sirsoggybread

[sirsoggybread]

Visiting Hours|Spencer Reid

Spencer Reid x Winchester! Reader- Part Two (Part One) Summary: A Criminal Minds x Supernatural crossover in which the reader finds themselves in the hospital, and Spencer comes to visit. Warnings: Typical mentions of violence, spoilers for s7/s8 of supernatural, depictions of self-hate and guilt. gn! reader, no use of y/n. WC: 1.6k a/n: Thank you so much to those who read pt1! Sorry these are so short, but I have plans to put out more parts. I'm thinking the series will be 4 or 5 parts once I'm finished. I hope you enjoy!

When you woke up, you were immediately aware of the restricting sensation around your torso, and your eyes snapped open. The quiet, rhythmical beeping and the sight of the plain, white walls jogged your memories. Your shoulders relaxed as you recalled the fight with the demon, dragging yourself to the hospital, and passing out in the lobby. 

Thankfully, you killed the demon before he could go running back to Crowley with a report. Unfortunately, you didn’t kill him before he beat the shit out of you.

Your brows furrowed as your eyes landed on the man sitting beside your hospital bed. He looked familiar, but you didn’t recognize him until he spoke. It wasn’t his voice that made you realize who he was, but the quiet and hesitant way that he talked, like he was afraid he’d scare you off. “How are you feeling?” Your head fell back onto your pillow with a groan, “How’d you find me?”

“Um… I didn’t find you, the hospital called me. You… still had my card on you.” He explained, sitting up in his chair. His mind raced with all of the questions he had for you, unsure of which one to ask first. “What happened to you?”

“Some guy couldn’t take no for an answer.” The lie rolled off of your tongue so easily he didn’t even question it. “Are you okay?” He asked, his voice filled with concern. Of course, you were covered in bruises with a broken arm and gash in your side, but he wanted to know the impact it had on your mental state. “Yeah, I’m fine. You should see the other guy.” You remarked, your lips curling into a small, amused smile. Spencer managed a weak laugh. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“You said to call you if I needed anything, and I didn’t.” You answered simply. “Why’d you even come? Isn’t D.C like a 5 and a half hour drive?” You couldn’t understand why he cared so much when he barely even knew you. “Actually, the drive from D.C.to New Haven averages around 5 hours and 8 minutes, but I took the train so it was 5 hours and 42 minutes.” He quickly corrected, “And I think being attacked is considered ‘needing something.’” “Sorry,” You mumbled, though you were clearly unapologetic. He let out a bitter huff at your response. 

He watched in silence as you pulled the thin, blue comforter closer to you in an attempt to get warmer. He knew he should probably let you rest, but his mind was still racing with questions. He at least had to ask the one question that was nagging at him the most, despite however superficial he thought it may be. “Why did you… keep my card? I expected you to… throw it away the first chance you got.” You swallowed, because you didn’t really know why you decided to keep it. Maybe it was his nervous demeanor that you found endearing, or his genuine concern for you despite being complete strangers, or maybe you just liked having a direct line to the FBI- yeah, let’s go with that. “Maybe, I just like the idea of having an FBI Agent in my back pocket.” You finally answered, shrugging as much as your broken arm would allow you to. Spencer hummed in response, though your answer did little to satisfy him. Mostly because he suspected that it wasn’t true, but he didn’t push. He hesitated before he spoke again, “Would it… be alright if I… visited you while you’re in the hospital?” You wanted to tell him yes, but you knew it wasn’t a good idea to get attached, and you weren’t sure how long you were going to be here anyway. You were planning on getting out as soon as you could, regardless of whatever your doctor said. You inhaled deeply, opening your eyes once again as you asked, “Why do you care?” “I don’t know. I just do,” He admitted quietly, his eyes meeting yours. “Is that a bad thing?”

