Destiel Trope Collection 2026 | Day 12: First Kiss
Quit being cute! | @youchangedmedestiel
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 1,410
Main Tags/Warnings: Canon Universe, Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Cooks, Dean Winchester Calls Castiel "cute", First Kiss, Kissing, Miscommunication, Fluff, Castiel Cooks (Supernatural), Castiel's Head Tilt (Supernatural)
Summary: Dean accidentally thinks out loud and lets out that he thinks Cas is cute. That’s the story of his struggle, but it was worth it because it ends well.
To keep you away or near me | @youchangedmedestiel
Rating: Teen & Up
Word Count: 1,675
Main Tags/Warnings: Episode: s12e19 The Future (Supernatural), Episode: s12e19 The Future - Mixtape Scene (Supernatural), Canon Rewrite, Sigils, Light Angst, Miscommunication, Stubborn Dean Winchester, Stubborn Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, First Kiss, Canon Universe
Summary: Dean uses sigils to ward his room against Cas because he is mad at him for not answering his damn phone.
Only Fooling Yourself | @shes-beauty-shes-ace
Rating: Teen & Up
Word Count: 2,439
Main Tags/Warnings: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Making Out, Hickies, First Kiss, Sexually Inexperienced Castiel, Dean Winchester Needs to Use Actual Words
Summary: "Frozen in place, not pulling away but also not leaning in closer, all Dean could do was rumble out a low “Cas...” which seemed to jolt Castiel out of the trance. “Sorry Dean, I know, personal space.” And Dean should have let that be it, should have taken the out, but the want thrumming under his skin and the fact that he still wasn’t fully awake instead spurred him into action."
—
In which Dean lets himself want, Cas learns a couple new things, and Sam connects the dots.
Parallax | @galaxystiel
Rating: Teen & Up
Word Count: 3,503
Main Tags/Warnings: Canon Divergence, Astrophysicist!Castiel, Light Angst, Hopeful Ending, Human!Castiel, Planetarium AU
Summary: Dean is used to things being temporary. It’s what comes with the kind of life where nothing meaningful sticks around.
Truth be told | @destielfangirl24
Rating: General
Word Count: 4,195
Main Tags/Warnings: First Kiss, Castiel and Dean Winchester Use Their Words, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Truth Spells, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Fluff, No Angst, No Smut
Summary: Rowena casts a truth spell on Dean to get him to tell her where the book of the damned is. So for an unidentified period of time Dean is forced to tell the truth and is faced with many uncomfortable questions he would rather not have to answer.
Hay Jude | @envydean
Rating: Teen & Up
Word Count: 5,440
Main Tags/Warnings: dairy farmer!Dean, meet cute, Fluff, Cows, big city boy Cas, Kid Jack, Jack is Cas' son, huddled for warmth, First Kiss
Summary: An unexpected calf brings Dean and Cas closer together than Dean had ever hoped for.
Forest Fever | @amaranthhiding
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 8,586
Main Tags/Warnings: Canon Universe, Monster of the Week, Case Fic - Lite, Monster Hunting, Forests, Mystery (a little), Hallucinations, Angst, Romance, Humor, Injured Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Castiel/Dean First Kiss, Castiel/Dean First Time Having Sex, Emotional Sex, Angel Grace, Angel Wings, Dean is Protective of Castiel, Post-Episode: s12e10 Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets, POV Dean, POV Sam, Dean/Cas Stab Fest 2022
Summary: After the crushing events of episode 12x10 "Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets", Castiel is low on grace and morale. In an attempt to restore at least one of these two, Sam and Dean take him on a hunt. Things start going wrong when Sam gets injured and Cas seemingly disappears. They get worse when Dean turns from hunter to prey for something feeling far more at home in this dark, rainy forest than he does.
Accidents Don't Just Happen Accidentally at Camp Lazarus Lake | @thefandomsinhalor
Rating: Teen & Up
Word Count: 8,896
Main Tags/Warnings: Summer Camp AU, Camp Counselors, 1980s, Light-Hearted, Injured Castiel, Dean Winchester Wears Shorts
Summary: Camp counselor Dean is in big trouble when Castiel, a fellow counselor from the rival camp across the lake, ends up in the hospital. Dean insists it was an accident, but because of his bad history with the other camp, it isn’t surprising that people are doubting the accident was truly…accidental. Especially when it seems like Dean is hiding something.
State of Grace | @kikiatthemirror
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 10,605
Main Tags/Warnings: First Kiss, Mutual Pining, MCD but not really, Djinn (sort of), Light Angst, Illusion and fear, Not Cheating, Love Confessions, My interpretation of what the Grace could do, Benny is back
Summary: Season 13, after Cas' return. Dean and Sam believe they have found a way to save Mary, but instead the spell brings in the bunker Benny and a dangerous presence, who will do a lot of damage. Or maybe not.
Something in the Water | @thevioletcaptain
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 11,179
Main Tags/Warnings: No archive warnings apply, spells and enchantments, magic, alternate canon (no Empty deal), temporarily de-aged Dean
Summary: After defeating Chuck, the Winchesters decide to take a vacation with all their friends... and what better destination than a lakeside cabin owned by the Men of Letters?
Grander Than the Sea | @seidenapfel
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 13,805
Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Season/Series 14, Castiel Does Not Make a Deal with The Shadow (Supernatural), First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Love Confessions, Seaside, Vacation, Wings, Angelic Grace-Powered Orgasms (Supernatural), Orgasm Edging, Rimming, Anal Sex, Top/Bottom Versatile
Summary: With Michael gone for good and Jack saved, Dean can't stand the ensuing tension at the Bunker. He flees and drives east until he can't go any farther. Witnessing a beautiful sunrise over the Atlantic, loneliness overwhelms him and he shares a snapshot.
When he realises that he has sent the photo to only one recipient — the one he longs for the most — his phone pings.
"Miss you too," Cas' answer reads.
The Little Issue with the Mission to Perdition | @amaranthhiding
Rating: Teen & Up
Word Count: 16,460
Main Tags/Warnings: Canon Divergence after episode 15x19, Jack and Amara try fixing things together but make everything worse, Jack and Amara family bonding, Team Free Will 3.0, Amara as part of Team Free Will, Temporary Major Character Death, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Castiel/Dean First Kiss, Minor Eileen/Sam, Post-Canon Fix-It, POV Alternating, POV Jack, POV Amara, POV Dean, POV Sam, POV Castiel
Summary: Chuck is defeated and his power now belongs to Jack and Amara. They struggle with adjusting to their newly-shared existence, and with big questions such as, how can (almost) all-powerful beings avoid becoming what Chuck was?
What even is all that power good for when it doesn't allow Jack to save someone from the Empty who absolutely deserves being saved?
Who thought it was a good idea to hand all that power to two beings who, together, have spent less years on Earth than the average human child?
...And why is there suddenly black goo everywhere?
Secret Gardens in My Mind | @krexhatespushups-blog
Rating: Teen & Up
Word Count: 24,725
Main Tags/Warnings: Multiple Universe AU, Post- confession, First Kiss, angst with a happy ending, all is not as it seems, idiots in every universe, the empty is a cosmic dick, destiel endgame
Summary: Dean Winchester was grieving Castiel’s death, again, but this time, there’s no saving him from The Empty. When Dean found his bolo tie tucked away in Cas’ room, he made a wish that he could see Cas one more time.
Castiel Novak lived in Nevaeh and his best friend in the world was Dean Winchester-Singer. Castiel never felt like he fit in, but when he was with Dean everything seemed right in the world. He would soon find that just one simple act would change his entire life.
Dinner in Kansas | @entropic-saudade
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 26,977
Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe, Inspired by Dinner in America (2020), Punk Dean Winchester, Singer Dean Winchester, Neurodivergent Coded Characters, Secret Identity, Smoking, Recreational Drug Use, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Ableism, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Bullying, Theft, Arson, Drug Dealing, Vomiting, Family Issues, Strong Language, Delayed Coming of Age, Happy Ending
Summary: Dean Winchester is on the run from the cops after a series of petty crimes. While looking for a place to hide, he catches the eye of his former junior college classmate, the socially awkward Castiel Shurley, and asks to crash at the Shurleys’ house.
Unbeknownst to Cas, Dean is the face behind John Q. Public—the anonymous frontman of a local punk band—with whom he has been sending suggestive photographs and love poems for the last few years under a pseudonym.
But secret identities are the least of their worries when the police are closing in, the band’s next show is drawing near, and the Shurleys refuse to let Cas fly the coop. They grow close as they rail against the expectations that stifle them both, teaching each other what it means to be a real punk rocker.
A Dinner in America inspired AU.
Summary: Dean is used to things being temporary. It’s what comes with the kind of life where nothing meaningful sticks around. Teen | 3.5k
[Read on AO3]
Many thanks to @envydean for looking this over for me and helping me with my doubts about this fic. Appreciate you, Jenny!
--
Observation Log: Day 1
Dean breaks the sky on his first night working at the planetarium.
It’s not a permanent gig. Nothing ever is. There was a case, late night sightings, people swearing the stars were moving wrong, patterns shifting where they shouldn’t. Sam’s off chasing a lead a couple of towns over, something with actual teeth and a body count, which leaves Dean with this.
Stakeout, he’d called it.
“Low risk,” Sam had argued.
“It’s a planetarium, not a freakin’ luxury cruise!” Dean had snapped back. “I’m going to be working.”
Now he’s standing in the control booth, staring up at a ceiling full of stars that definitely aren’t where they’re supposed to be, thinking maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.
The sky isn’t literally broken. Just the projection system is misaligned, a star field spilling constellations where they don’t belong. Orion’s belt is halfway across something that definitely isn’t Orion anymore, and there’s a cluster of stars bleeding into the edge of the dome like they’ve decided that the sky is boring and they’d rather be down here on earth.
Dean leans back in his chair, squinting up at it.
“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “That’s definitely wrong.”
The control panel in front of him is a mess of switches and sliders that all seem to do something slightly different than what they’re labelled as. He nudges one experimentally, and the stars shift. Worse.
“Great,” Dean says flatly. “Love that.”
Someone behind him sighs. Not loud, not annoyed. The kind of sound somebody makes when a problem has already been solved in their head and they’re just waiting for everyone else to stop being dumb and catch up.
“You’re projecting Orion in the wrong hemisphere.”
Dean freezes for half a second before turning around. He’s expecting his supervisor. Maybe a bored college kid who actually knows how this thing works. What he gets is something entirely different.
The guy standing in the doorway looks like he belongs somewhere quieter than this. Messy dark hair, big blue eyes, a dorky sweater vest. His eyes flick briefly from Dean to the ceiling, taking in the damage.
“It’s not supposed to—” Dean starts, gesturing vaguely upwards. “—do that.”
The guy steps past him without asking. “It’s not,” he agrees.
Dean shifts aside as the guy reaches past his shoulders and adjusts two controls in quick succession. The stars shift again, smooth this time. Orion snaps back into something recognisable. The rest of the sky follows suit.
He blinks. “Okay. Yeah. How’d you do that?”
The guy doesn’t look at him, just continues watching the ceiling. “What you’re seeing isn’t current,” he says. “The light takes time to arrive. Even in simulation, it’s modelled that way. You’re not projecting where the stars are. You’re projecting where they were.”
Dean blinks. “Isn’t that a design flaw?”
“It’s accurate.” The guy finally looks at him. “My name is Castiel.”
Dean leans back in his chair again, glancing up at the now-correct sky before looking back at him.
“Dean,” he says eventually. “And, uh, thanks, man. For fixing my accidental cosmic disaster.”
Castiel doesn’t respond to that, just tilts his head slightly like he’s considering something that Dean can’t see.
“The projection drifts if it’s not recalibrated manually,” he says. “Most people don’t notice.”
Dean huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. I did notice it was wrong, just didn’t know how to make it right.
Castiel’s gaze flicks to him again. “Most people don’t notice that either.”
--
Observation Log: Day 7
Dean doesn’t mean to stay late. That’s what he tells himself, anyway.
It just… happens. The first couple of nights, he blames the equipment. Learning the controls, making sure the projections don’t drift into whatever abstract mess he made that first day, it takes time. After that, it’s easier to say he’s waiting on Sam to call. Or that it’s quieter here than the motel.
By the end of the first week, the excuses stop needing to make sense. The last show finishes, the recorded voice fades out. The artificial sky dims and resets.
Dean doesn’t leave. Castiel does.
Kind of. He gathers his notes, shuts down one of the side consoles, then walks towards the exit like the night is over.
Then he pauses. Looks back.
Dean stays in his chair, one boot hooked against the base of the console, staring up at a sky that currently isn’t showing anything interesting.
A beat. Castiel turns around and comes back. Dean doesn’t comment on it.
“Is that normal?” he asks instead, nodding towards the ceiling as the next projection begins to bleed slowly into place. Not a full show, just a scattered field of sprinkled stars, dimmer, less structured.
Castiel follows his gaze. “Yes. It recalibrates between programs.”
The stars settle gradually, not all at once. Points of light flicker into position, uneven, like the projection is assembling itself from memory rather than a computer instruction. Dust drifts through the projector beam, catching briefly, small yet bright interruptions that disappear as quickly as they appear.
Dean watches that longer than he probably should. “It doesn’t look finished.”
“It isn’t,” Castiel replies. “It doesn’t need to be.”
Dean huffs quietly at that, but doesn’t argue. He doesn’t understand most of what Castiel says, and that’s becoming as routine as his staying late. Words like ‘background radiation’ and ‘signal degradation’ and ‘observable remnants’ get dropped into the air between them like Dean is supposed to glean some kind of cosmic meaning from them. He doesn’t.
But he stays and listens anyway.
“You said the light’s old,” he says after a minute. “Like… already happened old.”
“Yes.”
“And we’re just—what? Watching it show up?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Dean shifts in his chair, glancing over at Castiel. “That doesn’t mess with you?”
Castiel considers the question like it’s the most profound thing he’s ever heard. “No,” he decides. “It’s simply the nature of observation. There is always a delay between an event and its perception.”
Dean looks back up at the ceiling. A cluster of stars sharpen into focus near the edge of the dome. Not a constellation he recognises, just points that seem spread out, uneven.
“Sounds like a bad deal,” he mutters. “Everything important already over by the time you get to it.”
There’s a pause, longer this time. Dean doesn’t look over, but he can feel Castiel’s attention shifting, settling on him instead of the projection.
“That isn’t how I would describe it,” Castiel says.
Dean huffs again, softer this time. “Yeah, well. You’re the expert, Cas.”
Silence stretches between them again, but it’s not empty. Not like that first night. There’s something settled about it now, like they understand each other. Even though they don’t.
The projection cycles again, faint adjustments clicking into place. More dust catches in the light.
Dean doesn’t move to leave.
Neither does Castiel.
--
Observation Log: Day 22 - 1169
Dean stops pretending it’s accidental somewhere around the third week. He still clocks out when he’s supposed to. Still does the rounds, checks the exits, powers down what needs powering down. On paper, his job ends when the last show does.
In practice, he stays.
The planetarium settles into a different kind of quiet after closing. Not empty, just held. Like the space doesn’t fully power down, just becomes something softer. The projection cycles low, slow transitions instead of full programs. Stars drift in and out of alignment without ever quite committing to a pattern.
Dean brings coffee now. Two cups. Doesn’t comment on it, just sets the second one down on the console without looking at Castiel when he does.
Castiel drinks it, also without comment. That, more than anything, is how Dean knows this is becoming a thing.
Tonight, the projection feels dimmer than usual. A wide sprinkle of stars across the dome, no clear constellation, just points of light spread unevenly across the dark.
Castiel is already there when Dean finishes locking up, standing near the edge of the control booth, looking up like he’s trying to solve a problem, to make order out of nature’s chaos.
Dean leans against the console, nudging the second coffee towards him. “You ever just… not?”
Castiel glances at the cup, then at Dean. “Not what?”
“Not think about it,” Dean says, gesturing upwards. “All of it. Space. Time. Whatever you’ve got going on in that head?”
Castiel considers that, then picks up the coffee. “No.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Didn’t think so.”
They fall into silence again, but it gets more comfortable and familiar by the day. Dean doesn’t even feel like he has to fill it anymore.
The projector hums softly. Light spills across the room in slow, uneven passes, catching on the edge of the console and the curve of the dome. He watches as it illuminates the line of Castiel’s shoulder where his coat has slipped slightly out of place.
It doesn’t hit him all at once, it’s not that kind of realisation. It’s smaller than that. Quieter.
Dean notices that the light doesn’t settle on Castiel evenly. It breaks across him in fragments, like it’s trying to map something that doesn’t hold still long enough to be understood.
He looks away. “Sam texted,” he says, because that’s easier. “Says the case he’s on might take a few more days.”
Castiel nods once. “I see.”
“You say that like you don’t,” Dean mutters, but there’s no bite to it.
Castiel lifts his gaze back to the projection. “You’ve remained here,” he says after a moment. “Despite the absence of active work. And your case wrapped up days ago.”
Dean huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. Don’t act so surprised. I can commit to a low-stakes gig when I want to.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
Dean glances over at him. “No?”
Castiel’s attention shifts—not to Dean’s face, not fully, but closer than before. “Most people don’t return to the same place repeatedly without a clear objective.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “You say that like I’ve got some kind of grand plan.”
“Do you?”
The question lands softer than it probably should. Dean opens his mouth to deflect. Habit, reflex, it’s easy for him. Yet nothing comes out. He ends up looking back at the ceiling instead.
“Yeah,” he says finally, quieter. “Guess I do.”
Castiel doesn’t ask what it is. He doesn’t need to.
The projection adjusts again, a faint recalibration that sends a beam of light across the dome. For a second, it catches between them, suspended long enough just to be seen. Dean watches it, then without really thinking about it, he shifts a fraction closer. Not enough to make a point of it.
