[SUPER WOLF: Stilinski Residence]
When Stiles awoke he prayed—begged—it was all a dream. That he'd awake to an empty room, his phone vibrating through the cause of meaningless memes Scott had found at late hours that he couldn't keep himself from sharing, he begged he would wake to Allison's own messages, scolding Stiles for encouraging Scott's antics. He pleaded he would wake to Lydia, declaring they have lunch together. He hoped. But, the act was vain because when he heard Dean's voice, he knew, it was all far too real to be fake.
He wanted to laugh at himself for being so foolish.
"We can't just—just pretend it didn't happen," Dean stated, his voice rising unwillingly. "He's a werewolf, Sam. Who knows how many more there are! We could be talking about an entire pack!"
"Chris Argent didn't kill Derek for a reason. Maybe he is... okay," Sam reasoned. Dean's hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose in utter irritation. He sighed heavily.
"Okay?" Sam nearly winced at the change of volume in his tone. "He attacked you. Attacked Stiles—"
"That's only because Stiles tried helping me." Sam interjected.
"He shouldn't have attacked you in the first place!" Dean exclaimed, his hands raised in emphasis. "He lost control on a full moon. He broke Stiles' hand. Shattered his bone. He can't be trusted."
Stiles couldn't hear anymore. He didn't want to hear anymore. Taking long strides upstairs, he didn't dare to make a sound behind the closed white door. With trembling fingers, he held his phone to his ear. His breath was shallow. Curt. Desperate.
"...Stiles?" There was a hesitance in his voice. A fear.
"Scott"—it took everything Stiles held within him to keep from stuttering the name—"Where is Derek? Isaac, Lydia, and, oh god, Malia—"
"Stiles, calm down." Scott nearly pleaded. "Lydia, Malia and Isaac are still on their trip. Remember?"
Stiles nodded, and tugged harshly at his hair. "What about you? Are you okay? Sam and Dean—"
"They don't know about me, Stiles," Scott interjected, his words hushed. "Don't worry."
"A—And Derek...?"
"He's..." Scott hesitates, And Stiles could practically hear the reluctance in his breath when he sighed. "He's gone, Stiles."
"Gone?" Stiles held his tongue to keep from snapping. "What do you mean, gone? Gone as in— like, hiding out somewhere until things cool down gone? Or, like, gone as in gone—gone. As in leaving me without a fucking word gone? Which would be ridiculous because he wouldn't do that. So, obviously, he's hiding out gone, right? And is going to come home—"
"Stiles. He's gone. And— And I don't think he's coming back."