"No," Sheriff Stilinski said firmly, arms crossed, staring Deaton down, and for a moment, Stiles thought that maybe the whole, rotten idea would be scrapped in favor of something that wouldn't end in Isaac tearing Stiles' face off with his teeth.
Because, if he was entirely honest, Stiles could admit that no one in their right mind wanted to spend five days on the road trapped in a car with him and his ADHD. The fact that Isaac seemed to have something against Stiles (which was totally unfair, because Stiles wasn't the one going around stealing other dude's best friends) made the likelihood of Stiles' untimely demise on I-80 all the more likely. And, yeah, okay, letting it slip to his father that the 'bro-d trip' he and Isaac were about to embark upon was actually an incredibly dangerous mission to deliver a dead dark mage's hex box to New York so it could be destroyed might have been intentional. There was no way the sheriff would be okay with his only child trekking across the country to take the metaphorical Ring to Mount Doom with a werewolf he didn't get on with as his Sam.
Or maybe Isaac would be Gollum. Pretend to be nice and bring him dead rabbits and shit, then get him eaten by a giant spider. He was insidious like that.
So instead of standing with Deaton and Derek, who were both doing their best to convince Stiles' dad of the necessity of the venture, Stiles stood in the corner, poking absently at the hex box in Isaac's arms and making faces at it when the symbols carved into it squiggled in what he assumed was meant to be a threatening manner. He'd just gotten done tapping out the William Tell Overture on the lid to see if he could make the runes dance when Lydia snapped.
"Stiles, cut it out."
He glanced around, face falling when he took in the glowing eyes of the werewolves in the room (sans Isaac, hence Stiles' current predicament) and the tense postures of both Deaton and Lydia. Right. Hex box exudes influence on supernatural entities, annoying hex box annoys said entities. He settled back with a huff, peering at Lydia contemplatively and wondering, not for the first time, how far her supernatural-ness ran. He wondered if her unearthly beauty had anything to do with it.
"See, this is what we mean," Derek growled, forcing his shoulders to relax and pretending he couldn't see Stiles' reflection in the glass of the medicine cabinet when the teen stuck his tongue out at him. "Stiles and Isaac are the only ones not easily affected by the box, which means they're the only ones who will be able to take it to Deaton's friend without doing something stupid."
"Well," Isaac said quietly, "stupider than the things Stiles normally does, anyway."
"You're getting strapped to the roof the whole way," Stiles promised.
It wasn't that Stiles hated Isaac or anything. He kind of liked the guy, even - he had a dry sense of humor that Stiles could totally get behind, and he was crafty as hell. But something about him made Stiles uneasy - possibly the echo of, 'channeling it into killing her,' running through his mind on some kind of demonic loop. Stiles didn't trust people easily, and so far Isaac hadn't really proven that he could be trusted. Proven that he was okay with murdering innocent, strawberry-blonde goddesses, sure.
Scott, though...Scott trusted people. He was about the most gullible, easy-going person Stiles had ever met, and it wasn't too much of a surprise that all it had taken were a few sad-puppy looks for Scott to welcome Isaac into his life with open arms. And now they were practically the best of buds, hanging out and doing secret wolf-y things in the woods together, Isaac slotting easily into the sarcastic-best-friend space Stiles had occupied since kindergarten. Even Melissa had fallen for him, taking him into her home and everything, letting him use Stiles' spare sleeping bag and doing Isaac's laundry for him and making him cookies. It was sickening.
And, yeah, okay, so Stiles had deep-seated issues with Isaac, but one couldn't really call it hatred. It was just...mutual mistrust and annoyance. It wasn't as though Isaac was doing anything to bridge the gap, either, Stiles thought grumpily as he tuned back into the conversation.
"No," John was saying again, lifting a hand to forstall Deaton and Derek's protests, and Stiles felt his lips twitch into a grin. He was so off the hook. "I know Stiles is eighteen and can make his own choices, but there's no way I'm letting him drive cross-country in an ancient Jeep. Get him a decent car, and we'll talk."
What?
What?
Stiles' mouth dropped open. "Dad...wh- no! Dad, you're supposed to be on my side! The sensible side, where we don't send Stiles to New York with a nuclear reactor of wicked juju in the backseat!"
"Do we have another choice?" John said wearily, flinging his arms out to the sides as he looked at Stiles helplessly. "I don't like it any more than you do, but it can't stay here, it can't stay anywhere. It has to be destroyed, and you and Isaac are the only people here who can just up and leave who aren't affected by whatever's inside that box. I'm not seeing a lot of other options here."
Which was horribly, terribly true, and Stiles knew it. Groaning, he let his head fall back against the wall.
Sometimes, Stiles' life sucked donkey ass.
The car Peter ended up buying special for the occasion did nothing to help Stiles' mood.
"Everything sucks," he wailed into the dawn, tossing the backpack holding the hex box into the backseat of the forest green Oldsmobile 98 and slamming the door. "This is officially the worst pre-college adventure ever."
"I don't know," Isaac said, shrugging because he knew it would annoy Stiles; Isaac did a lot of things that annoyed Stiles, and the brunet was positive that it was always intentional, "I kind of like it. Looks sturdier than the death trap you usually drive," he added in a mutter that Stiles was supposed to hear.
"Oh, please. Do you know how old this thing is? This is, like, the era of shoulder pads and Miami Vice." Stiles wrinkled his nose at it, partly on principle, because nobody liked an Oldsmobile, and partly because the interior smelled like Old Spice and tobacco. How Isaac could stand it was beyond him. "If this makes it to New York City, I'll eat my favorite hoodie. With hot sauce."
"Deal," Isaac replied easily, sliding into the passenger seat with a brief wave at the pack gathered outside the Stilinski house.
"Ugh." Giving in, Stiles flung his arms around his father. "Be good. Eat the meals I left in the freezer - there are instructions on them about heating and all that. I'm gonna check with Scott and Melissa to make sure you ate all the green things, okay? No welching on our deal."
"No welching," John agreed softly as he let go.
Then, because he was kind of a dick, Stiles grabbed Scott and hugged him hard. "See you soon, man. Stay out of trouble."
"Dude, you're gonna be gone for a week," Scott huffed into Stiles' shoulder, hugging him back nonetheless. "I doubt the whole place is gonna fall into a sinkhole while you're gone."
"Yeah, so you say, but we all know I'm the glue that holds this whole town together." The embrace was weirdly comforting, but then, Scott's hugs usually were - a weird mix of camraderie, brotherly affection, and an overwhelming aura of protectiveness - and when Stiles was finally released, he was too zen to even bother smirking at Isaac, who was watching the proceedings with a blank expression.
"Right," he chirped with a bright smile as he started the car, "let's get this show on the road!"
As they pulled out of the drive, Stiles brought up his special road trip mix on his iPod and pressed play. The car was instantly filled with the dulcet tones of Willie Nelson.
"Oh, God," Isaac groaned, eyes squeezing shut as he leaned forward as though he'd been shot in the stomach.
"On the road again! I just can't wait to get on the road again! Come on, Isaac, sing," Stiles jibed, reaching out to poke his passenger in the side. "The life I love is makin' music with my friends, and I can't wait to get on the road again!"
As Isaac continued to moan like a dying man, Stiles turned up the volume and sat back, tapping out an easy rhythm on the wheel.
Maybe the trip wouldn't be so bad.