Just enough that if Castiel moved too, they’d notice.
Castiel doesn’t move.
--
Observation Log: Day 40
It’s colder in the planetarium tonight. Not enough to matter to anyone else, but enough that Dean notices when he pushes through the side door, shoulders tensing against it before the warmth from inside catches up.
The place is empty, same as always. Last show done, lights low, the dome already mid-transition. The stars are bleeding slowly into place, not yet settled.
Castiel is there.
Dean doesn’t think about the fact that he expects it now. Just drops into the chair like he belongs there and sets a coffee down beside the console without looking.
Castiel takes it. They don’t speak for a while.
The projection is crystal clear tonight. Sharper, more defined. Like the stars have decided what they are instead of hovering in between.
Dean leans back, watching them. “You ever get it wrong?” he asks eventually.
Castiel glances at him. “In what sense?”
“All of it. The data. The readings. Whatever you’re pulling meaning out of.”
Castiel considers that. “Yes,” he says. “Frequently.”
Dean snorts. “That’s reassuring.”
“There is an expected margin of error,” Castiel continues. “Observation is limited by many factors. Distance. Delay. By the fact that what we are measuring has already changed by the time we perceive it.”
Dean’s gaze stays on the ceiling. “Yeah,” he says. “You’ve mentioned.”
There’s a pause. Castiel steps a little closer to the console, setting his untouched coffee down, attention shifting fully to the projection.
“Most of what we study is no longer in the state we observe it in,” he says. “Stars collapse. Systems decay. Entire structures cease to exist. The light persists regardless.”
Dean frowns slightly. “That’s bleak, man.”
“It isn’t,” Castiel says, calm as ever. “It’s simply accurate.”
The projection shifts again, subtle, almost imperceptible changes. A cluster near the centre flickers, then stabilises. Castiel watches it like it matters.
“Meaning is not diminished by distance,” he continues. “If anything, it is clarified. Stripped of immediate distortion. What remains is… truer.”
Dean goes very still. It’s not obvious, no sudden movement or sharp intake of breath. Just a quiet kind of stillness.
“What, so—” he starts, then stops. He takes a breath and tries again. “You’re saying it matters more once it’s over?”
“I’m saying its significance is not dependent on proximity.”
Dean exhales slowly, something like a laugh caught in it. “Right,” he says, not looking at Castiel.
The stars above them hold steady, fixed in a way they haven’t been the past few nights. Less drift. Dean notices that too.
“Sounds like a great system,” he adds after a moment. “Nothing real sticks around, but hey, at least you can analyse it better once it’s gone.”
Castiel turns his head slightly, frowning. “That isn’t—”
Dean shakes his head, cutting him off. “No, I get it,” he says. “Distance. Perspective. All that.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes still on the projection but not really seeing it anymore. “Just… seems like a bad way to live.”
The words hang that. Castiel doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice is quieter than before. Adjusted for the intensity of what they’re not-talking about.
“It isn’t intended as a method of living,” he says. “It is an observation of what is.”
Dean gives a wry smile. “Yeah, that’s the problem.”
Silence settles between them again, but it’s different now. Not as easy or as comfortable. The space between them feels as misaligned as the projection on the night they met. Technically functional, but off in a way that’s hard to ignore once you’ve noticed it.
Dean doesn’t shift closer this time. Doesn’t reach for the controls. Doesn’t say anything else.
He just sits there, watching the light that doesn’t belong to the present, and thinks about how none of it ever actually stays where it should.
After a while, Castiel steps back. It’s subtle, small enough that most people wouldn’t notice.
Dean does.
Neither of them says anything about it.
--
Observation Log: Day 58
Dean notices something is off before anything is said.
It’s small—Castiel is already there when he arrives, which isn’t unusual, but tonight he’s not standing near the console. He’s not watching the projection start up. He’s just still, beside the edge of the control booth, like he’s already halfway elsewhere.
Dean sets the coffee down anyway, noticing that Castiel takes longer than usual to pick it up.
“That’ll be the last time you need to do that,” Castiel says eventually.
Dean pauses mid-sit. It takes him a second to process the sentence properly, like his brain refuses to make sense of the words that only really have one meaning.
“What?”
Castiel doesn’t look at him immediately. His attention stays on the dome as the projection begins to cycle, the stars moving across the sky away from them. Pulling away.
“I’ve accepted a position with a deep-space research facility,” he says. “The transfer finalises at the end of the week.”
Dean lets out a short breath through his nose. It’s not a laugh.
“Okay,” he says instead. “That’s… cool. Congrats, I guess.”
Castiel finally looks at him then. There’s no expectation in it. No waiting for a reaction. Just observation. It’s infuriating.
“Thank you,” he says.
Dean nods once, like that settles something it absolutely doesn’t.
The projection continues above them. The stars tonight are dense—clusters overlapping, like the system is running multiple projections at once, hasn’t quite separated them out.
They both stare at it.
“Deep space,” Dean repeats after a moment. “That’s far.”
“Yes.”
He shifts in his chair, leaning back. “When did you decide that?”
“Some time ago,” Castiel says. “The confirmation only arrived recently.”
Dean nods again. Too quickly.
“Sure,” he says. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Castiel takes a sip of his coffee and sets it down after. “I will be leaving in three days,” he adds.
Dean’s jaw tightens, just slightly. He keeps his eye on the dome. The stars above them drift through a slow recalibration cycle. A faint scatter of light passes through the air between them, dust caught in the projection. Dean watches it fall.
He doesn’t look at Castiel when he speaks again. “You gonna miss it?”
A beat.
“I will not be here to miss anything,” Castiel says.
That hits harder than it should. Dean exhales slowly.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That makes sense.”
He doesn’t move for a long time after that. Neither does Castiel. The projection overhead stabilises, cleaner now, finalised. Stars locked into place like they’ve decided what they are and stopped shifting.
Dean watches them, then finally leans forward and picks up his coffee.
It’s cold.
--
Observation Log: Day 60
The planetarium feels emptier than it should.
Not because there’s anything physically missing from it. Everything is still where it always is. The console, the chairs, the faint hum of systems powering down between programs. The dome overhead still holds a sky that isn’t real and never has been.
Dean watches it anyway. Like always.
Castiel is already there when he arrives.
For a second, Dean just stands in the doorway and watches him—not because it’s unusual anymore, but because he knows it won’t be like this again.
Castiel doesn’t turn right away. He’s looking up at the projection, hands loosely at his side. Two coffees sit untouched on the console beside him.
Dean steps inside. The door closes behind him with a soft click that echoes far louder than it should.
Neither of them say anything immediately.
Dean walks over and takes the second cup of coffee anyway. It’s still warm.
“You’re really doing it,” he says finally.
“Yes.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Figured.”
He sits in his usual place, in the same chair he always does. Same angle, same habit.
Above them, the projection begins a slow transition—stars fading, reforming, breaking apart and reassembling in patterns too large to track at once. Light spills unevenly through the dome, scattering across the room in fragments.
Dust catches in it again. Small brief points that never hold still long enough to become anything whole.
Castiel steps closer. “I did not expect you to be here,” he says.
Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well. I’m full of surprises.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“I know.” Dean doesn’t look at him yet. “I was gonna say something smart. Something final. Like I’ve got a whole speech ready or whatever.”
Castiel waits, and Dean finally meets his eyes. Then shrugs, a little less confident than usual.
“But I don’t,” he admits. “So. That’s probably for the best.”
The corner of Castiel’s mouth shifts, barely perceptible.
“You have been here consistently,” he says. “Despite having no obligation to remain.”
Dean laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “Funny how that works.”
Silence again. The projection shifts into a denser field. Light layers over light, fragments cross paths but never merge. For a split second, it looks like the night sky is made of scattered pieces that only pretend to be connected.
“You ever think you’re wrong?” he asks.
Castiel’s response is careful. “In what way?”
“All of it,” Dean says. “The distance thing. The… everything already being gone before it matter thing.”
Castiel looks at him properly now, his gaze knowing. “I think,” he says slowly, “that I misjudged the necessity of proximity to significance.”
The corner of Dean’s mouth tugs briefly. “That’s one way to say it.”
He reaches for his coffee, but doesn’t drink it, and after a moment he sets it back down untouched. He stands, stepping closer to Castiel.
“You’re still leaving,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Yeah.” Dean nods once. “I know. I just… didn’t want it to be nothing.”
Castiel’s gaze holds steady. “It is not nothing.”
Dean exhales, then he reaches out. There’s no hesitation, no testing. He catches the edge of Castiel’s coat like he’s grounding himself, reminding himself that while the stars themselves are not tangible, this is.
Castiel doesn’t move away.
The projection continues overhead, scattering light in broken waves.
Castiel leans in first, just slightly, but Dean meets him there. The kiss is quiet, not urgent. Just the moment where proximity contributes to significance.
When they pull back, neither of them fully steps away. Above them, the stars keep shifting.
But for once, neither of them look up.
If you liked this, please consider reblogging or leave me a comment on AO3? Please? :)
Summary: Dean is used to things being temporary. It’s what comes with the kind of life where nothing meaningful sticks around. Teen | 3.5k
[Read on AO3]
Many thanks to @envydean for looking this over for me and helping me with my doubts about this fic. Appreciate you, Jenny!
--
Observation Log: Day 1
Dean breaks the sky on his first night working at the planetarium.
It’s not a permanent gig. Nothing ever is. There was a case, late night sightings, people swearing the stars were moving wrong, patterns shifting where they shouldn’t. Sam’s off chasing a lead a couple of towns over, something with actual teeth and a body count, which leaves Dean with this.
Stakeout, he’d called it.
“Low risk,” Sam had argued.
“It’s a planetarium, not a freakin’ luxury cruise!” Dean had snapped back. “I’m going to be working.”
Now he’s standing in the control booth, staring up at a ceiling full of stars that definitely aren’t where they’re supposed to be, thinking maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.
The sky isn’t literally broken. Just the projection system is misaligned, a star field spilling constellations where they don’t belong. Orion’s belt is halfway across something that definitely isn’t Orion anymore, and there’s a cluster of stars bleeding into the edge of the dome like they’ve decided that the sky is boring and they’d rather be down here on earth.
Dean leans back in his chair, squinting up at it.
“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “That’s definitely wrong.”
The control panel in front of him is a mess of switches and sliders that all seem to do something slightly different than what they’re labelled as. He nudges one experimentally, and the stars shift. Worse.
“Great,” Dean says flatly. “Love that.”
Someone behind him sighs. Not loud, not annoyed. The kind of sound somebody makes when a problem has already been solved in their head and they’re just waiting for everyone else to stop being dumb and catch up.
“You’re projecting Orion in the wrong hemisphere.”
Dean freezes for half a second before turning around. He’s expecting his supervisor. Maybe a bored college kid who actually knows how this thing works. What he gets is something entirely different.
The guy standing in the doorway looks like he belongs somewhere quieter than this. Messy dark hair, big blue eyes, a dorky sweater vest. His eyes flick briefly from Dean to the ceiling, taking in the damage.
“It’s not supposed to—” Dean starts, gesturing vaguely upwards. “—do that.”
The guy steps past him without asking. “It’s not,” he agrees.
Dean shifts aside as the guy reaches past his shoulders and adjusts two controls in quick succession. The stars shift again, smooth this time. Orion snaps back into something recognisable. The rest of the sky follows suit.
He blinks. “Okay. Yeah. How’d you do that?”
The guy doesn’t look at him, just continues watching the ceiling. “What you’re seeing isn’t current,” he says. “The light takes time to arrive. Even in simulation, it’s modelled that way. You’re not projecting where the stars are. You’re projecting where they were.”
Dean blinks. “Isn’t that a design flaw?”
“It’s accurate.” The guy finally looks at him. “My name is Castiel.”
Dean leans back in his chair again, glancing up at the now-correct sky before looking back at him.
“Dean,” he says eventually. “And, uh, thanks, man. For fixing my accidental cosmic disaster.”
Castiel doesn’t respond to that, just tilts his head slightly like he’s considering something that Dean can’t see.
“The projection drifts if it’s not recalibrated manually,” he says. “Most people don’t notice.”
Dean huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. I did notice it was wrong, just didn’t know how to make it right.
Castiel’s gaze flicks to him again. “Most people don’t notice that either.”
--
Observation Log: Day 7
Dean doesn’t mean to stay late. That’s what he tells himself, anyway.
It just… happens. The first couple of nights, he blames the equipment. Learning the controls, making sure the projections don’t drift into whatever abstract mess he made that first day, it takes time. After that, it’s easier to say he’s waiting on Sam to call. Or that it’s quieter here than the motel.
By the end of the first week, the excuses stop needing to make sense. The last show finishes, the recorded voice fades out. The artificial sky dims and resets.
Dean doesn’t leave. Castiel does.
Kind of. He gathers his notes, shuts down one of the side consoles, then walks towards the exit like the night is over.
Then he pauses. Looks back.
Dean stays in his chair, one boot hooked against the base of the console, staring up at a sky that currently isn’t showing anything interesting.
A beat. Castiel turns around and comes back. Dean doesn’t comment on it.
“Is that normal?” he asks instead, nodding towards the ceiling as the next projection begins to bleed slowly into place. Not a full show, just a scattered field of sprinkled stars, dimmer, less structured.
Castiel follows his gaze. “Yes. It recalibrates between programs.”
The stars settle gradually, not all at once. Points of light flicker into position, uneven, like the projection is assembling itself from memory rather than a computer instruction. Dust drifts through the projector beam, catching briefly, small yet bright interruptions that disappear as quickly as they appear.
Dean watches that longer than he probably should. “It doesn’t look finished.”
“It isn’t,” Castiel replies. “It doesn’t need to be.”
Dean huffs quietly at that, but doesn’t argue. He doesn’t understand most of what Castiel says, and that’s becoming as routine as his staying late. Words like ‘background radiation’ and ‘signal degradation’ and ‘observable remnants’ get dropped into the air between them like Dean is supposed to glean some kind of cosmic meaning from them. He doesn’t.
But he stays and listens anyway.
“You said the light’s old,” he says after a minute. “Like… already happened old.”
“Yes.”
“And we’re just—what? Watching it show up?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Dean shifts in his chair, glancing over at Castiel. “That doesn’t mess with you?”
Castiel considers the question like it’s the most profound thing he’s ever heard. “No,” he decides. “It’s simply the nature of observation. There is always a delay between an event and its perception.”
Dean looks back up at the ceiling. A cluster of stars sharpen into focus near the edge of the dome. Not a constellation he recognises, just points that seem spread out, uneven.
“Sounds like a bad deal,” he mutters. “Everything important already over by the time you get to it.”
There’s a pause, longer this time. Dean doesn’t look over, but he can feel Castiel’s attention shifting, settling on him instead of the projection.
“That isn’t how I would describe it,” Castiel says.
Dean huffs again, softer this time. “Yeah, well. You’re the expert, Cas.”
Silence stretches between them again, but it’s not empty. Not like that first night. There’s something settled about it now, like they understand each other. Even though they don’t.
The projection cycles again, faint adjustments clicking into place. More dust catches in the light.
Dean doesn’t move to leave.
Neither does Castiel.
--
Observation Log: Day 22 - 1169
Dean stops pretending it’s accidental somewhere around the third week. He still clocks out when he’s supposed to. Still does the rounds, checks the exits, powers down what needs powering down. On paper, his job ends when the last show does.
In practice, he stays.
The planetarium settles into a different kind of quiet after closing. Not empty, just held. Like the space doesn’t fully power down, just becomes something softer. The projection cycles low, slow transitions instead of full programs. Stars drift in and out of alignment without ever quite committing to a pattern.
Dean brings coffee now. Two cups. Doesn’t comment on it, just sets the second one down on the console without looking at Castiel when he does.
Castiel drinks it, also without comment. That, more than anything, is how Dean knows this is becoming a thing.
Tonight, the projection feels dimmer than usual. A wide sprinkle of stars across the dome, no clear constellation, just points of light spread unevenly across the dark.
Castiel is already there when Dean finishes locking up, standing near the edge of the control booth, looking up like he’s trying to solve a problem, to make order out of nature’s chaos.
Dean leans against the console, nudging the second coffee towards him. “You ever just… not?”
Castiel glances at the cup, then at Dean. “Not what?”
“Not think about it,” Dean says, gesturing upwards. “All of it. Space. Time. Whatever you’ve got going on in that head?”
Castiel considers that, then picks up the coffee. “No.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Didn’t think so.”
They fall into silence again, but it gets more comfortable and familiar by the day. Dean doesn’t even feel like he has to fill it anymore.
The projector hums softly. Light spills across the room in slow, uneven passes, catching on the edge of the console and the curve of the dome. He watches as it illuminates the line of Castiel’s shoulder where his coat has slipped slightly out of place.
It doesn’t hit him all at once, it’s not that kind of realisation. It’s smaller than that. Quieter.
Dean notices that the light doesn’t settle on Castiel evenly. It breaks across him in fragments, like it’s trying to map something that doesn’t hold still long enough to be understood.
He looks away. “Sam texted,” he says, because that’s easier. “Says the case he’s on might take a few more days.”
Castiel nods once. “I see.”
“You say that like you don’t,” Dean mutters, but there’s no bite to it.
Castiel lifts his gaze back to the projection. “You’ve remained here,” he says after a moment. “Despite the absence of active work. And your case wrapped up days ago.”
Dean huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. Don’t act so surprised. I can commit to a low-stakes gig when I want to.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
Dean glances over at him. “No?”
Castiel’s attention shifts—not to Dean’s face, not fully, but closer than before. “Most people don’t return to the same place repeatedly without a clear objective.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “You say that like I’ve got some kind of grand plan.”
“Do you?”
The question lands softer than it probably should. Dean opens his mouth to deflect. Habit, reflex, it’s easy for him. Yet nothing comes out. He ends up looking back at the ceiling instead.
