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It’s some sort of right of passage to hate your cousins growing up. Maybe not all of them, but there’s always that one branch of the family with kids that you just can’t stand. And despite your best attempts to make your distaste for these cousins known, your families only find your budding rivalry amusing and continue to shove you together at any chance they get.
Then again, maybe all of this is just Stiles’ family.
You see, the best part of all of this is that the Winchesters aren’t even related to the Stilinskis by blood. No, Stiles’ dad and John Winchester go way back, and so they deem it fit to throw their kids together a couple of times a year when the Winchesters blow through California, giving John and Mark a chance to drink themselves under the table and reminisce about… well, Stiles isn’t sure how they met, honestly.
Legend has it that Stiles has held a grudge against Dean Winchester since the other boy stole his Legos when Stiles was four. Mark swears up and down that Stiles has hated Dean ever since, but Stiles has serious doubts that his distaste for the eldest Winchester boy could stem back to something so trivial.
Then again, Stiles is self-aware enough to recognize that he’s a pro at holding grudges. He also might have had a serious Lego-addiction as a kid. Okay, fine. It’s entirely possible that there’s a little more merit to his dad’s story than Stiles would like to admit.
Regardless, Stiles hates few things more than coming home to find that stupid Impala parked in his driveway.
Which it is. Right now.
Shit.
He takes a steadying breath before falling out of his jeep with his usual lack of grace, only to immediately straighten and sling his backpack over one shoulder. He slams the door shut behind him loudly enough to make himself wince, and Stiles meekly rubs a hand over the jeep’s door handle in apology. Seriously-- it’s not her fault that the douchebag Winchesters have apparently decided to drop in for a visit.
He lifts his chin as he begins up the sidewalk, throwing his shoulders back so that when he pushes open the front door to his house, he’ll look totally casual and unaffected by the appearance of that hearse out front.
However, once he does throw open the door, it takes every bit of self-control Stiles posses not to groan aloud at the sight that greets him.
His dad’s apparently home early, judging by the fact he’s sitting at the table with a beer in hand, his uniform jacket unbuttoned and untucked from his belt. His cruiser must have been parked in the garage or something since Stiles didn‘t notice it when he pulled up. Mark’s head is currently thrown back in a laugh at whatever one of the goons across from him has said, and he’s actually wiping tears from his eyes when he finally notices Stiles in the entryway.
“Stiles!” his dad greets, still laughing but sitting up a little straighter in his chair to give Stiles a quick once-over. “What’re you doing home so early? I thought practice--”
“Cancelled,” Stiles interrupts, voice clipped, “Coach broke his leg bowling.” He raises a hand against the expected responses of bewilderment, “Yeah, I don’t know how it happened either. You just stop asking, eventually.”
Dean Winchester is sitting in the chair adjacent to Mark’s, and his lips quirk in a wry smirk at Stiles’ story. It make Stiles bristle-- just like Dean’s stupid smirk always does-- but he bites his tongue before he can say anything unfortunate. It’s like Dean sees his reaction anyways, because the older man’s eyes crinkle in amusement before he takes another swig from the beer in front of him.
His brother Sam is sitting on Mark’s other side, and as always his smile is a dozen times more sincere than the older Winchester’s. Sam actually sort of reminds Stiles of Scott, if only because when he laughs he looks like a freaking puppy. Stiles has always found it a little harder to hate Sam than he’d like, in all honesty. Even when they were little, he and Sam both loved to bury their noses in a good book. There were many visits where Dean would simply plant himself in front of the television and marathon reruns of the Simpsons while Sam and Stiles settled nearby in their respective reading chairs, laps weighed down with heavy books. It was the closest that the trio ever came to a peaceful moment.
Really, the main thing that Stiles had against Sam was that whenever an argument would break out, the Winchesters would invariably team up against him. Even if they were the ones actually arguing. Don’t get him wrong, though-- Sam could be a cocky little bitch at times that put even Dean’s superiority complex to shame, but Stiles would have been willing to overlook that particular character flaw if Sam had only had his back a time or two when they were growing up.
So, yeah. Suffice it to say that any camaraderie with Sam was always short-lived.
