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avandell2008-08-06 01:39 pm
theladyscribe) wrote in avandell2008-08-06 01:39 pm
Entry tags:
Strangers in the Night
Title: Strangers in the Night
Characters: Dean, Velma (one-sided Dean/Velma, Fred/Daphne mentioned)
Rating: PG-13 (for Dean's mouth and a shag wagon)
Word Count: 3697
Summary: It's just not the same without Shaggy and his dog.
Notes: Probably crack. Inspired by too many hours of watching Scooby-Doo reruns while baby-sitting. Set during the Stanford years for Supernatural, and in an obscure time post-show for Scooby-Doo. Title is from the Frank Sinatra song of the same name. Many thanks toelaeazeph for the supremely awesome beta work. Without her, this would have been a lot of bad puns and a cheesy one-liner about those meddling kids.
Strangers in the Night
Velma actually kind of hates solving mysteries. It was fun the first few times, but now it's dull, especially since Shaggy left, leaving her as third wheel to Fred and Daphne. It's just not the same without Shaggy and his dog. And it gets really tiresome doing all the work and getting no recognition. Especially since she knows Fred and Daphne are probably making out in the back of the van while she checks out the "haunted" house of the week.
She checks her watch for the third time, but it hasn't changed much in the past five minutes. She's not supposed to meet up with Daphne and Fred for another thirty minutes. She hopes they at least have the decency to clean up this time.
The floorboards above her creak, and Velma smiles in grim satisfaction. It seems their "ghost" is still in the house.
She starts up the stairs, taking care to walk quietly so as not to alert the person to her presence. At the top of the stairs, there's a door ajar, and she can see the criminal. He appears to be younger than their usual suspects, and she gulps when she realizes he has a gun. Still, if she doesn't catch him now, Fred will once again take all the credit…
She's pushing the door further open when it swings back on its hinges, knocking her down and, of course, knocking her glasses off her face. There's a loud blast, and she can feel some sort of pellets raining down on her.
"Shit," says a voice. It sounds annoyed more than angry, which is weird. "It didn't hurt you, did it?"
"Were you trying to shoot me?" she asks, frowning up at the person-shaped blob in front of her.
"I was trying to shoot the ghost." The blob pauses. "What are you doing?"
Velma blushes. She's aware she probably looks ridiculous, brushing her hands along the dusty floor. "I-I lost my glasses when I tripped," she says. "Can you see them?"
The blob casts a flashlight beam around for a moment before crouching down in front of her. "Are they thick and black?" he asks, reaching for something and brushing against her hand.
"Yes." She takes them from him and puts them on her face. Daphne's been telling her to get contacts, but she's just not sure they're worth the hassle. Besides, her glasses have worked fine for years, and they've become a part of her personality. She looks at her rescuer. "Jinkies," she whispers.
Velma used to have a crush on Fred, but that was before he kicked Shaggy out of the club for being, well, Shaggy. She thought Fred was cute, in that pretty-boy kind of way. Fred has nothing on this guy. This guy has "bad boy" and "sex god" and all sorts of other descriptives generally associated with people who do not associate with people like Velma Dinkley written all over him.
The guy frowns. "Uh, jinkies to you, too." He stands up and holds a hand out to her, which she gladly takes. He helps her up easily, and she's sure he'd have no problem carrying her off to his secret lair so he can continue his criminal activities. "Now do you mind telling me what it is you're doing here?"
"I was looking for you." She figures he's going to kidnap her anyway, so there's no harm in saying it outright.
He blinks. "Why?"
"It's what we do. You're the one pretending to be the ghost, right?" She isn't sure whether she wants him to laugh maniacally and answer yes or to deny it and declare himself a fellow mystery-solver.
He doesn't do either. Instead he yells, "Duck!" and blasts another hole in the wall with his gun. "Come on." He grabs her hand, pulling her toward the stairs.
She struggles to break free. "Not until you tell me why you keep shooting at the wall."
"You wanna get yourself killed?" he says. "Because I'd kind of like to get out of here before Casper comes back and decides to strangle us." He starts down, and Velma figures she doesn't have much choice but to follow, even if he is the culprit. After all, it's the only way out.
"Casper? Who's that? We were sure it was Mr. Withers who was terrorizing the neighborhood."
"Casper," he repeats. "As in Casper the not-so-friendly ghost."
Velma can't help it; she laughs. "Ghosts don't exist."
"Whatever you say, sweetheart." He abruptly turns right at the bottom of the stairs, going deeper into the house. He seems to be looking for something, but what, she has no idea. Velma follows doggedly, intent on making him see reason.
"No, really. I'm sure there's a logical explanation for this. We'll probably find a projector that will explain the 'apparition'."
The guy stops suddenly in his search and turns to look at her. "A projector?" he repeats, as if it's the most absurd thing he's ever heard.
