#fandomwritingchallenge

 Badge Line-Up

Drop the Needle: for our writers/participants jumping in and making the music happen

Listening Along: for our readers & commenters keeping the vibe alive

Spreading the Vibes:  for our rebloggers/signal boosters helping the sound travel

Complete Collector: for those who submit for every day of June Jukebox Scribbles

Prompt List Drop

The full prompt list will be going up this weekend at:

Here’s what that looks like in a few key time zones:

AEST (Melbourne/Sydney/Brisbane) – Sat 30 May, 10:00 PM

JST/KST – Sat 30 May, 9:00 PM

BST (UK) – Sat 30 May, 1:00 PM

CEST (Central Europe) - Sat 30 May, 2:00 PM

EDT (US East Coast) - Sat 30 May, 8:00 AM

CDT (US Central) - Sat 30 May, 7:00 AM

PDT (US West Coast) - Sat 30 May, 5:00 AM

NZST (New Zealand) - Sun 31 May, 12:00 AM

Reminders

A few house notes before we cue the band in (Full Rules will come with prompt list)

Jump in as much or as little as you like: one prompt, a handful, or the full set, it’s all welcome

All interpretations are encouraged: bring your own style, your own flavour, your own funky little sound

Stepping out of you box is encouraged: This is the time to experiment and try something new if you want! 

Be kind, encouraging, and supportive: let’s make this a space full of good vibes and great noise

Reblogs, comments, and cheering each other on are deeply encouraged: every jukebox sounds better when the whole room is dancing!

Help Us Spread the Sound

Now’s the time to start making some noise, cats….  spread the word, share the post, and get people following this account so they don’t miss any updates, prompt drops or event announcements! 

We’re hoping to see everyone ready to hit the beat, find their vibe, and jive to their own funky rhythm with this one.

Derek almost doesn’t spot them, but one of them glows in the dark, and when he arrives at the loft, it happens to be in the middle of the night. So — not without hesitation — he picks the pile up, and tosses it carelessly on the coffee table that’s covered with a layer of dust. It’s not surprising, because it’s been years since he was back, though he has managed to pay everything that he needed to in order to keep ownership of the building.

It’s another few days later before he sits down long enough to pick up the postcards again, and to give them a more thorough look. He’s since sorted out all the other post that was dumped there with the cards, so there are no distractions in the form of bills or anything else. Again, he only does pick them up because it’s late at night and the one that glows is peeking out from the middle of the pile.

They don’t seem connected, not when he first starts checking them, save for the same signature on every one of them. And that really wouldn’t tell anyone else enough, but it does tell him the important bit.

S.

None of them are signed with a full name, just the initial. The messy scrawl differs between the cards too — a few are neat and legible, obviously written with time to spare; the ones that are messier look like the sender barely had time to write them.

Derek wonders about that while he looks the cards over. He knows that Stiles — because it took barely a beat to realise who the postcards were from — went across country to study and to later join the FBI. When there’s a card from Washington and it’s one of the ones written nicely, Derek starts thinking about the order.

✉ It’s a whole different world out here. Hope wherever you are is just as distant from where this card is going. S.

The date stamps help him organise the postcards, and he puts them into a tidy pile on the coffee table before he picks up the Washington DC one again. The next few are all from the east of the country, and most of them have taken time to write judging by the handwriting. But there is one that’s scribbled clearly in a rush.

✉ If the cards stop coming, this case is to blame. Fucking wendigos. S.

Derek freezes at first, and then lets out a relieved breath when he realizes that it’s not the last postcard in the pile. The next one is written clearly, but he can see the way the handwriting it was weak and a little shaky.

✉ There are never postcards with hospitals on them. Guess it’d be too depressing. S. PS: I’m okay, just a flesh wound. Because wendigo.

When Derek finally reaches for the last card, it’s hours later and the sun is starting to come up and shine through the windows. He’s hesitant to read it, partly because there are no more and partly because he’s afraid to look at the date on it. The ones he already looked at were almost evenly spaced out over the past few years, but the card he just put down is from almost a year ago. His curiosity is stronger than his reluctance to finish reading through the pile.

He looks at the familiar image of the Golden Gate, and something in his stomach skips when he realises how close Stiles apparently was when he sent this. Then he very carefully flips the postcard, and his eyes fall immediately on the signature, which isn’t the same as on all the others.

Stiles.

Derek’s eyes widen, and he looks up at the text, and he reads over it fast, then again to make sure that he’s reading it right.

✉ It almost feels like home, but it’s not. Way less drama and way less you. Come see the city sometimes? Stiles.

An hour later, Derek is on the road, and driving to San Francisco. He doesn’t have an address, but the final postcard was from a month ago, and the scent was still strong. Almost like Stiles made sure it would be, no matter how much time has passed.

✉ ✉ ✉ ✉ ✉

He finds Stiles near the bridge, after a day of running circles around the city, tracking his scent.

“You knew I was here,” Derek says, almost accusingly.

Stiles smirks when he looks up from the bench.

“Supernatural division,” he says. “We know how to track people down.”

“Not as reassuring as you probably think it is,” Derek tells him as he sits down.

“Found you, didn’t I?”

“Did you know I was coming back to the loft?”

Stiles nods.

“I wasn’t sure, but there was intel that you were heading this way. I guessed that you’d at least stop by,” he says. “Everyone else thought you’d stay away from town, but… I took a chance.”

They sit in silence for a while, and Derek wonders what to do next. He knows he should probably worry about being tracked by Stiles’s division, but it’s not new information, Derek just hoped that he managed to stay off radar. It’s not surprising either that Stiles knew where he was.

As he thinks about it, Derek realises that he doesn’t see it as a bad thing. Quite the opposite, if he’s entirely honest with himself.