“Coach, huh?” Dean drawls, setting his beer down and eyeing Stiles with open amusement. “You play football?”
Stiles shakes his head, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He can already see where this conversation is going. “Lacrosse, actually.”
Predictably, Dean’s eyebrows fly towards his hairline. “What the hell is lacrosse?”
“It’s--”
“It’s like hockey, but on a field,” Sam provides, voice deadpan. Luckily, Stiles recognizes the tone easily enough and knows that Sam’s derision isn’t directed towards him. At least not yet.
Dean’s nose wrinkles and he takes another swig of his beer.
Sam just sighs and shoots Stiles a small, apologetic grin. “So you any good?”
Stiles tries not to wince at his dad’s laugh. Really, he does. He just doesn’t actually succeed. “--It’s a work in progress,” he allows.
To his credit, Sam’s grin doesn’t so much as waver. “You should have seen me trying to play basketball in middle school, man.” He snorts into his drink at the memory. “It was tragic.”
Dean snickers at that. “Shakespeare tragic, dude. Growth spurt or not, you stuck this kid on the court and you might as well shove Bambi out on an ice rink.”
Sam shoots his brother a pinched scowl at that, which only makes Dean laugh harder. Mark’s looking between the boys and shaking his head in helpless amusement, his arms folded lazily over his chest with one hand twisted up to cover his grin.
That look on his dad’s face is the only thing that makes Stiles grit his teeth and bare these visits, in the end. They don’t have much family left now that Stiles’ mom is gone, and John Winchester’s boys are the closest thing to nephews that Mark Stilinski’s got. Some traitorous part of Stiles has always wondered if his dad doesn’t actually like the Winchester brothers better, doesn’t wish that they were his kids instead of Stiles, but he knows how to recognize his own jealousy when it decides to make an appearance. It doesn’t make it hurt any less to watch his dad smiling so freely at the two men at the table, though. Not when he hasn’t looked at Stiles that way in weeks.
Feeling his mood quickly taking a turn for the worse, Stiles decides it’s time to make his retreat.
“I’ve uh-- got a lot of homework. So I’m gonna go upstairs and get started on that.” he gestures vaguely towards the stairs behind him. He tries not to notice how Dean’s grin slips at his words, but then Stiles thinks he imagined the entire thing when Dean throws a smarmy smirk his way instead.
“Knock yourself out, kiddo. Just remember to wash your hands when you’re done.” The bastard even winks at him. “And uh, use headphones.”
Stiles isn’t proud of his reaction.
“Oh my god, that happened one time, asshole!” He actually stomps his foot in righteous outrage. “Once! You’re the one that runs my dad’s cable bill up with all of your Skinflix every time you roll into town!”
Dean kicks back in his chair with an unrepentant grin. “A man’s got needs, buddy.”
Stiles growls in annoyance. “Would you knock it off with the kid jabs? Jesus, you’re like eight years older than me or something.” He points at Dean in what he hopes is a menacing fashion. He may or may not be trying to imitate Derek. “Keep it up and you’re getting a cane next year for Christmas.”
He storms upstairs to the sound of Sam’s delighted laughter and slams his door shut before he can hear Dean’s response.
As far as unaffected entrances go, that one might have left a bit to be desired.
With a heavy sigh, Stiles turns to throw his backpack on his bed, but nearly flails back onto his ass when he spots Derek sitting in his desk chair.
“--really?! I swear to god, I’m finding you a bell.”
Derek quirks a brow at the familiar threat. He pushes to his feet and crosses over to Stiles, his expression one of reluctant amusement. However, when he’s close enough, he snags Stiles by his wrist and pulls him close without a bit of ceremony.
“You’re in a mood,” the werewolf observes dryly.
All of the irritation that has been keeping Stiles’ spine bow-tight bleeds out of him, and he allows himself to slump into Derek’s chest with an unattractive pout. “I hate those guys,” he sulks, winding his arms around Derek’s middle loosely. “Run them off for me, okay?”
Derek snorts but dutifully wraps his arms around Stiles. “That was actually the plan-- until I tracked them here,” Derek retorts. He meets Stiles’ bewildered look with his eyebrows raised. “Those hunters Chris warned us about?”
