Hello and Welcome to my first ever Sterek Fic staring a Western Theme! Whoohoo! I do not own Teen Wolf or its characters but I do own this story. This chapters song is "Blue Side of the Mountain" by "The Steeldrivers".
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The overbearing winters and slosh muddied springs of the seasons that have come to bring chaos…
The sight of the rusted caverns of limestone, charred cinnabar, and the smudges of blackened dust that ruined many a' mans lungs…
The brick red sticks of dynamite, the steel drummed trolley's that'd take your hand clean off with one wrong movement…
None of these plights, fraught with danger and disturbance, strife and struggle, could hardly pinprick a man with fear when compared to the many other threats that loomed in the territory of Beacon Hills.
For in a coal miners season, the wolves of California that howled in the night and loped in the day, would be the worst of any mans plight.
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His father wore what many in this town would call a heavy burden in the form of a silver five pointed star.
It gleamed brighter than a Christmas candle and it was sharper than a coyote's jagged tooth. It could be seen from atop his sandy colored dun and it could be pinned to the best of leather and not leave a single scratch.
It gifted Sherriff Stilinski a well respected name in the mining town of Beacon Hills and it allowed him an opportune living arrangement to see his son grow up well and proper in a time and age when a single misinterpreted word could have you buried six feet under or swinging freely from a choke cherry tree.
The dangers were there of course, well hidden in the form of stealthy train heists up north, horse thieves driving herds from the golden hills of California to the sand streaked brush of Nevada, and peppered incidents of murders streaking far and wide.
But rarely any of it happened in Sheriff Stilinski's county, thank the Lord above for that.
No, the forest land and rocky environment did the trick to discourage train robbers, the wide rushing rivers kept cattle and horse wrestlers at bay, and the murders? Though occurring occasionally, were rare.
It was more than likely a man was to die with a lung full of powered coal or crushed to death by a collapsing rouse of rock than to be brought down by noose or buckshot. Even the wolves around the area were more of a possibility for a missing person than a good old fashion kidnapping.
Nature was the ultimate killer in these hills - by mine, winter, or wolf - she'll get ya'.
However, though the mining town provided plenty of safety from criminals and an abundance of mirth to the adult speaking population in the form of brothels, gambling houses and saloons - for the youth of Beacon Hills, life was as exciting as free flowing molasses from a crones cooking spoon.
Hell, grasshoppers jumped faster than the news of disruption, murder, and chaos - or simply put, anything interesting in this town.
Such was the life of one Stiles Stilinski, born and bred in the rocky moss covered hills around the edge where California kissed Nevada in a uproot of mountain and snow and sky that dominated the landscape dangerously.
He would say he loved the area, and it was almost true. Almost.
He could not deny the fact that the county did have it's charms, but more often than not Stiles seemed to always have a bone to pick with his hometown. If he was to be completely honest and not loyal what's so ever, he would exclaim with blinking bleary eyes that this town, Beacon Hills, was as exciting as a bag of shit on fire.
It had a nice glow to it - but once you peeked inside, it soon lost it's appeal. Real soon.
The rain was always heavy and the sky was always grey, the ground was prickly with sage and pine and the air bit with the oily smell of horse sweat and dog piss.
It was practically home sweet home for Stiles. Sarcasm intended.
He had a nice log cabin rooted at the very base of the hills where he and his law-dog father lived and thrived, so it wasn't too much of a grievance to "survive" there. They had a water pump outside, an outhouse near the barn and a nice healthy plot of vegetables that Stiles took extra tender care to grow. His fathers intake of greens was important to him, damn it.
Let it never be said Stiles wasn't a Jack of all trades.
The cottage itself was small and it leaked in certain places like a lamb with a bladder infection, Ew, and every summer he himself had to mix mud and leaves and pebbles to patch up and mortar the cracks between the musty logs before the autumn rains. It was a pain in the ass for Stiles who was as stubborn as a mule, but he didn't mind the work so much. It was better than staring idly at his dusty dirt floor all day, throwing a ball of hide against his paved bedroom walls and praying that his fun time in life would start now, right now, now, God damnit!
He had chores to do, of course, to occupy his time when his mind ran away from him more often than now. Goats to feed, heifers to milk, weeds to hoe, biscuits to bake and meat to salt. He confided daily to the pecking chickens his life's dreams and woes (let it never be said that chickens were the worst farm animals to confide in for emotional support). Other than that his life was pretty easy. Pretty lovely… Pretty… Boring.
Due to his fathers excellent methods of handling a sawed off shotgun and colt python revolver, there was little crime in the area that could slate Stiles curiosity.
Nothing ever happened in Beacon Hills that was enough to usurp the entire community into pitch fork and torch carrying chaotic rage - least, not that wasn't Stiles own fault originally.
It was quite safe to say though, that on a good day, Stiles was bored out of his fucking mind.
Except for a few seasonal brawls from the local drunks, perhaps a herd of miss-branded cattle causing a fuss, or a stray dog ripping a farmers ewe to ribbons, nothing of any importance to the crime rate occurred. Not a God-damn thing.
