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melioramercy · 4 years ago

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i didn’t mean to, but i know it still hurts

spencer reid x nonbinary partner (afab) (they/them/theirs)

in which spencer accidentally misgenders his partner

this is my first fic ! how groovy is that ?

note: misgendering is defined as the following: [to] refer to (someone, especially a transgender person) using a word, especially a pronoun or form of address, that does not correctly reflect the gender with which they identify.

if you’d like to chat about gender (respectfully) my asks are open xx ruby

dating spencer reid was wonderful. truly, you had no idea how you’d gotten so lucky. he was kind without trying, attentive to your needs, and would never do anything to hurt your feelings. not on purpose, anyway. but when he did, he was quick to apologise, curling up on the couch with you and kissing your head. he knew you typically brooded in silence, choosing to let what was bothering you wash over you in full before attempting to sort anything out. this way, you didn’t say anything you didn’t mean. you two always sorted out conflicts peacefully, and only ended up crying because you loved each other so much and you never wanted to be mad at the other. because of this, he was more than happy to sit with you in silence, weathering your storm together.

spencer didn’t know you were nonbinary when you first met. that was ten months ago, back when you only knew him as the cute, clumsy guy who frequented the same park as you. he liked to play chess, you learned, while he noticed you practicing complex yoga poses just a stone’s throw past him. the two of you maintained a respectful distance from one another, though you snuck glances at him, admiring the way his tongue poked out between his lips, and how quickly his hands darted around the board. he never noticed you staring, the same way you didn’t notice his eyes bashfully skating over your figure, sucking in a breath as your shirt rode up, revealing your colourful sports bra and soft tummy.

you’d existed in the same space, bearing witness to one another’s leisure activities for nearly four months before you interacted beyond a slight smile or shy wave. some days, he sat propped against a tree, reading a thick book or sketching. you were physically closer than ever when he sat under the tree, but you couldn’t have felt further apart. on the days he had a notebook in front of him, pencil sliding across the paper, his gaze never wavered, and you couldn't help but secretly hope he was drawing a portrait of you. spurred on by your daydream, you decided to try out more skillful poses, subconsciously trying to break his concentration, but no dice.

it wasn’t until you fell out of a handstand and face-planted that the force field between you two broke. he jumped up from his spot under the tree and ran over to you, wiping dirt off your forehead and holding your face as he checked for any scrapes or bruises. you hoped his warm hands couldn’t feel the way your cheeks burned as he scrutinized you. you let out a breathy laugh mixed with a gasp as you realized how close he was. from here, you could see the green around his pupils, blooming into a gorgeous hazel. the wind teased the curls you’d longed to run your hands through. as if jolted by an unseen presence, he realized how close he was to you, quickly dropping his hands from your face and pulling away.

“uh, sorry,” he said, brushing off his pants as he stood.

“no, no, really, it’s okay. thank you. i usually practice my handstands at home, with lots of cushions around.” damn, he was so cute. you tugged your shirt down, suddenly feeling self-conscious in your tight, printed leggings, toes wriggling into the grass.

you stared at each other, unsure of what to say. was it wrong to want his hands back on your face, kissing you like his life depended on it?

“i’m y/n,” you offered.

“spencer.”

“well, it’s lovely to meet you, spencer. thank you again.” shit, was this really going to end here?

“yeah, uhm, you too. y/n.” the words brought a smile to your face, and you loved the way your name fit in his mouth.

he rocked on his feet, as if he were working up the courage to say something.

“okay... bye.” and just like that, he turned to leave. no, no no no no. fuck, think, y/n, think!

“hey!” you shouted, loud enough to startle him. as soon as he turned around, you were blurting out, “do you wanna go out sometime?”

***

you told spencer about your pronouns, along with your gender identity, on the date you’d scheduled for the following weekend, pending his schedule didn’t change. he didn’t offer up any information about his job, or what made his schedule so wonky, and you didn’t ask. you wanted to know anything you could about the man you’d seen at the park so many times, but you didn't want to push him.

you’d agreed to take a walk in the park before heading to a nearby restaurant for dinner. you wanted to give him an easy out, in case he changed his mind about you. you wore a simple top with linen pants and sandals, while he wore a more casual version of what you’d seen him wearing before. slacks, a button-down sans sweater vest, and converse. you met up at the tree you’d seen him reading under before, savouring the way he complimented you. beginning to walk the path, you worked up the nerve to confess your truth.

“so,” you began. “i’ve gotta get something out of the way.” you saw a flash of panic in his eyes, opting to continue before he could ask any questions.

“i’m nonbinary.”

he stopped walking, letting out a breath before turning to you. fuck, you thought. this is it. he’s gonna be scared off just like everyone else before him. considering how long you'd hoped for this moment, this would be the hardest loss of them all. but you couldn't compromise yourself, in the same way you wouldn't be able to change his mind if he thought your gender identity was too much baggage.

you were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t see the smile on his face. you also realized neither of you had said anything since your initial admission.

“spencer?” his name sounded like a plea, with a tinge of hope lining your voice.

“okay.”

“okay?” that’s it?

“what pronouns would you like me to refer to you with?”

the question was one you’d heard before, but it sounded so much... better coming from him. you felt a flutter in your heart, a smile budding on your face as he slipped his hand into yours.

“y/n," you reintroduced yourself. "they/them/theirs.”

he nodded at that, beginning to walk again. you didn’t expect him to speak again, and you definitely weren't expecting what he said next.

“spencer,” he said. “he/him/his.”

you squeezed his hand, the flutter in your heart replaced with something different, something... warm. you really hoped this would last.

***

ten months later, you were sat at the kitchen table, having breakfast for dinner, with your boyfriend recalling some conversation he’d had with the team.

“and i told morgan, y/n always stays up waiting for me on the couch, but sometimes she falls asleep and-”

he immediately froze, not missing the way you flinched behind your coffee mug. for a second, he thought he should’ve just kept talking, quickly correcting himself and continuing with the story. he knew you disliked when people made a big deal out of messing up your pronouns, but he couldn’t help himself.

“y/n, i-”

you were quick to cut him off.

