Chapter Text
Celestiel was good at fighting. His brother knew this, his brother was the one who asked him to fight for him. Celestiel saw, in this request, a chance to channel the anger and the pain of the last millennia, a chance for vengeance and retribution, a chance for other angels to be free to experience what he had experienced without punishment.
Many of the angels held him in contempt, regarding him as disobedient and untrustworthy as Gadreel, which hurt, being compared to the one who let evil into the Garden and made God leave Heaven in the first place.
Castiel had asked him to fight for redemption, forgiveness, acceptance. Castiel gave him a garrison to command and let them fight.
And that was what Celestiel was doing when everything went hazy. Though, Eiael would've substituted “fighting” for “dying”. He had managed to disarm Virgil, a worthy feat in itself, but the seraph, while equally as powerful as Celestiel, had eons of experience under his belt. He was the one who threw down Azazel from Heaven in the First War.
So Celestiel was in the process of getting his grace torn apart when he felt the resonating presence of his brother. He couldn't acknowledge Castiel and simultaneously shake Virgil off his back (Figuratively. His form didn't physically have a back because it wasn't physical).
But Castiel's grace was calling out to him across the battlefield, reaching out to his whole garrison, who were in a better position to answer their leader than Celestiel was.
And then the force of Castiel's grace was pulling him down, out of Virgil's grasp, further down until he was scrabbling to get back up because it was too much, too forceful, too painful.
Gravity wasn't an issue with angels. It wasn't compulsory to abide by it's laws. But Celestiel felt it now, felt it tug him down while Castiel pushed him out. He felt the emptiness as he left Heaven, he felt the floating, lost feeling of not having a body.
Derek was not a religious man.
Any god that let eleven people burn to death in a fire without justice was unjust, unfair, uncaring. And Derek couldn't blame an abstract idea like God, so he reserved his anger for more physical things and avoided deep, philosophical musings.
So he was a little surprised, to say the least, to find an angel on his doorstep.
Derek didn't even live in his family home any more, since the council condemned it. He moved into a loft with a hole in the wall that was probably a metaphor for something in his life if he thought about it (he didn't). So it was pure coincidence that Deaton had requested some of the wolfsbane that was growing in the Hale house ruins. Pure coincidence that while Derek was walking out the door at 5:11pm on a tuesday afternoon, thunder rumbled and lightening struck (though it had been for a week), and a guy was at the door.
This guy was normal-looking. Human-looking. Humanoid. He had tufty brown hair that would've been soft if it weren't drenched in sweat. Pale skin dotted with moles that looked purposefully placed, almost. An upturned nose and long eyelashes, and the guy managed to keep his heavily-lidded eyes open long enough for Derek to notice them burning a deep amber.
The guy wasn't wearing a shirt. Wasn't wearing much else but one of those rags you see Michelangelo paintings wearing, the ones that look like they'd blow away your modesty in a breeze. His torso was made of harsh lines and lithe muscles. Of course, it all would've pleasing to the eye if it weren't for the blood.
The blood oozed from shallow scratches and deep gashes on his chest, though none looked more fatal than the hole in his side, as big as a quarter but deeper than Derek would care to think about.
The guy stumbled on his feet, swaying, struggling to keep his eyes open. He leaned heavily against the doorframe, his long fingers clenching until his knuckles were white and his (blunt, human) nails sunk into the wood.
And then the man -though he could've easily been a boy- looked up, and his amber eyes flashed brighter than Derek's had ever been when he wolfed out, a light blue with white in the middle.
“Der...” he breathed, his voice rough and unused. “Derek. I need... your help.” And then he collapsed.
Derek darted forward and caught the guy, just before his head connected with the floor. His blood was wet on Derek's hands, but Derek ignored it and lifted the guy up. His head lolled down. He was out cold, his breathing shallow, but his heart beating. His skin shouldn't have been as hot as it was. Derek was sure that it was hotter than an average human's, which strengthened, along with the weird eyes, Derek's conviction that the guy was not human.
And then the heart stopped, but the breathing didn't, and Derek didn't know what to think. Hearts were important for life, weren't they? They beat, they pump blood, and once they stop beating, you're dead. And death meant not-breathing.
The heart kicked up again after exactly a minute, in which Derek tried to drag the man further into the house and lie him on his stomach so Derek could inspect the wounds on his back.