“Yeah,” he says finally, quieter. “Guess I do.”
Castiel doesn’t ask what it is. He doesn’t need to.
The projection adjusts again, a faint recalibration that sends a beam of light across the dome. For a second, it catches between them, suspended long enough just to be seen. Dean watches it, then without really thinking about it, he shifts a fraction closer. Not enough to make a point of it.
Just enough that if Castiel moved too, they’d notice.
Castiel doesn’t move.
--
Observation Log: Day 40
It’s colder in the planetarium tonight. Not enough to matter to anyone else, but enough that Dean notices when he pushes through the side door, shoulders tensing against it before the warmth from inside catches up.
The place is empty, same as always. Last show done, lights low, the dome already mid-transition. The stars are bleeding slowly into place, not yet settled.
Castiel is there.
Dean doesn’t think about the fact that he expects it now. Just drops into the chair like he belongs there and sets a coffee down beside the console without looking.
Castiel takes it. They don’t speak for a while.
The projection is crystal clear tonight. Sharper, more defined. Like the stars have decided what they are instead of hovering in between.
Dean leans back, watching them. “You ever get it wrong?” he asks eventually.
Castiel glances at him. “In what sense?”
“All of it. The data. The readings. Whatever you’re pulling meaning out of.”
Castiel considers that. “Yes,” he says. “Frequently.”
Dean snorts. “That’s reassuring.”
“There is an expected margin of error,” Castiel continues. “Observation is limited by many factors. Distance. Delay. By the fact that what we are measuring has already changed by the time we perceive it.”
Dean’s gaze stays on the ceiling. “Yeah,” he says. “You’ve mentioned.”
There’s a pause. Castiel steps a little closer to the console, setting his untouched coffee down, attention shifting fully to the projection.
“Most of what we study is no longer in the state we observe it in,” he says. “Stars collapse. Systems decay. Entire structures cease to exist. The light persists regardless.”
Dean frowns slightly. “That’s bleak, man.”
“It isn’t,” Castiel says, calm as ever. “It’s simply accurate.”
The projection shifts again, subtle, almost imperceptible changes. A cluster near the centre flickers, then stabilises. Castiel watches it like it matters.
“Meaning is not diminished by distance,” he continues. “If anything, it is clarified. Stripped of immediate distortion. What remains is… truer.”
Dean goes very still. It’s not obvious, no sudden movement or sharp intake of breath. Just a quiet kind of stillness.
“What, so—” he starts, then stops. He takes a breath and tries again. “You’re saying it matters more once it’s over?”
“I’m saying its significance is not dependent on proximity.”
Dean exhales slowly, something like a laugh caught in it. “Right,” he says, not looking at Castiel.
The stars above them hold steady, fixed in a way they haven’t been the past few nights. Less drift. Dean notices that too.
“Sounds like a great system,” he adds after a moment. “Nothing real sticks around, but hey, at least you can analyse it better once it’s gone.”
Castiel turns his head slightly, frowning. “That isn’t—”
Dean shakes his head, cutting him off. “No, I get it,” he says. “Distance. Perspective. All that.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes still on the projection but not really seeing it anymore. “Just… seems like a bad way to live.”
The words hang that. Castiel doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice is quieter than before. Adjusted for the intensity of what they’re not-talking about.
“It isn’t intended as a method of living,” he says. “It is an observation of what is.”
Dean gives a wry smile. “Yeah, that’s the problem.”
Silence settles between them again, but it’s different now. Not as easy or as comfortable. The space between them feels as misaligned as the projection on the night they met. Technically functional, but off in a way that’s hard to ignore once you’ve noticed it.
Dean doesn’t shift closer this time. Doesn’t reach for the controls. Doesn’t say anything else.
He just sits there, watching the light that doesn’t belong to the present, and thinks about how none of it ever actually stays where it should.
After a while, Castiel steps back. It’s subtle, small enough that most people wouldn’t notice.
Dean does.
Neither of them says anything about it.
--
Observation Log: Day 58
Dean notices something is off before anything is said.
It’s small—Castiel is already there when he arrives, which isn’t unusual, but tonight he’s not standing near the console. He’s not watching the projection start up. He’s just still, beside the edge of the control booth, like he’s already halfway elsewhere.
Dean sets the coffee down anyway, noticing that Castiel takes longer than usual to pick it up.
“That’ll be the last time you need to do that,” Castiel says eventually.
Dean pauses mid-sit. It takes him a second to process the sentence properly, like his brain refuses to make sense of the words that only really have one meaning.
“What?”
Castiel doesn’t look at him immediately. His attention stays on the dome as the projection begins to cycle, the stars moving across the sky away from them. Pulling away.
“I’ve accepted a position with a deep-space research facility,” he says. “The transfer finalises at the end of the week.”
Dean lets out a short breath through his nose. It’s not a laugh.
“Okay,” he says instead. “That’s… cool. Congrats, I guess.”
Castiel finally looks at him then. There’s no expectation in it. No waiting for a reaction. Just observation. It’s infuriating.
“Thank you,” he says.
Dean nods once, like that settles something it absolutely doesn’t.
The projection continues above them. The stars tonight are dense—clusters overlapping, like the system is running multiple projections at once, hasn’t quite separated them out.
They both stare at it.
“Deep space,” Dean repeats after a moment. “That’s far.”
“Yes.”
He shifts in his chair, leaning back. “When did you decide that?”
“Some time ago,” Castiel says. “The confirmation only arrived recently.”
Dean nods again. Too quickly.
“Sure,” he says. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Castiel takes a sip of his coffee and sets it down after. “I will be leaving in three days,” he adds.
Dean’s jaw tightens, just slightly. He keeps his eye on the dome. The stars above them drift through a slow recalibration cycle. A faint scatter of light passes through the air between them, dust caught in the projection. Dean watches it fall.
He doesn’t look at Castiel when he speaks again. “You gonna miss it?”
A beat.
“I will not be here to miss anything,” Castiel says.
That hits harder than it should. Dean exhales slowly.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That makes sense.”
He doesn’t move for a long time after that. Neither does Castiel. The projection overhead stabilises, cleaner now, finalised. Stars locked into place like they’ve decided what they are and stopped shifting.
Dean watches them, then finally leans forward and picks up his coffee.
It’s cold.
--
Observation Log: Day 60
The planetarium feels emptier than it should.
Not because there’s anything physically missing from it. Everything is still where it always is. The console, the chairs, the faint hum of systems powering down between programs. The dome overhead still holds a sky that isn’t real and never has been.
Dean watches it anyway. Like always.
Castiel is already there when he arrives.
For a second, Dean just stands in the doorway and watches him—not because it’s unusual anymore, but because he knows it won’t be like this again.
Castiel doesn’t turn right away. He’s looking up at the projection, hands loosely at his side. Two coffees sit untouched on the console beside him.
Dean steps inside. The door closes behind him with a soft click that echoes far louder than it should.
Neither of them say anything immediately.
Dean walks over and takes the second cup of coffee anyway. It’s still warm.
“You’re really doing it,” he says finally.
“Yes.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Figured.”
He sits in his usual place, in the same chair he always does. Same angle, same habit.
Above them, the projection begins a slow transition—stars fading, reforming, breaking apart and reassembling in patterns too large to track at once. Light spills unevenly through the dome, scattering across the room in fragments.
Dust catches in it again. Small brief points that never hold still long enough to become anything whole.
Castiel steps closer. “I did not expect you to be here,” he says.
Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well. I’m full of surprises.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“I know.” Dean doesn’t look at him yet. “I was gonna say something smart. Something final. Like I’ve got a whole speech ready or whatever.”
Castiel waits, and Dean finally meets his eyes. Then shrugs, a little less confident than usual.
“But I don’t,” he admits. “So. That’s probably for the best.”
The corner of Castiel’s mouth shifts, barely perceptible.
“You have been here consistently,” he says. “Despite having no obligation to remain.”
Dean laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “Funny how that works.”
Silence again. The projection shifts into a denser field. Light layers over light, fragments cross paths but never merge. For a split second, it looks like the night sky is made of scattered pieces that only pretend to be connected.
“You ever think you’re wrong?” he asks.
Castiel’s response is careful. “In what way?”
“All of it,” Dean says. “The distance thing. The… everything already being gone before it matter thing.”
Castiel looks at him properly now, his gaze knowing. “I think,” he says slowly, “that I misjudged the necessity of proximity to significance.”
The corner of Dean’s mouth tugs briefly. “That’s one way to say it.”
He reaches for his coffee, but doesn’t drink it, and after a moment he sets it back down untouched. He stands, stepping closer to Castiel.
“You’re still leaving,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Yeah.” Dean nods once. “I know. I just… didn’t want it to be nothing.”
Castiel’s gaze holds steady. “It is not nothing.”
Dean exhales, then he reaches out. There’s no hesitation, no testing. He catches the edge of Castiel’s coat like he’s grounding himself, reminding himself that while the stars themselves are not tangible, this is.
Castiel doesn’t move away.
The projection continues overhead, scattering light in broken waves.
Castiel leans in first, just slightly, but Dean meets him there. The kiss is quiet, not urgent. Just the moment where proximity contributes to significance.
When they pull back, neither of them fully steps away. Above them, the stars keep shifting.
But for once, neither of them look up.
If you liked this, please consider reblogging or leave me a comment on AO3? Please? :)
Summary: Dean is used to things being temporary. It’s what comes with the kind of life where nothing meaningful sticks around. Teen | 3.5k
[Read on AO3]
Many thanks to @envydean for looking this over for me and helping me with my doubts about this fic. Appreciate you, Jenny!
--
Observation Log: Day 1
Dean breaks the sky on his first night working at the planetarium.
It’s not a permanent gig. Nothing ever is. There was a case, late night sightings, people swearing the stars were moving wrong, patterns shifting where they shouldn’t. Sam’s off chasing a lead a couple of towns over, something with actual teeth and a body count, which leaves Dean with this.
Stakeout, he’d called it.
“Low risk,” Sam had argued.
“It’s a planetarium, not a freakin’ luxury cruise!” Dean had snapped back. “I’m going to be working.”
Now he’s standing in the control booth, staring up at a ceiling full of stars that definitely aren’t where they’re supposed to be, thinking maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.
The sky isn’t literally broken. Just the projection system is misaligned, a star field spilling constellations where they don’t belong. Orion’s belt is halfway across something that definitely isn’t Orion anymore, and there’s a cluster of stars bleeding into the edge of the dome like they’ve decided that the sky is boring and they’d rather be down here on earth.
Dean leans back in his chair, squinting up at it.
“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “That’s definitely wrong.”
The control panel in front of him is a mess of switches and sliders that all seem to do something slightly different than what they’re labelled as. He nudges one experimentally, and the stars shift. Worse.
“Great,” Dean says flatly. “Love that.”
Someone behind him sighs. Not loud, not annoyed. The kind of sound somebody makes when a problem has already been solved in their head and they’re just waiting for everyone else to stop being dumb and catch up.
“You’re projecting Orion in the wrong hemisphere.”
Dean freezes for half a second before turning around. He’s expecting his supervisor. Maybe a bored college kid who actually knows how this thing works. What he gets is something entirely different.
The guy standing in the doorway looks like he belongs somewhere quieter than this. Messy dark hair, big blue eyes, a dorky sweater vest. His eyes flick briefly from Dean to the ceiling, taking in the damage.
“It’s not supposed to—” Dean starts, gesturing vaguely upwards. “—do that.”
The guy steps past him without asking. “It’s not,” he agrees.
Dean shifts aside as the guy reaches past his shoulders and adjusts two controls in quick succession. The stars shift again, smooth this time. Orion snaps back into something recognisable. The rest of the sky follows suit.
He blinks. “Okay. Yeah. How’d you do that?”
The guy doesn’t look at him, just continues watching the ceiling. “What you’re seeing isn’t current,” he says. “The light takes time to arrive. Even in simulation, it’s modelled that way. You’re not projecting where the stars are. You’re projecting where they were.”
Dean blinks. “Isn’t that a design flaw?”
“It’s accurate.” The guy finally looks at him. “My name is Castiel.”
Dean leans back in his chair again, glancing up at the now-correct sky before looking back at him.
“Dean,” he says eventually. “And, uh, thanks, man. For fixing my accidental cosmic disaster.”
Castiel doesn’t respond to that, just tilts his head slightly like he’s considering something that Dean can’t see.
“The projection drifts if it’s not recalibrated manually,” he says. “Most people don’t notice.”
Dean huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. I did notice it was wrong, just didn’t know how to make it right.
Castiel’s gaze flicks to him again. “Most people don’t notice that either.”
--
Observation Log: Day 7
Dean doesn’t mean to stay late. That’s what he tells himself, anyway.
It just… happens. The first couple of nights, he blames the equipment. Learning the controls, making sure the projections don’t drift into whatever abstract mess he made that first day, it takes time. After that, it’s easier to say he’s waiting on Sam to call. Or that it’s quieter here than the motel.
By the end of the first week, the excuses stop needing to make sense. The last show finishes, the recorded voice fades out. The artificial sky dims and resets.
Dean doesn’t leave. Castiel does.
Kind of. He gathers his notes, shuts down one of the side consoles, then walks towards the exit like the night is over.
Then he pauses. Looks back.
Dean stays in his chair, one boot hooked against the base of the console, staring up at a sky that currently isn’t showing anything interesting.
A beat. Castiel turns around and comes back. Dean doesn’t comment on it.
“Is that normal?” he asks instead, nodding towards the ceiling as the next projection begins to bleed slowly into place. Not a full show, just a scattered field of sprinkled stars, dimmer, less structured.
Castiel follows his gaze. “Yes. It recalibrates between programs.”
The stars settle gradually, not all at once. Points of light flicker into position, uneven, like the projection is assembling itself from memory rather than a computer instruction. Dust drifts through the projector beam, catching briefly, small yet bright interruptions that disappear as quickly as they appear.
Dean watches that longer than he probably should. “It doesn’t look finished.”
“It isn’t,” Castiel replies. “It doesn’t need to be.”
Dean huffs quietly at that, but doesn’t argue. He doesn’t understand most of what Castiel says, and that’s becoming as routine as his staying late. Words like ‘background radiation’ and ‘signal degradation’ and ‘observable remnants’ get dropped into the air between them like Dean is supposed to glean some kind of cosmic meaning from them. He doesn’t.
But he stays and listens anyway.
“You said the light’s old,” he says after a minute. “Like… already happened old.”
“Yes.”
“And we’re just—what? Watching it show up?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Dean shifts in his chair, glancing over at Castiel. “That doesn’t mess with you?”
Castiel considers the question like it’s the most profound thing he’s ever heard. “No,” he decides. “It’s simply the nature of observation. There is always a delay between an event and its perception.”
Dean looks back up at the ceiling. A cluster of stars sharpen into focus near the edge of the dome. Not a constellation he recognises, just points that seem spread out, uneven.
“Sounds like a bad deal,” he mutters. “Everything important already over by the time you get to it.”
There’s a pause, longer this time. Dean doesn’t look over, but he can feel Castiel’s attention shifting, settling on him instead of the projection.
“That isn’t how I would describe it,” Castiel says.
Dean huffs again, softer this time. “Yeah, well. You’re the expert, Cas.”
Silence stretches between them again, but it’s not empty. Not like that first night. There’s something settled about it now, like they understand each other. Even though they don’t.
The projection cycles again, faint adjustments clicking into place. More dust catches in the light.
Dean doesn’t move to leave.
Neither does Castiel.
--
Observation Log: Day 22 - 1169
Dean stops pretending it’s accidental somewhere around the third week. He still clocks out when he’s supposed to. Still does the rounds, checks the exits, powers down what needs powering down. On paper, his job ends when the last show does.
In practice, he stays.
The planetarium settles into a different kind of quiet after closing. Not empty, just held. Like the space doesn’t fully power down, just becomes something softer. The projection cycles low, slow transitions instead of full programs. Stars drift in and out of alignment without ever quite committing to a pattern.
Dean brings coffee now. Two cups. Doesn’t comment on it, just sets the second one down on the console without looking at Castiel when he does.
Castiel drinks it, also without comment. That, more than anything, is how Dean knows this is becoming a thing.
Tonight, the projection feels dimmer than usual. A wide sprinkle of stars across the dome, no clear constellation, just points of light spread unevenly across the dark.
Castiel is already there when Dean finishes locking up, standing near the edge of the control booth, looking up like he’s trying to solve a problem, to make order out of nature’s chaos.
Dean leans against the console, nudging the second coffee towards him. “You ever just… not?”
Castiel glances at the cup, then at Dean. “Not what?”
“Not think about it,” Dean says, gesturing upwards. “All of it. Space. Time. Whatever you’ve got going on in that head?”
Castiel considers that, then picks up the coffee. “No.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Didn’t think so.”
They fall into silence again, but it gets more comfortable and familiar by the day. Dean doesn’t even feel like he has to fill it anymore.
The projector hums softly. Light spills across the room in slow, uneven passes, catching on the edge of the console and the curve of the dome. He watches as it illuminates the line of Castiel’s shoulder where his coat has slipped slightly out of place.
It doesn’t hit him all at once, it’s not that kind of realisation. It’s smaller than that. Quieter.
Dean notices that the light doesn’t settle on Castiel evenly. It breaks across him in fragments, like it’s trying to map something that doesn’t hold still long enough to be understood.
He looks away. “Sam texted,” he says, because that’s easier. “Says the case he’s on might take a few more days.”
Castiel nods once. “I see.”
“You say that like you don’t,” Dean mutters, but there’s no bite to it.
Castiel lifts his gaze back to the projection. “You’ve remained here,” he says after a moment. “Despite the absence of active work. And your case wrapped up days ago.”
Dean huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. Don’t act so surprised. I can commit to a low-stakes gig when I want to.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
Dean glances over at him. “No?”
