Six Feet Under | Sterek

fifteen;

Stiles goes home.

His dad isn't there, but his Jeep is and maybe that means Mandy drove it home after she took him to the station. The woman is a living legend, and Stiles runs a hand along the car's side as he walks past. He could swear the metal hums in recognition.

He grabs the spare key from above the door, and lets himself into the dark house. It's familiar in a way that his mother's voice is familiar, and it hurts twice as much. This is his home, except that it isn't, not anymore. He has no right to be here, not since his dad told him not to come back, but he needs clothes, and cash, and the spare keys to the Jeep. A few bottles of whatever alcohol they have in the kitchen will do as well.

He hurries upstairs and packs a duffel. He doesn't take many clothes, because fuck knows where he's going, and he stuffs some CD's in there as well. He can't take his phone, because phones can be tracked, but it won't be a road trip without music. He grabs whatever cash he has in his room and stuffs it in his pocket, and then he takes some out of the tin for his college money. He feels bad about it, but at this point he isn't sure he wants to go to college so he supposes it's okay.

He hesitates, though, in the kitchen. There's a half-drunk bottle of whiskey that he doesn't remember being there, and a crystal tumbler in the sink. It isn't hard to connect the dots, and he hates it, hates that his dad is drinking again and Stiles knows why and he can't do anything.

He averts his eyes, grabs a bottle of tequila, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and a brandy before digging around, grabbing the Jeep keys and running out the front door again. He isn't afraid to admit that he does run, because something about that house scares him and he doesn't want to be scared. He doesn't want to be tired either, but hey, he's exhausted anyway so apparently it's whatever.

He swallows thickly, throws the stuff in the Jeep, and gets in and stares at the house. God, he used to think of this place as a prison. After his mother got sick, he'd stare out of the window and long to run away to somewhere where there wasn't a dying woman in the house and his dad wasn't tearing himself apart trying to hold the family together. Young Stiles had longed for the wind in his hair, and the open road, and freedom.

Older Stiles knows that freedom is an illusion and he'll never really be away from this. He'll always see his dad's face, the terror in the man's eyes as he confesses that he doesn't recognise his own son. 

He won't ever stop feeling the pain of leaving behind Scott, and Peter, and Derek, and Melissa and Mandy and his Mom and and and and.

The ghosts will follow him, he knows they will, and in a way he welcomes them. If they chase him, then he has an excuse to run forever and a day, and he won't ever have to stop. He can drive and drive and drive to flee those ghosts and they'll follow him and maybe he'll be okay with the windows down and music blaring.  

Coward, his conscience breathes in his ear and he slams walls down so he doesn't have to hear it. He knows that running is a coward's choice, but Stiles has never been particularly brave, so he doesn't see what the problem is. Stiles is Stiles, and maybe that means not being in Beacon Hills anymore. Maybe that means living each day like it's his last because fuck it might very well be.

He throws the Jeep in gear and drives away from the house and pretends he isn't crying.

His hands are slippery on the wheel, because his hands are sweaty and his breaths are becoming shorter and shorter and holy fuck this is it he's leaving he's going and maybe he won't ever come back. It's liberating but Stiles is still terrified. This is his home, and he's driving away and throwing it away all because he doesn't want to tell his dad that werewolves are real.

He drives past a police cruiser, and he sees a familiar weathered face and his control stutters. His heart throws itself at his rib cage and screams, and Stiles chokes on the hysteria bubbling up in his throat because his dad hadn't look surprised, only accepting and tired, and fucking fuck Stiles is spiraling into something bad.

He hits the gas and doesn't slow down until the police cruiser is just a thought and a memory and he can breathe without choking. He slams his hand on the dash, as if that will get the anger out, as if it will urge him of the festering fear and the crippling doubt and sadness that is dragging him down, down, down into the murkiness of his soul. He shrieks and rages, and then hot tears are pouring down his cheeks and he starts tearing at the seams.

He stops the car at the outskirts of Beacon Hills, and he puts his head on the wheel, and he lets himself fall apart because why should he bother staying together. He is alone alone alone and he wraps the knowledge of loneliness around himself as if it will protect him from the big, bad world. (Spoiler alert: it won't.)

Someone opens the passenger door and settles into the seat, clicking their seat belt in place. Stiles looks up, and he doesn't care that his face is red and tear-streaked. Derek has seen him cry before, so there isn't much to be ashamed of. 

"Where are we going?" Derek asks quietly, simply, looking at Stiles without any hint of pity. Stiles might just kiss him for that. 

He wipes at his face, and he puts the Jeep in gear, and he looks at the werewolf. "Nowhere," he answers. "Anywhere."

Derek nods, once, as if he'd been expecting it, and he directs his gaze out the front windshield. "That's where I'm going too."

Stiles drives.