Author: Sparkle Itamashii

Title: Helpless

Notes: Written with permission off of this prompt: neverafuckgiven dot tumblr dot com slash post/29370223386


Chapter Three

His scent clung to every inch of the boy sleeping curled in the passenger seat of his camaro, almost enough to cover the scent of the bruises. Even now, hours later, his head was still a little fuzzy, but he could remember well enough. He didn't think he would ever forget; which was just as well, because when Stiles woke up tomorrow he wasn't going to forget either. He would want to, of course, but the marks Derek had left on his skin would remind him.

He tried desperately to focus on anything mundane, anything to take his mind away from Stiles. His betas- he'd left them at the station researching and they were probably cranky that they hadn't heard from him. When he got back he would have some explaining to do, and he couldn't go back until he had showered. Until he had showered many times, and changed his clothes, because the scent of Stiles, of what they had done, was so strong he might as well have hung a sign around his neck.

So much for not thinking about Stiles.

Releasing his grip from the wheel, he ran one hand through his hair and sighed, jaw clenching. He should have known better than to go into the house. He'd known enough to tell his betas to stay put, enough to send Scott and Allison away; enough to give Stiles the time to come down from the wolfsbane. Derek hadn't known that Stiles would try any, but he knew what the entry said about it enhancing the senses of men. He knew the allure it would hold, if Stiles read the passage; he didn't have to wonder if Stiles would connect the dots.

He hadn't quite remembered how strong that pull was.

Because he did remember the last time he had encountered the mutated wolfsbane. He remembered the night Kate had passed him the bitter smelling tea, the way she had smiled at him as she set the mug in front of him. How, when he had finished, he would have answered any question she asked; how he did. He remembered, too well, how she had left him for his sister to find, at the edge of their property.

When Stiles shifted in the seat beside him, he realized he had stopped breathing, his hands so tight on the steering wheel he might have bent it. He couldn't handle thinking about Kate right now, about the tricks she had used, about the crushing depression that had taken him when he learned how weak she had made him. How she had taken everything from him, destroyed his world that night. Taking a few deep breaths, he forced himself to focus, to release his grip, to take comfort in the presence of the sleeping human.

A comfort that vaporized when he caught the faint scent of blood.

He had hurt Stiles.

Maybe not exactly like Kate had hurt him, but he had hurt him. Had betrayed his trust in unforgivable ways, the same as he would never have forgiven Kate. Everything he had ever said to or done for Stiles was in the past. Any hope he might have harbored - however small and fledgling it might have been - for forming a bond with the human was for nothing because he couldn't stay away. Couldn't keep control.

The road blurred badly enough in front of him that he had to pull over, forehead dropping to rest against the arc of the steering wheel as he grasped at whatever control he thought he could manage. He had hurt Stiles and Stiles was never going to forget it. The thought was enough to unhinge him briefly, sitting on the edge of the road, eyes burning, chest tight.

The lack of motion roused Stiles, and he blinked sleepily in the dark. "Are we there?" he asked, his voice low and raw from screaming.

Derek shuddered at the tone, but raised his head. "No," he said quietly, hoping the tightness in his throat was not too evident. The human was still a little hazy anyway. "Go back to sleep."

For a moment Stiles stared intensely ahead of them at the road, as if trying to determine where they were. Derek let him, without saying anything, without moving the car. He knew how disorienting the after-effects of the drug were. "This isn't my car," Stiles said at last.

Derek couldn't stop the snort that escaped him. "No, it's not," he agreed. "Your car is at my house. I'll bring it back later."

Stiles' brows scrunched up but he didn't turn his attention from the road. "We're not moving, are we."

"Stiles," Derek said firmly. "Go back to sleep."

It seemed that the boy would object with the way he stared straight ahead, puzzling out what was going on, but in the end he just made a small noise and closed his eyes once more. Derek waited until his heartbeat leveled out - still beating too fast, but only just now - before he began to drive. They were close now.

He tried not to think of what Stiles' father was going to say when they got there.


The knock at the door was muffled and strangely broad, barely rousing the sheriff from sleep. Snatching the alarm clock from his bedside stand, he glared blearily at the glowing red "2:36AM" on its face. He couldn't fathom who would be arriving at his door at this hour of the morning, but his first conclusion was that it was probably important or it would have waited until morning. Actual morning, not technical morning, he corrected as he slumped from the bed and began to put on some semblance of clothing.

