A/N - Hello, guys! Welcome to part two! Very exciting, right? I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story this far - it really means so much to me, and I hope you'll continue to enjoy the story. Also side note - I don't know anything about guns so please forgive any inaccuracies.
Ancient Goddesses, Angry Fathers, and Overzealous Ghosts:
Three Good Reasons Why Derek Hale Needs a Really Strong Drink
Chapter Eighteen
Calm Days Are Here at Last
"I don't like this," Derek says, arms crossed.
"You don't like anything," Stiles points out.
It's been a week since the showdown with the empusa – and Boyd's funeral. It has not been a good week, Stiles has to say. Erica has disappeared. She jumped Cora and beat her up a little bit, then disappeared into the forest without her phone. The whole Pack has been searching for her but to no avail. And they've seen Chris Argent lurking around, holding one of his very large, imposing guns, glaring at the Winchester brothers. Derek has been making sure that a member of the Pack is with them at all times.
So yes. It has been a tough and stressful week. Which is why Derek, Stiles, and Dean are out in the woods with Dean's freshly repaired Impala and its trunk full of guns.
"You'll shoot your eye out," Derek says.
Stiles punches him in the arm. "That's the line from A Christmas Story."
"Fine. Then you'll shoot yourself in the foot."
Dean examines one of his pistols to make sure it's clean and unjammed. He's changed out of his sequined flapper dresses for the most part, though he still has a black boa looped around his neck, and there's glitter in his hair because it won't come out no matter how much he showers. "Derek, I promise it will be fine. I know what I'm doing – I'll make sure he's safe, and Stiles is the sheriff's son; he's been around guns his whole life."
Stiles nods sagely. "This is true."
"I just thought he could do some target practice, get a little more comfortable around them," Dean continues. "Here, give this one a try." He hands the pistol to Stiles.
They've set up a target by pinning a picture of a screaming Donald Trump to a tree, and Stiles takes the stance his father taught him long ago. He squeezes off twelve shots, the retorts echoing through the trees, and when he's done, Trump's face is riddled with holes.
Derek and Dean stare at him with open mouths. "Holy shit," Dean says.
"You got anything bigger?" Stiles asks, grinning, his whole body tingling.
Dean takes the pistol back in exchange for a double barreled shotgun. Derek just sighs and takes a step back. Stiles cackles as he fires the gun, the force of the recoil nearly forcing him back a step. Derek takes the shotgun from him as soon as he's done, a vaguely worried expression on his face. "Maybe not that one."
Stiles goes to rifle through the Impala's trunk which is full of knives and machetes, enough guns to supply a large army, and a bunch of weird, miscellaneous, magical doo-dads. He spots a large, black case near the back and grabs the handle to drag it closer. "What's this?"
"Uh, maybe not…" Dean begins.
But it's too late. Stiles has already undone the clasps and flipped the lid open. His jaw drops. A high powered sniper rifle lies nestled inside the black foam, the oil gleaming in the sunlight. "Maybe not this one?" Dean says even as Stiles pulls the first piece out.
"Show me how to put it together?"
People have never been able to say 'no' to Stiles. It has something to do with how big he can make his eyes and how he can fold his lips down into just the right kind of pout.
So Dean finds himself assembling the rifle before he even knows he's doing it.
"Where did you even get a sniper rifle?" Derek asks. He's put a tree between himself and the gun.
"National Guard armory." Dean clicks the pieces into place, his hands moving deftly over all the small parts.
Derek gives him a flat look. "You stole it."
"Dude, Sam and I have been on the FBI's Most Wanted list, like, three times. We can't just go waltzing into a gun store."
Dean passes the assembled rifle over with a little bit of worry on his face, so Stiles takes it with as much care as he can. There's a short hill not far from where they're parked, and Stiles hikes up it, laying himself down with the rifle as Dean sets up a can on top of a tree stump. Stiles lines up the crosshairs of the scope. He breathes out slowly then pulls the trigger. A loud bang echoes through the forest, and the can leaps off the stump. "Woo!" Stiles yells.
In the books Stiles has read, the hero always picks up their weapon and miraculously realizes that this is it; they're a natural at this; the weapon feels right in their hands. Stiles always thought it was a load of bullshit. But goddamn, if this rifle doesn't feel right in his hands.