Once the thumping started up again, the two gashes on the man's back started healing straight away. They were precise, like someone held him down and surgically cut two diagonal lines, which wasn't a great incentive for keeping Derek's lunch down. And as soon as they started healing, the blood on the guy's back started fading.
Derek was lucky he had adapted the skill of keeping his head cool in situations that should've paralysed him with horror. And surprise. And shock. All of these emotions were spinning around Derek's mind as he was about to flip the guy over and see if the blood and the gashes on his front had cleared.
Next thing he knew, he was tripping over his feet after being whacked in the face by something soft, strong, and black.
Two wings, black, feathered, and larger-than-necessary, had snapped out from the cuts, one hitting Derek back on his ass and one thudding into a wall, quivering for a second before tucking around the body they had spontaneously sprung from.
Derek was getting too cynical for this shit.
Scott had stood there, his mouth open and his eyes wide, for a good two minutes, before passing out. Derek thought it was a rather dramatic reaction to the unconscious human-bird hybrid on the sofa.
Jackson had crossed his arms and snorted, muttering something about all this supernatural shit finally breaking his brain.
Isaac had reached out with a shaking hand, and lightly pressed a fingertip to one black wing, curled around the man's side. The wing fluttered subtly, and Isaac gasped and yanked his hand back.
“It feels...” His voice was a raw, choking sound. “It feel amazing.”
“Not when it's hitting you in the face,” Derek commented, narrowing his eyes at the creature in front of him.
Isaac shook his head, but didn't take his eyes off the thing. “What do you... Do you think it's an angel?” he asked, cautiously hopeful.
Jackson huffed. “Yeah, right. Probably just some lab freak, an experiment on the loose. There might be a reward.” He stood up from where he was crouching over Scott, turning back to the dude.
Isaac glared at him. “We're not doing anything until he wakes up.”
Jackson rolled his eyes. “Well, until Hot Wings over there does wake up, we should-”
“His name is not Hot Wings,” someone interrupted.
The wolves spun around so quickly Derek could feel the collective whiplash. Standing behind them, regarding them with looks of contempt and clarity, were five of the most good-looking people Derek had seen since New York.
The one who spoke, a strawberry blonde girl with green eyes, narrowed her eyes at Jackson, who took a step back.
Derek growled, low in his throat, and Isaac followed suit. “Who are you?”
The dark-skinned one, with enough bulk to be intimidating, stepped forward, holding his hands out placatingly. “We wish you no harm,” he assured in a low, soothing voice.
“Then what are you doing here?” Derek barked out, letting his eyes flash blue. Isaac's growl cut off and his claws lengthened. Jackson hovered protectively over Scott's unconscious body.
The big one nodded towards the winged guy. “We're here for him.”
Derek let his eyes fade back to their usual green and straightened, putting a hand on Isaac's arm to calm him down. “What is he?”
The girl with the dark curls and pale skin looked down at the guy with sad eyes. “He's our commander,” she replied in a quiet voice. She reached down and touched the man's forehead.
At the touch, the guy gasped awake and scrambled up, the cloth around his legs sliding down dangerously, his wings snapping to attention and knocking Jackson over. The girl just stepped to the side and narrowly avoided her “commander's” flailing fist to the face.
The guy's eyes focused, and he took in his audience with pleasant surprise. “Hey, soldiers,” he greeted. “Nice vessels.” His voice was warm, if a little hoarse, and it shook something in Derek that twinged a memory.
The strawberry blonde huffed and put her hands on her hips, staring at the guy with severity. “You should've gotten a vessel,” she scolded.
The man craned his neck over the arm of the sofa and spotted Scott on the floor, as if he had known he was there the whole time. “Yeah, but you know how sentimental I get with my bloodlines. Didn't want to take over the guy's life.”
Derek cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling as though the situation had gotten out of control. But he needed to address the problem of referring to the guy as “Hot Wings” before anything else.
“Who are you?” Derek asked, gruff and what his sister would've called his “grumpy, demanding tone”.
Hot Wings looked up at him, and his eyes brightened, a grin stretching over his face. Derek felt the breath leave him, because it felt so intimate, like this stranger was happy to see him, like this stranger had been waiting for this moment. Like this stranger knew him.
He stood up (the white rag around his waist still preserving his modesty), and swept his hand in the air, bowing his head with a sardonic smirk that told Derek he was fooling around. He straightened and tilted his head to the side. “My name is Celestiel.”
