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‘Stiles dislocates his shoulder in battle and Derek has to reset it’ au, written for @stiles-and-the-sourwolf based on her list of hurt!stiles prompts!

i did my research, but you should not fix a dislocated shoulder yourself except in an emergency, nor should you use this fic as any kind of medical guide

feat. scarred!Stiles, injured!Stiles, & full-shift!Derek

[ao3]

For a frightening moment, Stiles has no idea what happened.

All he knows is that the last hellhound the pack is fighting just tackled him, that his bat flew out of his hands, and that his shoulder made a terrifying sound as he hit the ground.

It’s not more than a few seconds before the weight of the hound is tackled off of him, but otherwise, no one comes to his rescue. The battle continues to rage around him, the cacophony of gunfire and howling and yelling all echoing through the preserve. The pack is spread everywhere, from behind the trees to in them, and all he can do is hope that someone notices him before he gets trampled.

He’s not sure how long the whole thing goes on. His head has been getting increasingly fuzzy, and he idly wonders how hard he banged it. The fuzziness quickly turns into a rush of panic when the face of a huge black canine suddenly appears right over his own, its muzzle covered in blood. It looks furious, and Stiles isn’t proud of the distressed sound he makes. The reading he’d done on hellhounds talked about how the beasts were known to tear out the throats of their victims before dragging them down to hell. Stiles isn’t sure if he believes in the whole eternal torture thing—and hey, that’s what living in Beacon Hills feels like half the time anyway—but he’s still not particularly keen on having his jugular ripped out. The hound is off to his left and staring straight down at him, and hysterically, Stiles thinks of all the jokes he’s made about big bad wolves out in the preserve. Hounds are close enough.

In a fit of desperation, though it’s more likely to result in his hand being bitten off than anything else, he flings out an arm to shove the hulking hound away. Well, at least he tries to. What actually happens is that his hand and forearm barely make it six inches off the ground before weakly flopping back down, sending pain shooting up his arm.

Fuck, what did this thing do to his shoulder?

Stiles cries out incoherently, trying to get someone’s attention. No one else shows up, though, and a moment later the creature looms even closer, and looks Stiles right in the eyes. Oh, good. At least this whole thing is satisfying for someone.

Right as Stiles is about to tear his gaze away and try to come to terms with his own mortality in a matter of seconds, the monster’s eyes flash blue.

Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever been so relieved in his life.

“Not a monster,” he slurs, mostly to himself. “J’st Derek. Thank fuck.”

He lets his eyes close, and promptly passes out.

Stiles used to think his least favorite place to wake up was the metal table in Deaton’s office, since he’s so rarely able to go to a real hospital after a fight in case any of his wounds are ‘supernaturally inflicted’.

His new least favorite place to wake up is wherever he is right now.

He’s pretty sure he’s still lying in the preserve, but this time it’s colder, darker, and quieter. When he finally manages to crack his eyes open, he realizes he’s in a cave. Derek is sitting cross-legged on the floor and looking down at him, now wearing pants but still shirtless as his torso heals.

“Hey,” Stiles says after a few moments. His voice comes out hoarse. “What’s going on?”

“You fainted,” Derek tells him calmly, and normally Stiles would correct him to the far manlier ‘passed out’, but he doesn’t have much ground to stand on, considering he’s lying on the ground. “I carried you out here.”

“I thought you were gonna eat me.” Derek looks a little alarmed, and he adds, “Thought you were a hellhound for a minute. My head was all muggy. Didn’t realize till you flashed your eyes.”

“Oh,” Derek says, squeezing his hand. Stiles didn’t even realize they were holding hands—and then he scolds his brain for that phrasing, because Derek would definitely never want to hold hands with him—but it’s no wonder he’s in so much less pain now. Derek must be draining it. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Duh, man. And I can’t exactly complain about not getting killed and/or mortally wounded.”

“Not mortally,” Derek agrees. “But I’m going to have to relocate your shoulder.”

“What?”

Stiles jerks a little at that mental image, because a dislocated shoulder sounds really gross, but fixing it sounds even worse, and a jolt of pain runs through his arm at the movement.