"Move it back!" he calls.
Dean grabs the can off the ground and runs it back through the trees as instructed. Stiles waits until he's well out of the way before lining the can up in the crosshairs again and taking the next shot. Through the scope, he watches the can leap to its death. He cheers again. Dean whoops in reply and pumps his fists in the air.
Stiles clicks the safety off before he clambers up and jogs down the hill to rejoin the other two. Derek makes a beeline towards him. "Dean, I'm going to make out with my boyfriend now," Derek says.
"No problem. I'll be waiting in the car," Dean replies.
As soon as he hears he car door slam, Stiles jumps Derek, slinging the rifle strap over his shoulder so he can wrap his arms around Derek's neck and his legs around Derek's waist.
Stiles will never get tired of making out with Derek. Goddamn, it's the best thing ever. Derek and Stiles, it's like they were made out of the same clay. It's like that Greek myth – where Zeus split humankind in half, and now each half searches constantly for its other part. Stiles thinks he and Derek are two parts of that severed whole.
It's cheesy and cliché, he knows that, but he likes to think that way anyways.
Derek and Stiles climb all over each other until Dean honks the horn a couple of times. "Let's go, lovebirds! I'm hungry!"
The two of them break apart, and Stiles looks at the Impala to see Dean leaning out the window and rolling his eyes. Stiles disassembles the rifle and puts it back in its case before climbing into the front seat, forcing Derek into the back.
Dean revs the engine and drives off, Led Zeppelin blasting from the cassette player. Stiles still can't believe he has an actual cassette player in his car – what is this, the 90s? As they roll down the gravel road out of Beacon Hills Preserve and back onto the road, Stiles sees a red SUV, Chris Argent leaning beside the open driver's door, holding a crossbow.
"I'm going to have to deal with that soon," Dean says, eyeballing Chris.
Chris Argent knows all about the Winchesters and their exploits, but rather than focus on how many times they've saved the world, Chris thinks the brothers will inevitably cause the painful deaths of everyone around them. It's made for some awkward family dinners between him and Allison. Two days after Boyd's funeral, she moved out of the Argent house and in with Scott.
"It's always something with that man," Derek sighs.
Luckily, Chris doesn't follow them as they drive away.
"So, man, how are things going with you and Cas?" Stiles asks Dean, pulling his legs up onto the seat and crossing them beneath him.
Dean looks over at him with a sly grin on his face, eyebrows waggling. "We had sex the other night."
"Ahh-woo!" Stiles yells and gives Dean a slap on the arm. "Good for you, man! How was it?"
Dean and Stiles have no boundaries anymore, not after Dean got Stiles high on his weird parallel world drugs, and they spent twelve hours sitting on the roof of the Hale house, talking about the secrets of the Universe. Which they promptly forgot once they came down, but the feeling remained.
"Dude, it was awesome. Sex with an angel – holy shit, fucking unbelievable."
"Nice," Stiles says with a grin over the sound of a muffled groan from the back.
The speedometer eeks up to eighty-five. "And how about you and Derek?" Dean asks with another eyebrow wiggle.
Stiles licks his lips. "Sex with a werewolf is incredible. Like wow – this man knows where to put it." He thumbs his finger over his shoulder at Derek, and the werewolf chokes slightly.
"We both scored." Dean holds his hand out for a fist bump, and Stiles knocks their knuckles together.
"Oh, speaking of which," Stiles says, twisting around in his seat to look at Derek, "my dad wants you to come over for dinner tonight."
In this case, 'my dad wants' means 'my dead orders.' Sheriff Stilinski and Derek haven't seen each other since Stiles and Derek started dating. Stiles is…a little nervous. After all, Derek and Stiles had a rocky start to their acquaintanceship, what with Stiles getting Derek arrested for murder a couple of times, and Derek essentially kidnapping Stiles in order to get his help back in the early days before they trusted each other.
Dean drives back to the Hale house, going well over ninety, even around the tight corners. The cops have basically given up trying to pull the Impala over; they know that Dean will just set the ticket on fire with his lighter and go back to speeding like he always does. And it helps that he's friends with the sheriff's son.
