Chapter Text
Derek knew that Stiles only gave him the time of day because Lydia was with Jackson. He wasn’t, and could never be what she was. She was gorgeous, fierce, alive. Him. He was broken, tired and empty. Scott often hinted at how Stiles used to be obsessed with Lydia, basically worshipping the very ground she walked on with his ten-year plan to marry her. Derek could see in the true alpha’s eyes that he’d never actually accepted Derek as his beta, could feel it in the oh so weak bond between them. Scott would take the first opportunity to get rid of him, land claim be damned. So the constant reminders of Derek being unworthy of Stiles were always there, in the back of his head till sometimes they were the only things he could think about.
Everyone was so sure that a relationship would never work with Stiles and Derek, catching him in his most self-loathing moments, and ignoring the smell of despair and sadness wafting from their packmate in favor of constantly berating him for one thing or the other. Nothing he did was right. He was never enough. Derek tried giving Stiles some flowers he’d planted himself in honor of his family. The pack sneered at him and none too gently told Derek that Stiles wasn’t someone to accept or like flowers. He kept his gardening to himself after Scott tossed the flowers in the trash can without a second glance. Derek tried cooking recipes his father had taught him, providing for one’s mate part of traditional courting. The rest of the pack assumed the food was for them and devoured everything before he could get a word in and Stiles would get irritated that Derek hadn’t saved anything for him.
Derek stopped cooking. Derek stopped doing...anything. He slowly began regressing into a shell of himself, worse than even when Laura had died. Then he’d had revenge as a motivator, as fuel to keep going. Now he didn’t have anything. Nobody noticed. Not even Stiles. Soon, he stopped showing up at Scott’s house for pack meetings and stayed at the burned Hale home, the smell of his family’s pain and fear surrounding his entire being. Nobody came for him. Stiles called or texted him every day, and rambled at him about one thing or the other, and that became the highlight of Derek’s otherwise bleak days. But as Stiles went on to college, the calls and texts began to dwindle in quantity. Days turned into weeks, and suddenly it had been over four months since Derek had last spoken to Stiles.
The pack conveniently forgot about his existence till it was time to fight the week's supernatural threat. Derek always threw himself into the fight, relishing in the clear mind each injury brought him. And after the threat was dealt with, Derek limped back to the loft and collapsed onto his battered old couch, and fell asleep. He was always disappointed to find himself waking up the morning after, wounds long healed and dried blood making his ruined shirts cling to his skin. Nobody checked on him. Nobody cared. He stopped eating and showering, choosing to sleep in a bundle of blankets on the charred floor of his family home instead of returning to the loft.
The already weak pack bond between him and the others continued to diminish, till the day that they finally snapped, Derek couldn’t help but feel relieved. Because he knew nobody would notice that the bond was gone until they noticed he was gone. For the first time in years, Derek felt like there was no weight on his shoulders, like he could breathe. It spurred him into action, and he moved all his belongings into the Hale Home. He left everything, from the Camaro to the Hale Property and inheritance to Stiles, with the condition that Stiles would allow Derek to be buried on the Preserve next to his sister.
After everything was done, Derek drove the car that had been his father’s and sister’s through town for the last time, the leather of the steering wheel familiar in his hands. His wolf whined, wishing to be close to his mate knowing that the end was near. Derek ignored the sharp reminder of rejection and pulled the car to a full stop in front of the house. Feeling oddly giddy, he took in one last look of the forest, one last breath of life before walking inside. He smiled for the first time in months. It was time. Derek was finally going to be free. Laying down on the remains of the couch where he’d had so many memories, Derek uncorked a small vial of diluted wolfsbane, enough to first put him to sleep and finally kill him.
A brief image of Stiles laughing flashed in his mind, amber eyes brilliant and golden in the sunlight, but he shook it away. The younger man would be better off without him. He’d made it clear how he felt. The wolf could never compare to what someone like Lydia promised. He would never be enough. Derek downed the entire vial and curled into himself when the wolfsbane immediately made his stomach cramp up. A whimper made it past his lips before drowsiness turned his body to lead. He was finally going to rest.
The slam of a door being kicked down made Derek turn his head with the last of his strength. Unshed tears blurred his entire vision, making it impossible to see who had arrived. The scent of something familiar, something that smelled like home surrounded him and Derek found himself leaning into the frantic hands on his face with an ugly sob.“ Stiles," he whispered before losing consciousness, the screams of his mate not computing in his pain-addled brain but bringing his wolf peace. Stiles was there. That was all he’d ever needed.