was starting to panic, not knowing when to stop, or when was enough. His breath came ragged, like it was laborious to just inhale. His hand began to tremble and his vision was beginning to blurry, the edges coming dark as if he was about to pass out.
Then he felt it, the tug of something on his chest. Locking itself firmly in place, making him feel grounded. Anchored.
Stiles gasped softly at the realization.
It was Derek.
Derek was his anchor.
His hand gripped the back of Stiles’ neck, firm enough to bruise, steady enough to keep him from breaking.
And just like that, the world came rushing back. Stiles gasped, air burning in his lungs as his trembling eased and his magic snapped back into him.
Silence. Then—
“What the fuck was that, Stilinski?”
“Are you okay, son?”
“Stiles?”
“That was awesome, Batman!”
“He looked like venom.”
The barrage of voices made Stiles wince, his head pounding. He barely registered that his dad had come out of the room—looking better, skin vibrant even if his eyes were still red—or that the entire pack had crowded in close.
He tried to speak, but no sound came. He felt fine, great even, but exhaustion weighed him down. His body trembled with the urge to collapse, eyelids heavy.
“Let’s give him room to breathe.” Derek’s words cut through the chaos, and slowly, the others backed away. The room felt suffocating anyway, heavy with the aftertaste of magic and fear.
Stiles sagged against the sofa, still gripping Derek’s hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the present. His chest burned, his head pounded, but what unsettled him most was the silence in his own veins—like his magic had retreated deep inside.
Isaac stirred beside him. His eyes were clearer now, his face no longer devoid of color. Even his temperature was returning to normal. He blinked sluggishly, confusion etched across his face as he looked from Derek to Stiles.
“Stiles?” His voice was hoarse, cracked. “What… what did you do?”
Stiles swallowed, throat dry. He wanted to answer, but the truth was he didn’t know. Not really.
Before he could try, Melissa crouched at Isaac’s side, her hands quick and clinical. She peeled back the soaked gauze, revealing torn skin where the bite had been. Surprise hit her square in the face. The black veins had vanished, the wound now healing properly. Like Stiles had kickstarted his healing factor again.
“His wound—” Allison trailed off as the rest of the pack came closer to see for themselves.
“It’s healing,” Erica finished, her face coated in wonder and amazement. Her hands grabbed Isaac's arm and cradled it with gentle care. Those two were like twins sometimes, Stiles thought. When one was hurt, the other could feel it as if it were happening to themselves.
The words made Stiles sink even further in relief. Isaac was going to be okay. If what Stiles did worked, then he could do the same with his dad. Stiles looked up to the side, where his father was being helped to remain standing by Peter. He had to hurry, but even if he tried, his muscles wouldn’t cooperate.
Stiles just hoped his dad could wait for him a bit longer.
Scott stepped forward then, his voice louder than it needed to be, desperate. “Whatever that was, you shouldn’t have done it, Stiles. You don’t even know what you’re messing with—”
“Don’t,” Derek snapped, his glare enough to silence him. His hand was still on Stiles’ shoulder, steady, possessive, daring anyone to pull him away. “He just saved Isaac’s life.”
“That’s not saving!” Scott barked, anger edging into fear. “That’s corruption, just like the Nogitsune. You saw it. You all saw it!”
A low growl rumbled from Jackson in the corner. “He did more than you did, McCall. If Stiles hadn’t stepped in, Isaac would already be gone.”
Scott’s jaw worked furiously, but Stiles barely heard them. His focus was on Isaac. His eyes roamed over his wound, watching as it closed itself up—albeit slower than what usually was normal with werewolf healing.
When Isaac's gaze finally found Stiles, his heart clenched. Those blue eyes were filled with wonder and gratitude, his undivided attention directed at Stiles.
After a moment, Isaac leaned into him, holding him tight, afraid that if he let go, Stiles would disappear—or the voices would return.
“Thank you, Stiles.” The words were so low that Stiles was sure no one else could hear them.
With the last bit of strength he could muster, he lifted his hand, barely above Isaac's shoulders, and squeezed hard. He could feel Isaac scenting him over and over. “Anything for you, pup.”
His words made the growling stop. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles watched what was supposed to be a gory fight between his pack and Scott—he winced at how he didn’t include Scott when thinking about the pack. After a few seconds, he was being pushed further into the couch by Erica’s and Jackson’s weight, both wolves scenting Isaac and him.
He could feel how restless Jackson was, his scenting of Isaac almost too harsh. Stiles really needed to know what had happened at the trailer park.
However, that was a task for later. Right now he needed his magic back so he could do the same to his dad.
Stiles was sure it would heal him. All he needed was a spark of belief.
He swore his eyes closed for just a second. But the grumbling of what seemed like Derek and Boyd talking to Scott, and the continuous purring of the wolves on top of him, lulled him into a peaceful slumber.
The last thing he saw before letting go was his dad smiling softly at him.
Stiles smiled, making a mental note to check Deaton's book later.