That twinge in Derek twinged louder, if that was a thing. Derek couldn't shake off this feeling, and he couldn't identify it either. It was almost a feeling of rightness.
“Celestiel,” Derek repeated numbly, trading an unreadable look with Isaac.
“Yes,” Celestiel chirped cheerily, grinning at the group of people behind Derek. “And the lovely angels behind you are Lydia, Jeduthan, Asariel, Balthioul, and Eiael.” His grin disappeared, and he pushed past Derek to the blonde one, his wings hugging his back and brushing the floor.
“Where's Castiel?” Celestiel asked in a low voice, his hands resting on the girl's shoulders.
The girl shrugged, biting her lip. “I remember his presence, and then we were falling.”
“Falling,” he murmured, stepping away. “But we're not... Fallen.”
Derek was lost, and he hated being lost. He wasn't an Alpha but he was in control. It was his house and his pack, and these strangers were intruding. “Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”
Celestiel glanced up at him from where he was chewing his nail and gave him a quick smile. “Well, Hell isn't going on. Quite the opposite, actually, Derek Hale.” He strode towards Derek, ignoring how Derek flinched away from his hands as he laid them on Derek's shoulders. The guy must like shoulders. “And may I just say it is great to see you,” he said earnestly.
Derek pulled out of his grip, uncomfortable at the intensity of Celestiel's amber eyes. “What are you? And what are you doing here?”
Celestiel let out a breath and frowned. “Well, I suppose we'll start with the obvious,” he said, snapping his wings. They hit the walls and Celestiel seemed to deflate a bit.
“I am not staying here for this,” the blonde girl muttered.
Celestiel frowned at her. “Stay. That's an order.”
The girl sighed, but didn't argue, instead choosing to lean against the bulky black guy.
Celestiel looked back at Derek, and cleared his throat. “So. Me. And those guys over there, but more importantly, me. I'm an angel. They're angels. I'll save you the existential crisis by confirming that yes, there is a God. And yes, there is a Satan. Heaven and Hell, yadda yadda.”
Derek blinked, trying to take the pause Celestiel took to breathe and process the information he had just been slapped in the face with.
But Celestiel didn't give him enough time. “And guess what? I'm yours. I'm your angel.”
Jackson cut in before Celestiel could continue. “I call bullshit. Angels aren't real.” Scott groaned what Derek assumed was an unconscious agreement.
Celestiel narrowed his eyes at Jackson. “Why would I lie?”
“Prove it,” Isaac demanded, though there was too much curiosity and not enough steel in his voice.
The strawberry blonde girl rolled her eyes, while Celestiel smirked. “Wings not enough for you, boy?”
“No,” Derek replied bluntly. “Prove it, or get out of my house.”
Celestiel frowned at Derek, like he was disappointed or something. “Fine.” And then the thunderstorm that had been occurring during the whole exchange boomed louder, and lightning flashed as though it were striking in that very room, and Celestiel's eyes glowed electric blue. His wings unfurled, the lightning casting split-second shadows on the wall behind him. And then the people, the teenagers that had randomly appeared in the living room, spread apart, the lightning casting shadows of non-existent wings behind them, all of their eyes glowing a dimmer blue than Celestiel.
The lightning stopped as fast as it had started, and Celestiel's eyes were dimming back into their amber.
Derek hadn't realised he had wolfed out until his ears twitched at the foreign, high pitched whine in his pointed ears. He shrunk them back to their usual rounded human-shaped ears and searched for his voice.
He didn't know what the appropriate reaction was when you just found out that the burnt out living room of your childhood home was occupied by six angels. But he did a good job of not passing out, or going feral, or running away, or shouting.
Instead, he calmly asked, “You're my angel?” His voice sounded young and timid, and he resolved to deepen it next time he chose to use it.
Celestiel nodded. “Your very own Guardian. Been watching over you since the minute you were born, kid.”
Celestiel watched Derek's face shut down, before the dark-haired wolf on the ground woke up. Scott , Celestiel thought excitedly. I missed this guy.
Scott blinked awake and let the blonde wolf help him up, looking at the empty couch before spinning around to stare, wide-eyed, at Celestiel.
“You,” he breathed.
Celestiel let out a laugh. “You recognise me, Scott McCall.”
