BtVS episode Normal Again, Sterek version, stiles, maybe through a spell or just head trauma or something, think sall the supernatural stuff is in his head, and the only way to get out is to hurt/kill all the supernatural in his life
“Stiles…” Scott’s voice drags out, strangled and desperate. “Why are you doing this?” He’s shifting weakly as Stiles pulls him across the floor, straining against the wolfsbane in his system, on the ropes binding his wrists.
Stiles doesn’t answer.
"Don’t answer. They’re not real; they don’t deserve an explanation."
He gets them as far as the hall before he has to stop, drop Scott’s legs, and press his forehead against the wall. He’s shaking, shaking so hard. If this is a fantasy, should he really be shaking this hard?
His mom’s face, her hand stroking his cheek softly.
“We just want you to better, Stiles. I miss you so much. I miss my smiling boy.”
“Stiles…” Scott sounds pained, frantic, pleading. “Listen to me, whatever that witch did to you, it’s messing with your head. You don’t want to do this.”
Scott hovering awkwardly at the edge of the white walled room, all gangly limbs and floppy, too long hair, flashing him a nervous smile.
“Doc says I’m part of your fantasies, man.” He grins, light and teasing. “I mean, not like that. But like, you gave me superpowers or something? That’s pretty cool.” And then, the smile falling away. “But the real me isn’t that bad, is it?”
He draws in a breath, pushes himself off the wall.
“I need to do this.”
He has Scott’s legs again, dragging him the rest of the way to his dad’s study. Scott starts fighting again in earnest when he sees Lydia and Kira already inside. Kira’s still unconscious, a dark bruise forming on her temple, and Lydia’s glaring at Stiles around her gag. They’re both handcuffed to the foot of his dad’s desk, and he drags Scott to lie on the opposite side of the room, well out of arms’ reach in case they start getting any ideas about teaming up to untie the wolfsbane rope.
Scott’s shouting again, shouting for Kira, shouting at Stiles. Trying to reason with him past the growing panic. Stiles understands. The gun lying on top of his dad’s desk, all ready to use, must be pretty intimidating.
He doesn’t look behind the desk. He doesn’t let himself look there, not yet.
If he looks up at the chair, at his dad’s taped mouth, at his horrified, betrayed eyes, he might just lose it right now.
“Do I have to kill my dad too?” He’s shaking as he asks, even with his real dad right here in the room, clutching his hand and running a hand through his hair soothingly.
The idea of shooting him, any version of him…
The doctor’s lips purse thoughtfully.
"Is he keeping you anchored in that world?"
No… yes? Possibly.
Looking out for his dad, making sure he eats well, keeping him safe from the supernatural.
He looks at his real dad, sitting here next to him in Eichen House. The dad who’d had to commit him here after he’d stumbled across the body of a slaughtered young woman in the woods and started losing touch with reality.
"I don’t think so? I… if he’s here too, I don’t think so."
"But you’re not sure," the doctor had said patiently. "It’s best to make a clean break, Stiles. It’s best to rid yourself of all the ties that might trap you there."
"Stiles, we’re friends. We’re best friends, I don’t… the spell just messed with your head. Please, we can find a way to fix this, we can go to Deaton…"
"Right," Stiles snorts, because humor is better than sobbing. "The vet. The vet who just happens to be a werewolf doctor and our own personal Giles."
Scott’s brows furrow a little, like he’s trying to work out where Stiles is going with this. (Or like he’s trying to place the Buffy reference, but Stiles doesn’t even want to consider that one.)
"But… he is."
"Yeah, because my brain’s got a ridiculous sense of humor."
A vet werewolf doctor. Yep, he should’ve seen “Stiles’ brain” written all over that one ages ago.
He grabs the tape, pulls off a long strip, and secures it over Scott’s mouth. Then he pauses, crouched over him, and squeezes his eyes shut.
"Don’t worry, Scott. It’ll all be ok. I’m gonna do this, then I’ll be back in the real world with the real you. We’ll be on the bench in lacrosse, and Lydia won’t have a clue who I am, and I’ll have my mom back. Things will finally be normal again."
Scott’s staring at him with shocked, pained eyes when he looks down, and there’s a shift of movement from behind the desk, from the Place He Can’t Look Yet.