Dean pulls up the driveway and hits the brakes at the last second, like he always does, right before the front end of the car slams into the porch. He and Derek have a competition going to see who can get the closest.
Stiles hops out of the Impala to check the score, eyeballing the deep lines dug into the dirt, marked with either an I or a C. "Nope," he says from where he's crouched. "Derek's still ahead."
"Damnit!" Dean yells over the sound Derek's laughter.
"I am the king. You'll never beat me," Derek says.
"Shut up," Dean grumbles.
The three of them trundle into the house and then the living room. Sam, Lydia, and Cora are the only ones there, watching television, Sam with his arm around Lydia while Cora sits with her knees drawn up to her chest.
"Aw, look at you two cuddlebugs," Dean coos, dropping to the couch beside his brother. "You're so cute."
"Dude, come on," Sam says as he gives Dean a glare. "I don't make fun of you when you drape yourself across Cas's lap."
A self-satisfied smile crosses Dean's face. "Where is Cas, anyways?"
"He left about an hour ago. Didn't say way," Sam answers.
"We should get ready," Stiles says to Derek, stealing a few pretzels out of Cora's bowl. "Dinner is in an hour."
Derek nods and follows Stiles up the stairs. Stiles makes sure to wiggle his ass a little bit, and when he glances over his shoulder, Derek has a small grin of appreciation on his face.
Derek takes a shower while Stiles shaves – cue comments of 'why do you even need to shave, babyface?' – and then they both get dressed in decently nice clothes. For Stiles, this means a clean, plaid shirt and pair of jeans, but Derek actually puts a little effort into it, rolling up the sleeves of his dark green dress shirt. Goddamn, the color sets off his eyes. Stiles wants to jump his bones right then and there, and he licks his lips. Derek notices, quirking an eyebrow up.
"Better not," Stiles sighs. "We spent so much time doing our hair."
Derek pouts a little.
They take the Camaro to Stiles' house and arrive perfectly on time, Stiles carrying a bottle of wine and a salad in his arms as he climbs out of the car. "I'm nervous," Derek admits. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.
"It'll be fine." Stiles would pat Derek's arm if his hands weren't full. "You already know my dad."
"Yeah, but does he like me very much?"
They walk towards the door, and Stiles swears Derek is dragging his feet. "He's not going to hold any past misunderstandings against you, okay?" Stiles says, stopping on the porch to face Derek fully. "Everything is going to be fine. I promise." He leans forward to give Derek a quick peck on the lips.
Derek nods, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door.
"It's open!" Sheriff Stilinski yells. He's probably in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on dinner.
Derek opens the door, waving Stiles through first, and they both take their shoes off in the entrance hall before heading deeper into the house. As it turns out, Sheriff Stilinski is not in the kitchen, finishing dinner. He is sitting at the dining table. Reassembling his largest shotgun after cleaning it.
Derek blanches and freezes in the hallway.
"Dad, what the fuck!" Stiles yelps.
The sheriff clicks the last piece into place but doesn't put the gun down, letting it dangle from his fingers as he stares Derek down.
"Dad!" Stiles snaps again, stamping his foot. "Put the gun down!" He stomps to the dining table and slams the wine and salad down, snatching the weapon away from his father. He's pleased to see that at least the thing isn't loaded. "You're the worst."
His father booms out a laugh and ruffles Stiles' hair. "You two take a seat," he says. "I'll go get dinner."
As Sheriff Stilinski stands up from the table and heads into the kitchen, Stiles has to walk back down the hallway, grab Derek's hand, and forcibly drag him to the table. "Your dad's going to give me a heart attack," Derek whispers.
"Don't be a baby," Stiles tells him.
Sheriff Stilinski comes back with a plate piled high with burgers, buns, and toppings, a large back of potato chips on the side. Stiles pours the wine then serves himself, loading up a burger with bacon, cheese, lettuce, and tomato. He can barely fit his mouth around the finished product.
"I haven't gotten a chance to thank you yet for dealing with that – what was it again? An empusa?" the sheriff says.
Derek nods. "I'm glad it's finally over. Though I definitely could have done without the house of horrors at the end." He shivers and rubs at the back of his neck.
