Shatter My Reality

Anchor

Deaton's office was a mess when Derek and Spencer arrived. Shattered jars were covering the floor. Medical supplies were scattered amongst the glass and herbs. Deaton had a dark bruise blossoming on his right cheekbone. Blood stained his left sleeve where five puncture wounds tore the fabric.

Derek helped Deaton tend to his wounds while Spencer cleaned the mess on the floor.

"I'm so sorry," Spencer said, sweeping the herbs into a pile.

Deaton shook his head. "No need to apologize. I could have been more cooperative. I wouldn't have allowed them in had I realized who was at the door. I was careless."

"I shouldn't have given you the book. I shouldn't have come here at all."

Derek smelled the stress on Spencer, and the air in the room started to shift. "Spencer," he warned.

"I know, I know." Spencer squeezed his eyes shut.

"It's not getting any better?" Deaton asked.

"Sometimes I can calm it down, but sometimes..." The air whipped, scattering his freshly swept pile.

"Hey." Derek secured the gauze he'd wrapped Deaton's arm in and turned to Spencer. "You aren't to blame, okay?" he placed his hands on either shoulder.

Spencer looked up at him with familiar eyes. It hurt Derek to look at Spencer. It only reminded him that Stiles was in danger and there was nothing he could do about it.

"You need to learn control before this gets out of hand. Why don't you come into my office with me." Deaton gestured to the closed door behind him.

Spencer looked to Derek. He gave him a reassuring nod. "I'll clean this up."

Once Deaton and Spencer had closed themselves into Deaton's office, Derek grabbed the broom. He ignored the anger building in his chest. He hated feeling so useless. He couldn't help Spencer. He couldn't help Stiles. He'd lost his patience with Lydia. He'd been caught off guard by the Dara pack. What good was he? He was a useless alpha. His mother would be ashamed of him.

Claws dug into the handle of the broom before Derek even realized he was losing control. He closed his eyes and focused on the anger, but it wasn't helping. His gums pinched as his fangs fought to extend.

He hadn't had this much trouble with control since he was young. Why was he struggling now? He searched his mind for memories that always helped in the past. Paige's limp body. The rubble of his family home. Kate's manipulative smile. Nothing changed. It wasn't working.

He released the broom. It clattered to the floor. He doubled over, trying to keep himself together. His muscles stung like they were being ripped out. His eyes burned. It was all familiar to the first few shifts he had no control over. He clenched his hands and his eyes.

"Derek?" Spencer was kneeling in front of him. When had he dropped to his hands and knees? When had Spencer and Deaton come back into the room?

"Hey, what's wrong?" Spencer placed his hands on Derek's face, lifting his head.

Derek's eyes flashed between red and their natural green color.

"I can't—" Derek growled out, pulling away. His insides twisted as he fought against the shift.

"It seems you're not the only one struggling with control," Deaton hummed.

"What do we do?" Spencer asked, an earnestness to his tone.

"My anchor, it's not—" Derek clawed at the ground. He imagined himself in bed with Kate, but all it succeeded in doing was making him want to puke.

"Your anchor isn't working?"