Needless to say, Derek Hale carrying the unconscious body of his seventeen-year-old son was not the sight with which he expected to be greeted when he opened the front door.

"Oh," he said, noting how tired the guy looked, how red his eyes were, even as he drew open the door and stood aside.

"He's ok," Derek blurted out before he could even ask. "I mean, he'll be ok."

"Get inside before the neighbors notice you, please," the sheriff said, giving him a pointed look. He had already figured that his son was ok to some degree; Derek would have taken him to the hospital if not.

He didn't like that Stiles was being carried into the house unconscious, but since Mrs. McCall had dialed him up one evening and insisted he needed to share in the secret world of 'your son is helping my son be a werewolf and there's probably some weirder shit you should be aware of also,' he had come to terms with the idea that sometimes Stiles was going to do things he didn't like. He wasn't sure this counted as doing anything, but he was not quite functioning well enough to figure out what this counted as.

Derek skirted past him, unable to meet his eyes, and headed immediately for the stairs. The sheriff tossed a glance out at the street, noted that no one had their lights on or was likely even awake at all at this hour (thank goodness), and closed the door with a quiet click. Then he trailed after the young man, forcing himself to remember that Derek was in fact, a werewolf.

He reached the top of the stairs as Derek toed the door to Stiles' room, shouldered it open with just enough force to slip around the edge of it without knocking any part of Stiles into any part of the doorframe. He was so gentle, the sheriff found himself thinking as he reached the doorway, watched as Derek laid Stiles on top of the covers. Watched as he dropped to his knees, arms resting on the side of the bed, eyes trained on his son's face.

He found it difficult to believe that this creature, capable of fantastic acts of destruction and violence, incredibly strong and fast and deadly, this unholy beast of the night, could twine his soft human fingers so gently, almost tenderly, with Stiles' fingers. Just once he had seen Derek as a wolf, terrifying and dangerous. There was no trace of that now in the defeated hunch of his shoulders, the way he laid his chin on his arms and just watched Stiles, no doubt listening to his heart or something like he'd been told werewolves could.

"What happened?" the sheriff asked, barely a whisper. He was loathe to break the moment, but he was desperately worried about Stiles. He could see, even at this distance, even in the dark, the flush on his son's cheeks. "Werewolf business?"

Derek snorted, almost a chuckle but too depressing. "Yeah, something like that," he agreed. "He ate something he shouldn't have, and it... it made him sick. But, he won't be by morning. He'll sleep it off."

"You're sure?" he insisted. "Has this happened before?"

"Not to him," Derek assured him. "It happened to me once. It's not deadly, just... not great."

He saw the way Derek started when Stiles roused, tightened his fingers around Derek's. "Derek? You're still here." He sounded confused.

"Yeah," Derek told him, and the sheriff was startled to hear how much the wolf's voice had changed; he sounded broken. "I was just... I was just leaving. Your dad's here."

"Dad..." Stiles repeated, as if he couldn't quite grasp the meaning of the word. "I'm home."

"Yes," Derek affirmed. "I brought you home, remember?"

"To my dad," Stiles observed, and then he shifted to look Derek in the eyes. When he spoke, however, it wasn't to the werewolf. "Dad, could you... just give us a minute?"

His dad shifted, uncomfortable with the idea of leaving Stiles alone in a dark room with a werewolf, but he knew, in the end, that it was safe enough. He'd been told how many times Derek had saved Stiles life and, while he knew it was mostly Derek's fault Stiles was in danger in the first place, he could appreciate the sentiment. It didn't hurt that he could see they needed a little bit of alone time. He doubted that whatever Stiles had eaten was the only cause of the distress that was nearly tangible between them.

He knew those looks, and he didn't like it. Derek was a werewolf. He was older than Stiles by over half a decade. There were reasons that he shouldn't leave these two alone in a room together, but the sheriff also knew that there were some things which didn't listen to reason. The same things that he could hear in Derek's voice, in his son's tone, in the expressions etched on both their faces.

So he just nodded, told Derek that he wasn't to use the window to leave, and closed the door behind him.


Stiles waited until he heard his father's footsteps on the hardwood floor at the base of the stairs, eyes trained on Derek the entire time. Derek was looking anywhere but Stiles, which drove him crazy and did nothing to alleviate his sense of guilt about the entire evening. Everything was still hazy, still fuzzy around the edges, and his senses were still on the side of overdrive. He could hear the faint beat of Derek's heart.

