Stiles' has always known he's has horrible luck. He knew that when he was fifteen and he's been run over. Three times. In one day. Once by his own grandmother. So it goes without saying that Stiles knows how bad his luck is and he knows how much he attracts trouble, so when he started getting haunted by poltergeists – and really? Ghosts? – he really shouldn't have been surprised.
Except you know he was. Cause the first time it hadn't really appeared like a ghost. No, it had to appear outside his fucking kitchen window like a fuckin creeper. He'd freaked out, ran out of the kitchen, and called Scott. Who didn't answer…of fucking course. So he's in his living room when the thing materializes – he can't think of a better word for it – and scares the piss out of him. He grabs the poker from their fireplace and swings at the thing.
It, of course, vanishes. Stiles has to spend three hours fending this thing off before it leaves him alone. Stiles doesn't sleep for five days just in case.
The second time, he'd been throwing away trash in their backyard when this little girl pops up behind him, crying and a bloody mess. Stiles' first reaction is 'I have to help' and his second reaction is 'how did she get behind me?' Turns out she's a bloody ghost, too. Literally.
So he runs into his kitchen after she practically flings him across his yard and grabs the large container of salt he'd bought from Costco. He's really glad he had because he forms a large – very large – ring around himself and the little girl just sits across from him singing that stupid song about the bubonic plague. What was it called again? ''Ring around the Rosie' is what it's called' he thinks.
And eventually she gives up, too. It's probably too much work. Stiles counts himself lucky that both hauntings have just decided to move on.
He might not be so lucky next time. So he talks to Deaton again about ghosts and their weaknesses. Turns out they only have three.
Iron. The poker he'd grabbed from his fire place.
Salt. Like the ring he'd formed in his kitchen.
And burning their bones. Of fucking course.
Stiles wonders how he's supposed to burn the bones of a ghost that is currently trying to kill him. Maybe keep his phone on him at all times and have one of the pack do it for him?
And really, after three more ghosts trying to terrorize him, it's lost the appeal it once had. He'd been smart enough to find better ways to defend himself from supernatural intruders. He's got a canister of Salt in every room. He carries an iron pocket knife with him. There's iron in pretty much every room of the house. Oh, and that shotgun his father bought him for his eighteenth birthday? Loaded with rounds packed with rock salt.
Deaton had looked rather impressed when Stiles told him about that little trick of his.
Okay, maybe not so much impressed with the idea in itself, more like impressed Stiles had thought of it.
So it's on a Monday night after spending the entire weekend chasing a pixie – the pranking little shits – in which Stiles finds himself haunted.
Again.
And he's so beyond being haunted, really. Maybe he'll just ask Deaton to make him something to prevent ghost attacks instead of just fighting them off all of the time. And really, all Stiles wants to do is browse the internet and then fall asleep, but no. The damn ghost has to fuck with the electricity in the house before shutting it all off completely.
"Really?" He asks out loud, shoulder slumping.
This is how it always starts. The first time he hadn't thought anything of it. Okay, he had, but it was more slasher flick thoughts than haunting thoughts. It had really backed up the slasher thoughts when he'd seen the first ghost outside his window. So Stiles sighs before walking over to him bed, dropping down onto his knees, and grabbing his already loaded shotgun from under his bed. He cocks it before leaving his room and making his way down stairs.
It's generally where they like to fuck with him.
"Alright, come out, come out where ever you are!" Stiles sings, walking into the living room.
"Here, ghosty, ghosty." He sings, looking around.
It appears behind him, letting out an otherworldly shriek, and Stiles just turns and fires the shotgun, sending rock salt flying and the ghost vanishes.
He hopes it'll just give up on him early, but he has a sinking feeling that's not going to happen.
It appears behind him again and Stiles shots it without a second thought. He hits the lamp next to the couch as well as the ghost.
His dad's going to kill him.
"Alright, that's it, you have five minutes to get out of my house before I pump you so full of rock salt you'll be crapping margarita's for the rest of you undead life!"
It's silent for all of ten seconds before he gets that feeling something is behind him again. So he turns and fires. He's expecting to hit the ghostly bitch, but no. Instead, Derek Hale is flying backwards and landing on the ground with a thump.
"Oh my god, Derek!" He quickly slides to his knees next to Derek's crumpled form freaking out a bit.
"What the hell did you shoot me with? Did you shoot me with wolfsbane?"
"Rock salt, but I figure it has to burn the same. I am so, so sorry, Derek." He sets the shotgun down beside them and he gingerly lifts Derek's shirt to see the damage he's done.
"Should I try to get the rock salt out?"
"What the hell were you doing shooting rock salt?" Derek growls, and the wounds are already healing over and Stiles winces, thinking that's going to hurt quite a bit.
"There was a ghost, so I was shooting it."
"What?"
"Ghosts are repelled by slat and iron, I figured it was easier to shoot rock salt than it would be to shoot iron considering the salt kind of just scatters and doesn't do damage to much. Unless you're at close range." He adds the last part as an after-thought.
"What were you doing sneaking around if you hear gun fire?" Then he thinks about it, "What were you doing sneaking around my house?"
"I came to talk to you –"Stiles cringes at the look of pain on Derek's face. "I wasn't sneaking around."
"You were sneaking around. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Get that damn shotgun away from me." Stiles rolls his eyes.
"Anything else?"
"You can't exactly take the pain away." Derek grumbles, trying to sit up.
Stiles rolls his eyes, exasperated, when Derek falls back down with a grunt of pain.
"Well my mom used to say if you kiss a wound it helps sooth the pain, but seeing as you've already healed, it's kind of a moot point." Stiles teases, looking around and trying to see if the ghost is still lurking around.
"You could give me real kiss to make up for it, then." Stiles does a double take at Derek.
"I'm sorry, what?"
He watches as Derek flushes and what he'd said registers in Stiles' head. He sits there for another minute trying to figure out if Derek's kidding. The red that's covering Derek's face would say no, he's not kidding.
Stiles leans down and kisses Derek before letting his hands follow and frame Derek's face.
That horrible wailing comes back full force and Stiles whips his head around to glare at the stupid ghost that had the audacity to interrupt his first kiss with Derek freaking Hale.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Stiles gets up, grabs his shotgun, and shoots the damn thing.
Stiles wants to punch something – the ghost preferably, but it's incorporeal, so no dice – really hard but Derek laughing interrupts him.
Derek is laughing.
On the floor.
Are Werewolves allergic to rock salt or something?
"What is wrong with my life?" Derek asks, getting up.
Stiles shrugs cause their lives are fucked up eight ways from Sunday and twice on Saturday on a normal basis and this only rates a three on his weird-shit-o-meter.