All the words that are fit to print

By Minim Calibre

Notes: sometimes, conversations with shrift and company lead to good. Other times, they appear to lead to me diving headfirst into Crackland. Take a wild guess which this is. Special thanks to la_perkins for doing my Dewey legwork. (I was a library TA, but that was, umm. Well, kids born then are driving now, let us put it that way.) Girl!Dean/Velma, PG.

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“Do you have any idea what you’re getting into?” There’s a half-second’s worth of warning between the growled-out words and the toned, freckled arm shooting out and trapping Velma smack in darkest corner of the library, pressing her spine up against the books and making her glasses slip halfway down her nose.

The face leaning down into hers is close enough that she can see it with perfect clarity, even without the lenses. She knows it from the hallways and from gym class. Doreen “Dean” Winchester, recent transfer, terror of third period, baddest of the bad girls, and the last person she expects to find anywhere near a book, let alone back in section 130, paranormal phenomena. Velma opens her mouth once, twice, three times before she realizes she can’t quite figure out how to form words, the angry hazel glare stunning her into some sort of temporary aphasia.

“You kids, out there last night,” Dean continues, her face now so close that Velma can practically count every single freckle on it, even the ones that hide like chameleons, little round dots just a half shade deeper than the surrounding skin, some of them shadowing their more obvious brethren, the secondary stars in a binary system composed of melanin instead of luminous plasma. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

Two and two fall together in a flash: the voice shouting at them to get out, the shotgun blast; Dean’s their mysterious rescuer. Velma blinks, hard, and moves reflexively to push her glasses back into place. There’s not enough space between them, and the back of her hand brushes against the edge of the Superman insignia on Dean’s shirt, which happens to be right over Dean’s…

“Jinkies,” she whispers, startled by the contact and by Dean’s harsh intake of breath, one Velma thinks has somehow sucked all the available oxygen out of the library, because she’s starting to feel lightheaded. And she flashes on every whispered rumor she’s heard about Dean and half the cheer squad, every speculative glance she’s seen Dean throw Daphne’s way in the locker room, every inappropriate daydream that Velma’s ever intended to ask someone about, some day.

Dean’s eyes, stern and serious, keep Velma pinned to the stacks like a frog in a dissection tray. “Get a thrill out of haunted houses? Didn’t have enough trouble to get into and had to go looking for some? What is it?”

And Velma finds her voice, finally. “Something or someone in the old Beckford place has been scaring people for weeks. We were just trying to get to the bottom of it like we always do.”

For some reason, when Dean’s eyes close, Velma doesn’t feel any less trapped. She can see Dean’s jaw clench, the clean lines of her face tightening in anger. “Son of a…” She lets her voice trail off, her lips slowly and distinctly forming the numbers as she silently counts to ten. “Christ, I don’t have time for this,” she mutters, opening her eyes. “Look, it’ll all be taken care of, just keep clear of there, okay?”

“Why?” Velma squares her jaw and pulls herself to her full height, which still leaves her staring at that stupid S. The back of her hand feels scalded from the earlier contact. She wishes she were taller, or stronger, or just not affected by the soap and leather smell of Dean’s skin. They’re standing so close together that one deep breath would push them to touching.

“You say you’ve done this sort of thing before. You believe in ghosts? Things that go bump in the night? You have the tools to take on a poltergeist or some son of a bitch pissed off spirit who couldn’t figure out when the hell to let go? Shotguns, rock salt, holy water?”

She shakes her head, pushing away the bone-deep chill she felt in the front parlor of the abandoned mansion, the way whatever she saw had flickered and changed before her eyes, the way it vanished with the shotgun blast. “Why should I? None of that’s real. It’s always people, just using the unexplained to their own benefit.”

Sandy eyebrows shoot upward, and Dean’s face relaxes into a patronizing smile that doesn’t come anywhere near her eyes. “If you’re so sure about that, then why are you back here in ghost stories?” She lets out a low chuckle that ruffles Velma’s bangs, and waits for the answer Velma can’t give her. When it doesn’t come, her arms loop down, lifting Velma up until her eyes are even with Dean’s and the back of her head is pressed against section 127, the unconscious and the subconscious.

Dean’s mouth is hot and hard and unexpected against her own. Velma whimpers against it, wrapping her legs around Dean’s waist and feeling like she’s just solved the biggest mystery ever. One hand holds her steady, fingertips caressing the small of her back through the thick orange wool of her sweater, while the other one slides across the bare skin of her knee, under her skirt and up the inside of her thigh. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stops. She’s standing again on shaking legs, Dean a foot or two away, arms at her sides, face unreadable.

“I mean it,” Dean says quietly. “Stay away from there tonight. It’s no place for amateurs.”

Mute again, Velma nods.

Dean smiles, leans in and brushes a quick kiss across Velma’s slightly-parted lips. “Good girl,” she whispers, and walks away.

This entry was posted on Sunday, October 2nd, 2011 at 18:07 and is filed under crossover, scooby doo, supernatural. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.