“So, are you here for long?”

Stiles looks at him with a soft smile.

“Division is setting up an office here,” he says. “Something about our Nemeton still being a draw for the supernatural. I’m sticking around to lead. Keeps me closer to Dad and Scott. I’ll still have field work, but for the most part, I’ll be around.”

“Want to get dinner sometime?” Derek asks, not thinking about it twice.

Stiles’s eyes widen in surprise, but the smile stays on as he nods.

“I’d love to. But to clarify, do you mean dinner to catch up?”

Derek pauses and thinks, then looks Stiles in the eyes.

“If that’s all that you want, yes. But if you’d be interested in a date, that’s okay too,” he tells him, and then he holds his breath for a beat.

“Oh fuck yes, date totally works for me,” Stiles says and he chuckles when Derek lets out a relieved breath. “Tonight work for you?”

Derek laughs and nods.

“Tonight is perfect. Now, do I need to track you down again, or can I have your number? None of your cards had it.”

Stiles grins.

“Now now, what kind of agent would I be if I let myself be tracked via postcards?”

Derek raises an eyebrow at him, hoping Stiles will realise that it’s a hint at how Derek did track him to the bridge.

“We don’t have protocol against your kind of tracking, humans don’t have super sniffers,” Stiles says. “Maybe we should stick to that.”

Derek knows he looks unimpressed when Stiles laughs out loud.

“Fine fine, do you even have a phone?” Stiles asks, and Derek rolls his eyes as he pulls it out of his pocket.

Stiles rattles off his phone number, and then he stands up.

“Okay, I have to head back in. See you later?”

Still, sometimes she could feel their eyes on her and could tell that even now, even after she'd proved her loyalty to them instead of Valentine - and Clary tended to be realistic when it came to that; she was well aware of the fact that almost everyone had considered her a spy at first – they still didn’t feel too comfortable with her presence and she was pleasantly surprised to discover that it didn't affect her the way it would have when she'd lived in the mundane world. Something had changed; something almost imperceptible but present that made her much less conscious of what the people in this society (her society, she reminder herself, whether she liked that or not) thought of her. Even when she did focus on it, it was easier to wave it away now and she had an inkling of what exactly had caused that.

It wasn't the environment. It wasn't her mother's death, although that had definitely been a factor; the last straw that had made her fully realise just how alone she was in this world. It wasn't even Jace's current confession that he wasn't her brother after all, and it wasn't his complete inability to understand why it would be better for him to face everything that he'd been keeping under his careful control for months now.

No, it was all of it. All at once, too, or so Clary suspected. Because in the end, it didn't matter whether she'd keep ignoring what she'd heard or not, she knew that Sebastian had been right. If not about everything, then about most of it, and that was more than enough to upset her even more.

She wasn't sure when the new guy had arrived at all. She could recall their conversation in the greenhouse and that he'd taken interest in her ability to create new runes and her sudden inability to do so, but that had been all. And still, he'd managed to decode every little emotion going through her head and had fired them back at her in the bluntest way possible and while it had worked out fine in the end - it was what had helped her beak through the wards in Magnus's place, after all - it was still more than toubling to realise that anyone who tried hard enough could read her like an pen book.

Most Shadowhunters didn't have the same problem. They only showed how upset their were when the situation was truly unbearable and even then, they didn't lose control. They handled it as quietly as they could and moved on with their lives, hiding their grief and sorrow away as if they were too shameful for everyone to see.

It was the result of lifelong training. In theory, she could understand that. If Clary had been raised among other Shadowhunters, she knew that she would have turned out the same way. But here, now, after she'd lived the majority of her life as a mundane, none of it made sense.

And so she'd got away. Training hadn't cut it, not this time, and instead she'd found herself running all the way to the docks and the warehouse where Simon had built himself a new home.

It wasn't like he was human either, she reminded herself, so she wasn't doing anything wrong. There had been several different Shadowhunters who'd already told her to leave any remnants of her old life behind, but it wasn't exactly easy to do when so many things in he life had turned out to be connected to the Shadow world in one way or another. Her mother and Luke had been the first example and, even if Simon had been dragged into it because he'd refused to abandon her despite everything, he'd handled everything rather well after the initial stress.

On one hand, Clary was sure that she would never forgive herself for letting him follow her to the point where he'd been turned into a vampire because in the long run, it would be much more painful for him than it would ever be for her.

On the other, a part of her - one that she was hell bent on ignoring - was grateful for it. There were so many things from her past life that she couldn't afford to think about and couldn't afford to revisit and she knew that she would have never managed to get as far as he had if Simon hadn't been next to her every step of the way.

Of course, there was also the newer development of their relationship to be considered.

Clary found herself smiling despite her anxiety as she knocked on the metal door that led to Simon's new living quarters. When he'd kissed her that night almost a month ago, the biggest surprise of it was the fact that she hadn't been that surprised at all. It had felt right in a way she'd never recognised before and even if it had felt impulsive to jump so quickly into a relationship she hadn't truly considered, it had turned out to be worth it in the end and now it felt as if things had always been this way; as if this was just one more extension of everything they'd felt for each other since the day they'd met.

Whatever the case, her confidence in Simon was precisely what had driven her here at almost three in the morning with the genuine hope that he wouldn't be asleep yet despite his newly reformed sleeping schedule.

Sure enough, he was there a second later, pushing the door open and moving out of the way to let her in before she'd even said a word.

"What is it?" Simon's voice was anxious and Clary couldn't help but wonder whether she really looked how she felt or if he was just that good at reading her. "Clary, is something wrong? You could have called. Downworlders are allowed in the Institute now, aren't they?"

Clary nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak. "I didn't want to stay there."

