Sterek One Shots: Book Two

He's Not a Sad Serial Killer He's My Brother

He's Not a Sad Serial Killer, He's My Brother by eeyore9990
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"Sam?" Stiles called, setting the huge mixing bowl of popcorn on the coffee table as he looked under pillows and Sam's backpack and piles of mail in an attempt to find the remote. "I'm starting the movie!"

Sam came skidding into the room on sock-covered feet, her "Nuh uh" muffled under the plastic hockey mask she was wearing. "I've got the clicker!" she shouted, then hopped onto the back of the sofa, taunting him with it. Or attempting to, anyway. As soon as Stiles sat down and shoved a handful of popcorn in his mouth, she hurriedly collapsed onto the cushion beside him, nearly stabbing him with her rubber knife in her haste to get at the buttery flavored goodness.

While she was distracted, Stiles snatched the remote from her grip and pushed play, wrapping his arm around his daughter's shoulders and settling in for a wonderful night filled with cheesy 80's slasher flicks.

"Happy Friday the 13th, baby," he murmured, dropping a kiss on her curls.

"Right back atcha, Daddy. Now, shh."

--

Stiles stretched, glancing at the clock and then down at Sam to see how she was doing. Her mask had been abandoned during the first thirty minutes of the original Friday the 13th movie due to it making her feel sticky and hot and uncomfortable. But her heat-splotched skin was back to its normal complexion and she was staring raptly at the screen, so he thought it was probably okay to get up and go refill the popcorn.

As he rounded the couch, he idly glanced out the window and...

His scream was high-pitched, terror helping him achieve an octave that no post-puberty man should be able to hit. Standing outside their living room window was a great, hulking man, his shoulders at least as broad as the width of the window itself. He was glaring in at Stiles and Sam, eyes narrowed, and there was something in his hand that looked a disturbing amount like the fake knife Sam had discarded along with her mask.

When he thought back on the moment later, Stiles would remember the next moments with a little fuzziness around the edges, but he was fairly certain they went something like this.

First, he noticed the lurking, psycho-killer-possibly-Jason-Vorhees-come-to-life. Then he screamed, alerting Sam to the possibility of their impending gruesome deaths. While she took up screaming along with him, Stiles launched the bowl in his hands at the window which, due to the fact that it was heavy stoneware, crashed through the window and smacked the dude standing out there right in the chest, causing him to stumble backward, nearly falling over the railing of their front porch. And then, for absolutely no reason at all, a cat leapt on the man, all claws and hissing screeches.

It was the last bit that knocked Stiles out of his panic and into what the fuck territory. The cat was simply too incongruous to fit with the psycho serial killer movie that was playing out in Stiles' head.

"Oh my god!" Stiles shouted, mostly to hear himself over the sound of Sam's continued shrieks. Running to the window, he carefully leaned out to look at the man trying to get the cat to release him and said, "Oh my god" again because seriously. What the fuck? "What are you... Who are you? Why were you... Jesus, dude, just... Stay there, I'm coming out."

Stiles hurried to his front door, leveling a stern look accompanied by a finger wave at Sam and admonishing her to, "Stay here." Considering the fact that she was curled up in the corner of the couch with a blanket pulled up to her eyes and her fake knife clutched in her fist, he felt pretty secure in leaving her alone to deal with their hapless intruder. Though... Stiles reached into the middle of the coat rack and lifted out his trusty baseball bat, smacking it against his opposite palm for good measure.