#I mean on a microscopic level. yeah okay I guess it's weird that in theory literally nothing new was created within that time frame

[ricketysticks]

the idea that 200 years is too long of a span of time for a fictional world to have "not invented any new technology" is kind of a weird take imo

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Breakfast and Bus Rides

Criminal Minds/Supernatural crossover ft. Harry Styles

Word Count: ~3030

Warnings: Egregious amounts of fluff, one gratuitous kitten, and a couple stoned rockstars. Lots of discussion of coming out and some other LGBT-adjacent issues. 

A/N: A wild Plot appears! I was having some feels about coming out/honesty (hm wonder why, is a mystery) and foisted those feelings on JJ and Dean. 

Thanks to @stunudo​ for a pre-read, endless encouragement, and the kitten scene idea.

This is part of the Rockstar AU. It picks up right where Wake-Up Calls and Watermelon leaves off. 

Dean exchanges a glance with Sam, and they both hang back as the others start to gather in the kitchenette. Penelope keeps shooting wide-eyed, starstruck looks at Harry, and it’s making Dean nervous. 

“You okay with this?” Dean asks quietly. “You think she’ll keep her mouth shut?” 

Sam shrugs. “I can talk to her.” 

“And Schroeder? I mean, love the kid to death, but holy hell does he babble.” 

“Spencer’s known since the first night of tour.” 

“How?” 

Sam chuckles. “Kinda a funny story… tell you later. I honestly think he might’ve forgotten, though.” 

“What about the rest of ‘em?” Dean asks. “I mean, I like ‘em well enough, but…”

“I want to tell them,” Sam says, without hesitating. “I’m just gonna bite the bullet and invite them all over for breakfast.” 

Dean sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You sure?” 

“I trust them.” 

“Okay. Just don’t want you to get hurt, Sammy.” 

“What a shock,” Sam deadpans. “Dean’s pulling the protective big brother card? Alert the press.”

Dean purses his lips and gives Sam a light punch on the arm. “Bitch.” 

“Don’t let Emily hear you saying that,” Sam chuckles. “Shoulda heard the lecture I got the other day about the way misogyny is perpetuated through language. Honestly, though. What do you really think is going to happen? It’s not like they’ve outed you and Cas, they’ve all been awesome about it.” 

“This is different, though,” Dean says, with a grimace. “I mean, like it or not, it’d be news. The gossip rags would pay serious fuckin’ money for a picture of the two of you.” 

“It’s not like we’re gonna walk around, like, fused at the mouth,” Sam laughs. “No PDA required. But… I want him to meet some of my friends. Y’know?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Stop worrying so much, Dean.” Sam’s expression is soft and fond, and he claps Dean on the shoulder before heading for the coffee maker and Harry. 

Harry wraps himself around Sam like a giant squid, if a giant squid wore Gucci, and Dean’s chest feels tight with anxiety. The two of them are looking at each other with these stupid googly-eyed dimpled smiles. It doesn’t even count as PDA, not really, except that Sam is so godawful at hiding his feelings that he might as well be wearing a neon sign. 

Then Harry starts feeding him a strawberry, and that definitely counts as PDA, if not public indecency. Gross. 

If someone did take a picture of them like this, with their sleepy-eyed smiles and interlaced fingers, it’d be worth thousands of dollars. That’s a hell of an incentive. Dean’s had people fuck him over for much less. 

Dean’s learned his lesson over the years. The only people you can really trust are your family. 

Cas emerges from their room, blinking blearily around at everyone before coming over to Dean and leaning in for a kiss. 

“Morning breath, fuck,” Dean grumbles, making a face, but he grabs Cas and pulls him in anyway. 

A cheer goes up around them, and Dean sees Jack coming out of his room, clothed now, but still blushing red and shamefaced. 

“What’d I miss?” Cas says, scowling, and Dean grins gleefully before launching into the story. 

* * *

“I guess I just don’t see why it’s such a big deal,” Spencer says, contemplating his hand of cards. “Aside from a very vocal minority, there’s widespread support for LGBT rights, statistically, and the music industry is more progressive than most. If you look at David Bowie, for example —” 

“I pass the turn,” Charlie interrupts, cutting him off before he can launch into full-on textbook mode. “It’s not really about that, though.” 

Charlie forgets about the conversation for a minute as he attacks her planeswalker. She used to own her local Friday Night Magic tournaments, and she’s more than a little pissed that this skinny fucker in a sweater vest has won three of their last four games. Spencer is sneaky. Charlie can respect that, but it’s infuriating. 