Nothing exciting or intrusive was ever pressed and inked into the town's daily journal except ads for work in the coal mines and a boasting display of the areas flourishing corn crop this season. It was agricultural gold, or so the tribune had exclaimed with generous ferocity.
It was not that Stiles wasn't grateful for the peace of the town, for the simplicity of the life that depended upon how fast one could rope a stray calf or how well and bodied one was swinging a pick in the hollow mines or an axe in the local forest. (None of which he could do - hello, lanky arms and 140 pounds of sarcasm!)
It was more so the fact that, save for scarring and shying the local wildlife with his best friend Scott McCall with their slingshots, life in Beacon Hills was abnormally not… abnormal.
Yet instead of the start of this particular day being unbearably boring and repetitive, consisting of Stiles lazily waxing horse shit off of his boots only to later dirty them by tramping in the mud, a pleasant surprise greeted the youth at the crack of dawn.
It was not strange for Scott, Stiles true and only friend in Beacon Hills, to call upon him in the wee hours of the day to create a ruckus. In fact, it seemed to be a more regular occurrence as spring rolled its way into the season, melting winters snows but keeping the bite in the morning frost. It was much easier to cause a stir in warmer weather, must easier to go on an adventure when snow wasn't shimmying it's way down ones trousers and in-between uncomfortable places that should not be mentioned in polite company.
It was then, however, as Stiles was pulling the mule ears of his boots up upon his feet that the teen realized just what was so special about today, why Scott felt the need to frantically throw handfuls of pebbles at his especially vulnerable stained glass window to wake him up - shit wasn't cheap, that's for sure and Stiles had no urge to cough up twenty dollars to pay for a new one, no thank you.
But even in his exasperated annoyance at his friends often forgivable stupidity, Stiles was able to remember why this day was reason to be excitable.
This morning marked the first start of the coal season.
Winter no longer held the town in it's dry chilled hands and instead the ground was thawed enough for the men to go back to work with axe, drill, and explosives to mine the valley of it's precious black rock that flaked off in ones gloved hands like burnt paper.
It was Stiles and Scotts favorite time of year as they were able to view those men who dared show their faces after the harsh workings last year when the mine held a slippery slope to safety. Twenty-three men had died last season, and it was now time to view the next batch of fresh grunts that would take the buried men's places.
It was a crude happening and it only happened once a year - so it was a great celebration of skeptical gawking and gambling to see who exactly would make it out alive to see the sunshine of the next seasons snow.
That was how Stiles and Scott found themselves, atop their horses, viewing the long curled line of men who waited with bleak eyes and twanged suspenders to be swallowed by the mines caverns. It should make them sad, but Stiles had figured he and Scott were numbed already to the mishaps of the mine. It was just something you couldn't ignore, like the winter or the wolves. It would always be there, no matter what. It should frighten him, and maybe it did, but he wouldn't admit it. He wouldn't admit that the whole opening of the cave looked so much like the rotting red and black jaws of a blackened wolf - limestone carved into fangs.
Stiles shook himself, shoulders creaking as he liked the front of his teeth, tasting the tartness of medicine on his lips from this morning.
It was cold out, Stiles thought quickly with mild bitterness as he chewed the inside of his cheek out of nervous habit. He had forgot his tincture bottle and home and could already feel the twitches begin to attack his shoulders and hands.
He did his best to ignore it.
But all too soon he felt his feet being chilled to numbness in his leather boots. The early sun was flickering yellow but just barely, like an oil lamp on it's last kerosene drip before total blackness ensued.
It was not a morning to be trifled with, even if spring was already showing its proud face.
But however miserable the weather was, the two youths could not be deterred.
Stiles would like to credit that to their impeccable bravery and strength against the elements - but it was more than likely that they were just too damn stupid to reason against their excitement.
The two boys also of course had other ulterior motives to their enjoyment of the first day of work for the local men who were eligible to lay their lives on the line for pay.
They made bets, with clasped hands and spit between their fingers, on who would last this year till autumn and who would be dragged out on a mule laden litter, face bruised and bloodied.
They didn't have much money to spare with their gambling appetites, so they mostly wagered labor and peppermint sticks, copper pennies and smoothed pebbles they collected last summer. "Currency is what you make it, my friend", Stiles would always promptly tell Scott as the brunette handed over a fist full of pennies to the lankier of the two.
Usually though, a good portion of the men did not come out of the gaping hole unscathed and so there was hardly any money to be made on who would actually live.
Fingers smashed by trolley cart, lungs stifled with coal dust, and noxious gas suffocating a man to foam yellow at the mouth and sink to the ground deader than a doornail.
It was morbid fun, yes, but it staved off the horrid normalcy of chores and tending to livestock. It brought a bit of color, no matter how bloodied, to their existence.
They reveled in it.
