No, you don’t get it, SCOTT STAYED WITH STILES. He put Stiles and his well-being above EVERYTHING else.
Take it in and let it stew for a moment.
He sent out his pack to look for Lydia but he stayed with Stiles. He took Stiles to his room, gave him his clothes, put him in his bed, called Noshiko despite his own misgivings because Stiles asked, helped Stiles down the stairs and propped him up when he was too weak to stay upright, he took Stiles to the police station so that Stiles could hug his dad, he promised the sheriff not to let Stiles out of his sight, he took Stiles back to his house, laid him down on the sofa and watched over him while he slept, he rushed to his side when Stiles woke up from a nightmare, he felt that Stiles was in pain and started siphoning it away the moment he touched Stiles (without any effort or thought at all, unlike previously), he held Stiles’ hand to warm him up and/or to ease his suffering, he recognized Stiles was lying about the amount of pain he was in…
Take all that in and think about it. Hard!
This is love and it doesn’t matter if you see them as OTP or BrOTP, THIS IS LOVE. Love so deep and broad and all encompassing and everlasting as I’ve rarely if ever seen before. And it’s beautiful because it’s between two teenage boys who are not embarrassed by their affection for each other and who don’t feel the need to hide it behind derisive comments and mocking (I’m looking at you, Supernatural). It’s a love of big and small gestures, it’s not just about huge life and death situations, it’s about simple hand-holding when one’s freezing, it’s about reassuring the other that it’s okay to not be strong all the time, to need a shoulder to lean on.
And this, THIS is why I will be forever grateful to Jeff Davis because he created something so incredibly beautiful.
You have thought about death, before. It’s hard not to think of, when in your arms you’ve strung a thousand arrows, and in your fingers you’ve held a thousand chances, and on occasion you have let each of these go. But death was something of an abstract– something on the horizon, a slow burn of embers, a letter in your mother’s hand. It was something far away from where you are now: seventeen with a life to live. But suddenly here you are, all filled with that long life and letting it slip between your fingers, not feeling the cold air, or your warm blood, or even the fire of the arms around you, and you want it to be okay. You want it to be fine, you don’t want to see your father cry– and you won’t. You’re gone by the time he arrives.