“spence, it’s okay. it was an accident.” your voice didn’t reveal your hurt, but spencer didn't miss the look in your eyes, the way your brow furrowed as you tried to keep his slip up from getting to you. it wasn't personal. it was an accident. but it still hurt.

“y/n, i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.” he started rambling, leaving you no room to interrupt. “i’m sorry, i know your pronouns. i would never misgender you on purpose or do anything to hurt you.” he reached across the table, grabbing your hands and squeezing them tightly. “you’re my y/n/n, my beanie. i love you so much. i’m sorry.”

he'd started weeping at the initial mess up, but now he was fully crying, harder than you'd ever seen. it scared you more than it confused you. why was he so upset?

“spence, baby, it’s okay,” you begged him to believe you, but he only dropped his head against your hands, his tears wetting your skin. “spencer,” you said, more insistently.

you sighed, realizing he wasn’t letting up. you pulled your hands out from under his head, hoping he’d look up at you, but he dropped his head onto the table instead. what was up with him? seriously, people called you “she” all the time, and it was rarely malicious. you were used to it, but he was always bothered, correcting people so you didn’t have to. he really was the perfect boyfriend.

abruptly, you stood up, grabbing his arm and pulling with all your weight. he gave in, letting you drag him to the couch. you sat down, the worn leather squeaking as you tucked your feet under yourself. you tugged him down to sit next to you, cradling his head against your chest like he'd done with you so many times before when you were upset. you kissed his forehead and stroked his hair until his breathing slowed down.

“you okay, baby?” your words were met with a murmur, but it was better than nothing. “spence?”

you tilted his head so you could look each other in the eye.

“what’s going on, lovey?”

it was his turn to sigh, his nostrils flaring as his big ole brain searched for the right words.

“i’m sorry.”

you didn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.

“i’m sorry. i didn’t mean it, but i know it still hurts. your pronouns are part of you, and i’ve seen first-hand how much it bugs you when someone refers to you as ‘she’ or ‘her.’ i know you take it personally, and i don't blame you. i know i'll never understand how much it affects you, or why, and i never, ever, want to be the person who makes you feel that way.”

“i know, spence, it’s okay.”

“but it’s not, y/n!” his words were frantic, but he took a deep breath to try and calm himself. “i’m sorry. i just, i’ve never messed up before.”

so that’s what is was. god, on the one hand, you were grateful he took it so... personally? no. you couldn’t put your finger on it, but the fact that he cared so much made you feel loved, and seen. he knew how much it hurt you, and it hurt him just as much.

“baby, thank you.”

he looked you right in the eye, confused as to why you were thanking him.

“thank you, for loving me. for being you. spence, i... i’ve never had anyone who’s cared so much. you’re right, it does hurt, but i love you. i know you didn’t mean any harm, and i know you would never do it on purpose. you don’t have to beat yourself up, okay?”

he still seemed upset, so you reached around, hooking your pinky with his. his lip quirked up at that, and he adjusted so he could press his palm to yours, entwining your fingers.

“i love you, beanie.”

“i love you, too, baby. so so much.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x nonbinary!reader #spencer reid x yn #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #ruby writes #nonbinary writer

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mattzerella-sticks · 7 years ago

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The Spooky Specter on Set (Coda to 13x16 Scoobynatural)

Dean thought that his animated vacation was a one-time deal. So why is he back? And why are he and his friends the Scooby Gang? Dean's going to have to get through the episode, solve the mystery, and work out a few things if he's ever going to find his way out. But just what has the power to bring him back there? And who thought it was funny to make him...

(AO3)

You’re not fooling me

Cause I can see!

The way you shake and shiver

C’mon we got a mystery to solve so-

“Huh?”

Dean blinks back into awareness, adjusting to the light. He’s pressed into a warm, solid weight, nestled against soft fabric. He turns his face in towards his makeshift pillow and whines, feeling the last shackles of sleep breaking free no matter how much he wanted to stay imprisoned.

“Whoops, sorry ‘bout that Dean. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He reels back, jarred by the deep, familiar rumble coming from his leaning post. Dean doesn’t know how long he’s gaping at Cas before blue eyes meet his. It’s only for a moment – a concerned glance before he has to return focus onto the road.

“I know you can be picky about the music,” Cas says, grip tightening on the wheel, “but I figured a quiet van might make for an easier rest.” Dean wants to make a comment – they drive a car, not a van – but another voice pops up.

“Makes it easier to read, that’s for sure.”

Dean has to crane his head back to where Sam is sitting, nose buried in a book. He looks up slightly, to meet Sam’s eyes and – ‘When did Sam start wearing glasses?’

Next to Sam, Jack tilts his head in concern. It’s the same expression as the Doberman slobbering all over his leg. “Like, are you okay, Dean?” Jack asks, “You look like someone scuffed your boots.”

Dean wants to scoff. To fire back a witty retort, saying that he’s gotten far worse on his boots then a scuff. To tell Jack to stop looking at him like that and kick the dog out his Baby. But then he notices.

How spacious the back of the car is �� there’s no backseat, just a flat bed where Sam and Jack and that dog can spread out. How the roof isn’t hovering inches away, in fact a good foot above his head. How the usual track deck was replaced with a sky blue and slime green 8-track player. The fuzzy dice hanging over the rearview mirror.

“What the -,” Dean wheezes, looking around, “Where’s Baby?”

The Doberman perks up, and she tilts her head to the side again, “Ri’m right rere, Rean.”

‘This is it,’ Dean thinks, staring wide-eyed into the deep brown eyes of a talking Doberman, ‘I’ve officially lost my mind.’

“Dean,” Cas starts, drawing Dean away from ‘Baby’ and to him, “You don’t – are you feeling okay?” He’s not that observant – anyone with functioning vision could tell Dean wasn’t doing his best. Dean’s trying not to fall into a panic attack, but it seems like he can’t get enough air into his lungs. “Maybe,” Cas continues, “Maybe your scarf is too tight? Why don’t you loosen it?”

‘Scarf?’ Dean feels for the material around his neck, and loosens it the tiniest bit. It’s not a lot, but his breathing does start to even out. Probably because instead of worrying about the car – ‘van, I’m in a van’ – Dean’s focus is drawn to the scarf.