You didn’t answer, because you didn’t want to tell him that it was a bad thing. People who cared about you -people you cared about- got hurt. A trail of bodies, loved ones, followed you wherever you went. Keeping that list short was the best way to keep other people safe. To keep yourself safe.

You raised your eyebrow, “You’re gonna stay in New Haven just for little ol’ me?”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.” He confessed softly, keeping his eyes trained on his hands. You tried to ignore the way your chest tightened at his words.

“You don’t… have any family, do you?” He asked, but it was more of an observation and less of a question.

“I do.” You corrected him, in an almost defensive manner.

He shook his head, an expression of confusion crossing his face. “Then, why haven’t you called them?”

“We’re not exactly on speaking terms.” You replied in a sharp tone.

He recognized the warning in your voice, and realized his questions were getting too personal. “Oh,” He breathed out, his lips tugging into a sympathetic pout.

His questions were annoying, but you knew they came from a place of care and concern. A place deep inside his chest that was far more gentle and kind than you could ever be. 

He rode a train for 5 hours and 42 minutes just to ask if you were okay. He sat beside you, waiting in an uncomfortable hospital chair while you slept and you couldn’t figure out why. It nagged at the back of your mind like an itch you couldn’t scratch. What about you was so worth caring about?

An awkward silence settled over the two of you as both of you had questions on your mind that neither of you were willing to ask. You were the first to break it, “Think they got anything good on here?” You asked, picking up the remote to the small TV mounted on the wall across from you.

He let out a quiet breath of relief, and turned his attention to the TV, watching as you flipped through the few channels. “Hmm, they have Animal Planet, we could watch that.” He suggested with a hum. “Alright, I’m the one with the broken arm, here. I get to pick.” You clicked on the Animal Planet channel. An amused smile graced his features, and a similar one threatened to tug at your own lips. Hours passed by without you even realizing. You each had your eyes locked onto the TV, making quiet, non-personal conversation about what you watched. You made dumb comments that you had to clarify were jokes, and Spencer would elaborate on some of the facts mentioned by the narrator.

It was nice- relaxing, sitting here and watching TV with him. It felt almost unnatural. You ignored the way your gut twisted as if you were doing something wrong for enjoying yourself, even if it was only for a few hours.

Spencer glanced out the small window of your hotel room, the sun was setting and it was growing late. He took a deep breath and stood from his chair, “I should… probably go. It’s getting late.”

You nodded in agreement, and cursed yourself internally for your reluctance to do so. “Yeah, probably a good idea.”

“Can I… visit you again tomorrow?” He asked, nervously rocking back and forth on his feet.

Your mouth twitched into a small smile and you nodded tentatively, “Yeah, you can.” When he left the room, the guilt settled on your chest. You should be thinking about finding Dean, or protecting Kevin, or looking for your next case. Instead, you were indulging in this- this… whatever it was that Spencer did to you.

You shifted uncomfortably in the springy bed. The TV still played quietly in the background as you let your eyes close, and attempted to clear your mind enough to fall asleep.

—

Your phone buzzing on the overbed table is what pulled you out of your sleep. Being woken up made you wonder if God hated you. You could almost never afford more than four hours of sleep, and when those rare opportunities to sleep-in presented themselves, you still didn’t get to enjoy them.

“Hey,” You mumbled, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“Hey,” It was Kevin. It was always Kevin, he was the only person you really talked to anymore.

“Don’t tell me you got me another case already?” You huffed, though you would’ve jumped at the chance. Cases were constant, these past few months you had buried yourself in them, they made for a good distraction.

“No, but I got more on Maine.”

You sat up quickly, your heart thumping loudly in your ears. It doesn’t matter how many dead-end leads the two of you had discovered, every time something new came along, you couldn’t help but be hopeful. Though, for once, this lead seemed substantial- worth investigating. So much so, it made your heart race and your breath shorten when you thought about it.