Scott took a step forward. “I thought I dreamed you,” he said, his voice full of awe and disbelief.
Derek growled, low and menacingly, and Celestiel glared at him for ruining the moment between him and Scott.
“You know this... guy?” Derek asked, his tone suggesting the only correct answer is no.
Scott didn't take his eyes off Celestiel. “Yeah. He came to me in my dreams. Stiles?”
Celestiel grinned, wider and fuller than he had in a long time. He remembered coming to Scott in a dream, but the ten year-old's slight lisp (which he had obviously grown out of) hadn't been able to pronounce Celestiel . So it was shortened to Stiles. He had almost forgotten the human nickname, but he preferred it. It felt like a new start, when Scott called him that. This little boy who didn't know the history behind his name.
“Yeah, buddy,” Stiles replied. He turned to Derek's stony face. “Scotty here helped us.”
“Helped us?” Derek echoed. Stiles could feel the anger resonate from him. This Derek was different. His soul, still recognisable, was brighter than it had ever been. But his wolf was angry, sullen, full of self-deprecation that wasn't there when the man had been a boy.
Stiles wordlessly reached out and pressed two fingers to Derek's temple, and Derek blinked as the memory Stiles had been searching for resurfaced.
“Did you know that smiling is good for your health?” chirped a gangly kid with a scar on his cheek, to Derek's left.
Derek just grunted. He couldn't be bothered entertaining little kids, not when he was sitting in the hospital, staring at the blood that had dried in his fingernails, with Paige's last cry echoing through his mind, her last breath still fresh in his memory.
The boy sat in the seat next to him, his feet swinging and his hands tucked under his thighs. “Every time you lose someone, you adjust. It gets better, and you can deal with it easier with very day that passes. But you never forget.” The kid jumped down just as quick, looking Derek in the eye. “You go on living, one day at a time, until your smile doesn't feel forced. You remember. Reeses?” He held out a peanut butter cup and Derek took it, still turning over what the boy said in his mind, trying to decipher the look he was giving him, as though it was important that Derek knew this, important that Derek was listening.
The boy gave him a small smile, and Derek thought he saw those brown eyes flash blue, but it must've been the flickering light above them, the reflection.
Before he could thank the boy, the strange boy who spoke like he was a thousand years old, the strange boy who spoke like he knew grief and loss, he was alone in the corridor, holding a peanut butter cup in his hand and staring at the dried blood in his fingernails.
The curly-haired one, Isaac, darted forward in panic, but Derek opened his eyes and choked out an, “I'm fine.”
Stiles stood back and watched him curiously. “I possessed Scott to talk to you. I'm happy you've met again.”
Scott reached out hesitantly, his fingers twitching before they rested on Stiles' shoulder. “You're real,” he said.
Stiles grinned, though it felt forced. He didn't know why. “Yeah. Flesh and blood, a hundred percent.”
“About that,” Lydia spoke up, fixing Stiles with a glare. “You were meant to take a vessel.”
Stiles sighed and gestured to Scott, who hadn't let go of his shoulder. “I'm not going to take over his body, Lydia.”
Lydia narrowed her eyes, but it was Jeduthan who spoke up. “So instead, you decide to weaken yourself even more, making a body? We're at war, Celestiel. We can't afford to have a weak commander.”
Stiles flopped back on the couch, distractedly aware that they had an audience, but not able to care. “Castiel cast us out of Heaven. The last thing I remember was Virgil ripping me to pieces. It was an impulsive decision, but I'm already strengthening.”
“How long are we expected to stay down here?” Asariel demanded.
Stiles shrugged. “I don't know. I don't know why Castiel cast us out. I'm sure he had his reasons. It's not for us to question them.” Stiles had faith in his brother, it was hard not to. The angel had been resurrected by God. That alone should've had Raphael slinking into a dark corner for a few millenia.
Eiael raised an eyebrow. “You're the only one who can question them. You're Castiel's brother, he tells you everything,” she said.
Stiles shook his head. “We'll talk later,” he said, injecting as much authority as he could into his voice. His garrison may have their issues, but they were loyal to a fault. They didn't question orders. Though sometimes Stiles felt like they should, because wasn't that what they were fighting for? Free will, freedom?
Stiles turned back to the wolves, clapping his hands together. “So. Any questions?” He frowned, taking in Derek's sullen and blank face, the undertones of death that lingered in the air, the charred wallpaper and burns on the wooden floor. “What happened here?”