Derek and Stiles get stuck in an alternate universe where Stiles became a werewolf, Derek is still Alpha, their friends aren't dead and this other them just had their first baby via surrogate. They are stuck there for a week (a month?) sharing the only spare bedroom. They can't believe a world exists where they are in love like this, so they fight the idea, but being around it everyday, holding the baby, they both can't imagine not trying when/if (when!) they get home.
*I didn’t fit in wolf!Stiles because it was already getting too long, hope that’s ok <3 (but maybe you can infer he is ‘cause he’s clearly more body confident and I don’t say he isn’t.)
Stiles thinks he’s finally starting to wrap his head around all the craziness: the fact that he’s standing here face to face with himself… or almost himself. A version of himself with slightly shorter hair, dressed in a fitted black tee that he wears with the kind of casual confidence Stiles would usually ascribe to Scott or Derek, maybe, but definitely not himself.
The fact that Allison, god, Allison of all people had been the one who’d found them, dazed and stumbling through the preserve in the aftermath of the spell. And she’d just frowned at Stiles’ pained exclamation as he’d attempted to rush toward her, Derek’s hand on his arm, too tight with tension, barely holding him back. She’d whistled sharply and Isaac had appeared through the trees moments later, brows furrowing as he’d stepped up to Allison’s shoulder like he wasn’t the slightest bit surprised she wasn’t dead (her hair grown back out a bit, her bow a newer model Stiles had never seen her with), murmuring “something up, they smell… off.”
Boyd and Erica had met their little group on the porch of a Hale house that, not only hadn’t been bulldozed by the county, but looked fresh and rebuilt and whole and lived in again. (And this time Stiles had been the one to catch Derek’s arm, keeping him from… Stiles hadn’t been sure what exactly, only that Derek had been moving like he might just topple over, or rush the people wearing the faces of his dead betas, or turn and bolt away from the house-that-wasn’t-his-house).
Stiles has been through a lot of insanity in the past few years, and some kind of parallel universe where things are sort of the same but different? Hell, Stiles had been dealing with that shit long before he’d even started thinking about werewolves.
He’d been keeping up with about half a dozen co-existing Marvel Universes since he was eleven, ok? That the theory’s got merit isn’t actually all that shocking to him. He has a handle on it, no matter how weird it all is.
That is… until the door swings open and his alternate’s face lights up almost before Derek… not-Derek steps into the room.
“Took your sweet time, dude. You left me to entertain the house guests.”
Not-Derek rolls his eyes but smiles easily, and Stiles can’t help notice the way the rest of the wolves shift around him, making space for him automatically, forming a half-circle with a slight, indefinable something in their stances that seems to indicate deference.
“I was tracking a scent through the woods. Something like… ozone, magic. I couldn’t…” And then he freezes, eyes catching on Stiles’ face and taking him in, his body going rigid. The betas all seem to tense along with him, and Stiles knows right away, wonders if Derek realizes too, this version of him is still an Alpha.
Not-Stiles laughs, stepping around the edge of the room toward his Derek.
“House guests,” he intones cheerfully. “What do you think?”
The other Derek stares at Stiles a few seconds longer, before his startled eyes flick to his own.
“His hair’s different,” he says, dumbly, and not-Stiles laughs, and this right here is when the world stops making sense, because his voice goes husky and his hand drifts, almost casually, to tug at the front of not-Derek’s shirt.
“What, you like it better that way?”
His head ducks down shyly, but he looks up at his Derek through his lashes with a smug smile playing over his lips, and Stiles feels a little shiver of awareness go through him because this other him’s flirting, ok? Flirting with Derek. And he’s pulling it off the way Stiles pulls off tripping over his own feet most mornings, and not-Derek’s falling right for it, going with the pull of the hand fisting his shirt and then they’re kissing, mouths meeting in a soft, slow press that seems to stretch on forever. Stiles can’t look away until he can’t bear to look any longer, and he finds his gaze going to Derek, who’s staring down at the floor in front of him, seeming every bit as shocked, baffled, blindsided, as Stiles feels.
There’s a quiet “mmm” of satisfaction from the other Stiles that makes Derek jolt, eyes going up and back down again fast, and then Stiles hears his own voice murmuring “Scott and Kira watching CiCi?”