It wasn't easy to admit- or at least, it wouldn't have been if she had been talking to just about anyone else. The Institute was supposed to be her home. From the looks of it, it was the closest she would ever get to one at this point and even that wasn't enough; even that felt too much at times and wasn’t that just telling? She could never quite belong anywhere no matter how hard she tried.

"You can stay here, then," Simon suggested. He was leading her further into his room and she could see that he'd finally found himself a bed and that, as unlikely as it was, the entire place somehow felt much more habitable than her own room back at the Institute. "They can call you if they need you, right?" Clary nodded. "Then you don't have to stay there." Another nod as Clary sat down on the edge of his bed and Simon hovered around her for a moment, concerned but unsure how to proceed. "Do you need anything? A cigarette, maybe?"

"Shadowhunters don't smoke," Clary said absently. It was yet another lesson she'd received recently; the children of the Nephilim were supposed to keep themselves in peak condition at all times. Then realisation hit. "You don't smoke either, Simon."

"Yeah, but it's the thought that counts, right? And, I could still get you some if you want them. You know, it's surprisingly easy for vampires to- Clary, are you okay?"

She hadn't been able to hold back anymore. It was stupid, and childish, and everything that a Shadowhunter was not supposed to be, but hearing Simon ramble away in a clear attempt to distract her had somehow been the last straw and before she'd even realised what she was doing, Clary had thrown her arms around Simon's neck, the tears that had been burning in her eyes for the better part of a day finally founding an outlet.

"No," she admitted, but didn't pull way. "No, but I will be." She bit her lip, trying - and failing - to control the trembling in her voice. "Thank you for letting me stay."

Simon's arms wrapped around her tentatively and Clary leant even further into the embrace, closing her eyes and basking in the sensations that surrounded her.

She'd been wrong, she realised. Maybe she couldn't say it yet - maybe she'd never find the strength to - but she knew where she belonged.

Still, it had to be done and having Alec do it had seemed like the best option in Maryse's eyes. While Jace was sure that she had no plans of giving up her position as Head of the Institute any time soon, everyone knew that this was what Alec was being prepared for and Jace hadn't really been surprised that she'd seen this as a teaching opportunity. He’d had the sneaking suspicion that things would go this way the moment he'd heard that the newest mission involved some kind of a war for territory between two vampire clans just outside of the city and while Alec hadn't said anything on the matter, he knew that his parabatai had thought the same.

When Alec had agreed to the assigned mission, Jace had immediately requested to join him. It was a given that he couldn't go alone - not just because it was too dangerous but because he would need at least a little support in the face of only the Angel knew how many vampires - and who would be a better choice than his parabatai? His request had been granted without a second's thought and Jace had been almost smug when he'd packed his bags for their trip. Managing to slip under the Clave's radar - and, more importantly, under their constant surveillance - was quite a feat and he while he'd mentioned none of it to Alec, Jace knew that they could use the opportunity to have some time for themselves. They were both tired of sneaking around and constantly looking over their shoulders and finally, finally, they would be granted a moment of peace.

Jace's enthusiasm didn't wane during their final preparations - if anything, it had only been getting stronger ever since they'd actually left the city - and yet, as soon as he spotted the accommodations that the Institute had arranged for them, he could feel himself starting to doubt the success of the trip he'd envisioned.

"We have to blend in," Alec announced as he dug into his bottomless pockets for (Jace assumed) the key to the building in front of them. "If they can fix this conflict on their own, there might be no need for intervention, but in case there is, the more we can surprise them, the better. That way, if anyone's breaking the Law, we'd know." Alec threw him a look over his shoulder. "Vampires always get cautious with Shadowhunters around."

"They do," Jace replied faintly, eyes still locked on the log cabin - log cabin - they'd been provided with. "So you want us to pretend that we're tourists?"

"It'll take just a bit of glamour," Alec shrugged. "And it's better to be as close to the nearest vampire den as possible. The first hotel is almost ten miles from here."

"Are there any cameras?"

The door opened with a deafening creak once Alec pushed it hard enough and he stifled a cough as he stepped in. "No." His parabatai's voice sounded almost distant until he opened the nearest window. "It's not property of the Clave, if that's what you're asking. We just rented it for the occasion."

It was a reasonable decision and, as much as Jace hated to admit it, it was probably the best option they had. Even if they were far enough from the city for the Institute to not be able to reach the local CCTV, there was always the risk that someone would be able to do it if they put their mind to it. Here, they were quite literally in the middle of nowhere and if that was what it took to have a moment of peace with no one but Alec around, then Jace was going to make the most of it.

He decisively followed Alec in, picking up his own luggage and surveying their surroundings fully for the first time.

The heat they'd had to endure back in New York was mercifully absent in the forest they'd been sent to; the sparse trees drowning the cabin in shadows. It was a good place as any to start a dispute over if you were a vampire, Jace supposed; some of the children of the night preferred their peace and tended to look for it in places like this one rather than the big city. And he couldn't really blame them - the place was beautiful enough to compensate for its remoteness.

It couldn't compensate for what was waiting for him once he stepped over the threshold.

"Maryse really outdid herself this time," he said, dropping his bag on the floor. He regretted it almost immediately - while the furniture had clearly been meddled with in the past few days in preparation for their arrival, every other flat surface was covered in a fine layer of dust and the floor was no exception. "We could have just slept outside, you know."

"And left our weapons laying around? What if someone comes by and we don't wake up? Or the vampires find us while we're asleep?"

On second thought, maybe Maryse had nothing to do with this. Alec was perfectly capable of thinking of the worst possible scenarios for every situation all on his own. "Fine. Let's get settled, then."

They were standing in something resembling a living room and Jace headed for the nearest door to take a look at the bedroom. It was better than he'd expected even if it looked just as abandoned as the rest of the place and he motioned Alec to come over and see it too.