“Relax,” Derek says, planting his free hand firmly on Stiles’ chest. Stiles doesn’t think it’s fair that Derek gets to both hear and feel how fast his heart is hammering. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Um, no, you would be fine. I, on the other hand, do not have a supernaturally high pain threshold.”

“You’ve been shot before,” Derek points out, like that makes any of it better.

“Yes, but the bullet only grazed me, and that is not a performance I’d like to repeat. Plus, I was knocked out while that got patched up. I don’t even want to look at my arm, let alone have it popped back into the socket. Why can’t I just have Deaton or Melissa do it?”

“We were only here for a few minutes before you woke up,” Derek says. “And there are more hounds than we thought out there. The pack is still fighting them off. I don’t want to risk trying to make it out of the preserve with you already injured, and a dislocated shoulder will only get worse with time and movement. It’ll just take a minute if you let me fix it now, and someone can make sure everything is set right later. If we have to run suddenly, you’re not going to want that arm loose.”

“Oh yeah, pop body parts into place and worry later is always a good plan,” Stiles grumbles.

“Better than leaving body parts hanging limply and worrying later.”

In truth, Derek’s probably right, but it still sounds terrible.

“If you end up shoving my arm all the way through my torso with your freakish wolfman strength, I’ll be very displeased.”

Derek smirks, shaking his head.

“You’ve seen me do this a thousand times during training.”

“Right, on other people with freakish wolfman—and wolfwoman, of course—strength. And healing. You guys do a few arm circles and then everything is fine and dandy. Unfortunately, I probably won’t come back from your hand going through my chest cavity.”

Derek’s never actually had any problems resetting an arm before, but that doesn’t mean the idea isn’t still disturbing.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises. “It’s going to hurt, but I’ll help you through it. Okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles huffs.

He doesn’t care if he sounds petulant. He’s in pain, and he’s about to be in more.

“I know I do it for the pack standing up, but I’m pretty sure untrained humans do it with the person laying down,” Derek says, moving into a crouch and slipping one hand under Stiles’ back and the other under his knees. He very slowly maneuvers him into a spot farther from the wall, so he can get a better angle on his shoulder. “All good.”

“Yeah, feels real good.”

Derek ignores his muttering in favor of unsheathing his claws. Which was definitely not part of the deal.

“Um… what’cha doin’ there, big guy?” Stiles asks, a little nervous.

Not that he thinks Derek is about to sink his claws into him or anything, but still.

“I need to get your shirt off, and I don’t think you’re in any position to be lifting your arms above your head. Is that okay?”

“Uhh…”

Fuck. No, not really.

“Stiles, I told you, I’m not going to hurt you. You know that, right?”

“No, I know, it’s just…”

Derek wouldn’t understand. He runs around without his shirt half the time anyway. He’s not even wearing one now, as his chest finishes knitting itself back together.

“Is it the shirt? It’s already in tatters, and I’m sure there’s no shortage of other Star Wars tees in your wardrobe.”

“No, I know, it’s just- Nevermind. Just. Yeah. Do it. I wanna get all this over with.”

“Alright, good,” Derek says. “Hold very still.”

Stiles does, and Derek holds true to his promise, easily cutting away his shirt without even touching skin. When he peels away the remains, he sucks in a sharp breath. Which… Yeah.

“It’s just that,” Stiles sighs, finally finishing his thought.

Stiles has never really liked taking his shirt off in front of people. He’s always been skinny, yeah, and pale, and mole-covered, but even all of that was manageable. Over the past few years, though… His entire torso, and other parts of his body, to a lesser extent, is covered in scars. There’s the one from the bullet on the very left of his waist, several sets of claw marks from all kinds of creatures, a jagged line from a hunter’s knife, and a number of other blemishes. He’s glad it’s too dark for him to see most of them, but Derek certainly can. There’s a reason Stiles made Deaton promise to either shoo everyone but Scott out of the room when he shows up at the clinic passed out, or to cover him up before letting anyone visit. He still remembers the sadness on his dad’s face the first time he saw.

It’s not the main concern right now, not by a longshot, but it’s still a source of embarrassment. He feels especially vulnerable lying on the ground, looking up at Derek.