“With your dad,” not-Derek answers, tone a satisfied rumble that has Stiles swallowing hard because he’d done that, or… Other Him had done that, and suddenly alternate universes don’t feel like a piece of cake anymore. They feel damn confusing.
There’s a quiet laugh from the doorway, and then Isaac’s announcing: “Hey guys, I think you’re freaking out the house guests.”
Stiles’ counterpart scoffs, and Stiles is staring at Derek but his damn peripheral vision is still able to pick out the way he shifts, arm slipping around his Derek’s waist as he turns to look at them.
“Oh come on, it’s nothing they haven’t—” He cuts off fast, and when he starts up again his tone has completely changed, going low and shocked. “Wait… you guys aren’t… really? That’s just weird.”
Derek’s neck is going flushed in a way Stiles has never seen it, so he drags his gaze back to take in the other Stiles, the “wrapped around a Derek like their bodies would slot together perfectly” Stiles, and grits out “You’ve got no idea.”
If you're taking prompts, I really think we need more Sterek+zombies!au's. And I mean all out apocalyptic setting's with them staying with a really small group of people who live in a, I don't know, awesome ass tree house or underground cellar or a really tall building, and being all around bad ass.
“No, don’t you dare. Don’t fucking dare. Derek!”
Stiles slams into the door a second late, fists crashing into cool metal that refuses to give. Because Derek had locked it. Derek had locked him out.
And is turning back to face the herd of undead on his own.
“Fuck you, Derek! I swear to god, if you get yourself bitten I’m not even gonna shoot you!” He punches the door again and then forces himself to go quiet – Derek needs to concentrate right now if he wants to survive, Stiles screaming through a door at him isn’t going to do him any favors.
He pushes off the door and stalks a few steps backward, glancing over his shoulder to make sure his shouting hasn’t drawn in any ganks from this side of the wall before sizing up the building.
It’s a supermarket, one of those oversized superstores that’s basically a warehouse, windows about twelve feet in the air and running along the length of each side wall. Stiles knows from their time inside that part of the ceiling has caved in, but even if he could make his way to the roof, the drop would leave him totally incapable of actually helping Derek once he got inside.
He allows himself one breath, another, and then he’s moving. Hitching his bow up on his shoulder, dropping the backpack of scavenged supplies, and darting for the left side of the building.
He hears the sound of fighting - of impacts and rasping snarls and the occasional gunshot – as he grabs the abandoned shopping cart, shoves it up on top of the tall dumpster, and hoists himself up after it. He tries not to think about it, about how there’d been at least thirty of them in there, a whole nest hungry, relentless, mindless monsters. Instead he focuses on the motions – on flipping the cart wheel up and bracing it against the wall, on pulling himself on top of it and reaching up to push at the dirty glass of the window.
No latches. Of-fucking-course not. He hops back down to the top of the dumpster, pulling out his own gun and, wincing a little, shoots the glass twice before stripping his overshirt, climbing the shopping cart again, and punching the weakened glass with a flannel covered fist.
And then he’s pushing off the shattered remnants of glass, laying the flannel out against the bottom of the frame, and pulling himself up and inside.
Derek writes love letters. They’re not to anyone. It’s just a habit he picked up in New York, when he was alone and going crazy with the feeling of being hemmed in by all that pavement and glass that didn’t give a shit about anyone, alive or dead. Laura hadn’t counted. How could he talk to her? She’d hate him if she knew.
They started off being to the idea of Kate, the person she was supposed to be: someone a little better than him, hotter and older and smarter. But with a soul, this time. Someone who’d never hurt him, and who’d know what to do about the mess that’s suddenly his life. Love you, can’t wait to hear from you, he used to sign them, and imagine the replies she would write. He even came up with a name, but it could just as well have been “not-Kate” for all the meaning it held. Amanda or something. He doesn’t even remember. He dropped it such a long time ago.
They’re not about Kate anymore, or Amanda. He doesn’t want hero worship, and he writes to someone who’s flawed, like him. Who maybe doesn’t have all the answers, but who’d try. The important thing is that Derek can tell this person anything - anything - and it’s okay. They still love him.