Stiles focuses on his burger, feeling sick to his stomach. He hasn't even told Derek what the empusa's glamor made him see, though some of the other Packmates have discussed their visions at length. One quiet night, Derek told Stiles all about seeing Stiles' dead body and being unable to do anything about it, his feet stuck in the mud, and then he looked at Stiles as if waiting to hear his story, but Stiles just stared at him for a moment – throat closed up – then distracted him with a kiss.
Stiles forces out a laugh. "Maybe we can have a normal, boring rest of the summer," he says. "Wouldn't that be something."
"One can hope," Derek agrees. He doesn't sound like he believes it.
"More wine, Derek?" Sheriff Stilinski asks, holding out the bottle. Derek nods at him and smiles, so the sheriff refills his glass. He doesn't even make a quip about whether or not Derek is driving. Which Stiles supposes is only because Derek is a werewolf and can't get drunk unless is cocktail is laced with wolfsbane.
Dinner goes smoothly, and for that, Stiles is grateful. He just wants his dad to approve of him and Derek, considering their past. If his dad decides he doesn't like something, then he really doesn't like it, and that would be no fun at all for Stiles and Derek's dating life. Neither of them mention the little target practice session they had in the woods with Dean earlier in the day. That Sheriff Stilinski would most definitely not like.
After dessert – triple chunk brownies and ice cream – Sheriff Stilinski pulls out Scrabble. Like a rabbit out of a trap, Stiles lunges from his chair, dragging Derek up after him. "No. No, no, no, Dad," Stiles says. "We're not playing that. We'll be here until two a.m. what with your nitpicking and never-ending deliberation."
"Rain check, Sheriff," Derek says as Stiles drags him down the hall.
Stiles' dad lifts his wineglass. "I'll hold you to that."
"Rain check?" Stiles hisses to Derek once they're at the door, dragging his Converse on. "Do you know what you've done? You've locked us into a Scrabble date with my dad."
"Sounds like fun," Derek says.
"I hate you."
Stiles herds Derek out the door before he can set the two of them up to do any more boring activities with his dad. "Get in the car," he orders.
"Yes, sir," Derek quips, smirking.
Stiles could smack him – or make out with him. It's really a toss-up. Unfortunately, by this time, Derek has put the car in reverse and started backing down the driveway, so Stiles can't do either.
Stiles' phone buzzes, and he digs it awkwardly from his pocket. There's a text from Dean in the Pack group chat (Stiles added him and Sam to the chat during the Elena debacle). "cora and i have decided that tonight is movie night bee-yotches! be there or be square!" The message is followed by a series of inscrutable emojis, none of which have anything to do with movies.
Book Nerd (8:07PM): We're starting at 9.
Book Nerd (8:07PM): Since Dean forgot to mention that.
Gay Gunslinger (8:08PM): i was getting there!
Devil Wears Prada (8:09PM): I vote Mulan
Horny Baseball Bat (8:11PM): derek and i will get snacks!
"Grocery store pit stop," Stiles tells Derek, dropping his phone to his lap.
"Alright," Derek agrees and makes a hairpin turn that throws Stiles into the car wall. They park as close to the store as they can get when they arrive, and Stiles grabs the cloth bags he has stashed in Derek's backseat.
Derek and Stiles stock up – really go all out. Multiple flavors of ice cream, large bags of M&Ms (normal, caramel, pretzels), gummy worms, Twizzlers, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, pretzels, several types of chips, popcorn, and Stiles even drops a sheet cake into the cart. Derek gives him a bit of a look over that one but doesn't say anything.
Stiles can't tell if the cashier ringing them up is judging them or if she's jealous of them. "Movie night," Stiles feels obligated to say. "There are ten of us."
"Nice," the girl says with a cursory grin. Ah. She doesn't actually care.
Derek and Stiles load up the reusable bags – "I can't believe you got a fucking cake" – and lug it all back out to the Camaro.
Horny Baseball Bat (8:41PM): we have booze right?
Lip Gloss and Stiletto Knives (8:41PM): Of course we fucking have booze
Gay Gunslinger (8:43PM): and drugs!
Book Nerd (8:44PM): No.
Gay Gunslinger (8:45PM): buzzkill (bee emoji, gun emoji, skull emoji)
This last message arrives as Derek slams on the brakes and skids across the gravel driveway towards their house. Stiles flinches back and presses his hand against the dash, but the car stops before it hits the porch. He hops out to check the marks. "Nope. No new record."
