hey y’all, it’s halloween time and apparently I’ve written some spooky-ish teen wolf stories, so have at it:
The first thing Stiles says to him, a sluggishly bleeding cut above his left eye, grime caked under his fingernails, a hand gripping a tattered backpack slung over his shoulder, is, “Do you have a car?”
Not: hey, Jackson, what are you doing here?
Not: did you just stab that fucking guy through the face?
Not: was that fucking Danny?
Jackson twists the metal rod out with a sick squelch and says, “No.”
The zombie apocalypse road trip au
Stiles starts out with three jack-o-lanterns in front of their modest little pack house, but when he sees Derek staple-gunning orange lights around the entire front of their porch, he comes home with a six foot dinosaur skeleton with glowing red eyes.
No one actually hangs Halloween lights unless they’re going to war.
Stiles and Derek have some kind of unspoken Halloween decorating competition that also involves baked goods and flirting.
Officially, Scott and Stiles started off as supernatural debunkers. Shithead eighteen year olds with a couple gopros, a book of magic lore they’d ‘borrowed’ from Scott’s veterinarian ex-boss, and a YouTube channel. They guilted Scott’s dad into buying them a used van, downloaded a map of haunted places, and set off across the country for a gap year that stretched well past what their parents think is acceptable.
And then Scott got bit by a werewolf off highway 95, they accidentally set Kira free from an Arizona desert prison, and Lydia Martin, Stiles’ high intensity high school crush, called him up out of nowhere at 3 am one random Tuesday and nearly blew out his eardrums with a banshee scream and a death omen.
The gang drives a van around the country hunting monsters, and Stiles may or may not have a weird crush on a traumatized Derek Hale.
His one leg is numb, but he kicks out with the other, claws at Hale’s arms, all of it so ineffectual that Hale arches an eyebrow at him. “Have you no strength, witch?” he says, oh fuck, oh no, worse than demons or wolves they’re witch hunters.
“What? Not a witch?” Hale snorts, derisive, and lets up just enough on his throat so Stiles doesn’t pass out. “I think we have more than enough proof of that.”
Stiles sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “What’s what?”
Derek gives him an unimpressed look and jerks his chin slightly to the left. “That.”
“Uh.” Stiles glances over his shoulder. “Pretty sure that’s a pony, dude.” A very small brown pony, with one white fetlock and a long, kinky black mane and deep, fathomless eyes, and he’s been following Stiles around since yesterday, so he’s actually pretty glad Derek can see him, too.
Stiles accidentally acquires miniature farm animals that may or may not be demons.
Stiles is not intimidated by the gruesome past of the Hales, mainly because most Wizarding families can claim a gruesome past, these days. He is, however, not looking forward to dealing with Peter.
“My nephew is currently not accepting visitors,” Peter says pleasantly enough, although any niceties are kind of lost due to the burn scars covering half his face and the gaping throat wound. Stiles seriously hates ghosts.