Young Cas and Gabe (◡‿◡✿)
(welcome to my self-indulgence. excuse the mess.)
Being an only child and heir to the throne, Stiles had always known he may not have the luxury of marrying for love. When he’d realized he was an omega to boot, things had taken an even more uncomfortable turn for him.
Omegas are rare. An omega as the heir apparent is almost unheard of.
Which is why there is no wiggle room when it comes to the tournament.
"It’s tradition," his father says. "Any alpha, be they royal, noble, or commoner, may compete for your hand in marriage. It brings people together. After three years of droughts our people need something to celebrate."
Stiles makes a face. “Give the winner another prize then. I don’t want to marry some brute just because he won a couple of stupid fights.”
His father is not amused. “You don’t have to marry any of the winners. You can announce that you’re not ready for marriage. It’s within your rights. You will, however, respect the alphas and watch their games, or so help me god Stiles, I will eat all the bacon in this kingdom.”
"You wouldn’t." Stiles glares at him.
"Just watch me," his father says.
I’m sorry lol. AU where Derek Hale is only a couple years older than Stiles and also lives next door.
I don’t specify ages but Stiles is probably more like 10 rather than 7. :)
Derek has a loud family. Cora and Laura are pair of wrecking balls between them, bursting through obstacles in long eruptions of sound and fury. Talia makes her opinions known on every small point which never fails to start a riot. His father has the most boisterous laugh he’s ever heard. It shakes the rafters, engulfs the entire house, and makes sure the listener feels it in their bones.
They fuel each other’s fire, the only reprieve coming when the world is shrouded in darkness and everyone is blissfully asleep. Even then, most of them talk. Derek’s dad snores.
In short, Derek is used to noise. He’s used to presences that fill whatever room they’re in, all crowed and overlapping in a single space. He’s used to fiery, elephants of personalities. The Hales are not a tranquil people.
Stiles Stilinski puts them all to shame.
After the first week of their residency next door to the Hales, Derek takes to leaving his window open during the two hour period in which the Sheriff lets Stiles out to play in the yard, sometimes with his friends. (Well…friend. Singular. It’s the McCall kid.) Derek thinks it’s probably in an effort to drain him of all his spastic energy. He can’t imagine what kind of havoc the kid can wreak inside the confines of his home.
Also, he’s sort of hilarious. Derek lives for Stiles’ little quips in response to his father’s cliché attempts to get him to obey.
(“There are starving children in Africa, Stiles.”
“Well maybe we should FedEx the beats to them then.”)
(“Stiles, your face is going to stick like that.”
“Do you think they’ll let me join the circus?! That’d be kick ass.”
Today beats all days. Because the Sheriff and Stiles’ discussion had gotten a bit heated when Stiles refused to come in for dinner, and the older man’s, “You are under my roof! You live by my rules!” had been met with:
“I’m not under your roof! I’m under the sky! And the sky is nature’s roof and nature wants me to play outside!”
Which had somehow escalated into an all-out chase sequence straight out of an eighties television show about growing up. Derek can’t exactly explain how it happened. He doesn’t actually spy. He’s not like…weird or something. He usually just lets Stiles’ less than dulcet quips wash over him, some flowing by unnoticed while others simmer and soak for a moment before taking.
So all he knows is that, somehow, Stiles went from yelling prickly barbs to hopping on his bike and skittering down the street with a gleeful, “You’ll never catch me coppers!”
Derek finds himself standing on the front porch with the rest of his family (along with the entire housing community to be honest) watching as little Stiles Stilinski bikes in furious weaves up and down the tight blocks of their neighborhood, belting “We Didn’t Start the Fire” with surprising accuracy.
Derek is reluctantly impressed.
He guesses that the Sheriff is attempting to let Stiles get the whole thing out of his system because when he gets well and truly fed up (which coincides closely with the accidental destruction of Mr. Goodman’s tulips) he catches his son with practiced ease, dragging him back into the house by the scruff of his neck.
