This shit better work
y’all count as all my friends we coo
This shit better work
y’all count as all my friends we coo
Oh my God, anon, I am so sorry. I finished this weeks ago (months? I know it was well before my surgery) and forgot to post it. I hope you’re still in the fandom!
(Contains: Bullying. Physical altercations. Mention of panic attacks. Little kids being dicks to each other, as they do.)
Stiles loved school, okay? Jackson insisted it wasn’t real school, but Stiles knew better. School was where you went during the day while your parents were at work, and teachers gave you things to do, and you learned stuff, and you made pictures to hang on the refrigerator at home. Stiles definitely went to school.
Jackson was probably just being annoying on purpose anyway, because it was called Little Dumplings Pre-School. It was right there in the name.
And Stiles looked forward to going there every day, because there was always lots of fun stuff to do, and a playground with a swingset and a sandbox, and Miss Blake didn’t get mad at him when he got the fidgets. And he got to spend all day with Scott.
Scott was Stiles’ best friend at school, and also his best friend outside of school, because their parents were friends, too. Scott and Stiles had sleepovers and everything, even though they were only four years old. No one else in their class had had a sleepover yet. Stiles liked to brag about it.
Even if they weren’t mature enough for sleepovers yet, everyone else in class had a best friend, too. Jackson had Danny, Lydia had Allison. Boyd and Erica and Isaac were all best friends together, which was unconventional, but who was Stiles to judge.
They spent their days playing games Miss Blake taught them, and taking naps on their squishy mats, and learning how to write their names and how to count things. Sometimes they argued over toys until Miss Blake reminded them they had to share, and sometimes someone (Jackson) cried over who got a bigger cookie at snack time, but for the most part, they all got along. It was very peaceful and fun.
Until Derek Hale showed up.
Derek leans forward as Stiles’ eyes flutter open, touches his hand carefully.
Stiles scrunches his face up, squints at him groggily, “Who’re you?”
"I’m Derek," he says hesitantly, reminding himself the doctor did say this could happen. It’s not long term. It’s not a terrible spell gone wrong. Derek will be remembered by the most important person in his life eventually. He swallows hard, tries not to panic. "I’m your husband."
Stiles’ eyes go wide, “You’re what— you’re my— you?”
Derek tamps down on the flash of hurt, “Yeah, I’m sor—”
"Holy bananas, how’d I— how’d I get you to marry me? You’re so beautiful.”
Derek laughs, “So’re you.”
"Yeah, but," Stiles points weakly at Derek’s mouth, "Look at’your teeth, oh my god, how do they even— s’cute. Am I— Are you sure?”
"Pretty sure," Derek promises, squeezes his hand, "There was a ceremony and everything."
"What?" Stiles sits up a little, blinks wildly, "Did we really— I mean— really?"
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…