“Why, then?” 

“Hmm? Oh, that. It’s more to do with… privacy, I guess. That’s a hell of a lot of public attention for Sam. He doesn’t want people to sing Happy Birthday to him, you know?” 

“Doesn’t everybody hate being sung to?” Spencer asks pensively.

“Well, yeah. But Harry’s the sort of famous where people get totally invasive and weird about his personal life. Like, starting rumors, tabloid shit, and it extends to anyone he gets involved with.” 

“Really?” Spencer downs the last of his coffee. It’s his third cup, but he hasn’t touched the plate of pancakes that’s been going cold on the table.  

“Yeah. I don’t know if Sam realizes the full level of crazy at work, but Dean and I looked online, one night, after Harry brought it up. The shit people have said about his exes… about his friends, even. They’re vicious about it. Analyzing every facial expression in every picture, making up stories…” 

Spencer’s forehead creases in a frown. “I play Grasp of Darkness on your Primordial Hydra and swing with all my zombies.” 

“Motherfucker,” Charlie mutters. “Rematch?” 

Spencer’s staring intently down at the table, lost in thought, and he doesn’t seem to hear her for a second. She chucks one of her D-20s at his face and he starts when it bounces off his forehead. 

“Sorry.”

“Where’d you go?” 

He hesitates before mumbling, “I had a stalker.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, she — Cat. I told her I didn’t want to sleep with her, and she didn’t like that very much.” He pauses, brow furrowed. “She learned everything about me, and I mean everything. Tried to manipulate me, tried to manipulate my friends…”

“Yikes. What happened?” 

“She went to jail for a little while. She showed up when she got out, one night in Boston—” Spencer brightens. “—but Derek tackled her and threw her into the Charles River.” 

“For real?” 

Spencer nods and smiles in a way that makes Charlie think she’s not getting the full story. “It was a weird night.” 

“So she hasn’t showed up since then?” 

“No. But… I just felt like I couldn’t hide anything, like every part of me, every shitty thing I’d ever done, was under a microscope. It was awful. I’m all for being honest, you know? That’s great, in theory, but... everybody deserves the right to hide if they want to. You should be the one to decide what parts of yourself you want to share.” 

Charlie thinks about the friend who outed her in high school, and how naked she felt. 

“Agreed.” 

* * *

Dean sits down next to Derek at the kitchen bar as he’s sealing the third joint.  

“Rolling for the road?” he asks, around a mouthful of bacon. “Nicely done.” 

“The key is the crutch,” Derek tells him. “Ditalini.” 

“No shit? Huh.” 

Derek keeps working, watching Dean, who’s watching Sam. 

“Nothing to worry about here,” Derek points out gently. “You know that, right?” 

Dean lets out a little self-deprecating laugh. “Sorry. Fuck. Habit, y’know? He’s my brother.” 

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Derek says ruefully, glancing over at Spencer. 

“Every person he tells is another person that could hurt him,” Dean says fiercely. “I fuckin’ hate that.” 

“Worrying doesn’t help, though.” 

Dean scowls at that, thinking for a moment as he chews, before saying, “I just wish there was a way I could help.” 

“A while ago, there was this guy who went after Emily,” Derek says slowly, twisting the next joint closed. “And he didn’t hurt her bad, or anything. Spencer and JJ jumped in, and Spencer took the worst of it, because… Spencer.” 

“Can’t see him being handy in a fight.” 

“Try telling him that when he’s pissed. Point is, though… nobody got hurt, but I was pretty shaken up about it. Beat myself up for not being there to protect them, until my girl Penelope talked some sense into me. She said, ‘It’s not your job to keep them safe all the time. The most important thing is to make sure they know they’re safe with you.’ I think about that a lot.” 

“So, what, I’m supposed to just… ignore the risk?” 

“No,” Derek says patiently. “But it’s his risk to take. You being afraid isn’t going to make the world any less scary, but knowing that you’re there, that you’re proud of him, that you’ve got his back no matter what? That helps.”  

Dean mulls that over. There’s a mulish set to his jaw that reminds Derek of Emily; it’s the face she makes when she knows he’s right and doesn’t want to admit it. He tries to hide his smile as he finishes rolling the last joint and offers it to Dean. 

“Thanks,” Dean says gruffly. 

“Any time.” 