The words of Billy Joel lilt through the hot summer air all the way until door slams shuts behind them.
Stiles doesn’t get to leave the house for a week, and when he finally does, it’s to help Mr. Goodman replant his curbside garden.
“Cool song,” someone says from just outside Derek’s room. Not just “someone”, actually. He recognizes that voice, probably lured up to the window by the notes he’d sung to the entire neighborhood just a few weeks prior.
He’s never seen Stiles up close. Or standing still. Well…mostly still. He’s still fidgeting long fingers and looking around curiously. He’s leaned casually against the sill, only his buzzed head inside Derek’s room. His eyes are wide and brown and sharp. There’s a splattering of moles on every visible part of his pale, rosy complexion. Like flecks of paint.
He’s also standing on the roof of the Hale home’s first story so he can poke into Derek’s second story window.
“How did you get up here?” Derek asks, trying not to let his surprise filter into his voice. He’s not sure how well he succeeds.
“You have a…terrace thingie, man,” Stiles replies with a nonchalant wave of his arm.
Derek’s brows raise incredulously, “’A terrace thingie’?”
“Yeah.” He’s still laissez-faire about the whole thing. Like this is something he does every day. Plus he’s apparently distracted. “What are you doing?”
The older boy looks from Stilinski to his project on the desk and back again. “…painting?”
“You paint? Dude that’s so cool. Are these all yours?” He points to the wall of artwork littering the far wall.
Derek shrugs, and Stiles must understand that it’s in agreement.
“Woah. You’re really good.”
“I’m Stiles by the way.”
He tells him, “Derek,” because saying ‘I know’ would probably be weird.
“Hey, you wanna come play in the yard with me?”
Stiles’ gaze is on him, steady for the first time since he’d made himself known. His eyes are probing and bright. Derek feels much like Mr. Goodman’s tulips must have just before meeting their untimely end beneath the ribbed wheels of Stiles’ bicycle.
“Sure,” he says anyway.
Dean would totally retire to be a small town sheriff. And keep the impala in the garage, because he mostly drives the work vehicle now. And ok so there is a family of werewolves, but they are the mostly-normal kind, not the heart-eating kind. And then get totally hit over the head (possibly literally…) by some local woman who works at the auto shop (where Dean goes to buy parts for the impala and complain about how the official vehicles get taken care). or the diner (where Dean eats all the time, habit). or the library (because Bobby keeps having idiot baby hunters call him for help when Bobby himself is too busy, or more likely, too annoyed, to take care of it). and she doesn’t care that he has scars on his skin or his heart, and that he still wakes up breathing hard, or some nights he sits downstairs holding a gun and waiting for something that never comes through the door. Including the entire week after she and baby Stiles come home from the hospital.
And when Stiles is seven and he comes home saying that he found a little brother (because Scott is one and a half months younger than him) and is going to be just as good a big brother as Dean is (because Dean always talks about Sam, and when Sam comes to visit he talks about Dean) Dean about loses it and his wife has no idea why he’s crying.
(She usually has no idea why he’s crying, even if her kid always seems to get it. Neither Dean nor Stiles cry when she gets the test results from the doctor. They make the exact same face and Dean says “well, ok” and Stiles nods with him and she wonders who’s going to take care of them when she’s gone.)
Now, the story as to when Dean was getting set up with a real, for-permanent fake identity he ended up as “Dean Stilinski”? That’s a funny one.
(Not to mention how he trusted the Argents, and fucking Kate, and then she’s off the map and he can’t find her, and those dumbass werewolf kids are gone before Dean can talk to them and promise to make it ok. And then Laura is dead and Derek Hale is back and his kid is getting into supernatural trouble and lying his ass off to his old man to protect his brother and his dad. Just like Dean would have done.)
Oh but can’t you just see Stiles needing to be somewhere absolutely right now only the jeep is in the shop again. And his dad swore if he ever touched the impala he’d be grounded forever. But it’s life or death right now and he throws open the garage door and there she is, black and still gleaming and almost waiting to get back into it.