Castiel’s attention shifts—not to Dean’s face, not fully, but closer than before. “Most people don’t return to the same place repeatedly without a clear objective.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “You say that like I’ve got some kind of grand plan.”
“Do you?”
The question lands softer than it probably should. Dean opens his mouth to deflect. Habit, reflex, it’s easy for him. Yet nothing comes out. He ends up looking back at the ceiling instead.
“Yeah,” he says finally, quieter. “Guess I do.”
Castiel doesn’t ask what it is. He doesn’t need to.
The projection adjusts again, a faint recalibration that sends a beam of light across the dome. For a second, it catches between them, suspended long enough just to be seen. Dean watches it, then without really thinking about it, he shifts a fraction closer. Not enough to make a point of it.
Just enough that if Castiel moved too, they’d notice.
Castiel doesn’t move.
--
Observation Log: Day 40
It’s colder in the planetarium tonight. Not enough to matter to anyone else, but enough that Dean notices when he pushes through the side door, shoulders tensing against it before the warmth from inside catches up.
The place is empty, same as always. Last show done, lights low, the dome already mid-transition. The stars are bleeding slowly into place, not yet settled.
Castiel is there.
Dean doesn’t think about the fact that he expects it now. Just drops into the chair like he belongs there and sets a coffee down beside the console without looking.
Castiel takes it. They don’t speak for a while.
The projection is crystal clear tonight. Sharper, more defined. Like the stars have decided what they are instead of hovering in between.
Dean leans back, watching them. “You ever get it wrong?” he asks eventually.
Castiel glances at him. “In what sense?”
“All of it. The data. The readings. Whatever you’re pulling meaning out of.”
Castiel considers that. “Yes,” he says. “Frequently.”
Dean snorts. “That’s reassuring.”
“There is an expected margin of error,” Castiel continues. “Observation is limited by many factors. Distance. Delay. By the fact that what we are measuring has already changed by the time we perceive it.”
Dean’s gaze stays on the ceiling. “Yeah,” he says. “You’ve mentioned.”
There’s a pause. Castiel steps a little closer to the console, setting his untouched coffee down, attention shifting fully to the projection.
“Most of what we study is no longer in the state we observe it in,” he says. “Stars collapse. Systems decay. Entire structures cease to exist. The light persists regardless.”
Dean frowns slightly. “That’s bleak, man.”
“It isn’t,” Castiel says, calm as ever. “It’s simply accurate.”
The projection shifts again, subtle, almost imperceptible changes. A cluster near the centre flickers, then stabilises. Castiel watches it like it matters.
“Meaning is not diminished by distance,” he continues. “If anything, it is clarified. Stripped of immediate distortion. What remains is… truer.”
Dean goes very still. It’s not obvious, no sudden movement or sharp intake of breath. Just a quiet kind of stillness.
“What, so—” he starts, then stops. He takes a breath and tries again. “You’re saying it matters more once it’s over?”
“I’m saying its significance is not dependent on proximity.”
Dean exhales slowly, something like a laugh caught in it. “Right,” he says, not looking at Castiel.
The stars above them hold steady, fixed in a way they haven’t been the past few nights. Less drift. Dean notices that too.
“Sounds like a great system,” he adds after a moment. “Nothing real sticks around, but hey, at least you can analyse it better once it’s gone.”
Castiel turns his head slightly, frowning. “That isn’t—”
Dean shakes his head, cutting him off. “No, I get it,” he says. “Distance. Perspective. All that.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes still on the projection but not really seeing it anymore. “Just… seems like a bad way to live.”
The words hang that. Castiel doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice is quieter than before. Adjusted for the intensity of what they’re not-talking about.
“It isn’t intended as a method of living,” he says. “It is an observation of what is.”
Dean gives a wry smile. “Yeah, that’s the problem.”
Silence settles between them again, but it’s different now. Not as easy or as comfortable. The space between them feels as misaligned as the projection on the night they met. Technically functional, but off in a way that’s hard to ignore once you’ve noticed it.
Dean doesn’t shift closer this time. Doesn’t reach for the controls. Doesn’t say anything else.
He just sits there, watching the light that doesn’t belong to the present, and thinks about how none of it ever actually stays where it should.
After a while, Castiel steps back. It’s subtle, small enough that most people wouldn’t notice.
Dean does.
Neither of them says anything about it.
--
Observation Log: Day 58
Dean notices something is off before anything is said.
It’s small—Castiel is already there when he arrives, which isn’t unusual, but tonight he’s not standing near the console. He’s not watching the projection start up. He’s just still, beside the edge of the control booth, like he’s already halfway elsewhere.
Dean sets the coffee down anyway, noticing that Castiel takes longer than usual to pick it up.
“That’ll be the last time you need to do that,” Castiel says eventually.
Dean pauses mid-sit. It takes him a second to process the sentence properly, like his brain refuses to make sense of the words that only really have one meaning.
“What?”
Castiel doesn’t look at him immediately. His attention stays on the dome as the projection begins to cycle, the stars moving across the sky away from them. Pulling away.
“I’ve accepted a position with a deep-space research facility,” he says. “The transfer finalises at the end of the week.”
Dean lets out a short breath through his nose. It’s not a laugh.
“Okay,” he says instead. “That’s… cool. Congrats, I guess.”
Castiel finally looks at him then. There’s no expectation in it. No waiting for a reaction. Just observation. It’s infuriating.
“Thank you,” he says.
Dean nods once, like that settles something it absolutely doesn’t.
The projection continues above them. The stars tonight are dense—clusters overlapping, like the system is running multiple projections at once, hasn’t quite separated them out.
They both stare at it.
“Deep space,” Dean repeats after a moment. “That’s far.”
“Yes.”
He shifts in his chair, leaning back. “When did you decide that?”
“Some time ago,” Castiel says. “The confirmation only arrived recently.”
Dean nods again. Too quickly.
“Sure,” he says. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Castiel takes a sip of his coffee and sets it down after. “I will be leaving in three days,” he adds.
Dean’s jaw tightens, just slightly. He keeps his eye on the dome. The stars above them drift through a slow recalibration cycle. A faint scatter of light passes through the air between them, dust caught in the projection. Dean watches it fall.
He doesn’t look at Castiel when he speaks again. “You gonna miss it?”
A beat.
“I will not be here to miss anything,” Castiel says.
That hits harder than it should. Dean exhales slowly.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That makes sense.”
He doesn’t move for a long time after that. Neither does Castiel. The projection overhead stabilises, cleaner now, finalised. Stars locked into place like they’ve decided what they are and stopped shifting.
Dean watches them, then finally leans forward and picks up his coffee.
It’s cold.
--
Observation Log: Day 60
The planetarium feels emptier than it should.
Not because there’s anything physically missing from it. Everything is still where it always is. The console, the chairs, the faint hum of systems powering down between programs. The dome overhead still holds a sky that isn’t real and never has been.
Dean watches it anyway. Like always.
Castiel is already there when he arrives.
For a second, Dean just stands in the doorway and watches him—not because it’s unusual anymore, but because he knows it won’t be like this again.
Castiel doesn’t turn right away. He’s looking up at the projection, hands loosely at his side. Two coffees sit untouched on the console beside him.
Dean steps inside. The door closes behind him with a soft click that echoes far louder than it should.
Neither of them say anything immediately.
Dean walks over and takes the second cup of coffee anyway. It’s still warm.
“You’re really doing it,” he says finally.
“Yes.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Figured.”
He sits in his usual place, in the same chair he always does. Same angle, same habit.
Above them, the projection begins a slow transition—stars fading, reforming, breaking apart and reassembling in patterns too large to track at once. Light spills unevenly through the dome, scattering across the room in fragments.
Dust catches in it again. Small brief points that never hold still long enough to become anything whole.
Castiel steps closer. “I did not expect you to be here,” he says.
Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well. I’m full of surprises.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“I know.” Dean doesn’t look at him yet. “I was gonna say something smart. Something final. Like I’ve got a whole speech ready or whatever.”
Castiel waits, and Dean finally meets his eyes. Then shrugs, a little less confident than usual.
“But I don’t,” he admits. “So. That’s probably for the best.”
The corner of Castiel’s mouth shifts, barely perceptible.
“You have been here consistently,” he says. “Despite having no obligation to remain.”
Dean laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “Funny how that works.”
Silence again. The projection shifts into a denser field. Light layers over light, fragments cross paths but never merge. For a split second, it looks like the night sky is made of scattered pieces that only pretend to be connected.
“You ever think you’re wrong?” he asks.
Castiel’s response is careful. “In what way?”
“All of it,” Dean says. “The distance thing. The… everything already being gone before it matter thing.”
Castiel looks at him properly now, his gaze knowing. “I think,” he says slowly, “that I misjudged the necessity of proximity to significance.”
The corner of Dean’s mouth tugs briefly. “That’s one way to say it.”
He reaches for his coffee, but doesn’t drink it, and after a moment he sets it back down untouched. He stands, stepping closer to Castiel.
“You’re still leaving,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Yeah.” Dean nods once. “I know. I just… didn’t want it to be nothing.”
Castiel’s gaze holds steady. “It is not nothing.”
Dean exhales, then he reaches out. There’s no hesitation, no testing. He catches the edge of Castiel’s coat like he’s grounding himself, reminding himself that while the stars themselves are not tangible, this is.
Castiel doesn’t move away.
The projection continues overhead, scattering light in broken waves.
Castiel leans in first, just slightly, but Dean meets him there. The kiss is quiet, not urgent. Just the moment where proximity contributes to significance.
When they pull back, neither of them fully steps away. Above them, the stars keep shifting.
But for once, neither of them look up.
If you liked this, please consider reblogging or leave me a comment on AO3? Please? :)
Not me crawling out of the woodwork and writing two fics in one week! Sterek has been posted, Destiel incoming later today (hopefully I can find a beta!)
Summary: Stiles has seen a lot of blood over the years in Beacon Hills. Most of it stops meaning anything after a while. Just another consequence of living in a town that refuses to stay normal. Teen | 4.9k
[Read on AO3]
--
Stiles has seen enough blood by now that it’s stopped meaning anything, at least in the immediate sense.
That’s not a thought he likes admitting, even to himself, but it’s true in the way his brain has adapted around Beacon Hills. As if some part of him has quietly decided that if everything is going to be sharp and violent and unfair, then it might as well stop flinching at the details. Blood on the asphalt. Broken bones. Torn skin.
Blood used to mean panic, but now just means another mess he has to clean up later.
He notices it less and less these days. Which is exactly why it stands out to him when it does.
Because when it’s Derek’s, it’s harder to pretend it doesn’t matter.
--
1. his jawline
They’re back at the old abandoned mill after the latest thing-that-definitely-shouldn’t-exist-but-somehow-does. Stiles isn’t even sure what the creature is. Some kind of mutated wolf, like a kanima but less reptilian. Scott is still trying to explain it in increasingly frustrated sentences on the phone outside. Isaac and Ethan are on clean-up duty.
Stiles isn’t really listening anymore.
Because Derek is standing near the cracked concrete wall, half-concealed in shadow, rolling one shoulder like he’s trying to decide whether the pain is worth acknowledging. There’s blood on him—of course there is—but Stiles can’t seem to drag his eyes away.
Sprinkles of blood across his collarbone where the creature got too close. A darker smear along his jaw that looks like he tried to wipe it away but didn’t get it all. A thin line on his lip, dried, where the injury has already healed, but the blood remains like the moment hasn’t finished fully happening. Like it’s stuck.
Stiles tells himself he should be used to this too. But Derek doesn’t react like the others when he’s injured.The others are loud about it. Scott limps, Malia snaps, Jackson bitches. Even Lydia goes quiet in a way that demands attention.
Derek just accumulates it, like it has nowhere else to go.
The others are still occupied outside. Scott has hung up on Chris Argent and is arguing with Ethan about whether the creature is actually dead or just acting strategically unconscious, which Stiles is pretty sure is a level of tactical forethought that the feral wolf-but-not isn’t capable of. Wasn’t capable of.
So it’s just him, standing in the mill with Derek, in a moment that feels untethered. Like the world has paused.
Stiles steps closer before he really decides to. There’s something about the quiet that Derek’s company brings that makes movement easier, like there’s nothing in the world that could hold him back.
He sees Derek watching him approach, but he doesn’t move away. That alone should probably mean something.
Up close, the blood is worse. Not in volume, but detail. It’s streaked against his skin, black in the limited moonlight. The faint smear just under his jawline, drying unevenly where sweat and the friction of his clothing have dragged it thin. Stiles can see the edge, where it’s caught into Derek’s stubble.
He doesn’t think before he reaches up, just wipes it away. His thumb catches under Derek’s jaw, right where the blood has settled. It’s careful, cautious, yet almost absent-minded in its innocence. Like he’s done this a hundred times before.
Derek goes still in a way that is immediate and intense. Not startled, exactly. Just unmoving.
Stiles wipes the mark away anyway. “You’ve got…” he begins, then stops, because they’ve all got blood on them. So he changes tack. “—you’re doing that thing again where you look like you’ve lost an argument with a brick wall.”
The silence between them is palpable. Derek doesn’t respond immediately, but his eyes are fixed on Stiles’ hand, like he’s trying to categorise what kind of threat it is.
“It’s nothing,” Derek says finally.
Stiles huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Guess it feels like that when you rack up injuries like loyalty stamps. Ten black eyes and you get a free busted lip.”
The words are sarcastic, but the tone is almost soft. Like he’s expecting Derek to pull away now, the usual exit. Sharp words, distance, disappearing before anything gets too close to being real.
Instead, Derek’s eyes meet his, just for a second, and Stiles realises that Derek isn’t angry. He’s uncertain. And that’s kind of worse.
His hand is still near Derek’s jaw, and he slowly lowers it, like he’s realising in that moment just how much he might have overstepped.
“Seriously,” he adds, because he can feel the atmosphere between them and is very carefully not thinking about it. And also because it’s Stiles and he can’t stop putting his foot in his mouth. “You’re going to run out of dramatic near-death experiences one day, and the world might end.”
He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.
Something tightens in Derek’s expression, and he steps back. Quick. Controlled. Immediate.
The atmosphere between them disappears, less a slow dissolve and more of a harsh snap.
“Scott needs help,” Derek says abruptly. He turns and walks out before Stiles can point out that they can both hear Scott arguing with Ethan, and he hasn’t asked for Derek’s help at all.
He watches Derek go, no sign of injuries. Just a familiar stiffness.
Stiles stands there a little longer, his fingers still faintly warm from where they touched Derek’s skin. And he thinks to himself, almost stupidly, that Derek didn’t leave because of his sarcasm reflex.
He left because Stiles touched him like it meant something, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.
--
2. the passenger seat of the jeep
Derek is bleeding. Again.
Stiles notices it in the way he notices most things about Derek these days. Like there’s no outward signs, because Derek has this uncanny ability to just disappear into the background without trying, but when he’s hurt, he’s even better at it.
“Okay,” Stiles says, one hand tight on the wheel as he glances sideways. “So, on a scale of ‘I’m fine’ to ‘this is a deeply concerning amount of blood,’ where are we landing here?”
Derek doesn’t look at him. “Drive.”
“Yeah, no, I got that part,” Stiles mutters. “Just trying to figure out if I should be emotionally preparing myself for you almost dying in my passenger seat. Again.”
A pause.
“I’m not dying,” Derek says. Which, in Derek-speak, could mean anything from mild inconvenience to actively bleeding out but preferring to be a martyr about it.
Stiles exhales, slow and irritated, and presses a little harder on the gas.
The Jeep rattles in that familiar way, the engine protesting beneath its many layers of duct tape just enough to be comforting. It fills the awkward silence, along with Derek’s breathing—controlled, but not nearly as steady as he probably thinks it is.
Stiles doesn’t look over at him again. He doesn’t need to. He can already picture the set of Derek’s shoulders, rigid, the way he pretends that pain can be contained if he just refuses to acknowledge it.
“Stop,” Derek says suddenly.
Stiles frowns. “We’re like… two minutes from the loft.”
“Stop the car.”
There’s something in his voice that makes Stiles obey. The authoritative alpha finality that Derek always uses when he’s decided something and is waiting for everyone else to follow his lead.
Stiles pulls over.
The engine cuts, and the headlights illuminate the empty road. For a second, neither of them moves. Then Derek reaches for the door.
“Hey, no, okay… just hold on,” Stiles says, sharper than he means to. “You’re not doing that thing where you disappear into the night like a cryptid after bleeding all over my upholstery. Again. Sit down.”
Derek stills. “I can walk.”
“Great. Love that for you. Still not the point.” Stiles turns in his seat, finally looking at him properly. “You’re hurt.”
Derek’s jaw tightens. “I’ll heal.”
“I know you’ll heal,” Stiles snaps, scrubbing a hand over his face. “That’s not the point. That’s not the same thing as being fine.”
Silence stretches between them. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly. It’s brittle, but held. Like it could break, but could also lead somewhere if one of them pushed it.
Derek looks away, gaze fixed on a point past the windshield. “You worry too much.”
Stiles lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, someone has to, since you’ve apparently decided that basic self-preservation is optional, and keep using yourself as a werewolf meat shield.”
“That’s not—”
“You don’t get to do that,” Stiles interrupts, his voice kinder but no less firm. “You don’t get to act like it doesn’t matter just because you can survive it.”
That lands. Stiles can see it in the way that Derek’s shoulders shift, the brief flicker of surprise in his eyes that’s quickly masked. For a moment, it looks like Derek might say something real.
Instead, he exhales. “I’m not Scott.”
It’s not defensive, not quiet. Just a statement.
Stiles squints in confusion. “Okay? Congrats? I’m aware.”
“I don’t need…” Derek stops, jaw clenching. He starts again. “I don’t need you to…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Stiles doesn’t need him to.