Derek's face darkened into something pained. “A fire,” he replied, as if the words had been pulled out of his mouth against his will.
Stiles didn't ignore the dread spreading through his stomach. “Who?” he asked in a whisper, knowing Derek could hear him.
Derek didn't break eye contact with him. “All but Laura and Peter.”
Not true, Balthioul spoke in his mind. Cora's alive. He had been Cora's Guardian before Castiel called them up to fight Raphael, and Stiles could feel the waves of sadness and horror from the angel. He had grown to love the Hale family as much as Stiles.
I'll tell him at a better time, Stiles replied. “How long ago?” he asked out loud to Derek.
“Just after Paige,” Derek replied, his voice hitching almost imperceptibly at the name.
Stiles closed his eyes against the wave of guilt and failure . That was around the time the war started. And Stiles, Celestiel, had jumped at the chance to fight, for revenge and justice, for himself. When his ward was back on Earth, losing his family and having no one to help him, to guide him, to Guard him.
I'm going to find Cora, Balthioul told him.
Okay, Stiles assented. Balthioul disappeared, and the three teenage wolves jumped in shock. Derek didn't take his intense gaze off Stiles.
“I should've stayed,” Stiles muttered, unable to look away from the green eyes that held accusation and betrayal in them. “I never should've-”
“Why did you leave?” Derek asked him, his voice calm. Which meant he was super-pissed. “If you're my... guardian angel, why did you leave me?”
The words hit Stiles like a punch to the gut, and his wings shrunk into his back, disappearing. He opened his mouth to answer when Lydia cut in. “There's a war going on. A civil war, in Heaven. We were fighting.” Her voice was cold and informative, but not unkind.
It no longer seemed like a good reason, just an excuse. By the look on Derek's face, he thought so too.
Stiles took a step forward, towards his ward, feeling the air tingle between them like it always did when Stiles watching him. “Derek, I'm sorry for leaving you. It was-” But before he could finish his sentence, Derek was shouldering past him and walking out the door.
Derek was pissed.
This dude crash-lands on his porch, feeds them some bullshit story about wars in Heaven, and expects him to believe it?
The annoying thing was that everyone's heartbeat was steady the whole time, apart from Celestiel's when he found out about the fire. He had the audacity to be sad about Derek's family's death, when he could've prevented it.
And of course, Derek couldn't get a moment of peace, because as soon as he showed up at the loft, the angel was right behind him.
“Derek.”
Derek turned slowly, meeting Celestiel's eyes calmly, the anger draining from his body. If he had learnt anything in the years after Paige's death, it was that holding on to anger will burn you out, like it had with Peter.
“Celestiel,” Derek greeted in a clipped voice. The angel in question looked normal now. Wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, his wings non-existent. He looked about Scott's age, seventeen or eighteen, except for the eyes. Something about them were unfathomable, ancient.
“Stiles,” he sighed, taking a step forward. Derek's figurative hackles rose, because this was his territory, and it was unnerving how the angel treated it like his own.
“What are you doing here?” Derek asked him.
Stiles looked uncomfortable, tugging at his clothing where it hugged his skin too tight. Derek tried to not notice how objectively attractive Stiles was. It was hard, since the angel had to make himself a body that was completely Derek's type.
“I... I want to know what happened,” Stiles replied, and Derek noted that the look of pure devastation when Derek told him about the fire hadn't gone away, or died down. It was fresh, raw.
Derek nodded and sat on the couch, tilting his head at the chair across from it until the angel sat down. Stiles was so young-looking, reminding Derek of Scott.
“Hunters were in town. They trapped everyone with mountain ash and set fire to the place. Laura and I were at school when it happened, and Peter was the only one who got out. He healed, and killed the... the person who did it.”
Stiles' face softened. “Who did it, Derek?” His voice was gentle, soothing, and Derek looked away from him.
“Kate Argent.” The name tasted bitter in his mouth, and not for the first time, he wanted her name scrubbed from his mind, burnt out and leaving no trace behind like she had done to his family. Stiles was wrong, that day in the hospital. It never got easier after the fire.
Stiles sat up straighter. “I know the name,” he said, his eyebrows furrowing in thought. He looked up at the ceiling, before glancing back at Derek. “Where's Laura and Peter now?”