He could hear how it sped up when he said Derek's name.

"I'm sorry," he said, when Derek finally met his eyes. He was beginning to feel better, able. "I shouldn't have taken the wolfsbane." It was his turn to drop his gaze, close his eyes. What a nightmare.

But Derek was shaking his head, keeping his words behind a clenched jaw until they were sorted. "You couldn't have known. I shouldn't have... any of it."

"You were under the effects too," Stiles pointed out quietly. "That's what the book said. Helpless."

"Not helpless," Derek argued stubbornly. "I just couldn't... think."

Steeling himself, Stiles looked up, raked his eyes over Derek, who still knelt beside his bed. He was whole, had healed the bruises from where Stiles had gripped his arms, healed the scratch marks down his back. He could feel the bruises on his own hips, the marks across his shoulders, front and back, that would be days in healing. All he felt was guilty, because he had done something so incredibly stupid.

"You told my dad this happened to you once," he said at last. "What happened afterward?" What should we do now, he wanted to ask.

Emotions roiled across Derek's features, raw and pained. Stiles regretted asking, because he could have guessed who had dosed Derek even before he spoke the words. "Afterward? Afterward she teased me about being so weak, so worthless, and then she ditched me in the woods and torched my family."

Stiles closed his eyes, let his head drop back against the pillow as he cursed himself out for even asking. Of course it would have been Kate that dosed Derek. Of course. The book probably belonged to her. Of-freaking-course.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"That wasn't your fault," Derek told him, but he was standing and moving away from the edge of the bed. "Neither is this."

"It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't done something stupid. Really stupid." Stiles had a hard time believing just how stupid; no matter how much stood to be learned about what Gerard would find, he should have waited. Should have talked to the pack first.

"It was really stupid," Derek agreed, but he gave a little head-twitch of a shrug. "But I knew better. I knew... better. I shouldn't have let anything happen.

"I don't suppose we could just... forget anything happened?" Stiles offered, cracking open one eye to gauge his reaction. Another flicker of that strange, deeply injured expression. Of course Derek couldn't just forget it- his last interaction with this wolfsbane had cost him his family. What it had cost him this time Stiles couldn't guess, but he regretted taking whatever it was.

"We should," Derek said before Stiles could retract the offer.

Surprised, Stiles opened his eyes fully. He tried to catch Derek's gaze, but the werewolf was already turning to leave. "Just like that?"

"Just like that, Stiles." The words were ground out through a clenched jaw. He paused at the door, hand on the knob. "Get some sleep."

Stiles frowned, because he knew where Derek was going and even though his super-sense of smell was fading, he could smell himself all over Derek. He knew the betas would be able to smell him. He wondered if Derek had thought of that. If he was going to tell them or if he really was just going to pretend it never happened.

There was a part of Stiles that didn't want him to forget it.

Stiles certainly wouldn't forget.

He didn't want to forget, not all of it. Maybe the wolfsbane, maybe the reminder it had given Derek of his shitty history with humans and wolfsbane, but not the result. Not the way Derek had stuttered his name when he rolled his hips. Not the way Derek smoothed his hands reverently down Stiles' back. Definitely not the way his breath had felt against Stiles' neck as they wound down, the way he whispered nonsensical things into his skin as his fingers sought any patch of skin he hadn't touched.

"Hey," he said quickly, before he lost the nerve, before Derek opened the door. When he turned to look, Stiles found he couldn't meet his eyes because he wanted Derek to remember those things but he didn't have the words. "Thank you," he said instead. Derek just kept looking at him, so he added: "You could have just... left me there." He managed to drag his gaze up to Derek's eyes. "I'm not... your responsibility. You could have just left me, and I would have gotten out, and maybe I'd have made it to town, and maybe I'd have done something I would seriously regret."

"You did anyway," Derek pointed out softly.

"Maybe," Stiles agreed, even though it hurt, even though he didn't regret it. "It could have been worse."

"It could have been better. I could have stopped you."

Stiles twitched a smile that disappeared an instant later, but he shook his head. "No, you couldn't have."

He felt the way Derek's eyes raked over him, knew it had perhaps been the wrong reminder to make. He didn't take it back, though, and Derek turned away, pulled open the bedroom door. But he hesitated, hand still on the knob, not quite over the threshold.

Without turning, he said: "I couldn't have left you there, either."

Then he was gone.