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I know.”
He doesn’t, not really. But despite popular opinion, he knows when to let it drop.
Derek nods once, like they’re both on the same page, and opens the door. This time, Stiles doesn’t try to stop him. He just watches as Derek gets out, his movements controlled despite his obvious strain, and shuts the door with a solid, final sound.
He doesn’t look back, he never does.
Stiles waits until he’s disappeared into the building before he exhales, and turns to reverse. That’s when he notices the blood. Dark against the worn fabric of the passenger side. Faint, scattered. Not enough to soak through, which is a relief because it means Derek isn’t seriously hurt.
He stares at the droplets. He should clean them. That’s the first thought he has, absently. He has wipes in the glove box, bottles of water in the back. He could take care of it in less than a minute, erase it like it was never there. Have it disappear without a trace, just like Derek’s injuries.
Stiles huffs out a quiet breath. “Of course.”
Because of course Derek would leave pieces of himself behind without realising it. Without asking. Without staying to see the aftermath.
Stiles glances towards the road. Derek is gone. No sign he was ever here.
Except—
Stiles looks back at the seat. His hand hovers briefly over the glove compartment, then drops.
He starts the engine again and drives home.
--
3. soiled bandages
The loft is quieter than it should be for a place that keeps ending up on the receiving end of supernatural disasters.
Stiles isn’t sure when it became a new normal for him to be here like this. Standing in Derek Hale’s space, half-invited, half-not, like one wrong move could get him kicked out, yet for the most part his presence is tolerated.
Derek sits on the edge of the couch, shirt half-ruined, blood beginning to dry over his torso. It’s not fresh anymore. That’s the problem with Derek, by the time it looks like it’s stopped being urgent, it’s already been urgent for too long.
Stiles sets his backpack on the floor carefully.
“You’re really committed to this whole ‘dramatic suffering aesthetic’ thing, huh?” He says, because if he doesn’t say something sarcastic, then he starts to think too hard.
Derek doesn’t respond immediately. He’s breathing evenly, but carefully, like each breath is being carefully weighed in case it causes more pain.
“I’m fine,” he says eventually.
Stiles snorts. “Yeah, I know. That’s your second favourite like, right after ‘I can walk it off.’”
Derek’s eyes meet his briefly, a warning. Or more likely just habit.
Stiles ignores it, already digging through his bag. There’s gauze in there, some rubbing alcohol. Medical supplies. Not because he planned for this specifically, because he tells himself that it’s just because Beacon Hills is inherently hostile, but the truth is messier and something he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
The supplies have been with him for longer than they should have been. Just in case.
He kneels in front of Derek without another word.
Derek stiffens immediately. “I don’t need—”
“Yeah, you do,” Stiles interrupts, not unkind, just certain in a way that leaves no room for argument. “Or, like, you don’t need it, technically, but I do need to know you’re not bleeding out on your couch, so we’re doing this anyway.”
Derek watches him, Stiles can feel it. It’s that guarded, assessing thing he does, like he’s trying to decide if this is danger, or what the catch is. Which is more than a little heartbreaking.
Then slowly, reluctantly, Derek relaxes. It’s not consent in any formal sense, it’s far more profound than that. It’s unspoken trust.
Stiles exhales and starts cleaning the wound. Derek doesn’t talk or flinch while he works.
That’s not unusual. Derek doesn’t talk during most things unless absolutely necessary. But there’s something different about his silence now, it’s less defensive.
Stiles wipes away the dried blood carefully, trying not to think about how familiar this is becoming. How easy it is now to see where Derek got slashed, how his abs tense when something stings more than it should.
“You’re lucky it’s shallow,” Stiles mutters.
“I know,” Derek says.
That makes Stiles pause briefly, because it’s not defensive. Not dismissive. Just acknowledgement.
He glances up. “You could sound a little less pleased about that.”
Derek’s jaw tightens slightly, like he’s considering whether that’s worth responding to. Stiles doesn’t wait for him to decide, just goes back to work. The gauze sticks a little when he presses it down. Derek doesn’t flinch, but he sees it in the smallest shift of his shoulders anyway.
“Seriously,” Stiles says after a moment. “You could just… I don’t know. Try not getting stabbed or slashed or bitten all the time.”
Derek huffs once. Not quite a laugh. “It’s not always avoidable.”
“Yeah, well,” Stiles replies, fastening the wrap carefully. “Try harder. I’m very emotionally invested in you now dying. It’s annoying.”
He pretends not to notice as Derek’s entire body goes still. Instead, he finishes tying off the gauze and sits back on his heels.
“There,” he says. “You’re officially less bleeding.”
Derek looks down at the bandage, and then back at him. “Thanks,” he says.
It’s quiet. Almost unfamiliar.
Stiles blinks once, and gets off his aching knees. “Yeah, don’t make it weird.”
But it already kind of is. Not because of the blood.
Because Derek didn’t stop him.
“Get some rest,” Stiles says eventually, because his mouth refuses to stop trying to make things normal.
Derek doesn’t argue. He stands with a slow, careful movement and walks towards the hallway.
Stiles stays where he is for a moment longer than necessary. There are bloodied rags on the floor beside him. A discarded strip of bandage. He crouches automatically to gather them, because leaving it feels wrong in a way he can’t explain.
He folds them once. Then again.
When he stands, the loft is still empty.
Stiles lets the door click closed silently behind him.
--
4. stiles' hands
It happens too fast for anyone to stop it.
That’s the problem with most of their lives now. Nothing happens in a shape that makes sense until after it’s already done.
One second Derek is there. The next he isn’t.
Not gone, not dead. Just hit in a way that makes Stiles forget what was happening before it.
Stiles remembers the sound more than anything else. Claws tearing through flesh. The impact. Someone shouting his name—Scott, or maybe Lydia—but it all gets swallowed immediately by the rush of blood in his ears.
And then Derek is on the ground. And he doesn’t get up, not immediately.
Which is wrong. That’s the only coherent thought Stiles has for a second.
Because Derek always gets up. Always.
“Derek,” Stiles hears himself say, but it doesn’t sound like his voice. It’s too far away.
He’s moving before he fully decides to. Dropping to his knees beside him, hands already searching without thinking, checking for where the damage is.
There’s too much blood. Not the kind he’s gotten used to, sprinkles and splatters that he can wipe away. Not the kind he can clean and pretend he’s done something useful.
This is different. This is a lot, and it keeps coming.
“Hey,” Stiles says sharply, like he can drag Derek back to his feet from tone alone. “Hey, no, don’t you—don’t you do that thing where you decide to check out without telling anyone. That’s not allowed, okay?”
Derek’s eyes are open. Barely. He’s focused past Stiles, like the effort of looking at him would take too much from him, more than he can afford to lose right now.
Stiles presses his hands hard against the wounds without thinking. He can feel Derek’s blood pooling beneath his fingers.
“Okay,” he says, too fast. “Okay, this is fine. This is—so, so not fine, actually, but it’s manageable. We can manage this. We always do.”
His voice is shaking. It’s never done that before.
“Stiles.”
Derek’s voice. For half a second, it almost steadies him. Then he sees the blood again, and panic snaps right back.
“No,” Stiles says immediately, too sharp, too loud, too fast. “No, don’t do that. Don’t say my name like that. Save your energy or whatever, just… just stay with me, okay?”
A pause. Derek exhales. It sounds wrong. Not like pain, like effort. Like staying alive is something he has to actively choose over something else.
Stiles’ hands don’t stop moving, even though he’s not sure exactly what he’s doing anymore. He’s pressing hard, checking for other injuries, trying to remember every stupid first aid video he half-watched at 3am.
The others are yelling around him. Scott calling for help, Lydia on the phone, Malia snarling at something that is definitely still alive somewhere nearby.
But it’s distant. Like they’re on the surface while Stiles is drowning underwater. The only person here in this moment with him is Derek.
“You’re bleeding too much,” he whispers, like saying it quietly will make it less real.
Derek’s gaze flickers to him. And there’s something in it that Stiles doesn’t like. Not fear. Resignation. Like Derek has already calculated the outcome and is just waiting for him to catch up.
“No,” Stiles says immediately, shaking his head. “No, don’t you dare. Don’t you do that typical Derek thing where you leave early just because it looks statistically likely. That is not how this works.”
His throat tightens, but he doesn’t notice until he tries to swallow.
“You don’t get to do that,” he continues, his voice breaking. “Not after everything. Not after—”
He stops, because there are too many things he could say right now. And none of them are helpful.
Derek shifts slightly. Not to get up, but to move closer to Stiles. A fraction. Like even now, even while he’s losing more blood than he can afford to lose, Stiles is still something he’s orienting around.
“Stiles,” Derek says again.
This time, Stiles doesn’t interrupt, because there’s something in Derek’s tone he’s never heard before. Not a warning, or dismissal, or anger.
Recognition. An acknowledgement of what has been slowly growing between them.
And it hits Stiles harder than anything else in the last five minutes.
“I’ve got you,” Stiles says immediately. “Okay? I’ve got you. Just stay, don’t—don’t leave me here with this, okay?”
A beat. Derek’s eyes close briefly. When they open again, they’re still on him. Still with him.
Barely.
Footsteps approach. Scott’s voice breaks through, sharper than usual.
“Stiles, move, I’ve got him.”
“No,” Stiles protests automatically, tightening the pressure on Derek’s wounds without thinking. “He’s not stable, I need…”
“Stiles,” Scott says again, softer this time. “We’ve got him.”
A stretcher appears at the edge of Stiles’ vision. Hands. Movement. Coordination that Stiles is suddenly not part of anymore. Stiles is made to let go, because Derek is being lifted.
His hands fall away. He stands there long after Derek is gone, hands still outstretched, slick with Derek’s blood.
His fingers curl slightly, like they’re trying to hold onto something that isn’t there anymore.
--
5. split knuckles
The loft is quieter than it should be. Not peaceful or calm.
Just empty in a way that feels deliberate. Stiles stands in the kitchen longer than he needs to, because moving into the rest of the space means acknowledging that Derek is not there. Not unconscious on the couch, not half-present in the corner. Not even pacing like he sometimes does when he’s thinking.
Just gone. Again.
Except not gone-gone. Derek never really does that. He’s just… elsewhere.
Stiles tells himself it makes sense. Of course it does. Derek nearly died. Derek always does this after. Retreats. Rebuilds. Locks everything back down like nothing ever got inside in the first place.
It’s familiar. Predictable. Which is somehow worse.
Because Stiles knows how to deal with unpredictable things. He doesn’t know what to do with patterns that start to feel like rejection.
The first time Stiles notices the absence properly, it’s in his Jeep. He’s dropped Derek and Scott off, and Scott has left crumbs all over the backseat from whatever he’d been eating.
But the passenger seat is clean. Too clean. Not in the normal way where things have simply faded or been wiped away in the chaos of everything else. This is intentional. Controlled. Like there was no trace Derek was ever there at all.
Stiles’ hands hover over the fabric without touching it.
He starts noticing it everywhere after that. The way Derek doesn’t stand where he used to stand. The way he leaves before conversations settle into anything real. The way his presence stops leaving residue.
No blood. No marks. No imprints in a seat, no ring marks from cups. No lingering evidence that he was ever close enough to matter in the small, physical ways that Stiles has been unconsciously tracking.
It's a careful absence. And it’s devastating.
“Okay,” Stiles says one night, because he can’t not say anything anymore, even if he doesn’t fully want to admit what he’s trying to fix. They’re standing in Stiles’ kitchen, tidying away the leftover pizza boxes from the pack gathering. “So are we doing the thing where you just avoid me now?”
Derek doesn’t look up from where he’s standing near the edge of the room. “I’m not avoiding you.”
Stiles huffs a short laugh that doesn’t really land. “Right. Cool. Love that. Very convincing.”
Derek finally glances at him, his expression carefully neutral.
Stiles shifts his weight. He hates that he notices things like that now. The minutiae. The way Derek positions himself slightly further from the center of the room than he used to.
There’s a thin line of dried blood in fresh scrapes on Derek’s knuckles. Small, almost nothing. But Stiles can’t tear his eyes away. It’s contained, in a way that Stiles can’t reach.
“Because,” Stiles continues, slower now, “it kind of feels like you are.”
A beat.
Derek’s eyes tighten, just slightly. “I’m not.”
There’s nothing sharp in his tone. That’s what gives him away. It’s too even, too practiced. Like he’s just repeating something he’s told himself too many times.
Stiles nods, even though he doesn’t believe it. “Okay. Then what is it?”
“I’m fine,” Derek says eventually.
Stiles closes his eyes for half a second, then opens them again. “Yeah,” he says. “We both know that’s not what I asked.”
Derek looks at him again, really looks. Steady.
“You shouldn’t have to deal with it,” Derek says.
Stiles blinks. That’s not an answer he can immediately find sarcasm for. So he doesn’t.
“Deal with what, exactly? The fact that you exist in the same general direction as me?”
There’s a flicker in Derek’s expression, something that might be discomfort. Then it’s gone again.
“You see too much. You don’t need to keep track of me.”
Stiles doesn’t answer right away, because that’s the part that sits wrong in his chest. Because he does. He does need to. And he knows Derek knows that.
“Yeah,” he says eventually. “I get that’s what you think. But I’m not actually great at not noticing things.”
Derek’s gaze holds, and for a second it feels like the conversation could become something else entirely. Stiles holds his breath, waiting, hoping.
Then Derek shifts, and his hand lowers. Stiles sees the blood again, the faint smear reopening at the edge of the knuckle from Derek’s clenched fists. Freshened by movement. A reminder that Derek wasn’t fine when he walked in. That he isn’t as unmoved as he pretends to be. A single droplet falls to the floor.
“I know,” Derek says quietly.
And then, like it’s already decided, he turns away, and leaves.
--
+1. not a drop spilled
Stiles doesn’t wait.
That’s the first thing he realises later, that there isn’t really a moment when he decides to go after Derek. It’s more like the decision has already been made for him, quietly, over weeks of noticing absence when there used to be something more.
So he goes.
The loft is darker than he expects when he arrives. Not empty—Derek is there—but the mood is somber.
Derek looks up when Stiles enters. He doesn’t seem surprised.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Derek says immediately.
Stiles shut the door behind him anyway.
“Yeah,” he replies. “I’ve noticed you’ve been saying that a lot recently. I’m starting to think it’s less of a rule and more of a personality trait.”
Derek exhales through his nose. He turns away slightly, like distance is still something he can create if he positions himself correctly.
Stiles doesn’t let him.
“You can’t just—” Stiles starts, then stops, because he doesn’t actually know how to finish that sentence without sounding like he cares more than he’s ready to admit.
So he tries again. “You can’t just decide I don’t get to see you anymore.” He doesn't mean literally.
Derek’s jaw tightens. “I’m not—” he begins.
But Stiles cuts in, voice sharp. “Yes, you are.”
He steps further into the room. Not aggressive or cautious. Just present
“I get it,” he says, quieter. “Okay? I get what you were trying to do. The whole disappearing act. The no mess, no aftermath, no-proof-you-have-any-feelings thing.”
Derek doesn’t look at him, but Stiles knows him pretty well by now, and he’s learned this means Derek is listening more than he wants to be.
“You think if you don’t leave anything behind,” Stiles continues, “it’s easier. For me. Or whatever. Less to deal with. Less to notice.”
A pause. Then softer:
“But that’s not actually how it works.”
Derek finally looks at him, fully this time. “What do you want?”
It’s blunt, but not hostile. Just direct, like he’s teetering on the edge of defining something he’s been running from.
Stiles swallows. “I don’t want you to stop existing near me,” he says finally, then immediately grimaces. “God, that sounds way worse out loud than it did in my head. What I mean is, I don’t want you to disappear when things get complicated. Or decide that I’m better off not knowing when you’re actually—” he gestures vaguely, trailing off.
Derek’s expression shifts, the guarded look fading to be replaced by something uncertain.
“It’s not safe,” he says.
Stiles huffs. “Yeah. Newsflash: I live in Beacon Hills. My baseline is ‘not safe’.”
That earns the faintest flicker of recognition in Derek’s face. Acknowledgement. Even borderline amusement. Stiles steps closer, but stops at a distance that feels deliberate now, not accidental.
“I’m not asking you to be different,” he says. “I’m asking you to stop deciding for me.”
Derek studies him for a long moment. “You see everything,” he says. “And you still stay.”
Stiles nods.
Derek holds his gaze for a second too long, then slowly steps forward and closes the gap that Stiles hasn’t moved to bridge.
“Then see me. Don’t look away,” Derek says quietly.
Stiles lets out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Not really my specialty.”
Derek’s eyes flicker. “Good,” he says.
Stiles registers the shift a fraction too late. It’s not sudden. It’s just that one second Derek is still where he’s been standing for the last few moments, and the next Stiles is aware that there isn’t really space between them anymore.
Derek reaches for him. Just enough contact that Stiles doesn’t think to move away. And honestly, he doesn’t think he would have anyway.
There’s a moment—tiny, ridiculous—where Stiles is aware of everything at once. The loft. The silence. The fact that this is happening and also somehow feels like it’s been happening for longer than it should have.
Then Derek kisses him.
And it’s not what Stiles expected, if he’s being honest, because there wasn’t actually a version of this that existed in his brain in any useful way.
Stiles makes a sound into it that he absolutely refuses to examine later, because there’s no world in which he’s unpacking that. But he doesn’t move away. That part is immediate, unquestioned. He just kisses back before he can decide whether that’s allowed. Before either of them can make it complicated.
Derek’s hand steadies at his side, resting like an anchor that Stiles suddenly realises he’s been missing in ways he couldn’t express.
When they break apart, it isn’t because either of them decides to. It happens the way breathing eventually demands it.
Stiles blinks once. Then again.
“Okay,” he says, because apparently this is still the only setting his brain has available.