Stiles squints at the alpha, uncomprehending. Derek seems to have expected as much, because he only tilts his head towards the stairs and clarifies, “They’re sitting at your kitchen table.”
Stiles stares at Derek. The moment stretches out uncomfortably, and Derek actually begins to fidget before Stiles finally allows his mouth to drop open in disbelief.
“They’re hunters!?”
Luckily, Stiles is so well-versed in covert conversations that his voice comes out as little more than a harsh whisper. Still, it’s a little comforting when Derek winces as if he’d yelled anyways.
“Apparently,” he replies, deadpan. Then he nods towards Stiles’ closet. “Pack a bag. I don’t want you staying here with them.”
That gives Stiles pause. “Uh-- dude. I can’t exactly go AWOL during a family visit. My dad would kill me.”
“Better him then the vigilantes with an armory in their trunk.”
Stiles chooses to ignore that. “Seriously. It’ll be suspicious if I up and leave while these guys are here. If they’re actually the hunters that Chris was talking about, then they’re smart-- they won’t just chalk something like that up to coincidence or teenage rebellion or whatever. Hell, they’ll probably think I’m a werewolf, and then they’ll shoot me anyways.” He pulls back further to fix Derek with a grave look. “Don‘t give Dean a reason to shoot me, man. He‘s been looking for one since he was fourteen.”
It’s actually a little adorable that Derek’s eyes flash red at that, and his arms tighten around Stiles protectively. “Pack a bag,” he grinds out, shooting a suspicious glance in the direction of the kitchen.
“Derek--”
Rather than continue arguing, Derek releases his hold on Stiles in exchange for marching over to his closet and retrieving Stiles’ lacrosse bag himself.
Recognizing a lost cause when he sees it, Stiles heaves a long-suffering sigh and snatches the bag from Derek’s hold. “Fine. I’m packing, see?” He pointedly reaches past Derek to tug a random shirt from its hanger in the closet. Before he can actually shove the garment in the duffle though, Derek grabs his chin and presses a quick kiss to Stiles’ lips.
He breaks the kiss before Stiles can even begin to respond to it, but Stiles is able to steal another one before the werewolf fully retreats. It’s still little more than a light press of their lips together, but only because Stiles forces himself to draw back before anything more can come of the kiss. He reluctantly plants a hand against the brick wall of Derek’s chest to steer the older man towards the window.
“Get out of here, already. They’re hunting you, y’know.” The fondness in Stiles’ voice does absolutely nothing towards making him sound stern, for the record. “I’ll meet you at yours.”
Derek’s got his stubborn-face on now, so Stiles presses a quicker, dirtier kiss to the alpha’s mouth. It didn’t take him long after they started this for Stiles to realize that kissing Derek stupid was the easiest way to win an argument. Unfortunately, Derek also came to the same conclusion quickly enough, and so what Stiles intends to be a quick victory actually turns into some sort of epic battle of wills. Or tongues.
When Derek finally allows Stiles to pull back from the kiss, his eyes are a bright hazel, pupils blown. His words are iron-firm, though. “Twenty minutes.”
Luckily, he and Stiles can actually agree on that.
“Twenty minutes,” Stiles confirms.
Before he can resort to attempting to physically shove Derek out the window, the werewolf turns and slips out on his own.
Stiles turns and tosses his lacrosse bag on his bed with a heavy sigh. He takes a moment to scrub his hands over his face furiously, the gesture just as much borne of frustration as it is from the need to make sure he doesn’t look like he was just sexy-mauled by a werewolf. Downstairs, he can hear Dean and Sam holding court while his dad laughs helplessly, and this time the sound makes Stiles’ eye twitch for an entirely new reason.
He makes quick work of stuffing his lacrosse bag full of clothes and whatever else he may need to survive the weekend, trying to tune out the merry antics happening down in his kitchen. He’s not even worried about leaving his dad alone with the Winchesters-- though he’s not sure of much else just yet, Stiles is sure that those assholes won’t lay a finger on his dad.
They may be evil hunters, but they’re still family.
Right?