Derek brushed a hand through his hair, because he had never actually said it out loud, what had happened. He thought about it, but never talked about it.
“Laura and I went to New York. Peter was... broken. He stayed. Laura came back to Beacon Hills, and he killed her.”
“What?” The word was more like the expelling of a breath, and Stiles' eyes were wide with horror. If Stiles had watched over him his whole life, he would've encountered Derek's family. Which meant that Stiles knew Peter, before the fire, the Peter that danced to christmas songs and took them on moon-runs.
“He wasn't in his right mind,” Derek managed, his throat closing up at the memory. “Still isn't.”
Stiles shook his head and leaned forward in his seat. “You don't have to go on, Derek. I'm sorry for making you talk about it.” And the angel actually sounded sorry, which was new to Derek. “You've done great without me, but you should never have had to go through it alone. That's all on me.”
“Damn right it is,” Derek replied, his voice rough.
Stiles tilted his head at him, his eyes guilty. “I don't deserve your forgiveness,” he carried on, barking out a short, bitter laugh, bordering on self-deprecation, “but I'm telling you right now, I'm not leaving you again.” Steady heartbeat, truth.
Derek stared down at his hands, unable to meet those amber eyes.
And then Stiles was next to him on the couch, and Derek didn't even have time to flinch away before Stiles was pulling his own shirt up, touching a fingertip to his chest, right above his heart. A line of sigils, foreign-looking and elegant, lit up in bright white against his skin, and something in Derek wanted to touch it, to feel the light, trace the lines. He didn't, though.
Stiles looked up at Derek. “This is your name in Enochian, the language of our kind. It will be here until you die. Or until I die,” he added with a wry twist to his mouth.
“Angels die?” Derek thought it was a legitimate question, but, from the look Stiles gave him, he felt as though the angel was laughing at him.
“Yes, angels die,” he said slowly. His face clouded over with serious darkness. “Or else this war would be endless.”
Derek found an opportunity to change the subject, and took it. “What's happening up there?”
Stiles disappeared in the blink of an eye, sitting back on the armchair. Derek tried to ignore the urge to reach out and touch him, drag him back on the couch. Tried to ignore the feeling that it was right with Stiles next to him. “The storms are our doing, sorry. It's... a long story.”
Derek shrugged and leaned back in the couch. “I've got time.” It would also give him the chance to know more about this boy –angel- who knew everything about him.
Stiles rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Time is different in Heaven. It's been seven years since I saw you last, for you. It's been thirty for me. So, um, seven years ago, some idiot let Lucifer out of his cage-”
“What?”
Stiles waved a hand dismissively. “Let me finish. So Lucifer was walking the Earth, and there was meant to be some big showdown between him and Michael.”
“The archangel?” Derek asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
Stiles looked pleased at the interruption. “Yes, the archangel. Pompous asshole. No love lost between us. Anyway, these three humans, and my brother, stopped what would've been the apocalypse by throwing Michael and Lucifer back in the cage.”
“What cage?”
Stiles scrunched up his nose. “I don't know exactly what it is. But the point is, they're trapped down there, in the cage, in hell. The apocalypse was stopped, no more End Of Days. And the last remaining archangel, Raphael, didn't like it. He's a traditionalist. So he took over Heaven and tried to free his brothers from the cage again.”
“But you stopped him?”
Stiles shook his head, staring at his hands. “I was down here, Guarding you. Cas asked me to fight beside him, fight Raphael for control of Heaven. The odds... they weren't good. But I said I would.” He looked up at Derek then, his eyebrows pulled together unhappily. “Castiel gave me my own garrison, and for thirty years, we fought. And then Castiel cast us down, for some reason. Luckily he did, though, or else we'd all be dead.”
“Why did you fight?” Derek asked. It wasn't a challenge, he asked it out of genuine curiosity.
Stiles didn't hesitate. “He's my brother. I'd die for him. It helps that he fights for a good cause. Besides,” he added bitterly, “he knew I'd want in.”
Derek raised his eyebrows, but the angel didn't elaborate. He felt uncomfortable, asking all these questions, like this was some kind of interview, so he just nodded and let the silence between them take over.