* * *

When JJ opens the bus door, she’s greeted by a cloud of weed smoke. She can see Hotch stretched out on the couch with a half-smoked joint in one hand and a battered copy of Slaughterhouse-Five in the other. He’s reading out loud, and for a moment JJ can’t figure out who he’s reading to; then she notices Pearl curled up on his chest, rubbing her tiny fuzzy head against his cheek. 

It’s so goddamn cute JJ doesn’t know what to do with herself. She settles for whipping out her phone and taking a quick picture. 

As she walks up the bus steps, Hotch holds out the lit joint without pausing, and she takes it happily. 

JJ’s exhaling smoke, finally feeling the weird tension under her skin start to evaporate, when Rossi opens the door.

“All set,” Rossi says, giving the driver a thumbs-up. 

“Did you triple-check your head count?” Hotch asks, deadpan. 

“Sure did.” 

“Everybody present and accounted for?” JJ adds innocently. “Spencer?” 

“He’s showing off his new toy on the Winchesters’ bus.”

“Penelope?” 

“Playing Sega with Charlie.” 

“And Morgan?” 

“Already in the back, taking a nap.” 

“Emily?” Hotch presses. 

“She’s in the batcave to — oh. I see.” Rossi glowers. “Very funny.” 

“Are you sure you didn’t forget Spencer again?” JJ asks, giggling hoarsely around another lungful of smoke. 

“It was one time,” Rossi protests, flipping them off. “You try keeping track of the kid. He’s like a squirrel. A squirrel on LSD.” 

“Pretty sure it was mushrooms that day,” JJ points out. 

Rossi sits down and asks thoughtfully, “Did anybody see that coming?” 

“Sam? Honestly, no,” Hotch answers, frowning. “Not that it’s any of our business, but…” 

“Me neither,” JJ admits. 

She’s still rattled by the whole thing, for reasons she can’t quite put her finger on. It’s not about Sam, or whatever bullshit constructs of masculinity that would make people assume he’s straight just because he has muscles and dresses like a lumberjack. She’s not shocked by the label, or whatever. 

“There’s someone I want you guys to meet,” Sam had told them. He tucked his hair behind his ears as he said it; it’s his tell, his nervous tic, and JJ has the poker winnings to prove it. She had wondered, for a moment, what would make him smile like that in spite of his obvious anxiety. 

Dean had been glaring from the other side of the room, gauging their reactions, his arms folded and his fear written all over his face in the guise of a scowl, like a feral dog who’d been backed into a corner. JJ could understand the fear. Sam, though… Sam just looked relieved. 

Hotch and Rossi are staring at her, she realizes abruptly. 

“Hm?” 

“I said, anything you want to do in L.A.? Plenty of time for sightseeing.” 

JJ shrugs. “Not really.” 

“You okay?” Rossi asks, looking at her closely. 

“Yeah, just… tired. I’m gonna take that nap now.” She gives them a bright smile, passing the joint to Rossi, and gets up before they can question it. 

JJ feels a little better once she’s in a spare bunk with the curtain closed. It’s easier to examine the knot in her chest like this, now that she’s alone in the dark, safe and hidden. 

She keeps coming back to the smile on Sam’s face. 

There was a moment, earlier, when JJ noticed Sam and Harry from across the room as they talked to Emily and Hotch. Harry had been leaning against Sam’s side. Sam’s arm was draped casually over his shoulder, and he started playing idly with Harry’s hair, combing his fingers through the messy curls at his temple as Harry tilted his head into the touch. 

There was a peaceful possessiveness in it—the sort of cozy familiarity that had been worn soft by time like overwashed cotton—an unspoken claim: mine. 

How long has it been since JJ felt that with someone, like their closeness was a second skin that she could wear in public? 

Not since Emily. Even then it had always been tainted by fear, an overwhelming desire to hide whenever she could feel someone watching. 

She and Emily are loudly affectionate with each other in public, of course: drunk and dancing, or clinging to each other as they stagger home, or kissing with an exaggerated smacking sound when anyone mutters disapprovingly in their direction. But that’s brash and performative and platonic, the sort of thing JJ could do just as comfortably with Penelope or Spencer. That’s different. 

Anybody who’d seen Sam and Harry would’ve known immediately; that sort of intimacy is unmistakable, and Sam didn’t seem to care. He was smiling like he was proud to show it off. 