"A double bed," he noted and found it in himself to smile. "You really think of everything, huh?"

"I don't know what you mean." If he had been anyone else - anyone who didn't know Alec as well as he did - Jace was sure that he would have missed the change in Alec's voice; the clear boredom of the past several hours vanishing in favour of something that almost resembled mischief. "This place was the only option we had. And I was just about to offer that one of us should take the couch."

"Liar." It was an easy accusation to make when they were out here, so far away from anything and anyone they knew; far away enough to remind Jace that for the first time in a while, they truly were alone.

"It's true," Alec protested, still too busy surveying the room to pay attention to Jace's realisation. "It was the best place I could think of, and if you've got any other-"

Before he could even finish his offer, Jace kissed him.

It only occurred to him now how much he'd missed this. He spent a lot of his daily life by Alec's side and it wasn't like they could never afford anything more than a hug, but it was never anything like this. Unless they'd made the effort to excuse themselves from the Institute for one reason or another, they never dared to exchange anything more than a quick peck in public and even that - even their most personal moments - was loaded with the constant, underlying knowledge of the crime they were committing.

It made their kiss all the sweeter now and Jace relished in it while he could still have it. Alec, who had caught up quickly enough, pulled him closer into his embrace, hands settling in the small of Jace's back as if to keep him from drawing away. The happiness between them, mixed with desperation as it was, was almost enough to make Jace want to reassure him that there was no danger of separation, not right now, not right here, but he couldn't muster the strength to do it; not when he could let his body do the convincing instead.

Alec seemed more than happy to let him and Jace laughed into his kiss as his parabatai's arms tightened around him just a fraction before he was pushed onto the bed behind them.

o.O.o

"We won't be able to get anything done today." Alec noted later the same day as he kept wandering around the limited space of the cabin for any possible flaw in their security that they hadn't noticed. He'd been at it for a while and at some point, Jace had stopped participating - they'd checked everything and they knew enough to be sure that the place was hopeless against anything even remotely supernatural. "It's started raining."

Of course it had, Jace thought as he sorted through the food they'd brought with themselves. Rain was the last thing they needed if they wanted to get the job done quickly as it hindered any attempt they could make to be inconspicuous. No tourists in their right mind would come out for a walk during a thunderstorm and chances were the vampires wouldn't like it too much either. A storm like this was just a step away from a forest fire and the creatures of the night had far too many reasons to try and avoid that. The fact that there at least wouldn't be any trouble was a small comfort, but Jace welcomed it anyway.

"We can get started tomorrow morning," he said and approached Alec where he stood in the corner of the room examining the almost unnoticeable spot where the rain had dripped through the wood. "Alec, calm down. No one even knows we're here, least of all the local Downworld."

"We were supposed to get this done as quickly as possible." Even as he spoke, Alec let himself be led away from his corner and back to the table in the middle of the room. "I thought you wanted to get away from here."

Every person in the pack has that exact reaction when they find out. Well, almost everyone who’s present at the pack meeting when they discuss the threat. There’s one person who’s suspiciously quiet in the face of the information, but at first, Stiles is too busy too busy relaying what he found to notice.

He tries not to go into too much detail, but Lydia is looking over his shoulder and making gagging noises already, and he sees Isaac cringe away when he throws a glance at the pages Stiles printed out.

“Chris, why are they allowed to continue operating?”

It’s John who asks the question, and Melissa pulls him back from looking at the details. She is a fierce nurse, has seen things that would cause permanent trauma to some people, and Stiles knows it’s instinct in her to be protective. John returns the protectiveness the same way, but Stiles always rejoices a little when she reminds him that she’s in his corner when it comes to keeping John from too much stress.

“As you can guess, they’re not really controllable,” Chris says, sounding angry and defeated at the same time. “They think that they don’t need to follow a Code, or any rules. They see themselves as some sort of vigilantes, controlling the werewolf population by any means necessary, because none of the other hunter clans do enough in their opinion. And they are solely focused on werewolf packs, no other supernatural creatures are seen as a threat. They just… make sure that the werewolves are punished for existing.”

“That’s insane,” Danny pipes up from the laptop where he’s already sifting through the information that Stiles threw together.

“If there ever was anyone that Kate,” Chris spits out the name like it’s poison, “was looking up to, it was the McKennas.”

Stiles feels the moment that the name reaches Derek’s ears. He knows, because Derek’s grip on Stiles’s shoulder tightens to the point of bordering on painful.

“Not again,” Derek whispers, low enough that only Stiles seems to hear.

Everyone goes back to looking at the information, and they start talking about their possibilities, but Stiles can’t. He doesn’t move, not even when Derek’s grip eases as he moves to join the others.

Stiles can’t follow, because his brain is already connecting Derek’s quiet comment with everything else he knows. With information that he found, snippets he dismissed as impossible and didn’t include in the printouts or files that the pack is discussing. Because there were things that he thought were rumors, too outlandish even in light of everything else he saw.

Branding, he thinks, his mind conjuring the images that he spent half the night before trying to forget.

The McKenna clan doesn’t kill all of the werewolves they capture. Most of them don’t survive the torture — things like being locked in tight spaces, which was what made Isaac step back earlier — and some get killed as part of the process. But a few, usually only one out of a pack, get released after some time. Those who do ‘get away’ aren’t left unmarked though. Stiles clenches his teeth when the vivid images of a branding iron and a blowtorch cross his mind.

All of a sudden, he realises that Derek didn’t just know how to make a tattoo permanent because the Hale pack had been into tattoos, or because he’d encountered the method in New York’s tattoo parlors that specialized in non-human clients.

