author's note: Once again, a prompt from my friend. (She really loves Sterek.) I wrote this at my friend's party, so it's probably pretty far from my best.
Sledding
Generally, going down a hill at increasingly fast speeds would be a piece of cake. After all, Derek was a werewolf, and he was used to running places quicker than humanly possible. Speed and danger was no problem - he had been close to death how many times? - but that was because he was in control of almost every situation. He had a plan, a strategy. He knew what to do and knew what to do to get out of bad situations.
But speeding down a hill with Stiles on a flimsy plastic sled, heading straight for a tree, was not a situation he could do anything about. The man in his signature leather jacket was at a loss, not having done something like this for years. Stiles was no better, even as he struggled to shift this way and that. Apparently, the teen had used the sled far too much, and as such the string they were using to direct themselves had promptly snapped.
Derek blamed Stiles. If not for the pesky boy, they would not be in this situation. They would not be heading headfirst into a tree, and they would not die in one of the most pathetic situations a werewolf could die in.
A growl ripping through his throat as he realized that there would be no other option, Derek transformed, fur ripping out of his skin as he took the hood of Stiles' coat in his sharp jaws, leaping from the sled that moments later collided with rough bark, snapping into various pieces.
"About time," Stiles remarked with a smirk as he was set down, the wolf laying down next to him. He didn't feel like changing back; in fact, he was contemplating attacking the human beside him, if only he wouldn't regret it when he thought it over the next night. Ignoring the clearly questionable look in Derek's eyes, the teen slumped over the wolf, hands grasping the fur as he got comfortable.
"We should do that again!"
"...Not happening."