Stiles watched him, studied him, as if committing him to memory. “After thirty years, I came back to you. Because it feels safe here.” His tone suggested that he didn't expect Derek to respond so he didn't, because what the hell was he meant to say to that? It was the first time that someone had ever said anything like that to him, that thought he was safe. Even his pack edged around him in fear. After everything that had happened, all the death and loss, safe was the last thing Derek was.
After a few more moments, Stiles' face cleared and he stood up. A second later, Derek's loft was filled with angels and werewolves.
Jackson swayed on his feet, and Isaac bolted to the toilet to vomit. Scott stumbled to his knees, the angel that had been holding his arm wincing apologetically. “I apologise,” she said, tossing her dark curls over her shoulder. “It will pass.”
The strawberry blonde glared at Stiles, who gave her a sheepish look, as if he were preparing himself for a scolding. Despite being the commander of their... garrison?
“Celestiel,” she snapped. “How long are we staying down here? We should be fighting! We can't leave Castiel up there by himself.”
Stiles clenched his fists, like he was standing to attention, and the other angels automatically adjusted their postures to match. “Castiel is capable of holding his own against Raphael; he's done so before. He cast us out for a reason, and until he wants us back, I suggest we respect his wishes.”
The one with green eyes and dark hair, who honestly looked like a male cops stripper, narrowed his eyes. “We're staying here? For how long?” It was clear by his tone that the thought disturbed him.
Stiles looked back at Derek, his eyes softening, before addressing his angels. “I'm going to stay here. When Castiel commands you, and only then, you can go back to Heaven. If you wish to stay with me, Cas won't force you.”
“But we need you! You're our commander, you're our best fighter!” the dark-haired girl protested.
Stiles shrugged. “I'm needed here more, Asariel.” But the look he gave Derek was hesitantly hopeful, like he wasn't sure if Derek would let him, like it was up to Derek. He looked back at the red-head. “Lydia, this is what it means to have free will. It's my choice.”
Lydia huffed and crossed her arms. “Free will to be a coward,” she spat.
Derek felt like he should say something, stick up for Stiles, but it wasn't his place. It was obviously unfair, calling Stiles a coward, but then Stiles' face went stony and blank, and Derek figured the angel could handle it himself.
“You would deny me the liberty of my choice?” He stepped forward, not menacingly, but Lydia still stepped back, her face contrite. “Because if you do, you are welcome to join Raphael's cause.”
Lydia shook her head, silent and apologetic. The other angels sent her and Stiles wary looks.
Stiles straightened and looked over his garrison. “We stay. Act like humans. Maybe it will give you all some perspective, considering it's their cause we fight for.”
Isaac, who must've been standing next to Derek the whole time, puffed out a breath. “You'll need human names. We can't just introduce you all as Celestiel or whatever.”
“Well, Stiles works as a nickname,” Scott spoke up, giving Stiles a dimpled smile. “I prefer it, anyway.”
Stiles gave Scott a small smile back, before turning to Isaac. “Okay, kid, what do you suggest we call ourselves?”
Ten minutes later, the angels had been renamed, and Derek found himself wondering what he was going to do with them all.
A week passed, and during that time, Scott introduced Stiles to the wonders of lacrosse (Stiles thought it was a pointless game, only useful for fueling testosterone and competitive anger, but he didn't tell the kid that), Isaac forced Stiles' angels to watch what he called “superhero movies” (to which Stiles admitted they had their merits, but were still an inaccurate portrayal of motives and clashing personalities), Jackson took them all shopping and taught them how to not look like “hobo drug-addicts that are allergic to washing machines”, and Derek actually smiled.
Stiles had been voicing his confusion of the fact that humans seemed to think that watching people while they slept was not socially acceptable, since he'd done it plenty of times, and Derek ducked his head to try and hide his grin.
Isaac noticed, and pointed an accusatory finger at Derek. “You're smiling!”
Derek scowled at the kid, but Isaac was unfazed.
Stiles frowned at the exchange. “You don't smile?”
“Not often,” Isaac answered for him. “But it's okay,” he added, giving Derek a fond look while Derek glared at him, “it makes us feel special when he does smile.” Isaac clapped a hand on Derek's back and walked out of the kitchen.
Stiles frowned at the wolf in front of him. He had learnt, in the past week, that they weren't technically a pack. Peter, after going crazy and killing Laura to become the Alpha, bit Scott, Isaac, and Jackson, and he wouldn't have stopped if Derek hadn't have stepped in and chased him out of town. Another reason Stiles was proud of his ward, taking the newly-bitten teens in as his own and acting as Alpha, even though they were technically an omega pack.
