Posting this from work (naughty, naughty), so if there are any typing mistakes I apologize. I'll read it over and correct them tomorrow.
A nice fluffy chapter to start us off - because, in my humble opinion, that's how all the best horror stories start. =P Please review, friends!

Chapter One

Stiles was running late – again

"Stiles, hurry up!" his father shouted from the front door. "Or the bus will leave without you!"

"I'm coming!" Stiles stuffed what he hoped was a clean hoodie into his duffel, along with an orange bottle of Adderall and a couple extra pairs of socks. He considered grabbing is iPad, but knew it would probably be useless. His father had already warned him that if he broke it again, he wasn't getting a replacement.

Stiles zipped up his bag, and stumbled hurriedly down the stairs to where his father was waiting. The sheriff was dressed in blue jeans and a pale green golf shirt; he was freshly shaven and smelled pleasantly of Irish Spring soap and Old Spice aftershave. Stiles glanced him over and grinned. "Hoping to run into some hot soccer moms?"

Sheriff Stilinski raised his eyesbrows at his son, but he ignored the question. He held out his hand expectantly. "Keys?"

"Oh, right." Stiles fished the Jeep's keys out of his front pocket and held out. When his father reached out to accept them, he snatched them back. "Be careful with the clutch," he warned, "and don't push her too hard. She takes curves well, but anything above 45 mph makes her anxious."

The sheriff rolled his eyes. Were they talking about a car or a girl? "I know."

"Don't take her out for any joy rides. Fill her up if you do take her. Don't let the gas gauge dip past a quarter tank, or she'll sputter out. And, for the love of God, don't eat any curly fries in the front seat. I know what kind of mess you make when you eat!"

"Stiles. Shut up and give me the keys." Stiles surrendered his key-ring to his father, and watched as he locked the front door and double-checked, then triple-checked, the knob. Talk about paranoid. He tossed his duffel into the back of the Jeep, and instinctively turned to the driver's door. His father already had his hand on the handle. He raised his eyebrows questionably; his lips betrayed the hint of a smirk. "Ready?"

"Yeah." Stiles slid into the passenger seat. He couldn't remember the last time he had sat on this side. His father pushed the driver's seat back to accommodate his longer legs; Stiles winced as the sheriff adjusted the side and rearview mirrors.

"I saw that."

"Can we just go please? This is killing me."

"You're the one who didn't want to leave the Jeep unattended in a parking lot over the weekend." The gears grated as Sheriff Stilinski shifted into Reverse and backed out of the driveway. The Jeep lurched backward over the curb.

Stiles threw his hands into the air melodramatically – he had always possessed a flare for the dramatic. "A decision I now regret."

"Hey, don't forget who gave you this Jeep."

"Mom."

"Yes, well, technically. But I was driving it before you were even born, kiddo. So relax."

"Fine." Stiles reclined back into his seat, but he crossed his arms over his chest sulkily. This was excruciating: he should have at least insisted that he drive to the school. "Just don't do that thing where you roll the window down and rest your arm on the door while you drive one-handed. It's not as cool as you think it is."

The sheriff laughed. "Fair enough."

The drive to Beacon Hills High School was relatively short, but pleasant. The streets were lined with middle-class homes with tended gardens and lawn gnomes, reaching old trees with branches perfect for climbing and hanging tire swings; people mowed their lawns and washed their cars, waving to their neighbors as they walked down the street with their dogs. On the surface, Beacon Hills was just like any other American small town: quiet and friendly. It was home.

Secretly, Stiles enjoyed being driven around for a change. It was nice to be the passenger in something other than the cruiser, his father relaxed and casual behind the wheel, free from the usual stress of his job, alert and ready to turn on the sirens at any moment. After his mother had died, Stiles and his father had taken drives together often. His father would claim they needed a "change of scenery," and they would jump in the vehicle and drive for hours, stopping for a bite of supper or for a night at a motel before heading back to their too-quiet home. Stiles knew the area stretching around Beacon Hills like the back of his hand – north, east, south, and west.

He missed those days. Missed how driving with his dad made him feel close to him – physically, emotionally, heck, even spiritually – the asphalt running endlessly in front of them, the cab filled with all the things they didn't need to say. With his father behind the wheel, Stiles felt safe, contented, and loved. Those were some of his favorite memories, and he cherished their time together. Of course, as a teenage boy, he was too cool and too old to admit as much, too awkward to find the words to articulate such feelings.