But this early morning, while Scott and Stiles sat atop their snorting crow-bait horses to watch the men shuffle into a line like old creak-boned goats before the slaughter, Stiles could not help but spy a tuff of bright obsidian black hair atop the head of a muscular man. He was hunched inward into himself and seemed quite displeased with his position in his row, shifting his head back and forth as he toed his feet into the wet dirt that was fat with last nights rain.
He was good looking, oh Lord wasn't that the truth.
A gruff frown was carved deep into his face as he waited coldly for his turn to collect his meager equipment and potato sack stuffed with canteen, gloves, and lantern oil in shiny glass bottles. Not even the face of the devil looked as soured and puckered and downright mean.
Dirt - or perhaps the first slather of gruff - was smeared along his chin and cheeks, giving him the appearance of being a bit older than the two boys but old enough to work in a mine encrusted with danger.
And old enough for Stiles to want him in his pants…
Stiles wasn't shamed enough to admit to seeing a good looking man when one presented himself, and this man sure had caught his fancy.
Though it would probably result in his scrawny pale neck being shoved roughly into the deadly oval of a noose, Stiles knew quite well that he had immense affection for the male gender.
This man made the sight of a noose just a tad bit welcoming.
Perhaps it was the shiny hair that looked to have been regularly washed - a rarity in these parts, or maybe it was the feeble look in his posture. How he stood hunched and twanged, like a wild animal ready to lunge at the next hand that approached him. Stiles found himself delightfully ensnared. This man was as hostile as a wild mountain lion, and probably damn near as dangerous.
Stiles liked danger. He liked it a lot.
This man, he concluded, he liked just as well.
Nudging Scott on his forearm with his own elbow, Stiles caught his friends attention. Big brown puppy eyes trained expectantly on the amber color of his friend.
"Scott…" Stiles started, tugging his shaggy eared horse closer to Scotts gelding, the two yearlings bumping noses as they breathed out the cold air around them.
He felt the need to whisper at this opportune moment, though Scott knew damn well of Stiles male preferences.
McCall was either too stupid or too kind to care - Stiles hoped it was the latter.
"What? Wanna' make another bet?" Scott's eyes glowed with their easy-going shine of gold as he smiled back at the other boy. Stiles only rolled his eyes affectionately.
"A man has only so many pennies and peppermint sticks to wager - no, but get an eye full ah' that guy - the one with the expression of a drowned dog." Stiles jabbed a finger directly to the man who had not since removed his glare from the floor. Stiles highly doubted the dirt at the mans feet could really be that interesting to hold his attention for ever.
Yeah, dirt can be fascinating, Stiles could be persuaded to agree on that. If it had like, bullet shells or gold in it… Stiles was betting the only thing interesting about the dirt near the coal mine was all the punched out teeth and missing fingers. Oh yes, Beacon Hills was just a swell place to live, no doubt about it!
Scott scrunched up his face as he tried to make up the mans face, only coming back with the clear and distinct conclusion that the guy resembled the worse aspects of a miserable animal.
"He looks strong," Scott mustered through a disapproving tone that warned just how badly he did not seem pleased with the stranger. His nose sniffed and crinkled as if he smelled something bad about the man, something to be wary of.
"I think he might make it this season." Finishing his words with a shrugged compliment to the mans chances of staying alive (quite a compliment indeed!), he turned back to Stiles, only to see the other boy chewing his lip fiercely.
"Yeah, he does look right fit and strong. Not too hard on the eyes either…" Stiles muttered with a shallow intake of breath that was almost too quiet for Scott to hear.
His best friend only huffed and shook his head good naturedly, his curls framing his face messily before he swiped them away with one of his hands that he had yet to grow into.
Stiles only sighed and nodded to himself, realizing that his curiosity of the man was healthy, but could soon grow cancerous if he obsessed too much.
Stiles tended to always obsess over things that could easily have him killed.
So, wishing to be, with regret, rid of the situation, he tightened his hold on his Bay's rein. Without a moments hesitation he spurred his gelding away from the rigid cliff scene and into a thrush of pine and aspen boughs, Scott charging his own mount after his best friend with a bark of laughter.
The two boys could not contain their sniggering mirth at the prospect of the coalminer whose face was carved of stone - a glare to be plastered upon his lips till the end of days.
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A man, whose face was caked with lack of sleep and mud, lifted his gaze from the puddle soaked floor as the line moved up one and only one.
The color brown was the only thing he had seen in a good handful of minutes, his gaze too skittish to lift itself from the mud that drowned about him.
His eyes, a cold mixture of swamp grass green and sky grey pondered his surroundings, as if he was awakening from a dream, a nightmare of sorts.
His ears were still tingling, hearing the words over and over again on repeat that seemed to be playing like a broken tune from a piano. Sharp and glassy the words tumbled over his mind till they became smooth and pleasing.
He stared after the shadow of the two boys whose horses had left with the painful noise of haste, a small cloud of dust upon the bluff of the hill on which they had conversed.
The interest in the mans eyes at that moment would not fade for many a long nights.
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Wow, so! My first Sterek Fic Chapter - you like it? I revised it a shit ton of times, so you better damn well like it. Please review, it will make the next chapter updated faster! Thank you!