Derek is looking back at him, but he doesn’t seem disgusted. Which is surprising. Derek’s not a jerk, but that doesn’t mean he’s not human. And a great-looking human, at that. It’s only natural for him to judge Stiles.

All he says, though, is, “Are those all from being in the pack?”

“I got this one when I was eight and I crashed my bike into my neighbor’s mailbox,” Stiles says, trying for lightheartedness as he points out a little raised bump near his collarbone. “But uh, otherwise, yeah.”

“Why didn’t you want me to see?” Derek asks, frowning.

He looks almost hurt that Stiles was keeping this from him, which is super weird.

“Why would you want to see? It’s gross.”

“It’s not gross,” Derek says. Before Stiles can object, he continues. “It just shows how much you care about your pack. Besides, you don’t think it’s gross that my body is stitching itself together right in front of you.”

He shrugs, like it’s just that simple.

“I mean, I think it’s a little gross,” Stiles says, teasing, glad to have the focus shifted off himself.

Derek huffs a laugh, flicking him on the forehead.

“Ow! Did you just injure an injured person?”

“If that injured you, then I don’t know how you’re going to survive this.”

Stiles groans.

“We should probably get on with it, huh?”

Derek nods.

“I’ll go right back to taking your pain after it’s in.”

“After?”

“I need to concentrate and use both hands during,” Derek says. “I’ll be fast.”

Stiles looks down at his bare shoulder; the dark bruises that are already forming are visible against his pale skin, even in the low light.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Derek says, giving what’s probably supposed to be an encouraging smile, but ends up looking more like a grimace.

Yeah. This is going to hurt.

Derek plants one hand on his side for traction and takes the wrist of his injured arm in the other, slowly moving it out to a ninety-degree angle, pulling firmly. And oh fuck, does it hurt.

Stiles’ breathing picks up and he lets out a low stream of curses. Derek orders him to try not to move, which is easy for him to say. He continues to pull, sluggish and steady and painful as hell, till there’s a definitive thunk sound. Stiles makes a strangled noise, but stifles it quickly. The pain is still there, but it’s amazing how much it immediately lessens, and that’s before Derek switches his grip from Stiles’ wrist to his hand again, pulling pain.

“You good?”

“So much better,” Stiles breathes. “Oh, God.”

“It’s probably going to swell and bruise a lot,” Derek warns. “And we should get it in a sling to stop it from getting worse.”

Before Stiles can ask where on earth they’re going to get a sling, Derek starts ripping his shirt into strips, and using the remains of Stiles’ to tie the pieces together. He helps Stiles into it, which hurts, and then helps him get comfortable again.

“At least it’s a Star Wars themed sling,” Derek offers in consolation.

“Just what I’ve always wanted,” Stiles says, but he can’t help the small smile tugging at his lips.

It feels a lot better, and while he absolutely needs to get to a medical professional soon, this is the best case scenario right now.

“You need to get back out there and join the fight?” he asks after a while.

He reaches to poke at his shoulder, but Derek bats his hand away.

“I’m supposed to stay here and make sure you’re safe,” Derek says. “We don’t want you actually getting eaten by a hellhound tonight. Scott’s going to howl if he needs me, and come get us when it’s safe.”

“Good,” Stiles says. “I don’t want you getting eaten, either.”

“Much appreciated. Now try to get some rest. I’ll stay up and keep watch.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. “And thanks for fixing my arm, too. And not being weird about my scars. And, uh… for everything, really.”

“Of course, Stiles,” Derek says. “You care about the pack, and we care about you, too. I care about you.” Before Stiles can overthink that statement, he adds a firm, “Now rest.”

A while later, Derek tells him that he’s taken all the pain that he can for the moment, but he doesn’t let go of Stiles’ hand.

“Do uh… do you want this back?” Stiles asks, shaking it a little.

Derek shrugs.

“Not unless you want me to take it back.”

“Oh, uh- No. No, I’m good. It’s… Good.”

He can just barely make out Derek smiling, his eyes warm.

“Good.”

Stiles falls asleep to the feeling of Derek’s thumb stroking the back of his hand.

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