You changed out of the paper gown while Kevin told you about the possible portal to Purgatory located somewhere in Maine. Racing to get dressed with your arm in a sling wasn’t the easiest task, but you managed. Could this really be it? Could you really be this close to finding Dean? You faltered before you grabbed the handle to the door, glancing over to the empty chair where Spencer sat earlier. It sucked that he’d come back tomorrow and you wouldn’t be here. You almost felt bad for leaving without a goodbye, but this was more important. You pushed the guilt down and slipped down the quiet corridors of the hospital, focusing all your energy on Dean. This had to be it, right? You were actually gonna save him… right?

Tags: @psychicbouquetblaze-stuff @digitallangell @mythness A special thank you to you guys, it made me so happy to see people enjoying my work.

[sirsoggybread]

Stranger|Spencer Reid

Spencer Reid x Winchester! Reader Summary: A Criminal Minds x Supernatural crossover in which Spencer finds the Reader drowning their sorrows at the bar. (Potentially the first part of a series.) Warnings: Drinking, typical mentions of violence, spoilers for s7/s8 of supernatural, gn! reader, no use of y/n, reader doesn't like whiskey? idk i've never done this before WC: 1.4k a/n: I'm gonna be so honest, I actually don't know what this is. This is my first time actually posting a fic, I'm trying my best, so please judge lightly. If your interested in reading more, I may be interested in writing more. don't quote me on any facts btw, i stole them almost verbatim from wikipedia.

You swirled your drink around in your glass. You had been sipping on it slowly, because it was hard to force the bitter taste down. You never liked whiskey, you weren't sure why you ordered it, except you were, because it was Dean's favorite drink.

Chasing a lead that led you to another dead end is what brought you to this annoyingly loud, and overly warm bar. Missing him, and replaying those last few memories over and over again in your mind is what led you here. One moment he was there, jamming the stake into Dick Roman's heart, one moment you guys were successful, and the strenuous fight against the leviathans was finally over. The next moment? Dean was gone. 

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket, it was Kevin, again. You let out a soft sigh as you declined it, again. You felt a little guilty, but you did not have the energy to talk to him. Or the heart to tell him that the lead he was so proud of digging up led to nothing. 

You were tired. For the past six months you had been telling yourself that he was alive. He had to be. There was no body, and if there was no body then he was not dead. He was Dean, you're invincible older brother who loved you so dearly and of course he wasn't dead.

But you were starting to doubt yourself. Even if he was alive, crawling around Purgatory somewhere, how would you get to him? How could you save him like he had saved you so many times before? 

You were pulled out of your spiraling thoughts by the soft spoken, almost meek words of the man standing next to you, waiting on his drink.

"You... alright?" 

Slowly, you turned your head, and you met his gaze. His hazel eyes held a soft expression, filled with concern for you- someone he had never even met before. He nervously tucked a lock of his messy brown curls behind his ear before continuing, "you... seem a little down." 

Your expression softened ever-so-slightly at his gentle demeanor. Still, you weren't exactly in the mood for therapy with a stranger. Besides, it wasn't like you could actually confide in anyone about your troubles, not without them deeming you as crazy and locking you up in the psych ward. 

You nodded slowly in response, bringing your drinks to your lips once again- you tried not to grimace at the taste. "Fine," you said shortly, unable to muster up the energy it took to pretend to be okay.

"Do you... want to talk about it?" He asked as he hesitantly stepped closer, though he was still careful to ensure that the two of you didn't touch. 

"Not particularly," You hummed in response, and you internally cursed the tears that began to prick your eyes. It was a sure sign that the thoughts inside your head were desperate to come out, but if you were good at anything, it was suppressing your emotions. Even when it felt like you were drowning in them.

The man lingered beside you, like he didn’t want to leave you alone, but he also wasn’t sure of what to say, "Did you know that alcoholism, while typically attributed to environmental factors, can also be equally attributed to genetic factors? Someone with a parent or sibling that abuses alcohol is 3 to 4 times more likely to abuse it as well, and it almost always begins by using alcohol to self-medicate." 