The green scarf with ends that hang delicately at the dip of his collarbone. It pairs nicely with the snug, purple button-down he’s wearing and – ‘bubblegum pink jeans?!?’

‘No, c’mon… why am I…’

It seemed like only yesterday he, Sam, and Cas had jumped out of the cartoon world and back into theirs. It was an unusual adventure – the only normalcy being the dead bodies they happened upon. But they solved the case, helped a poor boy, made some friends, and fulfilled a couple, but not all, of Dean’s childhood fantasies.

Yet here he is. Back in the Mystery Machine – only now instead of meeting the Scooby gang, they’ve become them. And curse whatever ghost, spell, or trickster that decided he should be Daphne. When he said he wanted in Daphne’s pants, he never meant it literally.

“Is that better, Dean?” Cas asks, drawing him away from further spiraling. He takes a good look at him, and tries not to frown. Dean may not have been Fred’s biggest fan, but at least he got to drive the damn Mystery Machine. Why give that power to Cas? He’s a total Scooby.

He’s not even in his usual get-up, either: the tan trench coat and blue tie exchanged for a similarly colored sweater and ascot.

There isn’t much he can do. It doesn’t look like anyone else can tell there’s something wrong with the situation. Sam has finally abandoned his book and is giving him a weird calculated stare that would be scarier if he wasn’t being cocooned by the orange turtleneck he’s wearing. At least Jack and… Baby… have moved on to sandwiches. Those two are wearing exactly what Shaggy and Scooby wore; save for Baby’s tag demarking a solitary ‘B’.

His plan of action is clear: play along until the mystery is solved and they’re zapped back into their own world. Maybe figure out what spirit is causing it this time. If it worked once before, it can work again.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, pressing up against Cas again, “I think I just woke up too fast.”

Sam snorts, turning back to his reading. He says, “Leave it to Dean to find a way to make even napping dangerous.”

Dean bites back the ‘Bitch’ that’s balancing precariously on his tongue. It would be easy, but judging by the wholesomeness of the van, he’s afraid his PG-13 language would be too sensitive for their ears. So instead he turns his attention back to Cas.

“So,” he starts, getting comfortable, “how long was I out for?”

“A while,” Cas says, glancing down at him with a smile, “You conked out pretty early, muttering about ‘early starts’ and ‘beauty sleep’,” Dean blushes, “But you woke up at a good time. We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?”

“Like, you can’t be serious!” Jack yelps from behind, leaning up until his head presses between Dean and Cas. Dean frowns at the kid, upset at how rudely he butted in. “We’re only going to see the most fantastic, super amazing, spectacular television show in all of television history!” Jack continues, Baby nodding along behind, going “Reah, reah!”

“Given that television hasn’t been around that long, there isn’t much to that claim,” Sam says, without even looking up, “Although having been on the air for this long… that, I will admit, is a laudable feat.”

“Like anyone could ever cancel Dick Morrison, Ghost Detective!” Jack says, plopping back on his rear, “There’s no mystery that man can’t solve!”

Cas, this time, leans closer to Dean, whispering, “You’d think he’d get this excited when it comes to our mysteries.” Dean bites back a giggle – because he’s a man – but there’s no harm in the chuckle that rasps its way from between his lips.

“Like, whatever man,” Jack says, crossing his arms, “Second-hand excitement is, like, all I can handle.”

“Still, it must get tedious to watch someone do exactly what you do, shouldn’t it?” Sam asks, abandoning his book.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “Shouldn’t television be about escape and relaxation?”

“Like, c’mon, Dean!” Jack whines, “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

Dean blinks at him, “I am?”

Sam snorts, “Please, we all know why Dean happens to like that show – and it’s not because of the plot.” Dean glares at him, trying to piece together what he meant. And why the comment had Cas bristling beside him.

“Look, we can all gang up on Jack later,” Cas says, “We’re rounding the block – everyone be on your best behavior.” The grumbled assent puts a small smile on Cas’s face, which he shares with Dean. It’s a special one that shines from his eyes and works at the crinkles near there. He returns it, of course. Not because of the weird flutter in his chest, but because it would be rude not to.

‘Oh, whatever!’

He’ll do what it takes to solve this case – but not that. The ghoul can put Dean in the purple boots but he can’t take the scratchy flannel out of Dean.

He looks down, eyeing his shoes.

‘Who even owns purple boots?’

For the Groovy Sixties, this studio sure looks cutting edge. Well, for its time. Dean was looking over a large camera while the rest of his gang filtered their way in. He needed to distract himself with something – on the way in, he’d already been accosted by the security guard, the janitor, two production assistants, and three extras. One who had been over seventy.

It wasn’t easy being Daphne.

“They are fascinating, aren’t they?”

Case in point: the guy who’s plastered to his back, whispering into his ear.

“Yeah, man,” Dean sighed bitterly, “But I don’t think you need to inspect it this close – oh.”

Dean had turned to give him his piece of mind – he’d had enough: key word here being had. Because after catching a good look at the man, the fight left his body. Like his steely, grey eyes were the calamine lotion that soothed his prickly irritation.

“My apologies,” he said, taking a scant step backwards, “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just believe that when it comes to inspecting true beauties,” he grins, raking his eyes over Dean’s body, “one must get as close as possible.”

Dean can’t help it this time – he giggles. He couldn’t hold it in, distracted, unable to put more than two words together let alone control reactions. It slipped out. But it was the right call, because now his eyes are shining, and Dean’s skin is flushing deeper, and –

“Like, it’s Dick Morrison!”

Jack and Baby pounce, pushing Dean back and away into something solid – Cas, by the deep ‘oof’.

“Please, please, call me Dominic,” he says, “I just play Dick on television.”

“Like, Dick – I mean, Mr. Morrison – no, no Dominic,” Jack rushes out, stumbling over himself, “I’m a huge fan,” he holds up a small notepad, “Could I, like, get your autograph?”

“Reah, reah,” Baby nods, holding up her own notepad, “Rautograph!”

“Anything for my fans,” he takes a pad, signing without looking, eyes trained on Dean, “I take it you are the winners we were told would be joining us?”

“Yep!” Jack carries on, “Me ‘n Baby here entered your ‘Spend a Day on Set with Dick’ contest, and we brought our friends: Cas, Sam, and Dean.”