As a parent, Sheriff Stilinski had no such ridiculous, adolescent hindrances. He loved driving Stiles, spending those few precious moments with his son, having him there right beside him – whether they were talking or silently watching the world roll by, he loved it all. He loved the freedom and the possibility; he loved dreaming of the places the two of them could explorer together, the adventures they could share – like when Stiles was young and his dad was his best friend. Sheriff Stilinski liked how driving allowed him to directly protect Stiles, how it made him feel needed and wanted.

John Stilinski missed moments like these. He missed his son.

Students were already piling onto the bus when they pulled into the school parking lot. Stiles caught sight of Chris Argent and Natalie Martin speaking together, but other than those two, there were very few teachers present. Stiles hopped gracefully out of the Jeep. As he grabbed his duffel, his father climbed out of the vehicle. "Do you have everything? Clean underwear? Your medication?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure? Because this isn't a sleepover at Scott's. I can't bring you anything if you need it."

"I'm sure, Dad. I'll be fine." Stiles hefted this bag onto his shoulder. His father stood next to the back tire, and Stiles could see the anxiousness in his stance that he was attempting to hide. "Are you going to be okay without me?"

The sheriff smiled. "I'm sure I'll find something to do with myself."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

The sheriff chuckled and rolled his eyes, but his face abruptly fell into a grave frown. "Stiles, I want you to be careful."

"Dad, it's just a class trip. What's the worst that could happen – I die of boredom? I'll be sure to use the buddy system and-"

"Stiles. I'm serious." Yes, Stiles could read the magnitude of his father's seriousness in his face. He was truly worried. Did his father always spend this much time and energy worrying about it? Did he give him that much cause to worry? It must be exhausting.

He clapped the sheriff on the shoulder. "I'll be careful. I promise. I'll see you Monday. It's just one weekend. Try to enjoy yourself – house all to yourself. Besides, what kind of trouble could I really cause? This trip isn't going to be that much fun – it's educational."

Sheriff Stilinski mirrored his son's smile in miniature, and then surprised Stiles by pulling him into a tight hug. "I love you."

"I love you too." Stiles returned his father's embrace, and then promptly stepped back before the hug could become too embarrassing. He was aware of the critical eyes of his peers watching from the bus. Emotion welled in the sheriff's eyes, but he quickly blinked it away. He patted Stiles too hard on the back, the hard thuds reverberating through his entire body.

"Have fun."

Stiles hurried to the bus and handed his bag to the driver, who was crouched over, busy stowing the rest of the luggage into the undercarriage compartment. The thinning hair on his head was salt-and-pepper colored, and his face was pockmarked by scars caused by a severe case of childhood chicken pox. He grunted at Stiles and spit off to the side, glowering as he carelessly tossed the boy's duffel in with the others. He was not pleased at having gotten roped into spending his weekend carting a busload of lazy, irritating, entitled teenagers around.

Ms. Bates, the geology teacher, a mousy woman in her early thirties who could have been pretty if she tried, stood by the bus doors, clipboard in hand. She was checking off students' names as they arrived. "Looking good Miss B," Stiles teased; the teacher had traded her usual dark-colored skirt suits for a pair of denim jeans and a pink cardigan over a floral blouse.

"Stiles Stilinski," she tsked, but there was a smile in her voice. She ticked off his name. "I hope you won't be causing mischief this weekend."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Hmm." She considered him over the rim of her glasses. He could see a spark of fire and good humor in her eyes.

"Honest. Cross my heart."

A small smile pulled at the teacher's lips, and she shook her head. "Okay, Stiles. Go ahead. We're just waiting for a couple students."

Stiles looked back to where the Jeep was parked. His father was still there, leaning against the side and watching him. He half-raised his hand in goodbye, and Stiles waved back. "Aww," the idiot Greenburg cooed out his window. "Stiles loves his daddy."

Stiles shook his fist in the direction of the voice. Then he tripped boarding the bus steps and face-planted.

He really hoped no one had seen that. Thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed. There was too much activity happening on the bus. It was packed. Students were grouped together in pairs, talking loudly and animatedly to be heard over everyone else. The excitement in the air was electric and tangible; Stiles could feel it stirring up his own anticipation. A paper plane sailed from the back, and a pack of gum was tossed across the aisle.

Stiles picked himself off the floor and dusted himself off. He could see where the poor bus driving was coming from. But he was young and with his friends. He was determined to enjoy himself.

He scanned the familiar faces of the junior class for Scott McCall. His buddy was sure to have saved him a seat; he had been saving him a seat on the bus since they were in elementary school. The only thing that made the thought of the six hour bus trip bearable was getting to hand out with his best friend.