Derek makes a quiet sound, somewhere between an agreement and an exhale.
“Okay,” he agrees.
If you liked it, please consider leaving me a comment or kudos on AO3, or reblogging here!
Summary: Stiles has seen a lot of blood over the years in Beacon Hills. Most of it stops meaning anything after a while. Just another consequence of living in a town that refuses to stay normal. Teen | 4.9k
[Read on AO3]
--
Stiles has seen enough blood by now that it’s stopped meaning anything, at least in the immediate sense.
That’s not a thought he likes admitting, even to himself, but it’s true in the way his brain has adapted around Beacon Hills. As if some part of him has quietly decided that if everything is going to be sharp and violent and unfair, then it might as well stop flinching at the details. Blood on the asphalt. Broken bones. Torn skin.
Blood used to mean panic, but now just means another mess he has to clean up later.
He notices it less and less these days. Which is exactly why it stands out to him when it does.
Because when it’s Derek’s, it’s harder to pretend it doesn’t matter.
--
1. his jawline
They’re back at the old abandoned mill after the latest thing-that-definitely-shouldn’t-exist-but-somehow-does. Stiles isn’t even sure what the creature is. Some kind of mutated wolf, like a kanima but less reptilian. Scott is still trying to explain it in increasingly frustrated sentences on the phone outside. Isaac and Ethan are on clean-up duty.
Stiles isn’t really listening anymore.
Because Derek is standing near the cracked concrete wall, half-concealed in shadow, rolling one shoulder like he’s trying to decide whether the pain is worth acknowledging. There’s blood on him—of course there is—but Stiles can’t seem to drag his eyes away.
Sprinkles of blood across his collarbone where the creature got too close. A darker smear along his jaw that looks like he tried to wipe it away but didn’t get it all. A thin line on his lip, dried, where the injury has already healed, but the blood remains like the moment hasn’t finished fully happening. Like it’s stuck.
Stiles tells himself he should be used to this too. But Derek doesn’t react like the others when he’s injured.The others are loud about it. Scott limps, Malia snaps, Jackson bitches. Even Lydia goes quiet in a way that demands attention.
Derek just accumulates it, like it has nowhere else to go.
The others are still occupied outside. Scott has hung up on Chris Argent and is arguing with Ethan about whether the creature is actually dead or just acting strategically unconscious, which Stiles is pretty sure is a level of tactical forethought that the feral wolf-but-not isn’t capable of. Wasn’t capable of.
So it’s just him, standing in the mill with Derek, in a moment that feels untethered. Like the world has paused.
Stiles steps closer before he really decides to. There’s something about the quiet that Derek’s company brings that makes movement easier, like there’s nothing in the world that could hold him back.
He sees Derek watching him approach, but he doesn’t move away. That alone should probably mean something.
Up close, the blood is worse. Not in volume, but detail. It’s streaked against his skin, black in the limited moonlight. The faint smear just under his jawline, drying unevenly where sweat and the friction of his clothing have dragged it thin. Stiles can see the edge, where it’s caught into Derek’s stubble.
He doesn’t think before he reaches up, just wipes it away. His thumb catches under Derek’s jaw, right where the blood has settled. It’s careful, cautious, yet almost absent-minded in its innocence. Like he’s done this a hundred times before.
Derek goes still in a way that is immediate and intense. Not startled, exactly. Just unmoving.
Stiles wipes the mark away anyway. “You’ve got…” he begins, then stops, because they’ve all got blood on them. So he changes tack. “—you’re doing that thing again where you look like you’ve lost an argument with a brick wall.”
The silence between them is palpable. Derek doesn’t respond immediately, but his eyes are fixed on Stiles’ hand, like he’s trying to categorise what kind of threat it is.
“It’s nothing,” Derek says finally.
Stiles huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Guess it feels like that when you rack up injuries like loyalty stamps. Ten black eyes and you get a free busted lip.”
The words are sarcastic, but the tone is almost soft. Like he’s expecting Derek to pull away now, the usual exit. Sharp words, distance, disappearing before anything gets too close to being real.
Instead, Derek’s eyes meet his, just for a second, and Stiles realises that Derek isn’t angry. He’s uncertain. And that’s kind of worse.
His hand is still near Derek’s jaw, and he slowly lowers it, like he’s realising in that moment just how much he might have overstepped.
“Seriously,” he adds, because he can feel the atmosphere between them and is very carefully not thinking about it. And also because it’s Stiles and he can’t stop putting his foot in his mouth. “You’re going to run out of dramatic near-death experiences one day, and the world might end.”
He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.
Something tightens in Derek’s expression, and he steps back. Quick. Controlled. Immediate.
The atmosphere between them disappears, less a slow dissolve and more of a harsh snap.
“Scott needs help,” Derek says abruptly. He turns and walks out before Stiles can point out that they can both hear Scott arguing with Ethan, and he hasn’t asked for Derek’s help at all.
He watches Derek go, no sign of injuries. Just a familiar stiffness.
Stiles stands there a little longer, his fingers still faintly warm from where they touched Derek’s skin. And he thinks to himself, almost stupidly, that Derek didn’t leave because of his sarcasm reflex.
He left because Stiles touched him like it meant something, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.
--
2. the passenger seat of the jeep
Derek is bleeding. Again.
Stiles notices it in the way he notices most things about Derek these days. Like there’s no outward signs, because Derek has this uncanny ability to just disappear into the background without trying, but when he’s hurt, he’s even better at it.
“Okay,” Stiles says, one hand tight on the wheel as he glances sideways. “So, on a scale of ‘I’m fine’ to ‘this is a deeply concerning amount of blood,’ where are we landing here?”
Derek doesn’t look at him. “Drive.”
“Yeah, no, I got that part,” Stiles mutters. “Just trying to figure out if I should be emotionally preparing myself for you almost dying in my passenger seat. Again.”
A pause.
“I’m not dying,” Derek says. Which, in Derek-speak, could mean anything from mild inconvenience to actively bleeding out but preferring to be a martyr about it.
Stiles exhales, slow and irritated, and presses a little harder on the gas.
The Jeep rattles in that familiar way, the engine protesting beneath its many layers of duct tape just enough to be comforting. It fills the awkward silence, along with Derek’s breathing—controlled, but not nearly as steady as he probably thinks it is.
Stiles doesn’t look over at him again. He doesn’t need to. He can already picture the set of Derek’s shoulders, rigid, the way he pretends that pain can be contained if he just refuses to acknowledge it.
“Stop,” Derek says suddenly.
Stiles frowns. “We’re like… two minutes from the loft.”
“Stop the car.”
There’s something in his voice that makes Stiles obey. The authoritative alpha finality that Derek always uses when he’s decided something and is waiting for everyone else to follow his lead.
Stiles pulls over.
The engine cuts, and the headlights illuminate the empty road. For a second, neither of them moves. Then Derek reaches for the door.
“Hey, no, okay… just hold on,” Stiles says, sharper than he means to. “You’re not doing that thing where you disappear into the night like a cryptid after bleeding all over my upholstery. Again. Sit down.”
Derek stills. “I can walk.”
“Great. Love that for you. Still not the point.” Stiles turns in his seat, finally looking at him properly. “You’re hurt.”
Derek’s jaw tightens. “I’ll heal.”
“I know you’ll heal,” Stiles snaps, scrubbing a hand over his face. “That’s not the point. That’s not the same thing as being fine.”
Silence stretches between them. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly. It’s brittle, but held. Like it could break, but could also lead somewhere if one of them pushed it.
Derek looks away, gaze fixed on a point past the windshield. “You worry too much.”
Stiles lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, someone has to, since you’ve apparently decided that basic self-preservation is optional, and keep using yourself as a werewolf meat shield.”
“That’s not—”
“You don’t get to do that,” Stiles interrupts, his voice kinder but no less firm. “You don’t get to act like it doesn’t matter just because you can survive it.”
That lands. Stiles can see it in the way that Derek’s shoulders shift, the brief flicker of surprise in his eyes that’s quickly masked. For a moment, it looks like Derek might say something real.
Instead, he exhales. “I’m not Scott.”
It’s not defensive, not quiet. Just a statement.
Stiles squints in confusion. “Okay? Congrats? I’m aware.”
“I don’t need…” Derek stops, jaw clenching. He starts again. “I don’t need you to…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Stiles doesn’t need him to.
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I know.”
He doesn’t, not really. But despite popular opinion, he knows when to let it drop.
Derek nods once, like they’re both on the same page, and opens the door. This time, Stiles doesn’t try to stop him. He just watches as Derek gets out, his movements controlled despite his obvious strain, and shuts the door with a solid, final sound.
He doesn’t look back, he never does.
Stiles waits until he’s disappeared into the building before he exhales, and turns to reverse. That’s when he notices the blood. Dark against the worn fabric of the passenger side. Faint, scattered. Not enough to soak through, which is a relief because it means Derek isn’t seriously hurt.
He stares at the droplets. He should clean them. That’s the first thought he has, absently. He has wipes in the glove box, bottles of water in the back. He could take care of it in less than a minute, erase it like it was never there. Have it disappear without a trace, just like Derek’s injuries.
Stiles huffs out a quiet breath. “Of course.”
Because of course Derek would leave pieces of himself behind without realising it. Without asking. Without staying to see the aftermath.
Stiles glances towards the road. Derek is gone. No sign he was ever here.
Except—
Stiles looks back at the seat. His hand hovers briefly over the glove compartment, then drops.
He starts the engine again and drives home.
--
3. soiled bandages
The loft is quieter than it should be for a place that keeps ending up on the receiving end of supernatural disasters.
Stiles isn’t sure when it became a new normal for him to be here like this. Standing in Derek Hale’s space, half-invited, half-not, like one wrong move could get him kicked out, yet for the most part his presence is tolerated.
Derek sits on the edge of the couch, shirt half-ruined, blood beginning to dry over his torso. It’s not fresh anymore. That’s the problem with Derek, by the time it looks like it’s stopped being urgent, it’s already been urgent for too long.
Stiles sets his backpack on the floor carefully.
“You’re really committed to this whole ‘dramatic suffering aesthetic’ thing, huh?” He says, because if he doesn’t say something sarcastic, then he starts to think too hard.
Derek doesn’t respond immediately. He’s breathing evenly, but carefully, like each breath is being carefully weighed in case it causes more pain.
“I’m fine,” he says eventually.
Stiles snorts. “Yeah, I know. That’s your second favourite like, right after ‘I can walk it off.’”
Derek’s eyes meet his briefly, a warning. Or more likely just habit.
Stiles ignores it, already digging through his bag. There’s gauze in there, some rubbing alcohol. Medical supplies. Not because he planned for this specifically, because he tells himself that it’s just because Beacon Hills is inherently hostile, but the truth is messier and something he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
The supplies have been with him for longer than they should have been. Just in case.
He kneels in front of Derek without another word.
Derek stiffens immediately. “I don’t need—”
“Yeah, you do,” Stiles interrupts, not unkind, just certain in a way that leaves no room for argument. “Or, like, you don’t need it, technically, but I do need to know you’re not bleeding out on your couch, so we’re doing this anyway.”
Derek watches him, Stiles can feel it. It’s that guarded, assessing thing he does, like he’s trying to decide if this is danger, or what the catch is. Which is more than a little heartbreaking.
Then slowly, reluctantly, Derek relaxes. It’s not consent in any formal sense, it’s far more profound than that. It’s unspoken trust.
Stiles exhales and starts cleaning the wound. Derek doesn’t talk or flinch while he works.
That’s not unusual. Derek doesn’t talk during most things unless absolutely necessary. But there’s something different about his silence now, it’s less defensive.
Stiles wipes away the dried blood carefully, trying not to think about how familiar this is becoming. How easy it is now to see where Derek got slashed, how his abs tense when something stings more than it should.
“You’re lucky it’s shallow,” Stiles mutters.
“I know,” Derek says.
That makes Stiles pause briefly, because it’s not defensive. Not dismissive. Just acknowledgement.
He glances up. “You could sound a little less pleased about that.”
Derek’s jaw tightens slightly, like he’s considering whether that’s worth responding to. Stiles doesn’t wait for him to decide, just goes back to work. The gauze sticks a little when he presses it down. Derek doesn’t flinch, but he sees it in the smallest shift of his shoulders anyway.
“Seriously,” Stiles says after a moment. “You could just… I don’t know. Try not getting stabbed or slashed or bitten all the time.”
Derek huffs once. Not quite a laugh. “It’s not always avoidable.”
“Yeah, well,” Stiles replies, fastening the wrap carefully. “Try harder. I’m very emotionally invested in you now dying. It’s annoying.”
He pretends not to notice as Derek’s entire body goes still. Instead, he finishes tying off the gauze and sits back on his heels.
“There,” he says. “You’re officially less bleeding.”
Derek looks down at the bandage, and then back at him. “Thanks,” he says.
It’s quiet. Almost unfamiliar.
Stiles blinks once, and gets off his aching knees. “Yeah, don’t make it weird.”
But it already kind of is. Not because of the blood.
Because Derek didn’t stop him.
“Get some rest,” Stiles says eventually, because his mouth refuses to stop trying to make things normal.
Derek doesn’t argue. He stands with a slow, careful movement and walks towards the hallway.
Stiles stays where he is for a moment longer than necessary. There are bloodied rags on the floor beside him. A discarded strip of bandage. He crouches automatically to gather them, because leaving it feels wrong in a way he can’t explain.
He folds them once. Then again.
When he stands, the loft is still empty.
Stiles lets the door click closed silently behind him.
--
4. stiles' hands
It happens too fast for anyone to stop it.
That’s the problem with most of their lives now. Nothing happens in a shape that makes sense until after it’s already done.
One second Derek is there. The next he isn’t.
Not gone, not dead. Just hit in a way that makes Stiles forget what was happening before it.
Stiles remembers the sound more than anything else. Claws tearing through flesh. The impact. Someone shouting his name—Scott, or maybe Lydia—but it all gets swallowed immediately by the rush of blood in his ears.
And then Derek is on the ground. And he doesn’t get up, not immediately.
Which is wrong. That’s the only coherent thought Stiles has for a second.
Because Derek always gets up. Always.
“Derek,” Stiles hears himself say, but it doesn’t sound like his voice. It’s too far away.
He’s moving before he fully decides to. Dropping to his knees beside him, hands already searching without thinking, checking for where the damage is.
There’s too much blood. Not the kind he’s gotten used to, sprinkles and splatters that he can wipe away. Not the kind he can clean and pretend he’s done something useful.
This is different. This is a lot, and it keeps coming.
“Hey,” Stiles says sharply, like he can drag Derek back to his feet from tone alone. “Hey, no, don’t you—don’t you do that thing where you decide to check out without telling anyone. That’s not allowed, okay?”
Derek’s eyes are open. Barely. He’s focused past Stiles, like the effort of looking at him would take too much from him, more than he can afford to lose right now.
Stiles presses his hands hard against the wounds without thinking. He can feel Derek’s blood pooling beneath his fingers.
“Okay,” he says, too fast. “Okay, this is fine. This is—so, so not fine, actually, but it’s manageable. We can manage this. We always do.”
His voice is shaking. It’s never done that before.
“Stiles.”
Derek’s voice. For half a second, it almost steadies him. Then he sees the blood again, and panic snaps right back.
“No,” Stiles says immediately, too sharp, too loud, too fast. “No, don’t do that. Don’t say my name like that. Save your energy or whatever, just… just stay with me, okay?”
A pause. Derek exhales. It sounds wrong. Not like pain, like effort. Like staying alive is something he has to actively choose over something else.
Stiles’ hands don’t stop moving, even though he’s not sure exactly what he’s doing anymore. He’s pressing hard, checking for other injuries, trying to remember every stupid first aid video he half-watched at 3am.
The others are yelling around him. Scott calling for help, Lydia on the phone, Malia snarling at something that is definitely still alive somewhere nearby.
But it’s distant. Like they’re on the surface while Stiles is drowning underwater. The only person here in this moment with him is Derek.
“You’re bleeding too much,” he whispers, like saying it quietly will make it less real.
Derek’s gaze flickers to him. And there’s something in it that Stiles doesn’t like. Not fear. Resignation. Like Derek has already calculated the outcome and is just waiting for him to catch up.
“No,” Stiles says immediately, shaking his head. “No, don’t you dare. Don’t you do that typical Derek thing where you leave early just because it looks statistically likely. That is not how this works.”
His throat tightens, but he doesn’t notice until he tries to swallow.
“You don’t get to do that,” he continues, his voice breaking. “Not after everything. Not after—”
He stops, because there are too many things he could say right now. And none of them are helpful.
Derek shifts slightly. Not to get up, but to move closer to Stiles. A fraction. Like even now, even while he’s losing more blood than he can afford to lose, Stiles is still something he’s orienting around.
“Stiles,” Derek says again.
This time, Stiles doesn’t interrupt, because there’s something in Derek’s tone he’s never heard before. Not a warning, or dismissal, or anger.
Recognition. An acknowledgement of what has been slowly growing between them.
And it hits Stiles harder than anything else in the last five minutes.
“I’ve got you,” Stiles says immediately. “Okay? I’ve got you. Just stay, don’t—don’t leave me here with this, okay?”
A beat. Derek’s eyes close briefly. When they open again, they’re still on him. Still with him.
Barely.
Footsteps approach. Scott’s voice breaks through, sharper than usual.
“Stiles, move, I’ve got him.”
“No,” Stiles protests automatically, tightening the pressure on Derek’s wounds without thinking. “He’s not stable, I need…”
“Stiles,” Scott says again, softer this time. “We’ve got him.”
A stretcher appears at the edge of Stiles’ vision. Hands. Movement. Coordination that Stiles is suddenly not part of anymore. Stiles is made to let go, because Derek is being lifted.
His hands fall away. He stands there long after Derek is gone, hands still outstretched, slick with Derek’s blood.