“Dean,” Dominic practically purrs his name, stepping forward to grab his hand, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He presses a light kiss to Dean’s knuckles. Dean would say he enjoyed it, but there were two things making that hard. The fact that Dominic was a dude, and the serious glare Cas is shooting the man.

“Pantomere!” a heavy-set man in a sweat-stained button-down calls, “You’re needed for the next scene. Stop making eyes and get a move on.”

“Unfortunately, our time is cut short,” he says, frowning a beat before dazzling Dean with another smile. “Wait for me, and when I’m done, we can pick up where we left off.” He squeezes Dean’s hand before walking away, his trench coat billowing behind him. Dean didn’t even realize he was wearing one, too caught up in the scene to pay any attention.

Cas clears his throat behind him, and Dean turns around sheepishly. He doesn’t know why – just because Cas is Fred and Dean is Daphne doesn’t mean Dean and Cas are Fred and Daphne. But the anxious worry is still there, like being caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“And just what,” he starts, flexing and releasing his fists, “was interrupted?”

Dean blushes, unable to meet Cas’s interrogative eyes.

“S’nothin’,” he mutters, “We were looking at the camera –“

“Typical,” Sam cuts in, smirking, “We’re here not five minutes and the first thing you head towards is the camera. Classic Dean.”

Dean glares at him, “Could you be quiet, peanut gallery?” Sam shrugs, looking quiet pleased. He can just picture the canary feathers poking out of Sam’s feline smile.

“Can you believe it,” Jack joins in, staring at Dominic’s writing, “Dick Morrison’s autograph! This day is shaping up to be really hip!”

“Rou raid it, Rack,” Baby said, “Really rip! Reheeheeheehee!”

Another production assistant slides by, looking at her clipboard, “Quiet on set! We’ll be shooting in five – everyone be ready!”

“C’mon,” Jack says, “Let’s get a good seat! I wanna be able to feel the action!”

“Jack,” Sam starts, about to lecture Jack on small-screen acting and the power of editing, but the excited innocence startles him, and he lets his words slide away, “Sure, buddy, let’s find a spot.” They follow the assistant, Baby on their heels.

Dean tries to follow, but a firm grip tugs at his wrist. He turns, Cas still looking at him in that strange and electrifying way. Dean tries to shake it off, not used to feeling like this. At least… as a cartoon.

“Everything good?” Dean asks him.

Cas opens his mouth, as if to say something. But after a beat, he closes, something in his eyes shifting course. “No,” he says, “it’s… it’s fine,” he clenches his jaw, “We should follow… go and watch Dominic.”

Cas’s voice is blendered gravel on a good day, but when he said Dominic’s name it struck a harsh chord; like it were an avalanche rolling thunderously down a mountainside.

“You sure?” Dean continues, “I mean… yeah, we were close but it wasn’t gonna go anywhere,” he’s blushing, ducking his head, avoiding Cas’s searching eyes.

“Didn’t look that way,” Cas mutters, “How flustered you were getting –“

Dean cuts him off, “I don’t get flustered, especially over guys.” It’s defensive – too much. He laid it on thick, Cas’s suspicion raising the hairs on his neck. Still, Dean needed to lay the law down. He might be Daphne, but broad shoulders and ascots don’t do it for him.

Except Dominic’s shoulders were kind of slim and narrow. And he had a red tie, not an ascot.

He’s looking at broad shoulders and an ascot and too-blue eyes and a cute smirk and –

“ZOINKS!!!!!!!”

They turn, looking at where their friends walked off. Cas darts forward, hand still on Dean’s wrist, dragging him. He doesn’t pull free until they’re at the scene, and even then he waits a few seconds.

It’s a sight. An upturned desk, scattered papers, a shattered light. Dominic is being fawned over by several people, and Jack and Baby are shaking in Sam’s arms.

“What happened?”

Sam turns to them, dropping the terrified twosome and stepping over to them. “It turns out art imitates life.”

Dean scrunches his face up in confusion, “What?”

Sam points to a nearby wall, where large, dripping red letters are practically carved into the plywood.

L E A V E T H E S H O W A N D N E V E R R E T U R N

“Who could have done such a thing?” Cas asks, turning back to Sam.

Jack and Baby, somewhat out of their stupor, still clinging tight to each other, bark out a shaky, “G-G-G-G-GHOST!”

Dean can’t help the thought that crosses his mind:

‘Again?’

Apparently, this wasn’t the first incident. There’d been other attempts made during filming – each Dominic tried to downplay as his director overplayed them.

“Do not worry, Dean,” he was whispering to him, while the director talked the others’ ears off, “I face stuff like this all the time on the show. I do not scare easily.”

It was easier to push him away now that the case appeared. “Neither do I,” he grinned, pulling away from the hand on his lower back and towards his friends. “So,” he says to them, “What’s the plan? Interview the crew, see if there’s any unfinished business here by some dead, disgruntled worker then a good ol’ salt and burn?” Four pairs of blank stares blink back at him. His mind catches up with his mouth, and he feels heat crawling up his cheeks.

‘So more like a regular episode and less like a day in my life,’ Dean thinks, ‘Looking more and more like a Trickster… if he were still alive.’

“I mean, uh,” Dean continues, hoping what he says next is true, “That’s what they do on the show, right?”

“Not everything you see on television is true, Dean,” Sam admonishes. Dean would be annoyed if his quick thinking didn’t pay off. “Besides,” Sam says, “This isn’t a ghost –“

“But we saw it!” Jack says, “It had a pale, icky face… long, dark hair… bloody, sharp claws -!”

“Rand a rhostly rail!” Baby adds, paws akimbo in a mock imitation, “Roud and rary!”

“Whatever it is,” Cas says, “It seems to be scaring a lot of people. We need to get to the bottom of this, and fast!”

“Then we better start looking for clues, then?” Dean asks, “Maybe around the scene?” He jerks a thumb over towards the ruined detective’s office, and the gang heads over soon enough. Well, almost all of them. Dean sees Jack and Baby sneaking off towards craft services, but pays them little mind. Not like they came in handy until towards the end of the episode – when they needed bait.