It’s the thought of the city that makes Stiles finally step forward, and he strides over to his laptop, then nudges Danny to make him move. His fingers are flying over the keyboard moments later, filtering through the information on the hunters’ known locations and movements. As he does so, he’s already remembering the date of that fateful night when he dragged Scott into the Preserve to search for what turned out to be Laura’s body. When he lands on a match, his sharp intake of breath makes the pack turn around in unison.

“What?” Jackson asks, the first one to speak into the brief silence.

“Nothing, nothing,” Stiles mutters, and he closes out of the file he was looking at before Danny — who’s already walking over — can see it. “Just… all of this,” he waves his hand at the screen and nods towards the table with the papers.

There’s no way he’s talking about it in front of the whole pack. Not when Derek clearly isn’t sharing it with anyone, not when Stiles is pretty sure that no one besides Derek knows, including Peter.

But he’s sure now, has zero doubt that at some point between the Hale house fire and Laura’s return to Beacon Hills, Derek had an encounter with the McKenna clan. He’s also sure that said encounter is the reason why the Hale triskelion is in such a prominent place on Derek’s back.

Like a target, he thinks and cringes, the implications more horrific than he wants to think about. His mind wanders though, like it always does, and he can’t stop it any more than he could stop the world from spinning. He manages to act like he’s scrolling through the files on screen, but he’s not seeing anything that’s on there. Instead, he keeps thinking back to the Derek he met years ago, alone and angry at the world, the one who all but growled at Stiles and Scott. The one who spit out “This is private property” like they were set on destroying the last thing he had left — the land that belonged to the family Derek no longer had.

He thinks about Derek before that, the one he remembers from the days when werewolves were just special effects in horror movies to him. The Derek whom Stiles knew as the high school’s basketball team star. The same one he recognized at the ruins in Mexico when no one else did. And he thinks about the Derek who gave in to Scott’s pleas, the one who picked up a blowtorch and made his own brand on Scott’s skin, ignoring how he was given the one on his back.

“Stiles?” It’s Derek’s voice that brings him back to reality. “Are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine,” Stiles says a little too quickly.

“You’ve been trying to scroll down this page for over a minute after you got to the end,” Derek points out, and Stiles blinks. “What’s up?”

“It’s nothing,” Stiles says. “Well, no, it’s just all this,” he nods at the screen. “What can we do?”

He’s not just asking Derek but also the rest of the pack. And there’s no response at first, everyone equally shaken by what they’ve been looking at for… well, Stiles has no idea how long he was lost in his thoughts.

They don’t find a solution that night. Not that anyone expected it — the McKenna clan is a whole different ballpark of horror movie villains — since they only just figured out what they’re facing. Chris leaves first, with the promise of finding out more, putting out feelers to more friendly hunter clans. Isaac follows shortly after, joined by Scott and Allison who are already sticking close to him, no doubt preparing for the nightmares that they’ll need to soothe him through. Stiles winces in sympathy when he thinks about the images of the cellars and the lockable boxes covered in claw marks. It’s only a memory for Isaac now, but Stiles imagines it’s not one that’s easy to shrug off.

Erica and Boyd rush off when they get a call from Boyd’s Grandma — they leave Alicia, their three year old, with her during pack meetings, but she gets antsy when things are as tense as their current situation. Derek explained once that for children that young, the pack bond isn't completed, but they still feel everyone’s distress much like human children get upset when the adults around them do.

Stiles melts into a hug from his dad before he and Melissa head out for work, John’s arm around her shoulders as he mutters things to her that Stiles isn’t sure he wants to hear. It’s still pretty new, them dating, and they’re not too old to be giving the younger couples a run for their money in terms of PDA. Stiles deals though, because his dad is happy again. And Scott’s now his brother for real.

Peter lingers, along with Jackson and Lydia, until they gather up all the information. When Danny eventually tugs Jackson away for a project that they apparently have a deadline on, Lydia asks for a ride home.

“You staying?” Derek asks Stiles when the loft is almost empty.

“Dad’s on a double,” Stiles says. “I wouldn’t mind claiming the couch.”

Derek nods, and then he heads over to the corner where Peter’s sitting on the spiral staircase, glowering at the floor. They fall into conversation so quiet that Stiles has no way of hearing or understanding, so he finishes tidying up the table and puts the laptop away instead. His mind circles around the dates he saw earlier again, and he remembers snippets of what Derek disclosed over the years.

There are little things, like the way Derek said “I couldn’t” once when the discussion veered to his arrival in Beacon Hills after Laura was killed. The time when they talked about the Hale family history, and Jackson asked if everyone had a tattoo of the triskelion. Derek’s “no” was that little bit too harsh for Stiles to know there was a story behind it. Like then, he’s not planning on asking anything outright.

He also doesn’t want to act like he didn’t figure out the connection between Derek’s triskelion and the McKennas though. They promised each other a long time ago that they would try to be as honest and open with each other as possible, and Stiles isn’t planning on breaking that promise. It’s just that he doesn’t know how to broach the subject. Or rather, seeing as the whole situation is already out in the open, and it’s only a matter of time before someone else — Stiles wouldn’t put money on whether it will be Lydia, Danny or Peter — connects the dots, Stiles doesn’t want to pretend that he didn’t.

He wants Derek to know that he knows. That there’s no judgment, and no expectation of Derek talking about it if he doesn’t want to.

When Derek sits down on the couch, Stiles startles and glances around, then realises that they’re alone now.

“Peter?”

“Went to his apartment,” Derek says, leaning back in the cushions, looking a lot more relaxed than during the meeting.

Stiles can see right through that though, sees the way Derek’s fists are still clenched, the way his muscles are tense.

“He said there might be something more in the old notes in the vault,” Derek continues, seemingly oblivious to Stiles’ concerned look. “He’ll go check it out tomorrow. We’ll have another meeting in the afternoon.”