His fingers curl slightly, like they’re trying to hold onto something that isn’t there anymore.
--
5. split knuckles
The loft is quieter than it should be. Not peaceful or calm.
Just empty in a way that feels deliberate. Stiles stands in the kitchen longer than he needs to, because moving into the rest of the space means acknowledging that Derek is not there. Not unconscious on the couch, not half-present in the corner. Not even pacing like he sometimes does when he’s thinking.
Just gone. Again.
Except not gone-gone. Derek never really does that. He’s just… elsewhere.
Stiles tells himself it makes sense. Of course it does. Derek nearly died. Derek always does this after. Retreats. Rebuilds. Locks everything back down like nothing ever got inside in the first place.
It’s familiar. Predictable. Which is somehow worse.
Because Stiles knows how to deal with unpredictable things. He doesn’t know what to do with patterns that start to feel like rejection.
The first time Stiles notices the absence properly, it’s in his Jeep. He’s dropped Derek and Scott off, and Scott has left crumbs all over the backseat from whatever he’d been eating.
But the passenger seat is clean. Too clean. Not in the normal way where things have simply faded or been wiped away in the chaos of everything else. This is intentional. Controlled. Like there was no trace Derek was ever there at all.
Stiles’ hands hover over the fabric without touching it.
He starts noticing it everywhere after that. The way Derek doesn’t stand where he used to stand. The way he leaves before conversations settle into anything real. The way his presence stops leaving residue.
No blood. No marks. No imprints in a seat, no ring marks from cups. No lingering evidence that he was ever close enough to matter in the small, physical ways that Stiles has been unconsciously tracking.
It's a careful absence. And it’s devastating.
“Okay,” Stiles says one night, because he can’t not say anything anymore, even if he doesn’t fully want to admit what he’s trying to fix. They’re standing in Stiles’ kitchen, tidying away the leftover pizza boxes from the pack gathering. “So are we doing the thing where you just avoid me now?”
Derek doesn’t look up from where he’s standing near the edge of the room. “I’m not avoiding you.”
Stiles huffs a short laugh that doesn’t really land. “Right. Cool. Love that. Very convincing.”
Derek finally glances at him, his expression carefully neutral.
Stiles shifts his weight. He hates that he notices things like that now. The minutiae. The way Derek positions himself slightly further from the center of the room than he used to.
There’s a thin line of dried blood in fresh scrapes on Derek’s knuckles. Small, almost nothing. But Stiles can’t tear his eyes away. It’s contained, in a way that Stiles can’t reach.
“Because,” Stiles continues, slower now, “it kind of feels like you are.”
A beat.
Derek’s eyes tighten, just slightly. “I’m not.”
There’s nothing sharp in his tone. That’s what gives him away. It’s too even, too practiced. Like he’s just repeating something he’s told himself too many times.
Stiles nods, even though he doesn’t believe it. “Okay. Then what is it?”
“I’m fine,” Derek says eventually.
Stiles closes his eyes for half a second, then opens them again. “Yeah,” he says. “We both know that’s not what I asked.”
Derek looks at him again, really looks. Steady.
“You shouldn’t have to deal with it,” Derek says.
Stiles blinks. That’s not an answer he can immediately find sarcasm for. So he doesn’t.
“Deal with what, exactly? The fact that you exist in the same general direction as me?”
There’s a flicker in Derek’s expression, something that might be discomfort. Then it’s gone again.
“You see too much. You don’t need to keep track of me.”
Stiles doesn’t answer right away, because that’s the part that sits wrong in his chest. Because he does. He does need to. And he knows Derek knows that.
“Yeah,” he says eventually. “I get that’s what you think. But I’m not actually great at not noticing things.”
Derek’s gaze holds, and for a second it feels like the conversation could become something else entirely. Stiles holds his breath, waiting, hoping.
Then Derek shifts, and his hand lowers. Stiles sees the blood again, the faint smear reopening at the edge of the knuckle from Derek’s clenched fists. Freshened by movement. A reminder that Derek wasn’t fine when he walked in. That he isn’t as unmoved as he pretends to be. A single droplet falls to the floor.
“I know,” Derek says quietly.
And then, like it’s already decided, he turns away, and leaves.
--
+1. not a drop spilled
Stiles doesn’t wait.
That’s the first thing he realises later, that there isn’t really a moment when he decides to go after Derek. It’s more like the decision has already been made for him, quietly, over weeks of noticing absence when there used to be something more.
So he goes.
The loft is darker than he expects when he arrives. Not empty—Derek is there—but the mood is somber.
Derek looks up when Stiles enters. He doesn’t seem surprised.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Derek says immediately.
Stiles shut the door behind him anyway.
“Yeah,” he replies. “I’ve noticed you’ve been saying that a lot recently. I’m starting to think it’s less of a rule and more of a personality trait.”
Derek exhales through his nose. He turns away slightly, like distance is still something he can create if he positions himself correctly.
Stiles doesn’t let him.
“You can’t just—” Stiles starts, then stops, because he doesn’t actually know how to finish that sentence without sounding like he cares more than he’s ready to admit.
So he tries again. “You can’t just decide I don’t get to see you anymore.” He doesn't mean literally.
Derek’s jaw tightens. “I’m not—” he begins.
But Stiles cuts in, voice sharp. “Yes, you are.”
He steps further into the room. Not aggressive or cautious. Just present
“I get it,” he says, quieter. “Okay? I get what you were trying to do. The whole disappearing act. The no mess, no aftermath, no-proof-you-have-any-feelings thing.”
Derek doesn’t look at him, but Stiles knows him pretty well by now, and he’s learned this means Derek is listening more than he wants to be.
“You think if you don’t leave anything behind,” Stiles continues, “it’s easier. For me. Or whatever. Less to deal with. Less to notice.”
A pause. Then softer:
“But that’s not actually how it works.”
Derek finally looks at him, fully this time. “What do you want?”
It’s blunt, but not hostile. Just direct, like he’s teetering on the edge of defining something he’s been running from.
Stiles swallows. “I don’t want you to stop existing near me,” he says finally, then immediately grimaces. “God, that sounds way worse out loud than it did in my head. What I mean is, I don’t want you to disappear when things get complicated. Or decide that I’m better off not knowing when you’re actually—” he gestures vaguely, trailing off.
Derek’s expression shifts, the guarded look fading to be replaced by something uncertain.
“It’s not safe,” he says.
Stiles huffs. “Yeah. Newsflash: I live in Beacon Hills. My baseline is ‘not safe’.”
That earns the faintest flicker of recognition in Derek’s face. Acknowledgement. Even borderline amusement. Stiles steps closer, but stops at a distance that feels deliberate now, not accidental.
“I’m not asking you to be different,” he says. “I’m asking you to stop deciding for me.”
Derek studies him for a long moment. “You see everything,” he says. “And you still stay.”
Stiles nods.
Derek holds his gaze for a second too long, then slowly steps forward and closes the gap that Stiles hasn’t moved to bridge.
“Then see me. Don’t look away,” Derek says quietly.
Stiles lets out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Not really my specialty.”
Derek’s eyes flicker. “Good,” he says.
Stiles registers the shift a fraction too late. It’s not sudden. It’s just that one second Derek is still where he’s been standing for the last few moments, and the next Stiles is aware that there isn’t really space between them anymore.
Derek reaches for him. Just enough contact that Stiles doesn’t think to move away. And honestly, he doesn’t think he would have anyway.
There’s a moment—tiny, ridiculous—where Stiles is aware of everything at once. The loft. The silence. The fact that this is happening and also somehow feels like it’s been happening for longer than it should have.
Then Derek kisses him.
And it’s not what Stiles expected, if he’s being honest, because there wasn’t actually a version of this that existed in his brain in any useful way.
Stiles makes a sound into it that he absolutely refuses to examine later, because there’s no world in which he’s unpacking that. But he doesn’t move away. That part is immediate, unquestioned. He just kisses back before he can decide whether that’s allowed. Before either of them can make it complicated.
Derek’s hand steadies at his side, resting like an anchor that Stiles suddenly realises he’s been missing in ways he couldn’t express.
When they break apart, it isn’t because either of them decides to. It happens the way breathing eventually demands it.
Stiles blinks once. Then again.
“Okay,” he says, because apparently this is still the only setting his brain has available.
Derek makes a quiet sound, somewhere between an agreement and an exhale.
“Okay,” he agrees.
If you liked it, please consider leaving me a comment or kudos on AO3, or reblogging here!
Summary: Stiles has seen a lot of blood over the years in Beacon Hills. Most of it stops meaning anything after a while. Just another consequence of living in a town that refuses to stay normal. Teen | 4.9k
[Read on AO3]
--
Stiles has seen enough blood by now that it’s stopped meaning anything, at least in the immediate sense.
That’s not a thought he likes admitting, even to himself, but it’s true in the way his brain has adapted around Beacon Hills. As if some part of him has quietly decided that if everything is going to be sharp and violent and unfair, then it might as well stop flinching at the details. Blood on the asphalt. Broken bones. Torn skin.
Blood used to mean panic, but now just means another mess he has to clean up later.
He notices it less and less these days. Which is exactly why it stands out to him when it does.
Because when it’s Derek’s, it’s harder to pretend it doesn’t matter.
--
1. his jawline
They’re back at the old abandoned mill after the latest thing-that-definitely-shouldn’t-exist-but-somehow-does. Stiles isn’t even sure what the creature is. Some kind of mutated wolf, like a kanima but less reptilian. Scott is still trying to explain it in increasingly frustrated sentences on the phone outside. Isaac and Ethan are on clean-up duty.
Stiles isn’t really listening anymore.
Because Derek is standing near the cracked concrete wall, half-concealed in shadow, rolling one shoulder like he’s trying to decide whether the pain is worth acknowledging. There’s blood on him—of course there is—but Stiles can’t seem to drag his eyes away.
Sprinkles of blood across his collarbone where the creature got too close. A darker smear along his jaw that looks like he tried to wipe it away but didn’t get it all. A thin line on his lip, dried, where the injury has already healed, but the blood remains like the moment hasn’t finished fully happening. Like it’s stuck.
Stiles tells himself he should be used to this too. But Derek doesn’t react like the others when he’s injured.The others are loud about it. Scott limps, Malia snaps, Jackson bitches. Even Lydia goes quiet in a way that demands attention.
Derek just accumulates it, like it has nowhere else to go.
The others are still occupied outside. Scott has hung up on Chris Argent and is arguing with Ethan about whether the creature is actually dead or just acting strategically unconscious, which Stiles is pretty sure is a level of tactical forethought that the feral wolf-but-not isn’t capable of. Wasn’t capable of.
So it’s just him, standing in the mill with Derek, in a moment that feels untethered. Like the world has paused.
Stiles steps closer before he really decides to. There’s something about the quiet that Derek’s company brings that makes movement easier, like there’s nothing in the world that could hold him back.
He sees Derek watching him approach, but he doesn’t move away. That alone should probably mean something.
Up close, the blood is worse. Not in volume, but detail. It’s streaked against his skin, black in the limited moonlight. The faint smear just under his jawline, drying unevenly where sweat and the friction of his clothing have dragged it thin. Stiles can see the edge, where it’s caught into Derek’s stubble.
He doesn’t think before he reaches up, just wipes it away. His thumb catches under Derek’s jaw, right where the blood has settled. It’s careful, cautious, yet almost absent-minded in its innocence. Like he’s done this a hundred times before.
Derek goes still in a way that is immediate and intense. Not startled, exactly. Just unmoving.
Stiles wipes the mark away anyway. “You’ve got…” he begins, then stops, because they’ve all got blood on them. So he changes tack. “—you’re doing that thing again where you look like you’ve lost an argument with a brick wall.”
The silence between them is palpable. Derek doesn’t respond immediately, but his eyes are fixed on Stiles’ hand, like he’s trying to categorise what kind of threat it is.
“It’s nothing,” Derek says finally.
Stiles huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Guess it feels like that when you rack up injuries like loyalty stamps. Ten black eyes and you get a free busted lip.”
The words are sarcastic, but the tone is almost soft. Like he’s expecting Derek to pull away now, the usual exit. Sharp words, distance, disappearing before anything gets too close to being real.
Instead, Derek’s eyes meet his, just for a second, and Stiles realises that Derek isn’t angry. He’s uncertain. And that’s kind of worse.
His hand is still near Derek’s jaw, and he slowly lowers it, like he’s realising in that moment just how much he might have overstepped.
“Seriously,” he adds, because he can feel the atmosphere between them and is very carefully not thinking about it. And also because it’s Stiles and he can’t stop putting his foot in his mouth. “You’re going to run out of dramatic near-death experiences one day, and the world might end.”
He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.
Something tightens in Derek’s expression, and he steps back. Quick. Controlled. Immediate.
The atmosphere between them disappears, less a slow dissolve and more of a harsh snap.
“Scott needs help,” Derek says abruptly. He turns and walks out before Stiles can point out that they can both hear Scott arguing with Ethan, and he hasn’t asked for Derek’s help at all.
He watches Derek go, no sign of injuries. Just a familiar stiffness.
Stiles stands there a little longer, his fingers still faintly warm from where they touched Derek’s skin. And he thinks to himself, almost stupidly, that Derek didn’t leave because of his sarcasm reflex.
He left because Stiles touched him like it meant something, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.
--
2. the passenger seat of the jeep
Derek is bleeding. Again.
Stiles notices it in the way he notices most things about Derek these days. Like there’s no outward signs, because Derek has this uncanny ability to just disappear into the background without trying, but when he’s hurt, he’s even better at it.
“Okay,” Stiles says, one hand tight on the wheel as he glances sideways. “So, on a scale of ‘I’m fine’ to ‘this is a deeply concerning amount of blood,’ where are we landing here?”
Derek doesn’t look at him. “Drive.”
“Yeah, no, I got that part,” Stiles mutters. “Just trying to figure out if I should be emotionally preparing myself for you almost dying in my passenger seat. Again.”
A pause.
“I’m not dying,” Derek says. Which, in Derek-speak, could mean anything from mild inconvenience to actively bleeding out but preferring to be a martyr about it.
Stiles exhales, slow and irritated, and presses a little harder on the gas.
The Jeep rattles in that familiar way, the engine protesting beneath its many layers of duct tape just enough to be comforting. It fills the awkward silence, along with Derek’s breathing—controlled, but not nearly as steady as he probably thinks it is.
Stiles doesn’t look over at him again. He doesn’t need to. He can already picture the set of Derek’s shoulders, rigid, the way he pretends that pain can be contained if he just refuses to acknowledge it.
“Stop,” Derek says suddenly.
Stiles frowns. “We’re like… two minutes from the loft.”
“Stop the car.”
There’s something in his voice that makes Stiles obey. The authoritative alpha finality that Derek always uses when he’s decided something and is waiting for everyone else to follow his lead.
Stiles pulls over.
The engine cuts, and the headlights illuminate the empty road. For a second, neither of them moves. Then Derek reaches for the door.
“Hey, no, okay… just hold on,” Stiles says, sharper than he means to. “You’re not doing that thing where you disappear into the night like a cryptid after bleeding all over my upholstery. Again. Sit down.”
Derek stills. “I can walk.”
“Great. Love that for you. Still not the point.” Stiles turns in his seat, finally looking at him properly. “You’re hurt.”
Derek’s jaw tightens. “I’ll heal.”
“I know you’ll heal,” Stiles snaps, scrubbing a hand over his face. “That’s not the point. That’s not the same thing as being fine.”
Silence stretches between them. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly. It’s brittle, but held. Like it could break, but could also lead somewhere if one of them pushed it.
Derek looks away, gaze fixed on a point past the windshield. “You worry too much.”
Stiles lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, someone has to, since you’ve apparently decided that basic self-preservation is optional, and keep using yourself as a werewolf meat shield.”
“That’s not—”
“You don’t get to do that,” Stiles interrupts, his voice kinder but no less firm. “You don’t get to act like it doesn’t matter just because you can survive it.”
That lands. Stiles can see it in the way that Derek’s shoulders shift, the brief flicker of surprise in his eyes that’s quickly masked. For a moment, it looks like Derek might say something real.
Instead, he exhales. “I’m not Scott.”
It’s not defensive, not quiet. Just a statement.
Stiles squints in confusion. “Okay? Congrats? I’m aware.”
“I don’t need…” Derek stops, jaw clenching. He starts again. “I don’t need you to…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Stiles doesn’t need him to.
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I know.”
He doesn’t, not really. But despite popular opinion, he knows when to let it drop.
Derek nods once, like they’re both on the same page, and opens the door. This time, Stiles doesn’t try to stop him. He just watches as Derek gets out, his movements controlled despite his obvious strain, and shuts the door with a solid, final sound.
He doesn’t look back, he never does.
Stiles waits until he’s disappeared into the building before he exhales, and turns to reverse. That’s when he notices the blood. Dark against the worn fabric of the passenger side. Faint, scattered. Not enough to soak through, which is a relief because it means Derek isn’t seriously hurt.
He stares at the droplets. He should clean them. That’s the first thought he has, absently. He has wipes in the glove box, bottles of water in the back. He could take care of it in less than a minute, erase it like it was never there. Have it disappear without a trace, just like Derek’s injuries.
Stiles huffs out a quiet breath. “Of course.”
Because of course Derek would leave pieces of himself behind without realising it. Without asking. Without staying to see the aftermath.
Stiles glances towards the road. Derek is gone. No sign he was ever here.
Except—
Stiles looks back at the seat. His hand hovers briefly over the glove compartment, then drops.
He starts the engine again and drives home.
--
3. soiled bandages
The loft is quieter than it should be for a place that keeps ending up on the receiving end of supernatural disasters.
Stiles isn’t sure when it became a new normal for him to be here like this. Standing in Derek Hale’s space, half-invited, half-not, like one wrong move could get him kicked out, yet for the most part his presence is tolerated.