Sam begins inspecting the letters (“It’s paint – not blood.”) while Cas looks over a few of the marks left by the ghost’s entrance. Dean decided to check around the desk. Besides the tattered scraps of paper lying about – pages of a script marked to hell – there’s nothing else really catching his eye. No slime, no shine… another sign they’re dealing with a more human monster.

‘Wonder if someone’s trying to buy the studio…’

“Excuse me, just what do you think you’re doing?”

Dean looks up, where a scrawny man is glaring at him, half his face obscured by the large beret he’s wearing.

“Umm… cleaning?” Dean tries, but the unimpressed expression doesn’t bode well for any chance at stardom.

“Mister DeMilo, be kind,” Dominic approaches, having changed into a fuzzy-white robe, “He’s a guest – one of the contest winners.”

“Oh.” That’s not a good sign. Neither is the creeping intensity of his stare. “Of course, not only do I have to deal with this mess, but the danged marketing gimmick is interrupting my creative work.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Cas starts, walking over to them, “We know a thing or two about solving mysteries – and we can help you out.”

DeMilo points an accusing finger at him, “What you can all do is get out of my way, and stay sequestered somewhere out of my sight until this day is over, got it?”

“Hey,” Dean barks, getting between DeMilo and Cas, “We’re trying to help. No need to act like that.”

“And you should learn some manners, boy,” DeMilo warns, “Before speaking to someone like me. Now, Pantomere,” he turns to his actor, “Don’t think that this means you get an extended break. Once the crew gets rid of the… mess,” he casts a withering glance at them, “we are getting back on track. If you need me, I’ll be in my trailer.” He stomps away before Dean could get in a good hit.

‘Keep your cool, Dean,’ he thinks, fist tight, ‘Daphne doesn’t punch.’

But she does know how to use her mouth. “Well… he’s a piece of work, ain’t he?” he asks, Cas’s snort a sign of agreement.

“He’s a little rough around the edges,” Dominic apologizes, “But he’s really dedicated to his work. We were lucky to get such a big profile name to be a regular director –“

“Wait,” Sam stops him, “DeMilo? You mean that was Vince DeMilo?”

Dean shoots him a weird look, “You know who that was?”

“Vince DeMilo is an award-winning film director,” Sam continues, “What’s he doing working in television?” He looks at Dominic, “No offense.”

“None taken,” he shrugs, “I was surprised as well. But the studio paid a pretty penny for him – why we had to cut our episodes down,” he turns to Dean, winking, “And why my trailer is much more intimate. If you need to investigate…”

“We’ll get there soon enough,” Cas steps in, mouth set and firm. Dean rolls his eyes.

‘Men.’

Cas and Dominic seem to be in a staring match, neither wanting to be the first to look away. Dean would do something about it, if he wanted to. But there was something about the scene that punched him in the gut and took his breath. Maybe the cocky grin and brows of Dominic, or the righteous fury sparking out from behind Cas’s eyes. It was something out of a Western, which appealed more to Dean’s sensibilities than this hippie period.

Thankfully, Sam still has his senses about him to step in. “If you two are done,” he says, “We need to get back to what we’re doing.”

“My apologies,” he says, stepping past Cas and to Dean, “if you need me, I’ll be running lines with my co-star. Work never stops…” he presses another kiss to Dean’s knuckles, but this time he pulls his hand back instead of letting it linger in Dominic’s smooth palm. He winks, and struts away, oblivious or uncaring to Cas’s fiery stare.

Dean turns to him, “Cas…”

“I think I’ll go make sure Jack and Baby haven’t eaten the crew out of their meals,” he says, walking off in the other direction. Dean watches him, wanting to say something. But the thick feelings of disappointment and shame choke him, and he focuses on that. Because why should he be ashamed of not saying anything to stop Dominic. Or disappointed that Cas didn’t… defend his honor or something.

He’s Fred, and Dean might be Daphne… but they’re not Fred and Daphne…

‘Right?’

“What you’re doing isn’t right, y’know,” Sam says, knocking Dean out of his thoughts. He’s giving him a bitch face – at least they kept thatin this cartoon.

Dean stills, his fear replacing everything else. That maybe Sam can hear what he’s thinking – judging him for the feelings that clearly aren’t his.

Because they’re not his. They’re Daphne’s. That’s the story he’s sticking to.

“I don’t,” he wheezes, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Look, I know you’re star struck –“

“I am not star struck –“

“Dean,” Sam stops him, “I’ve seen your poster of Dominic hanging in your room.” And now Dean feels that shame again, “And just because he’s famous doesn’t mean you have to be nice.”

“I’m not being nice.”

“Yes, you are!” Sam groans, “You always act like this when someone flirts with you. I’d have thought you’d grown out of it since…” ‘Since what?’ “well, y’know,” ‘No, I don’t know!’ “But in front of his face? That’s low.”

Dean might have a sneaking suspicion of what Sam is getting at, but he doesn’t get the chance to see if he’s right. Not before Cas, Jack, and Baby are sprinting towards them – with a ghastly figure on their tails.

“Run!”

“Like, that was a close one!” Jack rasps out, leaning against Baby while he and the others catch their breaths. The Specter (‘So generic, did he name himself?’) had run on ahead, not bothering to check the supply closet the group hid in.

“You said it,” Cas says, standing up straight, “Gang, this monster doesn’t want us looking into it. So you know what that means?”

“We should, like, listen to it and get going?”

“Reah, reah!”

“No, Jack, Baby, we need… to split up!”

Dean sighs; thankful they’re up to this part already. ‘Halfway out of this emotional turmoil.’

“Alright,” Dean claps Cas on the shoulder, “Where are you and I going?” Cas gives him an odd look, uncertain what to make of Dean’s statement. Now if that doesn’t twist the knife deeper into his wounded heart?

“Are you sure?” Cas asks, murmuring, “If you run into Dominic again… I don’t want to – to cramp your style.”

Dean winces. It wasn’t a pretty sight, that’s for sure. During the chase, Dean had tripped – because of course. Cas tried to catch him, but got barreled over by Baby and Jack, while Dominic managed to make the save. He was leaning in close after, as if to sneak a quick ‘thank you’, before Cas grabbed Dean’s arm, ripping him from Dominic’s embrace. Dean squawked, more annoyed at Cas for nearly pulling his arm out of his socket than freeing him from the actor’s hold.