Stiles nods and hums in acknowledgment, watching as Derek closes his eyes and breathes deeply, in a way that reminds Stiles of his own methods to shake off panic attacks. Carefully, he moves his hand and lowers it on top of Derek’s, then twines their fingers when Derek turns his palm up.

“You sure you want me to stay?” Stiles asks a few moments later.

It’s not that he wants to leave, or thinks that Derek being alone is a good idea, but he’s not going to make decisions for anyone. If Derek needs time to process, Stiles will give it to him, no questions asked — at least not until later.

“Please,” Derek whispers.

“Okay.” Stiles nods, and sits up. “I’m gonna get my pillow and a blanket. Then I’m gonna need your furry butt off this couch, it’s mine.”

“This couch?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow. “Because I do recall your protests about how it’s ugly and not comfortable enough,” he says with a more relaxed smile.

“It grew on me,” Stiles shrugs. “Well, not literally, but me and the couch are bros now. We have an understanding. I don’t diss it, it doesn’t make my back hurt.”

“I don’t really think it’s sentient enough for that, Stiles,” Derek says, this time with an actual chuckle. Then he pauses and Stiles looks at him, a little unsettled by the silence, and not at all comforted by the way Derek’s brows are furrowed.

“What?”

“What if you…” Derek starts, then he glances down on the coffee table. “Would you…?”

Stiles waits him out. He would anyway, but today he’s just that little bit extra determined to let things unravel at Derek’s pace.

“Want to come up?” Derek finally says, and it’s so quiet that Stiles only hears it because he’s right by Derek’s side.

It’s a big deal that Derek is asking. Not because they wouldn’t be in a “spending the night together” stage of their relationship yet. They have, in Stiles’ room, here in the loft on the bed that’s still in the corner — it somehow survived all refurbishment and is used a lot during pack movie nights — and in Stiles’ dorm and later his apartment when he was away in college. Back then, they even spent time together in Derek’s place in New York, the small house outside the city that Laura had bought years ago.

The thought, coupled with what Stiles has put together now, sends a shiver down his spine.

But here in Beacon Hills, in the loft that’s seen so much bad and has been rebuilt to mean so much good, barely anyone goes further than a few steps up the spiral staircase. Sure, Peter likes to sit there and watch, and occasionally Boyd or Erica use the small spare bedroom to let Alicia have her nap when the pack is all gathered downstairs. But other than that, the only person who goes up is Derek himself.

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks, fingers tightening around Derek’s. “I want to. I have wanted to. But since you never asked, I assumed it was a werewolf thing.”

“Like, my den of werewolfy solitude?” Derek asks, eyebrow lifted along with the corner of his lips.

“More like your own space not intruded on by my human stench,” Stiles shoots back, and he leans a little against Derek’s arm.

Instead of replying immediately, Derek turns his head and buries his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck, and he breathes in deeply. Then he pulls away just enough to speak while Stiles is trying to ignore the Pavlovian response his dick has to Derek’s stubble on his skin.

“I like how you smell,” Derek says, then takes another deep breath. “It’s… calming.”

Stiles takes a moment to reply, then he can’t help but chuckle.

“Wow, okay, that’s gotta be the only time anyone ever called me calming,” he says, and he gives Derek’s hand a squeeze.

“Well, most of the time you’re moving too much,” Derek says, a smile playing on his lips but not quite reaching his eyes.

Stiles doesn’t try to argue with that. He knows he’s a fidgeter, constantly in motion. It’s what unnerved him so much about the Nogitsune, what should’ve been a dead giveaway to everyone. Derek told him that it was, eventually, but he wasn't around enough to point it out to others.

He’s so lost in the memories of those times that he almost doesn’t notice when Derek gets up. Their hands are still linked though, and Stiles startles a little, then looks up and meets Derek’s eyes.

“Come on,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles nods.

They walk up the stairs in silence, holding hands all the way until they’re in Derek’s room, and Stiles can’t help but stare then. He’s not trying to memorize the bedroom, and it’s not like he’s seeing anything particularly shocking, but still, it’s Derek’s space and something about being there feels special. When Derek lets go of Stiles’ hand to change, Stiles follow suit, and moments later they’re lying down on the soft sheets, facing each other. Then — and it’s not the first time either — Derek turns around and Stiles slips closer, pressing his chest against Derek’s back, against the triskele that’s stark black on Derek’s body.

He can feel the trembles in Derek’s chest when he puts a palm against it, and he bends his head just enough that his lips land just above the outline of the ink. Derek reaches up, links his fingers with Stiles’ and takes a deep breath.

Stiles kisses along the curve of Derek’s shoulder, lips trailing from the side towards the back of Derek’s neck, and then down, until he reaches the tattoo. He drops a kiss there, gentle and as soothing as he can make it, then he moves up until his lips are right below Derek’s ear.

“I know,” he whispers, and he feels Derek tense. “I saw the dates.”

Derek’s breathing is shallow, shaky, and Stiles presses himself closer, holds Derek like he’s trying to stop him from falling apart. And maybe he is, maybe it’s helping. He hopes that it is.

“I’m here,” he says in between breaths. “I’m always here.”

He can feel the quiet sobs rocking Derek’s body, the trembling that reverberates through both of them, and he holds Derek closer, tighter, all while whispering “I love you” over and over against his skin.

It’s not until some time later, when Stiles is trying to fight off sleep, wanting to be there for Derek but too tired to be completely awake, that Derek settles down.

Dean looked up, watching as Lisa stepped primly in front of him and perched on the coffee table, smiling playfully. “The life of the party relegated to the sidelines of bad kissing? That’s a sign of the apocalypse.”

“Is that what’s happening?” Dean asked, smiling in spite of himself. “I thought it was just the music.”