Derek sits on the edge of the couch, shirt half-ruined, blood beginning to dry over his torso. It’s not fresh anymore. That’s the problem with Derek, by the time it looks like it’s stopped being urgent, it’s already been urgent for too long.
Stiles sets his backpack on the floor carefully.
“You’re really committed to this whole ‘dramatic suffering aesthetic’ thing, huh?” He says, because if he doesn’t say something sarcastic, then he starts to think too hard.
Derek doesn’t respond immediately. He’s breathing evenly, but carefully, like each breath is being carefully weighed in case it causes more pain.
“I’m fine,” he says eventually.
Stiles snorts. “Yeah, I know. That’s your second favourite like, right after ‘I can walk it off.’”
Derek’s eyes meet his briefly, a warning. Or more likely just habit.
Stiles ignores it, already digging through his bag. There’s gauze in there, some rubbing alcohol. Medical supplies. Not because he planned for this specifically, because he tells himself that it’s just because Beacon Hills is inherently hostile, but the truth is messier and something he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
The supplies have been with him for longer than they should have been. Just in case.
He kneels in front of Derek without another word.
Derek stiffens immediately. “I don’t need—”
“Yeah, you do,” Stiles interrupts, not unkind, just certain in a way that leaves no room for argument. “Or, like, you don’t need it, technically, but I do need to know you’re not bleeding out on your couch, so we’re doing this anyway.”
Derek watches him, Stiles can feel it. It’s that guarded, assessing thing he does, like he’s trying to decide if this is danger, or what the catch is. Which is more than a little heartbreaking.
Then slowly, reluctantly, Derek relaxes. It’s not consent in any formal sense, it’s far more profound than that. It’s unspoken trust.
Stiles exhales and starts cleaning the wound. Derek doesn’t talk or flinch while he works.
That’s not unusual. Derek doesn’t talk during most things unless absolutely necessary. But there’s something different about his silence now, it’s less defensive.
Stiles wipes away the dried blood carefully, trying not to think about how familiar this is becoming. How easy it is now to see where Derek got slashed, how his abs tense when something stings more than it should.
“You’re lucky it’s shallow,” Stiles mutters.
“I know,” Derek says.
That makes Stiles pause briefly, because it’s not defensive. Not dismissive. Just acknowledgement.
He glances up. “You could sound a little less pleased about that.”
Derek’s jaw tightens slightly, like he’s considering whether that’s worth responding to. Stiles doesn’t wait for him to decide, just goes back to work. The gauze sticks a little when he presses it down. Derek doesn’t flinch, but he sees it in the smallest shift of his shoulders anyway.
“Seriously,” Stiles says after a moment. “You could just… I don’t know. Try not getting stabbed or slashed or bitten all the time.”
Derek huffs once. Not quite a laugh. “It’s not always avoidable.”
“Yeah, well,” Stiles replies, fastening the wrap carefully. “Try harder. I’m very emotionally invested in you now dying. It’s annoying.”
He pretends not to notice as Derek’s entire body goes still. Instead, he finishes tying off the gauze and sits back on his heels.
“There,” he says. “You’re officially less bleeding.”
Derek looks down at the bandage, and then back at him. “Thanks,” he says.
It’s quiet. Almost unfamiliar.
Stiles blinks once, and gets off his aching knees. “Yeah, don’t make it weird.”
But it already kind of is. Not because of the blood.
Because Derek didn’t stop him.
“Get some rest,” Stiles says eventually, because his mouth refuses to stop trying to make things normal.
Derek doesn’t argue. He stands with a slow, careful movement and walks towards the hallway.
Stiles stays where he is for a moment longer than necessary. There are bloodied rags on the floor beside him. A discarded strip of bandage. He crouches automatically to gather them, because leaving it feels wrong in a way he can’t explain.
He folds them once. Then again.
When he stands, the loft is still empty.
Stiles lets the door click closed silently behind him.
--
4. stiles' hands
It happens too fast for anyone to stop it.
That’s the problem with most of their lives now. Nothing happens in a shape that makes sense until after it’s already done.
One second Derek is there. The next he isn’t.
Not gone, not dead. Just hit in a way that makes Stiles forget what was happening before it.
Stiles remembers the sound more than anything else. Claws tearing through flesh. The impact. Someone shouting his name—Scott, or maybe Lydia—but it all gets swallowed immediately by the rush of blood in his ears.
And then Derek is on the ground. And he doesn’t get up, not immediately.
Which is wrong. That’s the only coherent thought Stiles has for a second.
Because Derek always gets up. Always.
“Derek,” Stiles hears himself say, but it doesn’t sound like his voice. It’s too far away.
He’s moving before he fully decides to. Dropping to his knees beside him, hands already searching without thinking, checking for where the damage is.
There’s too much blood. Not the kind he’s gotten used to, sprinkles and splatters that he can wipe away. Not the kind he can clean and pretend he’s done something useful.
This is different. This is a lot, and it keeps coming.
“Hey,” Stiles says sharply, like he can drag Derek back to his feet from tone alone. “Hey, no, don’t you—don’t you do that thing where you decide to check out without telling anyone. That’s not allowed, okay?”
Derek’s eyes are open. Barely. He’s focused past Stiles, like the effort of looking at him would take too much from him, more than he can afford to lose right now.
Stiles presses his hands hard against the wounds without thinking. He can feel Derek’s blood pooling beneath his fingers.
“Okay,” he says, too fast. “Okay, this is fine. This is—so, so not fine, actually, but it’s manageable. We can manage this. We always do.”
His voice is shaking. It’s never done that before.
“Stiles.”
Derek’s voice. For half a second, it almost steadies him. Then he sees the blood again, and panic snaps right back.
“No,” Stiles says immediately, too sharp, too loud, too fast. “No, don’t do that. Don’t say my name like that. Save your energy or whatever, just… just stay with me, okay?”
A pause. Derek exhales. It sounds wrong. Not like pain, like effort. Like staying alive is something he has to actively choose over something else.
Stiles’ hands don’t stop moving, even though he’s not sure exactly what he’s doing anymore. He’s pressing hard, checking for other injuries, trying to remember every stupid first aid video he half-watched at 3am.
The others are yelling around him. Scott calling for help, Lydia on the phone, Malia snarling at something that is definitely still alive somewhere nearby.
But it’s distant. Like they’re on the surface while Stiles is drowning underwater. The only person here in this moment with him is Derek.
“You’re bleeding too much,” he whispers, like saying it quietly will make it less real.
Derek’s gaze flickers to him. And there’s something in it that Stiles doesn’t like. Not fear. Resignation. Like Derek has already calculated the outcome and is just waiting for him to catch up.
“No,” Stiles says immediately, shaking his head. “No, don’t you dare. Don’t you do that typical Derek thing where you leave early just because it looks statistically likely. That is not how this works.”
His throat tightens, but he doesn’t notice until he tries to swallow.
“You don’t get to do that,” he continues, his voice breaking. “Not after everything. Not after—”
He stops, because there are too many things he could say right now. And none of them are helpful.
Derek shifts slightly. Not to get up, but to move closer to Stiles. A fraction. Like even now, even while he’s losing more blood than he can afford to lose, Stiles is still something he’s orienting around.
“Stiles,” Derek says again.
This time, Stiles doesn’t interrupt, because there’s something in Derek’s tone he’s never heard before. Not a warning, or dismissal, or anger.
Recognition. An acknowledgement of what has been slowly growing between them.
And it hits Stiles harder than anything else in the last five minutes.
“I’ve got you,” Stiles says immediately. “Okay? I’ve got you. Just stay, don’t—don’t leave me here with this, okay?”
A beat. Derek’s eyes close briefly. When they open again, they’re still on him. Still with him.
Barely.
Footsteps approach. Scott’s voice breaks through, sharper than usual.
“Stiles, move, I’ve got him.”
“No,” Stiles protests automatically, tightening the pressure on Derek’s wounds without thinking. “He’s not stable, I need…”
“Stiles,” Scott says again, softer this time. “We’ve got him.”
A stretcher appears at the edge of Stiles’ vision. Hands. Movement. Coordination that Stiles is suddenly not part of anymore. Stiles is made to let go, because Derek is being lifted.
His hands fall away. He stands there long after Derek is gone, hands still outstretched, slick with Derek’s blood.
His fingers curl slightly, like they’re trying to hold onto something that isn’t there anymore.
--
5. split knuckles
The loft is quieter than it should be. Not peaceful or calm.
Just empty in a way that feels deliberate. Stiles stands in the kitchen longer than he needs to, because moving into the rest of the space means acknowledging that Derek is not there. Not unconscious on the couch, not half-present in the corner. Not even pacing like he sometimes does when he’s thinking.
Just gone. Again.
Except not gone-gone. Derek never really does that. He’s just… elsewhere.
Stiles tells himself it makes sense. Of course it does. Derek nearly died. Derek always does this after. Retreats. Rebuilds. Locks everything back down like nothing ever got inside in the first place.
It’s familiar. Predictable. Which is somehow worse.
Because Stiles knows how to deal with unpredictable things. He doesn’t know what to do with patterns that start to feel like rejection.
The first time Stiles notices the absence properly, it’s in his Jeep. He’s dropped Derek and Scott off, and Scott has left crumbs all over the backseat from whatever he’d been eating.
But the passenger seat is clean. Too clean. Not in the normal way where things have simply faded or been wiped away in the chaos of everything else. This is intentional. Controlled. Like there was no trace Derek was ever there at all.
Stiles’ hands hover over the fabric without touching it.
He starts noticing it everywhere after that. The way Derek doesn’t stand where he used to stand. The way he leaves before conversations settle into anything real. The way his presence stops leaving residue.
No blood. No marks. No imprints in a seat, no ring marks from cups. No lingering evidence that he was ever close enough to matter in the small, physical ways that Stiles has been unconsciously tracking.
It's a careful absence. And it’s devastating.
“Okay,” Stiles says one night, because he can’t not say anything anymore, even if he doesn’t fully want to admit what he’s trying to fix. They’re standing in Stiles’ kitchen, tidying away the leftover pizza boxes from the pack gathering. “So are we doing the thing where you just avoid me now?”
Derek doesn’t look up from where he’s standing near the edge of the room. “I’m not avoiding you.”
Stiles huffs a short laugh that doesn’t really land. “Right. Cool. Love that. Very convincing.”
Derek finally glances at him, his expression carefully neutral.
Stiles shifts his weight. He hates that he notices things like that now. The minutiae. The way Derek positions himself slightly further from the center of the room than he used to.
There’s a thin line of dried blood in fresh scrapes on Derek’s knuckles. Small, almost nothing. But Stiles can’t tear his eyes away. It’s contained, in a way that Stiles can’t reach.
“Because,” Stiles continues, slower now, “it kind of feels like you are.”
A beat.
Derek’s eyes tighten, just slightly. “I’m not.”
There’s nothing sharp in his tone. That’s what gives him away. It’s too even, too practiced. Like he’s just repeating something he’s told himself too many times.
Stiles nods, even though he doesn’t believe it. “Okay. Then what is it?”
“I’m fine,” Derek says eventually.
Stiles closes his eyes for half a second, then opens them again. “Yeah,” he says. “We both know that’s not what I asked.”
Derek looks at him again, really looks. Steady.
“You shouldn’t have to deal with it,” Derek says.
Stiles blinks. That’s not an answer he can immediately find sarcasm for. So he doesn’t.
“Deal with what, exactly? The fact that you exist in the same general direction as me?”
There’s a flicker in Derek’s expression, something that might be discomfort. Then it’s gone again.
“You see too much. You don’t need to keep track of me.”
Stiles doesn’t answer right away, because that’s the part that sits wrong in his chest. Because he does. He does need to. And he knows Derek knows that.
“Yeah,” he says eventually. “I get that’s what you think. But I’m not actually great at not noticing things.”
Derek’s gaze holds, and for a second it feels like the conversation could become something else entirely. Stiles holds his breath, waiting, hoping.
Then Derek shifts, and his hand lowers. Stiles sees the blood again, the faint smear reopening at the edge of the knuckle from Derek’s clenched fists. Freshened by movement. A reminder that Derek wasn’t fine when he walked in. That he isn’t as unmoved as he pretends to be. A single droplet falls to the floor.
“I know,” Derek says quietly.
And then, like it’s already decided, he turns away, and leaves.
--
+1. not a drop spilled
Stiles doesn’t wait.
That’s the first thing he realises later, that there isn’t really a moment when he decides to go after Derek. It’s more like the decision has already been made for him, quietly, over weeks of noticing absence when there used to be something more.
So he goes.
The loft is darker than he expects when he arrives. Not empty—Derek is there—but the mood is somber.
Derek looks up when Stiles enters. He doesn’t seem surprised.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Derek says immediately.
Stiles shut the door behind him anyway.
“Yeah,” he replies. “I’ve noticed you’ve been saying that a lot recently. I’m starting to think it’s less of a rule and more of a personality trait.”
Derek exhales through his nose. He turns away slightly, like distance is still something he can create if he positions himself correctly.
Stiles doesn’t let him.
“You can’t just—” Stiles starts, then stops, because he doesn’t actually know how to finish that sentence without sounding like he cares more than he’s ready to admit.
So he tries again. “You can’t just decide I don’t get to see you anymore.” He doesn't mean literally.
Derek’s jaw tightens. “I’m not—” he begins.
But Stiles cuts in, voice sharp. “Yes, you are.”
He steps further into the room. Not aggressive or cautious. Just present
“I get it,” he says, quieter. “Okay? I get what you were trying to do. The whole disappearing act. The no mess, no aftermath, no-proof-you-have-any-feelings thing.”
Derek doesn’t look at him, but Stiles knows him pretty well by now, and he’s learned this means Derek is listening more than he wants to be.
“You think if you don’t leave anything behind,” Stiles continues, “it’s easier. For me. Or whatever. Less to deal with. Less to notice.”
A pause. Then softer:
“But that’s not actually how it works.”
Derek finally looks at him, fully this time. “What do you want?”
It’s blunt, but not hostile. Just direct, like he’s teetering on the edge of defining something he’s been running from.
Stiles swallows. “I don’t want you to stop existing near me,” he says finally, then immediately grimaces. “God, that sounds way worse out loud than it did in my head. What I mean is, I don’t want you to disappear when things get complicated. Or decide that I’m better off not knowing when you’re actually—” he gestures vaguely, trailing off.
Derek’s expression shifts, the guarded look fading to be replaced by something uncertain.
“It’s not safe,” he says.
Stiles huffs. “Yeah. Newsflash: I live in Beacon Hills. My baseline is ‘not safe’.”
That earns the faintest flicker of recognition in Derek’s face. Acknowledgement. Even borderline amusement. Stiles steps closer, but stops at a distance that feels deliberate now, not accidental.
“I’m not asking you to be different,” he says. “I’m asking you to stop deciding for me.”
Derek studies him for a long moment. “You see everything,” he says. “And you still stay.”
Stiles nods.
Derek holds his gaze for a second too long, then slowly steps forward and closes the gap that Stiles hasn’t moved to bridge.
“Then see me. Don’t look away,” Derek says quietly.
Stiles lets out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Not really my specialty.”
Derek’s eyes flicker. “Good,” he says.
Stiles registers the shift a fraction too late. It’s not sudden. It’s just that one second Derek is still where he’s been standing for the last few moments, and the next Stiles is aware that there isn’t really space between them anymore.
Derek reaches for him. Just enough contact that Stiles doesn’t think to move away. And honestly, he doesn’t think he would have anyway.
There’s a moment—tiny, ridiculous—where Stiles is aware of everything at once. The loft. The silence. The fact that this is happening and also somehow feels like it’s been happening for longer than it should have.
Then Derek kisses him.
And it’s not what Stiles expected, if he’s being honest, because there wasn’t actually a version of this that existed in his brain in any useful way.
Stiles makes a sound into it that he absolutely refuses to examine later, because there’s no world in which he’s unpacking that. But he doesn’t move away. That part is immediate, unquestioned. He just kisses back before he can decide whether that’s allowed. Before either of them can make it complicated.
Derek’s hand steadies at his side, resting like an anchor that Stiles suddenly realises he’s been missing in ways he couldn’t express.
When they break apart, it isn’t because either of them decides to. It happens the way breathing eventually demands it.
Stiles blinks once. Then again.
“Okay,” he says, because apparently this is still the only setting his brain has available.
Derek makes a quiet sound, somewhere between an agreement and an exhale.
“Okay,” he agrees.
If you liked it, please consider leaving me a comment or kudos on AO3, or reblogging here!
I feel like there are graphics I made that I wouldn't make the same way now. I would interpret the prompt differently, I would see the characters differently.
I kind of want to do a graphic redemption series where I redo some of my old graphics and see if they've improved?
Someone message me about any graphic I've ever made and I'll pick one to redo?
This Brown Corduroy Jacket is worn two times in Supernatural, First worn on Jared Padalecki as Sam Winchester in Born Under a Bad Sign (2007) and seen as prop on a wardrobe rack in Hollywood Babylon (2007) and worn later on Jensen Ackles as Dean Winchester in Lazarus Rising (2008)
fan fic authors be like yes i know this will flop however i simply have too much love for this character and my very niche headcanons for them. and i think that is so fuckin sexy of us
Tags: Secret agent/spy!AU, science fiction, graphic descriptions of violence, slow burn, enemies to lovers, hate sex, and more. You can find a full list of tags and warnings on AO3.
Summary: It was the twenty-first century, and every department had their own covert operatives to accomplish their various needs. ARTEMIS was exactly that for DARPA, the research and developmental side of the Department of Defense. The team was made up of ex-Special Forces soldiers who had unparalleled intelligence, to also specialise in various relevant areas of science.
Essentially, a team of killer scientists.
Dr. and Commander Dean Winchester had been selected especially for this mission.