But it mustn’t have looked that way to him.

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be,” Dean smiles, hoping it soothes over the hurt. And he means it, too. For once, this isn’t a Daphne feeling. Cas always makes him feel better, and when he’s out of sight there’s nothing left but the mosquito-like worry for his return.

The slight blush working its way up his cheeks because of Cas’s boyish grin – that Dean blames on Daphne.

“Okay,” Cas says, turning back to the gang, “So Dean and I will check out more of the studio. Maybe see if there are any offices we can take a peek in. Sam – you, Jack, and Baby can turn over the trailers.”

“Oh no,” Jack says, “Baby and I are going to go wait in the van until you three come to your senses and join us!” Baby nods, mirroring his crossed arms and fierce frown.

Sam sighs, “Would you two do it for some Baby Bites?” He pulls the box seemingly out of nowhere – but that doesn’t matter in a cartoon. What matters is that soon enough, the three of them are on their way towards the trailers while Cas and Dean dive deeper into the studio.

“Look,” Cas starts, “I want to… apologize, if I am acting a bit strange,” he’s not meeting Dean’s eyes, and he seems to be fiddling with his ascot, “I know that you’d never… with Dominic. I just – I’m nervous –“

“You? Nervous?” Dean chuckles, “I thought you ‘don’t sweat’?”

“I do, though,” Cas continues, “I sweat, I doubt, I – I get jealous,” he sighs, wringing his hands, “I know I shouldn’t be, we discussed the possibility of this happening when Jack and Baby won,” ‘We did?’ “But talking and joking about it is entirely different than seeing it with my own eyes.” And, ‘ah shit’, there’s no masking the pain in Cas’s voice.

Sam was right, whatever Dean is doing – it’s low. And Cas, sweet, lovable, big-hearted Cas, is suffering from Dean’s blindsided actions. He needs to stop letting Daphne get into his head and be firm. Just because some guy gives you a smile, oozes on the charm and lays it on thick, doesn’t mean Dean has to give him the time of day.

Daphne might have been nice to Dean, but Dean doesn’t have to be like that for Dominic.

And then it hits him. He stops, eyes wide as the realization rolls over.

“Dean?” Cas asks, stopping just outside an office door, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean wheezes out, “S’fine… peachy. This the place?”

“Looks like the producer’s office,” Cas reads the nameplate, “Let’s check it out.”

The door’s unlocked – because of course – so there’s not much trouble in their investigation. The only problem is Dean’s mind, unfocused because it’s busy laying into him about his own actions.

‘Daphne was never interested in you, ya doof,’ he starts, ‘She’s just too nice to say no – it’s how she was written. Her heart belonged to Fred, there was nothing you could have done to convince her you were even an option.’ And thinking about that doesn’t put him in any great mood either. It was like finding out Santa Claus wasn’t real – he held onto that little bit of his childhood for so long. Now, he’s spiraling without it, on uneven footing – with no idea where to turn or what was next.

“Hey, Dean, take a look at this.”

Snapping out of his daze, Dean makes his way over to Cas. At least he knows where he stands with him. There are a few papers in his hands, and he’s furrowed his brow in thought.

“What do you have?” Dean asks, taking some of the pages in his hands and glancing through them.

“I’m not sure… there’s a lot there, but nothing that adds up to one suspect,” Cas says, “You’re looking at the contract for DeMilo –“

“Wow that’s a lot of money!”

“You’d think,” Cas says, “But from these secretary notes, DeMilo was insulted. That if he wasn’t unable to work anywhere else, he would turn them away.”

“With a personality like that, who’d want him?”

Cas smiles, “They don’t want him for his personality, but for his talent.” Dean chuckles, agreeing.

“What else is there?”

“Just more notes,” Cas says, flipping through pages, “Meetings with different people about the show… oh.”

“What?”

“Very hurried notes… from a meeting between the producer and… Dominic,” Cas grumbles, “It seems he…”

“He… he what?”

“I’m not sure,” Cas admits, “These are smudged. No idea what they could be.”

“It’s okay,” Dean says, squeezing at Cas’s elbow, “I’m sure it was probably something like he needs a new trailer or he’s had it up to herewith the food on set.” Cas snorts, shooting an amused glance at Dean. The uptick of his mouth is just what Dean wanted to see, and something blooms in Dean’s chest. It causes him to stand a bit straighter, his heart to beat faster, and to really take in Cas’s face – ‘how can animated lips look so plush?’

‘Maybe this is why you’re Daphne.’

Like a switch, Dean feels his world up-end. He lets go and takes a step back, trapping himself between Cas and the desk. His eyes are wide, and he’s moving his mouth – but no words come out.

Cas drops the papers and moves closer, reaching out, “Dean? Are you alright?”

“Y – yeah…” Dean rasps, moving further away, walking around the desk, “Just feel a bit… light-headed. I think I might take a seat.”

And that’s why he should have seen it coming. You don’t just ‘sit’ when you’re in Scooby-Doo. Especially when you’re Daphne.

Because that chair is going to fly back, and Dean will find himself in a dark room, alone, with nothing but the monster.

‘Should have known,’ Dean thinks, watching as Cas tries to save him, ‘Damn not-background props.’

The wall slam shuts.

The one thing Dean didn’t need right now was to be alone with his thoughts. But when you’re tied up, blindfolded, and gagged – all you have are your thoughts.

‘This is ridiculous,’ he thinks, ‘They made it look so quick in the show – how long was Daphne tied up whenever this happened?!?’

He gave up struggling half-and-hour ago. By cartoon law – old-school cartoon law – Dean was here until his friends found him, or the monster happened to let him go. And judging by how tight the rope on his wrists is, that won’t be anytime soon.

‘The perks of being the damsel in distress…’

Why couldn’t he have been live-action Daphne instead of the original? At least Sarah Michele-Gellar kicked some serious ass. She’s never the damsel – straight up.

But no, he has to wait for his knight in shining ascot to waltz in and free him.

Until then… all he can do is think.