JJ has seen it in Dean and Cas, too, but never quite so clearly. Maybe it’s because they’ve never had to hide around the Business As Usual crowd, so the contrast hasn’t drawn her attention, or maybe it’s just that they’re not demonstratively tactile in the same way. You have to know him well (and you have to be paying attention) to catch glimpses of  the tenderness that Dean masks so well. He doesn’t wear his emotions on his face for everyone to see. JJ can relate. 

But Sam wasn’t hiding, that morning; he was just sweet and vulnerable and proud of it and JJ realizes suddenly that she’s jealous. That’s envy squirming around in her belly. 

She wants that sort of love: fearless, or maybe in spite of fear. She gets sick of hiding, sometimes. 

JJ puts a pin in that thought and tells herself she can deal with it later, when she’s not quite so stoned and maudlin. Right now, it’s naptime. 

* * *

Dean intended to nap all the way to Sacramento, but he only manages to doze for a half hour or so. There’s too much on his mind. He pushes groggily through the door and thinks a silent thank you at whoever got the coffee machine going. 

Spencer and Jack are sitting on one couch, playing with something that Dean recognizes as a theremin. Sam’s on the other couch, and Harry and Cas are sitting at the table. 

“What do you think?” Cas asks, when he notices Dean watching. He holds up two bottles of nail polish. 

“Black is punk rock. Pastels are for the Easter bunny’s little sister,” Dean opines. 

“Love you too, Dean Bean.” Harry shoots him a cheerful pastel-green-painted middle finger. Dean ruffles his hair affectionately on his way to sit next to Sam. 

Dean’s first instinct was to scoff, to snark, to dismiss nail polish as girly, but he knows the instinct is just a vestigial memory of his dad’s stern voice. He’s been getting better at recognizing that voice, in the last few years; for a while he thought he was done with it, figuring that if he could admit he was in love with a guy, he must be over that sort of learned bullshit. Can’t be phobic if you’re one of the homos, right? So… fuck off, Dad. 

Then Harry showed up, with his totally fuckin’ zen attitude about annihilating gendered fashion norms, and Dean found himself wincing, sometimes, or looking around furtively to make sure nobody was staring. Even at Bonnaroo, when Harry went around hiding behind wigs and glasses—when the entire point was for him to pass as a girl—Dean’s immediate knee-jerk reaction was to cringe. It’s taken awhile, but he’s getting better at ignoring the fear when it kicks up in his gut. 

Dean’s distracted by a drawn-out melancholy squeal. 

“Someone turned a taxidermied badger into a theremin one time,” Spencer says happily, as Jack waves his hand over it again. “They called it a badgermin.” 

Dean snorts. “Sounds like a violin that needs an exorcism.” 

“Or a Barred Owl on barbiturates,” Sam offers. 

“Worn-Out-Brake-Pad flavored La Croix.” 

“A whale that got so stoned it forgot how to talk.” 

“One of the mermaids from Harry Potter having a wet dream,” Spencer suggests, and Cas laughs so hard he almost knocks over the bottle of nail polish. 

“Get your shit together, Castiel,” Harry scolds, but he’s giggling too. It’s like being scolded by a very happy sloth. “You’re done, mate. Who’s next, hmm?” 

He points at Jack, who shakes his head. 

“I need to get some sleep,” he says, and the last word cracks on a yawn. 

Sam grins. “Yeah, I’m guessing you didn’t get much rest last night.” 

“Sweet dreams, Mr. Grey,” Dean teases, and wolf-whistles as Jack retreats. Cas relocates to the couch, giving Dean a peck on the cheek before sitting back and admiring his manicure. 

Harry waves the bottle at Spencer, who doesn’t notice; he’s focused intently on the instrument, coaxing out something that actually sounds like music, in a vague, freaky kind of way. 

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, rolling his eyes and settling at the table across from a delighted Harry. 

“How about a nice hot pink?” he asks. 

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Wasn’t one of those used in the Doctor Who theme?” Harry asks Spencer. Spencer brightens like a big geeky Christmas tree that’s strung with lights made of useless trivia. 

“Now you’ve done it,” Dean says under his breath. 

“Actually, that’s a common misconception,” Spencer announces. “The original composition used—”

Dean must be going soft, because he’s actually kind of enjoying this, both the lecture and the manicure. 

Then again, he thinks, Sam is enthralled, and Cas is smiling, and maybe Dean’s just really enjoying his life right now. 

Fuck off, Dad, he thinks, admiring his pastel green nails.