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"You told me vampires weren't real," Stiles protested loudly, flailing his arms wide and nearly punching Derek in the face.
Derek, being a werewolf, easily avoided the punch and growled at him. "No, I ignored you when you asked if vampires glittered."
"I'm pretty sure you told me they weren't real."
"Everything's real, Stiles," Derek huffed. "That's definitely real."
The vampire--and, wow, stereotype much--wearing a long black leather coat, sporting bleached blond hair, and smoking a cigarette, leaned against his really cool vintage car--black, of course, and sounded incredibly bored when he asked, "You blokes done? All I wanted was directions to the nearest highway out of this hick town. I don't know how I missed the exit for San Francisco."
"I thought vampires preferred New Orleans."
"Do I look like a cliche?"
"Well...yeah." Stiles grinned, then ducked behind Derek when the vampire scowled at him.
"Don't get your panties in a wad, dog boy."
Derek growled.
"If he's your watch dog, what does that make you?"
"His boyfriend."
"Ah. Used to have one of those overprotective annoying goodie two shoes types, too, 'cept she was a chick. Why I'm heading to Frisco. Going to win her back."
"You seem awfully not with the killing us thing," Stiles pointed out, because he did like to live dangerously.
"Got a soul."
"Ah." That explained nothing, but Derek, wanting the vampire gone--he smelled funny, kind of like Peter on a bad day when he was more dead than alive--started giving him directions to the highway.
As the vampire got back in his car, without a thank you, of course, Stiles yelled, "Hey, what's your name?"
"Spike."
"OMG, so a cliche!"
The vampire vamped out, Derek growled, Stiles decided running away was the better part of valor.
End