‘I learned my lesson, didn’t I? That’s why whoever did this made me Daphne. To show what it’s like to walk a mile in her purple pumps? So get me out of here!’

…Nothing.

Well, until someone stumbles upon him, he might as well sort a couple of things out. Maybe if he hits the right epiphany, he won’t need the cavalry to come barging in. He can be out of this show and back to his normal life like before. …Unless the ropes and the blindfold and the gag come with, too.

He doesn’t need live-action Cas seeing him like this anymore than animated Cas.

And – ‘oh crap,’ – why did he have to think that? He doesn’t want to be anymore uncomfortable. But, this show must be PG through and through, because the familiar stirring and tightness doesn’t pop up.

…Not that thoughts of Cas and those warm, good feelings were well acquainted in the first place.

Those feelings popped up when a bartender’s shirt was a little too low-cut, when a waitress customer service became a little too friendly, whenever he flipped the station over to Scooby-Doo to catch sight of that special member of the gang.

In fact, that show was what kindled the roaring fire of Dean’s sexuality. He’s not ashamed to admit he popped his first boner to a cartoon – who hasn’t in today’s day and age. And who could blame him? That episode had probably been one of the animators’ best works. Just thinking about how each scene with Fred –

‘…With Fred?’

No, it must be Daphne – her personality is slipping through again. He’d always been jealous of Fred – the guy didn’t deserve what they gave him. He got to hold Daphne with his big, beefy arms, smile at her with his perfect grin, take charge when the goings got rough and tough and –

‘Holy crap,’ Dean realizes, ‘I had a crush on Fred.’

Dean is glad he’s gagged because he would rather not hear the hysterical squawk that tried to pass his lips. Instead he’s got to deal with the whirlwind of thoughts about things like perspective and clarity.

‘Somebody please come quick and save me!’

Nothing. He’s tied up, with no sight, no voice, and now he’s dealing with a gay panic. Why couldn’t he suffer the sixties bleaching everyone else’s thoughts had gotten. Instead, a single cartoon character has upended his entire near forty years of life.

‘Better late then never, though… right?’

So, maybe he had a crush on Fred. He’s man enough to admit liking another man. It’s not like it meant anything – he was a cartoon character! Those things are genderless, right? It’d only mean something if he had a crush on an actual human man.

And Dr. Sexy doesn’t count. Neither does Harrison Ford – Indiana Jones and Han Solo (‘like anyone could choose between those two’). Nor Gunner, that was hero worship. And Ryder, a kid he used to trade hand jobs with behind the bleachers, he didn’t count; those were business transactions. Benny didn’t either because he was a vampire. And if Benny doesn’t count then you better believe he’s not gonna count –

‘If you have this many exceptions,’ Dean thinks, ‘Maybe you’re not as straight as you think.’

That was the nail in the coffin of Dean’s heterosexuality. He salts and burns the corpse, just to make sure it doesn’t linger. Because now that he’s admitted it, he can’t go back.

‘Not like I’m fully gay anyway,’ he rationalizes, ‘Still like girls. I just… expanded my tastes.’

And no one says he ever has to act on those tastes. Dean has a good enough self-control, if he’s held himself at bay for ten years, he can handle the rest of his life.

‘Ten years,’ he thinks, ‘that’s specific.’

It’s not like there’s been anything in the past decade or so that started making cracks in the foundation of his sexuality. Nothing he can think of. Not one person. If there was, he’d have to be a bad-ass, a total stud, with a jaw that can cut glass and a voice that’s been bathed in shards and really intense baby-blues…

‘Maybe that’s why you’re Daphne,’ he thinks, ‘Because he’s Fred.’

And that’s when they find him.

“Like I said, I’m fine.”

Dean blushes at the concern, unable to meet Cas’s eyes. It was hard enough not to stare into them when they’re the only things he can see. Cas’s face was close and personal when he untied Dean’s blindfold.

He felt both safe and in danger at the same time – his fight or flight reflexes thrown into haywire.

Dean had been hidden away in a prop closet, and missing for a good few hours. Thankfully, Baby managed to catch his scent at some point, and the four of them found him.

“Lucky for us you’re so Danger-prone, Dean,” Sam says, “because of you, we were able to find a few more clues.”

“You were?”

“Yes,” Cas smiles, squeezing his shoulder, “And we’ve got nearly all the pieces to solve this mystery.”

Dean blinks – ‘I must have missed out on a lot,’ – “So what’s left?”

“The monster,” Cas smiles, “It’s time for the trap!”

The trap. Which means Dean is walking closer and closer towards the light. Too bad he still has to deal with the trap’s failure, the chase, and the twist capture. But the way Cas’s eyes light up when he details just how they’re going to capture the Specter… he doesn’t have the heart to say anything.

He’ll just watch it go up in flames and then – and then he’ll just make it up as they go.

And boy, does it go up in flames. Literally. Jack and Baby are lucky that they don’t get burned. But with the monster still running free, it seems they’ve got one thing left to do before they unmask this creep.

The chase montage; cue the groovy music!

Cas, Dean, and Sam hightail it out of there, making their rounds throughout the studio. They separate and group up in a bunch of different combinations. At one point, Sam, him, and Baby were running across a light platform with the Specter close behind them. At one point he thinks he saw Jack and Baby plop the monster down in a chair and slapstick some makeup on him.

And the doors – second time around doesn’t make it any less confusing. He thinks he might have been chasing the Specter at one point.

At least the music isn’t half-bad.

‘I wonder if anyone else can hear it?’

It doesn’t matter, as it fades away soon enough – leaving him, Cas, and Sam cornered by the Specter.

“You didn’t heed my warning,” it moans, “now prepare to pay the price!” He advances, claws up and getting closers. Dean huddles close to Cas, throwing his arms around his neck.

‘C’mon, where’s the damn miracle!’

“Like, watch out!”

Jack and Baby descend in the nick of time, riding the rope of a fallen sandbag. They jump towards them, letting the bag knock the Specter out in that non-threatening cartoon way.

“We did it!” Cas cries, “We got the Specter!”

“Now let’s get this show on the road, then,” Dean walks towards the Specter, taking the rope from the sandbag and wrapping it up in it before it could escape. He can feel the rest of the gang crowd around them, ready to announce the person behind the mask. Dean can’t wait, putting his fingers under the sweaty latex and tearing it from the neck up.