"Oh, come on." Derek slams his car door. "I thought that one was a winner for sure."
Laden with snack food, Derek and Stiles enter the house. They're mobbed immediately, the food disappearing from their hands and into the living room. "Hello to you too!" Stiles yells after them.
Derek and Stiles amble into the living room and wedge themselves in among the couches and the rest of the Pack. Erica is not there, but then, Stiles didn't expect her to be. The cake is already partially devoured, and Stiles grabs a fork to get in on the action before it's all gone.
As Scott is untangling himself from Allison and Isaac to grab the remote, Cas appears amid the sound of rustling feathers, directly behind where Dean sits. He appears to be holding half a flower store. These he offers to Dean who stares up at him in bafflement. "Cas, what the hell are these?"
"Flowers," Cas says. "Isn't flower giving a typical human courting rite?"
"Y-yes," Dean stutters. "I guess."
"Do you like them?"
"Yeah, Cas, they're lovely."
Indeed, they are – Cas has impeccable taste.
The angel arranges the flowers around the room – they take up every surface – and Scott starts the movie. It's not long until Stiles is absolutely stuffed and feeling almost a little sick, and he turns to weaving the flowers into crowns, his fingers nimble over the stems and petals. Derek gets the first one, Dean the second, and it's not long before the entire Pack is bedecked in flowers.
Of course, they sing along to all the songs in the movie. You can't watch Mulan and not sing along, especially when it comes to "I'll Make a Man Out of You," all of them competing to see who can sing the loudest and most dramatically. If Erica were here, she would win. She always wins. But she's not, so the prize goes to Dean who has gotten rather drunk already, curled up against Cas.
After Mulan, it's on to Moana and then to Tangled, and by then, the Pack has started to drop off one by one until only Dean, Cas, Stiles, and Derek are left, and Stiles is realizing that trying to match Dean drink for drink was a very bad idea. The whole room is now oddly shaped, and Stiles is not totally sure if he's awake or not. He checks his hand. Five fingers. That's good.
"Bobby thinks we should leave," Dean says. His head lolls against the back of the couch. "He says the crisis is over now, and there are other monsters in other parts of the country for us to fight."
"No, don't go." Stiles falls across Dean's lap as if the man is about to get up and leave right now.
"Don't want to," Dean says.
"So stay," Derek suggests. "Make this your base. There will always be weird shit going on in this stupid town, and you can always take a trip somewhere else if you find a case."
Dean looks at him from underneath four flower crowns. "That's a damn good idea. You're pretty smart, man. Maybe I'll steal you away from Stiles." Cas coughs pointedly. "Oh right. Ethical non-monogamy?" He's very drunk.
"My smarts are why I'm the Alpha," Derek says.
"Dude, you're like the dumbest person I know," Stiles says, punching Derek and laughing.
"Shut up."
Cas leans over and whispers something in Dean's ear, and Dean goes stock still, a grin spreading across his face. "Cas and I are going to bed now," he says, too loudly.
Stiles dissolves into giggles, Derek's chest rumbling with laughter beneath him. "Get it!" Stiles yells as Dean and Cas practically run for the stairs, Dean leaping over Scott's prone body. Once they've disappeared, Stiles climbs to his knees and turns to face Derek, climbing on top of him. "Shall we take a leaf out of their book?"
Derek grins and seizes Stiles' hips, bearing him away from the rest of the slumbering Pack.
The woman sits on a log deep within Beacon Hills Preserve, focusing all her energy on re-growing her body. It's taking longer than she would like. She's just got a thin layer of sinew and tendon over bone right now. It's something about the air in this world; there's magic and power, but it's different from what she's used to, and she hasn't quite figured out how to harness it properly.
It's frustrating because she doesn't have much time to enact her plan. One day, maybe two – that's how long she thought it would take, but instead, it's been a week, and she's hardly made any progress. She lifts a hand and watches tendons crawl over the stark bone, weaving into the proper shape. When she clenches her fist, the new muscles stretch painfully.
She needs to find a way to jumpstart the progress. It won't do for her to miss her deadline.