Asariel (or Allison) had lost her ward while she was in Heaven, though she hadn't exactly liked her in the first place. She told Stiles that her ward was a psychotic, homicidal maniac, and part of the reason why she left to fight Raphael.
And Balthioul, who had taken the name of Boyd (Stiles wasn't judging), was currently talking Cora into coming back to Beacon Hills, which was taking longer than expected.
“Why are you different?” Derek asked, the scowl gone from his face. Stiles had been making pasta, an art he had perfected and loved to show off, so he stopped grating the cheese and looked over at his ward.
“What do you mean?”
Derek shrugged, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. Stiles tried to hold back his grin at the surly wolf's curiosity. “You have wings, and the others just have shadows. Why?”
Stiles went back to grating the cheese. “We're meant to possess vessels when we come down to Earth. We talk to them, and they consent. I didn't want to do that to Scott, I didn't want to take over his life. It's very rare, but occasionally, Seraphs can create their own vessel, different to a human body.” He avoiding grating his fingers and wiped his hands on his jeans. “So I did, and it weakened me. I tried to look like Scott, but...” Stiles looked down at his body, pale and mole-spotted.
“Didn't try hard enough,” Derek noted, giving him a once-over. “You're a Seraph?”
Stiles nodded. “Yeah. Cas and I. What do you know about angel hierarchy?”
Derek shook his head, still watching Stiles. It was unnerving, since Stiles was used to Derek looked through him, not seeing him. He was so used to being invisible to his ward. “Never thought it'd be useful before.”
“Well Cas and I are Seraph, the highest order of angels, in the First Sphere. Boyd is a Cherub, a protector of the Throne. Jeduthan – Jordan, is Ophanim, sort of like the law-enforcers. In the Second Sphere, Asariel is a Virtue, Lydia a Power. Both are warriors, and keepers of history. And Eiael is from the Third Sphere, a Principality. She carries out orders and blessings. Used to be a Cupid.”
“I thought archangels were the highest order,” Derek said, curling his fingers around the beer bottle in his hands.
Stiles shrugged. “Depends. We view them as a brotherhood, since they are brothers. They're the most powerful, but they aren't an order as such. They manage Heaven, make the big decisions.”
“Because God left.”
Stiles nodded, and opened his mouth to reply when Jackson sauntered in. “Is the food done yet? I'm starving.”
“No,” Derek replied, giving the teen a glare.
Stiles sighed and peered at the pasta. He preferred to cook things from scratch. He didn't eat, but he enjoyed cooking it. Two seconds later, he was handing Isaac, Jackson, and Derek bowls of it, mourning the loss of the opportunity to finish the meal properly. Scott was having dinner with his mother and stepfather. Derek was Isaac's legal guardian after his father was arrested for abuse, and Jackson just liked to avoid his parents.
Asariel – Allison, he reminded himself – appeared behind him, startling Derek. Stiles took in her tear-stained face and slumped shoulders, and reached out his senses. A sense of foreboding and evil filled him, and he stood up straight to attention, Allison copying his motions. The others – minus Boyd – flew in from wherever they had been lurking, and Derek was sniffing the air.
“Blood,” he growled around fangs.
Stiles threw him a warning look, silently telling him to stay where he was and stay silent, before appearing at the loft door and sliding it open.
And there, lying in a crumpled heap on the ground, was a body, twisted and mutilated, but still recognisable. Peter Hale.
Derek was there in an instant, kneeling at Peter's side and pulling him onto his back. The Alpha's face was bruised and bloodied, and his shirt was soaked with blood, slashed up to ribbons. Stiles couldn't sense a soul in the body, or hear a heartbeat.
And then a phone started ringing, from Peter's pocket. Derek looked up at Stiles briefly, his expression guarded even as his soul darkened with grief, before reaching into Peter's jacket and bringing out the phone. He pressed a button and brought it to his ear.
After a few seconds, his expression darkened. “Kate,” he growled out, as if the name was torn from his lips. “You're dead.”
Stiles crouched beside him, trying to listen in on the conversation.
“How does it feel, Derek? To be all alone? You're the last one, you know. Peter killed me before I got to finish the job. I'm coming for you next, sweetheart.” The call cut off.