He didn’t expect who was under the mask, but judging by the cries of his friends, they knew.

“Dominic Pantomere!”

“What?”

Dominic glares up at Dean from his position, any trace of charm and glamour gone from his face.

“Just like I thought,” Sam says, pushing his glasses up his nose, “Dominic Pantomere –“

“Hold it,” Dean cuts him off, “Just how does this make any sense?”

“It was obvious, really,” Sam continues, “Our biggest clue came from the trailer. While Jack and Baby distracted Dominic with questions about the show, I happened to find a letter from his manager, discussing needed reassurance that he’d be available for a new movie.”

“Which lines up with what we found in the producer’s office,” Cas continues, “It was written in shorthand – about a fight between Dominic and the producer about his contract. Apparently, he wanted this to be the last season. But with great fan appeal and committed backing, Dick Morrison would be going on for a long time.”

“Just beat that dead horse, why don’t they?” Dean huffs.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dominic speaks up, just as security made their way over, “Do you know how disappointing it is to have this be my only career? I was promised fame, fortune, and awards – not a lifetime of servitude wasting my talent acting with less worthy actors!” The guards drag him up by his elbows, putting him at eye level with Dean, “I deserve so much more than this gig. I was named one of Hollywood’s most eligible bachelors! I was made for so much more than this!”

“Yeah, well it looks like you’re not gonna be made for much after this, bub,” he taps him on the cheek, “Have fun being an extra!”

“I was going to be a star!” he shouts, kicking and flailing against the floor, “I would have had it all… if it weren’t for you meddling kids!”

‘That never gets old.’

“Well… I think it’s safe to say that the Ghost Detective has closed his last case,” Dean jokes, turning to everyone.

Jack looks close to tears, sighing, “Why can’t I ever have nice things.”

“Rou ro, Rack,” Baby comforts him, “Rere’s rizza… randwiches… rice ream… raggheti…”

“Now I’m sad and hungry!”

“Come on you two,” Sam grabs them by their collars, “Let’s get you fed.”

“Like, thanks Sam!”

“Reah, ranks Ram!”

They disappear not soon after, leaving just Dean and Cas in the large, empty studio. A weird draft works its way through the building, and Dean takes a step closer to Cas and his weird warmth.

‘Fred and Daphne… Fred and Daphne… Fred and Daphne…’

“So, Cas,” Dean starts, licking his lips, “You must be very happy Dominic was under the mask… is that why you couldn’t wait to set up the trap?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Cas smiles, reaching out to tangle his fingers with Dean’s, “It didn’t make me feel bad, however. I knew there was something off about him.”

“You just didn’t like the way he looked at me,” Dean giggles, pressing his forehead in close. Cas darts his eyes to Dean’s lips, and he licks his own.

“But,” Dean continues, “I do like the way you look at me.”

Cas flutters his eyes closed, “Oh, Dean…”

“Cas?”

“Dean…”

“Dean?”

Dean blinks back into awareness, where Cas is looking over him with his usual head tilt. He jumps up.

“Jeepers!” he cries, “I’m back?”

“Back?” Cas asks, “Where did you go?”

“You mean you don’t remember?” Dean asks, “We were… we were back in Scooby Doo – but, like we were Scooby Doo. You, me, Sam… Jack – even Baby was there! But Baby wasn’t Baby, she was a dog!”

“Dean, you… you didn’t go anywhere.”

He shoots him a weird look. “What are you talkin’ about Cas? It was so… so vivid. I had to have been transported by some spell or ghost or… whatever.” Dean looks towards the TV – the new one he picked up from Wal-Mart, smaller then the haunted one. An episode of Scooby-Doo is playing on the screen.

“No, trust me, you’ve been here the entire time,” Cas starts, sitting on the arm of Dean’s chair, “You dozed off a few hours ago during our marathon. Remember? You wanted us to officially christen your,” he holds up finger quotes, “ ‘Dean Cave’.”

“I… I did?”

Cas smiles now, letting his hand drop to Dean’s shoulder. “You were really tired. I tried to tell you I could have waited for our marathon… but you insisted. I must say you were… very convincing.” His free hand plays with Dean’s red ascot, which is tied around his own neck. Dean blushes at the sight.

‘Fred and Daphne… Fred and Daphne…’

“I gotta say, you make the ascot work better than I could, hell… even better then Fred,” Dean says, voice rough and raw. Cas looks up at him through his lashes, smiling softly. “Was that what made you stay?”

“No,” Cas admits softly, “When I asked you why you wanted to do this now, even if you looked exhausted, you simply shrugged and said ‘It don’t matter, if it’s important you make the time.’ I… I was very flattered you consider our time together important.”

“It is,” Dean blurts out, clutching at Cas’s hand – the one on his shoulder, “Hanging out with you… there’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

Cas is giving him his special look. One Dean only now realizes… is his look. Where the lips pull up ever so slightly on the side, Cas’s nose scrunches up, and his eyes… they’re brimming with an untold energy. Like a pool struck by lightning. He always figured his racing heart, sweaty palms, and dry mouth could be blamed by the power that rested behind those eyes. But it was never that. It was because of the sheer feeling Cas communicated freely, and how much Dean’s body responded in kind.

“If you’re still up to it,” Dean whispers, afraid anything louder might break the spell between them, “I’m sure we can squeeze in a few more episodes before we need to get back to work.”

“I’d like that,” Cas admits, looking to the screen, “I’ve grown fond of this show. I can see why you love it.”

Dean’s eyes never leave Cas’s profile. “Yeah, I see why I feel that way, too, now.”

On screen the episode plays out, and Dean can’t help the small thrill every time Fred and Daphne pop up – grinning at the way she looks at him.

‘Yep,’ he thinks, ‘I'm a total Daphne.’

#Supernatural #Spn #Spn13 #Spn13x16 #13x16 #Scoobynatural #Spn Coda #13x16 Coda #Supernatural fanfiction #Spn fanfic #spn ff #Dean Winchester #Castiel #Destiel #Sam Winchester #Jack Kline #Scooby-Doo Fusion #Destiel fanfiction

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