"Stiles! Hey!" Scott stood up near the back and waved. Stiles grinned, started down the aisle, and stopped. A dark head filled the space next to him. Kira smiled at Stiles obliviously. The she-fox had stolen his seat! His buddy had failed him!

Stiles looked around frantically. Where was he supposed to sit? It was like middle-school all over again, the same kind of mounting social anxiety, your entire future hanging on this one decision – only worse. He performed a quick scan, taking stock of the bus' general layout. It was typical: the very back of the bus was crowded with jocks – basketball, football, and lacrosse. They were loud, boisterous, and annoying, showing off for the pretty cheerleaders who were sitting ahead of them. In front of the cheerleaders were the slightly less popular crowd – the musicians and the stoners. The kids who acted like they had better things to do than attend school. The front seats were occupied by the book nerds and the social outcasts, the kids with medical conditions who were bad enough to prohibit them from sitting at the far back, but were not serious enough to get them out of the trip. The middle seats were occupied by his friends – Danny sitting next to Ethan; Kira next to Scott, Allison and Isaac in front of them, and Erica and Boyd across from Isaac; in front of them, in the same row, but each occupying a seat alone, were Lydia and Malia.

Stiles glanced back and forth between them. He felt like an impossible Sophie's choice. There would be consequences no matter whom he chose. He was smart enough to understand a little about how the female brain worked – ultimately, this was much more than deciding where to sit, and he knew it. Malia or Lydia? Lydia or Malia? Who did he want to spend the next six hours with?

"Get out of my way, loser."

A hard, broad shoulder knocked Stiles aside, and Jackson Whittemore plopped into the space beside Lydia. Before she turned to gaze at her reflection, daintily dabbing the corner of her pinky finger to her mouth to fix her lipstick, Stiles read the expression in her eyes, and saw that she was displeased and…possibly….disappointed?

That was one way to make a decision. Stiles turned back to Malia, and was surprised to see the empty spot magically occupied by Aidan. He had been crouched in the aisle next to his brother whispering – Stiles could only guess what were-wolfy twin secrets they were saying to one another – but had now claimed the seat. "You snooze you lose. Sorry," Aidan said, flashing him a toothy smirk that proved he was anything but sorry. Stiles wanted to smack it right off his face.

"Stilinski! Up here!" Coach Finstock, the male chaperone for their little adventure, stood at the front of the bus, his personality taking up three times as much space as his body. His voice was commanding, his words shouted, as he seemed to shout everything he said. Stiles moved forward slowly. Why him? For the love of God, why?

"Yes, Coach?"

"Sit here." Coach half-gestured, half-shoved Stiles into the front seat, and then sat down heavily, trapping Stiles next to the window. Oh, no. No, no. Stiles put his hands to the glass, suddenly feeling claustrophobic and wishing he could throw his body through the small open crack. "Okay, Caroline!" Coach Finstock hollered to the teacher outside; Stiles was pretty sure he had just been rendered deaf in his left ear. "Everyone's here who's going to be here! Let's get this show on the road!"

The coach settled back into his seat, and turned to Stiles. His voice dropped in what was supposed to be a whisper. Stiles shoved his finger in his ear and wiggled it, trying to test out his hearing. "That woman, I tell ya. Real sweet girl, but boring as a bag of rocks. Having a conversation with her makes me want to shove forks straight through my eardrums into my brain. Could you imagine sitting next to her for six hours?" Stiles couldn't, but he had a feeling his sitting situation wasn't going to prove any better.

Coach faked a wide smile for Ms. Bates as she boarded the bus and clapped her hands. "Okay, students, who's ready for some hands-on learning? It's a long drive, so everyone needs to obey Larry's rules" – she gestured to the driver – "and listen to the coach and I. But mostly importantly, we're here to have fun and learn some science. Where study meets the real world. YAY!" Ms. Bates shook her hands in a "ra-ra" motion, but her cheer was greeted with lackluster agreement. Most of the students were only there because participation on the trip comprised 30% of their grade and got them out of writing an exam.

The bus doors closed, and Larry pulled away from the curb. Ms. Bates settled into her seat alone and pulled a well-worn paperback from her purse. Coach Finstock started a lengthy and overly-detailed story about the weird growth he had discovered on his big toe, and Stiles attempted to block him out. He glanced back over his shoulder, watching as his friends laughed and goofed around. He caught Lydia's eye, and she gave him a sympathetic smile. He smiled in return, and then caught Malia's gaze.

Stiles groaned and immediately faced forward again. This wasn't a bus, he decided; it was a torture chamber of sexual tension on wheels.

This was going to be a long weekend.