Lisa kicked his shin lightly. Dean shot her an exaggerated pout.

“So how does Dean Winchester end up sitting alone to sad music in a crowded room?”

“His invite drags him out with promises of a good time and then vanishes into thin air.”

Lisa lifted her eyebrows knowingly. “Ash?”

“Got it in one.”

“It’s not that hard,” she replied, looking around. “I think I saw him head upstairs with the Dugan twins a little while ago. That might explain it.”

Dean sighed and hanged his head, shaking it. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

“Don’t hold it against him.” When Dean looked back up, her smile was a little rueful. “He’s been acting like that the past few weeks. I think graduation’s managed to unsettle him a little.”

That was- slightly worrying. It hardly ever seemed like anything got under Ash’s skin. Dean frowned a little to himself in contemplation. Maybe he should have been paying better attention…

“Hey.” He felt a firm, playful poke between his eyebrows, and blinked up at Lisa in surprise. “Don’t do that. You’ve got enough problems on your plate recently, you don’t need to go and add his to it.”

Dean opened his mouth indignantly to protest, but his mind blanked out. When Lisa leveled him with an unimpressed look he managed to close his mouth again. He swallowed a little, looking away.

“I just- should have noticed, that’s all,” he admitted, softer than he’d meant to.

“Ash will be fine,” said Lisa encouragingly. “We’re all kind of freaking out a little. High school’s almost over. The chapter’s coming to an end. It’s a little nerve-wracking not knowing what’s coming next.”

“Well, those are the words of someone who is perfectly fine,” said Dean lightly. Lisa grinned, a little self-consciously, and ducked her head.

Watching her for a few moment, he said, softer, “…Are you? Fine?”

Lisa looked back up, her expression more serious now. Her eyes drifted away, somewhere to the middle distance, and she shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t know. It’s…I guess I’m not sure how to feel. Excited, relieved, scared… I guess I’m not really going to know until I get there, right?”

Her fingers were tapping lightly on her knee, uncertain. Dean was strangely focused on them, wanting suddenly to reach out and hold them between his. But he kept his hands where they were.

The conversation paused and they let it gestate a little, looking around. Dean glanced at her profile and thought about last year, how he had seen her in the halls and on the way to school but never talked to her, never really known her. It was odd that a year ago they had been mere ghosts to each other, and now her presence was as natural as sunlight. And in a few short weeks, she could possibly be gone forever.

The thought sunk heavy in his gut, constricting in his throat. He looked back down at his beer, now room-temperature.

There was a sharp inhale of breath, and Lisa said suddenly, “So this just got pretty depressing. And I don’t think we can blame the music.”

Dean chuckled under his breath. “Well, if we’ve found the problem, how do you suggest we fix it?”

“Well…,” said Lisa, drawing out the word as she leaned in conspiratorially. “Word is that someone got their hands on some fireworks.”

“Fun and a fire hazard,” said Dean. “That should bring in the cops.”

“Yeah,” Lisa agreed. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy them for a few minutes before the party is brought to a dignified end.”

Which is how, a few minutes later, Dean was dragged out onto the house’s back patio. Most of the party went with them, moving lazily like a herd of cows. But Lisa’s hand was firm in Dean’s, and he let it tug him through the crowd. They ended pressed up together somewhere in the middle, the cool night air useless against the mass of bodies.

“Glad I’m not claustrophobic,” Dean muttered to himself. Apparently, just loud enough for Lisa to hear, because she grinned at him and poked his side.

The first rocket shot off, streaking into the night and popping above them in a loud burst. The kids below cheered in response, and Dean willed himself to relax, head tilted to the sky. The fireworks punched through the night like gunshots, strangely taboo and exhilarating in blatant display. There was no way to cover these up, deny their presence. Everybody in the neighborhood would know, and it wouldn’t take long for someone to come along and put a stop to them. So Dean relaxed, letting the lights wash over him and the explosions burst in his ears. It was…liberating.

That was probably what did it, he would think in hindsight. He wouldn’t remember why he looked down at Lisa, what he was going to say. But he would remember her face: soft, open, wondering, and even a little…sad. A burst of red had touched her face, reflecting in her dark eyes, and Dean’s breath had caught, sudden.

The crowd continued to cheer around them but Dean suddenly couldn’t seem to care. He was stuck on her profile, the way her hair curled off her shoulder and around her ear. Her eyelashes were visible in short bursts and he waited for each one, breathless, willing each flash of light to linger, the moments fragile and fleeting. Dean wanted to catch each one and hold on, pin them to pages in a book, something. The feeling was new and strange and should have been frightening but he wasn’t afraid, not at all.

Lisa noticed his stare. Her eyes drifted down from the sky and slid across his face, meeting his. She smiled in confusion and tilted her head, a question. Dean’s breath returned to him and it was dizzying, oxygen a kind of high he had never felt before. The fireworks soared and screeched above them, pop, pop, pop…

It didn’t take long for the question in Lisa’s face to find an answer, and he saw the exact moment it settled in her head. He saw knowledge settled into her eyes, into the lines of her face, her look darker now, heady. Her gaze slipped down to his lips, once, eyelashes flickering as she blinked back up to his stare. Dean is frozen where he stands, so afraid of breaking the moment, that it will pop around them and leave him unfulfilled, unfinished. As if sensing this, Lisa tilted her chin up, just so. An invitation.

Gravity reoriented itself, closing in around them. Dean felt his equilibrium shift and he swayed, just a fraction. He could feel her pull on him and he complied, easy. The easiest thing in the world…

“No, it means you’re easy. And how am I supposed to trust someone who is easy?”