So grounded, but so, so worth it.
(And as it turns out, plenty of room in the trunk for a body.)
Oh God. I can just imagine Stiles’s face when Baby purrs under his hands for the first time. Or, or Stiles climbing all over the inside when he’s a kid, poking his nose in all the nooks and crannies and finding all the little things that Dean and Sam added to her to make her home.
WHAT IS THIS THEORETICAL PERFECTION?!!?! I- I CANT
She used to sing to him.
Stiles doesn’t even remember the early songs, not really. There’s videos of it somewhere, he’s sure. Stuffed into boxes and shoved to the back of a closet in his dad’s bedroom, along with dresses and jewelry and photo albums, journals and books that…
I don’t know why this affected me so much, but like… I need an entire fanfic based off of this phrase. “Stiles is always interested in love.” I mean. Goddamn.
Stiles grew up surrounded by love. He was swaddled in it that very first day in the hospital, wrapped in his mother’s arms as his father kept his hands on both of them, reassuring himself that they were there, they were real, and they were his. His family, his to love and protect and cherish and lean on. He was loved so much, his mom blessed him with a name that only she could whisper in secret, that only his dad would try to stumble through, while everyone else remained baffled and removed from knowing him.
He grew up in that love. He learned his first words and made his first steps surrounded by two people who were there to cheer him along and catch him when he fell. They loved him enough to let him introduce himself as Stiles, loved him enough to call him that when he asked. They were there to hold his hands on either side his first day of pre-school, and they were there to introduce him to his Kindergarten teacher. When he cried, his mother wiped up his tears and kissed his cheeks and sang his true name in his ear while tickling laughter from his lips.
He grew up, and he began to understand that he was lucky enough to have something none of his friends seemed to: his parents didn’t just love him, they loved each other. Scott’s parents constantly fought, Lydia’s parents were divorced, and Jackson’s parents spent so much time trying to please him they were too busy for each other. But not Stiles’ parents. They made time for each other. They made time for him. Every morning when his mom served their breakfast, his dad would reach out and brush the back of his hand over her cheek. They would kiss before he rushed out to the sheriff’s department. At night when Stiles regaled them with stories of his day, they would lay on the couch wrapped in each other’s arms. They were in love and everyone could see it — especially Stiles.
And when his mom got sick: when her clothes began to hang off her body and her hair began to fall out in clumps, when her voice grew smaller and smaller and her eyes seemed to get lost in where she was looking — that was when Stiles saw true love. Because that was when it stopped being about the little day to day routines that his parents made time for. That was when it became a desperate, violent, futile attempt to fit “the rest of their life” into a matter of months. Stiles watched as his dad made his home in a hospital chair and clung to her hand whenever she was awake. He saw the way his mom struggled to look strong and well whenever either of them were paying attention to her. He listened as she made him promise that he do well in school, listened as she made his dad swear that he’d love somebody else someday, listened as they planned her perfect funeral.
And he watched her wither. He watched her slowly disappear into the hospital bed. And he watched his dad pretend like everything was going to be okay — because his mom was calmer when his dad was smiling. Because she accepted her morphine easier when his dad asked instead of begged.
Because: they both did a little better when they felt loved.
She died the same way Stiles was born. Swaddled in hospital blankets, in the arms of the two people who loved her most in the world.
He didn’t know why they had that love, and Scott’s parents didn’t. Why his mom could whisper his name in her last moment of breath and he could know she loved him, while Jackson failed to feel the same. How his parents managed to stick together through thick and thin and life and death, while Lydia’s couldn’t even make it through their daughter’s first grade.
He didn’t know yet what it was, but he wanted it for himself one day.
Wow, this gave me goosebumps and made me cry for real.
I’ve seen this before, but I couldn’t put it into words: Teen Wolf is a show of deliberate superficiality, of an intense underestimation of its audience; where the scenes that matter, the…
"Okay, now do me."
"Oh, I’d do you, all right."
"Not in front of your viewers!"