At first, you were caught off guard by him suddenly sounding like a wikipedia article, but then his insinuation hit you and you were mildly offended. "You just met me three minutes ago, and now you're calling me an alcoholic?" You asked with a raised eyebrow.

His eyes widened and he vehemently shook his head in response, "No, no, I'm merely suggesting that you..." He trailed off, biting down on his bottom lip as he realized he would only dig himself a deeper hole. He swallowed and attempted a different approach, "I just think that if you're... struggling... you should talk to someone."

You inhaled deeply at his words, and pinched the bridge of your nose. You didn't want to be rude, because he seemed genuinely concerned, but this conversation was grating. “Yeah, well, sorry, but I’m not really in the mood to play therapist tonight.” “Actually, I’m a doctor, not a therapist.” He quickly corrected, which only added to your annoyance. Then, the scraping of the chair next to you filled your ears, as he pulled it out from beneath the bar top and sat down. Great.

“Then, why are you trying to get me to talk about my feelings?” You huffed, meeting his eyes once again. 

His lips formed a sympathetic pout, “Because you look like you need it.” He said gently, eliciting another sigh from you.

You looked up at the ceiling of the bar, as you debated internally. Maybe you did want to talk about it, to get it off your chest, but it wasn’t like you could divulge everything, and even if you could, you doubted some random guy would be able to say anything comforting. “My brother’s gone.” The words came out weakly, before you could even process what you had said.

“Gone?” He asked, his quiet tone barely audible over the music and chatter in the bar. You kept your eyes trained on the last sip of whiskey in your glass as you gave a slight nod, “Yeah… everyone- everyone thinks he’s dead, but… there was no body.” Now that you had started talking about it, the words just kept spilling out, “But I know he’s still out there, I- I know it. I just… I don’t know how to- I don’t know if I can find him.” A moment of silence passed between the two of you, and you looked up from your glass in anticipation. Deep-down, you hoped he would somehow come up with the perfect thing to say. Something that would suddenly cause the wild storm of thoughts swirling around in your brain to clear, or lift the heavy weight of the guilt that settled in your chest. But he didn’t. The disappointment you felt started to sink in as he stared at you with pity in his eyes.

“How long has he been missing?”

“Six months.”

His brows furrowed instantly at your answer, and his stare hardened as if he was deep in thought, “That’s… an awfully short amount of time for someone who’s missing to be determined dead.”

Your lips parted with a sigh at his words. Well, that therapy session was short-lived. You did not feel like carefully choosing words, or coming up with elaborate lies to fill the holes in your story just so you could bare your soul to a stranger. 

“...It’s complicated.” You admitted, forcing the last sip of whiskey down your throat. When you got up from your seat, he quickly followed suit.

“Wait, um, are you… going to be okay to get home?” He asked, swaying awkwardly. You nodded, “Yeah, I’m not driving.” Even if you were, you had only had one drink and you nursed it. “Okay, I just um-” He swallowed nervously and dug out a card from his pocket and offered it to you, “If you… ever need anything, just um, give me a call.”

                                      Doctor Spencer Reid The United States Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, DC                                 (702) 555-0103

You looked between him and the card he had just handed you, and you were almost impressed by the fact that he worked for the FBI, but you were mostly confused by why he chose to give you his card. “Does every FBI agent just hand out their card whenever they hear a sob story?” “Well, no, I just um- I just thought that, you know.. Maybe- maybe, if something about your brother came up or- or if you needed something I could just um, I dunno, offer some extra assistance.” His eyes finally landed on you as he finished his sentence, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The corner of your mouth tugged into a subtle smile at his awkward demeanor. He was sweet, but you knew he couldn’t help you. Still, you gestured to the card in your hand, “Thanks, maybe I will.”

You weren’t sure why, but you gave him your name before you left the bar, and you weren’t sure why, but instead of throwing his business card away, you slipped it into your jacket pocket for safe keeping.