And just like that, the moment breaks. Dean’s stomach churned and bile rose into his throat, and he cursed, cursed, cursed against it. He tried to push it away but it was too late, the crowd once again present around them and Dean felt on display, wrong. He was just a breath away from Lisa’s lips; one soft press, and Dean’s heart twisted with longing at the thought of it. For a second, he wants to take it anyway.

Instead, he shifted, leaned past her mouth and pressed at her cheek, once. Lisa’s eyelashes fluttered against his cheek, and he leaned against her temple, breathing in the smell of her shampoo and willing back the tears. When he pulled back, Lisa’s expression wasn’t easy to read. He searched for anything he could trust: anger, pity, rejection. But all he found was acceptance.

“I’m sorry,” he said, just over the noise, but Lisa shook her head.

“It’s OK,” she replied, smiling softly. Dean knew it wasn’t.

The lingered for a few minutes more, showered in the lights and the sounds. But soon enough they agreed that staying any longer would be pushing their luck against the cops showing up. Dean spots Ash as they head out, and he waves them off, lost in the Dugan twins. Dean takes that as permission as anything.

The drive back home wasn’t as awkward as it should have been. In fact, it felt almost close to normal for a little while, the banter easy and conversation light. It was only when Lisa was out of the car, walking to her porch that Dean let himself feel it again. For a brief moment, he wanted to call her back, rush out of the car after her, catch her. To spin her round and taste her, like he should have, like he would have if…

Lisa got to her door, unlocked it. For a moment, she turned back, haloed in the hallway light, and she smiled, waving to him. Dean mustered up his own smile, waving back.

The door closed, and she was gone.

Dean didn’t know if he had been in love with Nick. There was a wound there now that made it difficult to think he would ever know. But he had been committed.

Those first few months after his mom’s accident had been tumultuous, to say the least. With Mary Winchester suspended indefinitely between life and death, it had been hard for her family to tell up from down, let alone what they were going to do without her. It was a possibility John could not bring himself to even consider, and Dean could never quite forgive him for shutting down like he did. Sam certainly didn’t. And what with this fugue state, caught between wondering if they should be planning a welcome home party or a funeral, for Dean, it had been hard to remember why school had ever been important in the first place, when he could instead be doing something to help support the family.

That was right around the time Nick had asked him out.

Dean hadn’t been blind. The timing was awful and Nick was bad news. But he’d taken Dean out of his head and given him space to talk. At a point where John was almost obsessively at the hospital and Sam was pouring into his schoolwork, at least Nick had looked at Dean and seemed to actually see him. At least Nick had wanted him.

That, more than anything, was probably what made the breakup hurt so much.

“Well, what am I supposed to think, Dean?” Nick snapped, betrayal odd and shining in his eyes. “I thought we had something good here. I thought you wanted me!”

“I do,” Dean had placated, bewildered and uncertain on his feet. “I didn’t say that-”

“You want me, but you come in here and tell me that you’re attracted to girls? If you haven’t noticed, Dean, I’m lacking a little in that department!”

“I said-” The words stumbled in Dean’s mouth. He tried again. “I said, I only said I thought I was bi.”

“Which means you’ve been checking out girls behind my back, Dean,” Nick sneered. He threw his hands up, turning away from Dean like he couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. “God, this is what I get, this is what I get for going out with questioning guys-”

“I’m not questioning,” Dean interrupted, the words more heated now. He tried to remember, think of the words Casey had used. “I know what I want. Being bi- being bi just means I’m attracted to boys and girls, it doesn’t have to have any influence on- on how I feel about you.”

Nick snorted, sighed. He turned back to Dean with a look that was half pitying, half contempt. “No, it means you’re easy. And how am I supposed to trust someone who is easy?”

No matter what Dean had said- or tried to say, the concepts still shaky in his own head- Nick hadn’t wanted to hear any more. When he told Dean to leave, it had felt like the world slowed around him, muggy and off-kilter. He walked out the door and never went back.

“He thought… he thought I was cheating on him. Or- or going to cheat on him, I don’t-”

“Well, did you?” Sam asked, blunt.

And that- that had hurt. On an already pretty sucky night, that had been a dull punch to the gut.

“No, Sam,” said Dean, voice far shakier and more emotional than he wanted. “I wasn’t going to cheat on him.”

Sam sighed, putting his text book down to rub at his eyes. “I just don’t know why you had to make it so difficult,” he muttered. “Just thought, ‘I like guys’ and left it at that.”

“Because I’m not-”

“Whatever, Dean,” Sam cut off, dismissive. “But just so you know, wanting to have a threesome with Casey and her boyfriend does not make you bi.”

Dean saw Lisa only one more time after the fireworks show. Even if he himself would not be graduating, it didn’t mean that he couldn’t show up and support his friends who were. So he sat in the audience, watching his classmates cross the stage, dressed in school colors and beaming brightly. Something small and sharp pierced just between his ribs, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d so badly wanted to cry.

After the ceremony, he found Casey. She smiled so bright when she saw him, and hugged him tightly, rocking them a little. There had been so many things he’d wanted to say to her right then, but it wouldn’t be right, not here, not now. Not on her moment. But the look she gave him when she pulled away was so sad, so knowing, he guessed he didn’t need to tell her after all.

Lisa, he spotted through the crowd. Her arms were around her sister and her eyes were bright, a mix of pride and self-consciousness. Her parents doted around her, lighting her up with pictures, and a few of her friends soon crushed around her as well, energetic and laughing. Dean was bumped and jostled by the press of people but he did not move. She felt much, much further away than the few feet between them, out beyond his touch.

He wanted to go to her. He wanted to tell her that he had seen her back in August and had just waited, waited to go up to her and ask her out. He had been ready and was going to do it and then his mom had wrapped her car around a tree.

Another admission. Another weight that had no place here, on this day.