"Well, yeah." She hesitates. "People aren't very creative when it comes to scaring other people away from stuff."
He laughs, and Velma decides she doesn't like this guy after all. Not that she liked him before, since he is, after all, a criminal. "Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but that was no projector."
"How do you know?"
"For one thing, have you ever heard of a projector that could smother people to death? I mean, sure, you can bore someone to death with a slideshow, but smother them?"
"Well--" She stops. Truth is, that was an oddity in the case that Fred couldn't explain. Usually Mysteries, Inc. deals with people who just kidnapped anyone who got in the way. This is the first time there have been actual murders.
"Yeah, I thought so." The guy sighs. "Listen, did you see any sort of wedding stuff while you were walking around? A bouquet, a veil, anything?"
The change of subject catches her off-guard. "I – no. Why?"
"Fuck."
"Excuse me?"
He shakes his head. "Come on. We're gonna have to go back upstairs." Velma briefly contemplates running outside, but he says, "Stay right behind me, okay? Two pairs of eyes are better than one." She darts a glance at the front door and then looks back at the shot gun in the guy's hands. She decides she's better off staying with him for the time being.
"So what's your name?" the guy asks apropos of nothing when they reach the top of the stairs.
"Why should I tell you? You might be a serial killer."
"Fine then, don't tell me. Jeez." He huffs in annoyance before turning toward her. "I'm Dean." He holds out a hand.
She hesitates before taking it. "Velma."
He raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth.
"Don't say it," she says.
"Dude, your parents suck."
That surprises a laugh out of her. "At least they didn't name me after a dead movie star."
"Hey, James Dean is awesome."
"I was talking about Dean Martin."
"The guy from the Rat Pack?" He wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Why are you here again?"
"Because this is what we do. Solve mysteries."
"That the royal we or you got multiple personalities?"
She resists the urge to hit him. "'We' are myself, Fred, Daphne, and--" She stops herself. "And that's it. The others are outside. I think."
"Fred and Daphne? He blond and she a red-head?"
"Yeah."
"Pretty sure I saw them going at it in a rusty old Volkswagen."
Velma smiles tightly. "That would be them."
He chuckles. "Sucks to be you. But seriously, a shag wagon? You couldn't pay me enough to even consider getting in that thing, let alone have sex in it."
"I happen to like the Mystery Machine, thank you."
"Yeah, well I happen to like pussy, but that doesn't mean I want to be one."
"You're a jerk."
He glances back at her. "You've got me there," he answers, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "But what are you doing driving around in that thing anyway? And why the hell do you want to be third wheel to Horny Pete and his girlfriend?"
She shrugs. "Didn't used to be like this. Things haven't been the same since Shaggy left."
He snorts. "I'm sure."
Velma rolls her eyes and gives him a shove. "Not like that. Shaggy is – was – a friend." Her voice softens. "Fred might be the director of operations, but Shaggy was the heart and soul. He's what made it worth--what made it work."
Dean goes quiet after that, and Velma wonders if she hit a nerve on accident. She's about to apologize when he says, sotto voce, "Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?" she whispers back.
"Exactly." He raises his shot gun, gripping it easily in front of him, and though it looks loose and relaxed, Velma has no doubt he's simply waiting for whatever is coming their way.
Like before, the apparition comes out of nowhere, Dean shoots, and it seems to disintegrate in the shower of pellets.
He grins tightly at Velma. "We're probably close to whatever's keeping it here."
"What do you mean?"
"The ghost," he answers, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Her would-be husband murdered her on their wedding day because he'd seen her being a little too friendly with the milk man and isn't that just a bitch?"
"The legend," Velma emphasizes, "says she was smothered to death with her wedding veil."
He nods. "So we need to find the veil."
"Why?"
"So we can torch it."
"What?"
He rolls his eyes. "We gotta find the veil so we can burn it so the ghost can go to its final resting place. Not rocket science."
Velma sees her opening for escape. "Right. Okay. Let's split up."
"Hell, no. We stick together." The ferocity with which he says it startles her. "We're both better off if we don't split up. Trust me."
As if to prove his point, the ghost appears behind him. "Dean!"
He spins and fires, and the ghost dissipates again.
"How do you do that?" Velma asks as they move into one of the rooms.
He shrugs almost sheepishly. "My dad taught me to shoot when I was just a kid."
"No, I meant with the ghost."
"Oh." He shrugs again. "I make my own rock salt shells." At her raised eyebrows, he says, "Rock salt dispels spirits. It's like the proton packs in Ghostbusters only a lot more practical. And cheaper."
They move into what appears to be the master bedroom. There's all sorts of stuff just sitting around, like nobody ever bothered to clean out the house after the murder. At Dean's nod, Velma starts picking through things. Dean, on the other hand, seems to be mostly occupied with vigilance. And, oddly enough, talking.
He's telling her about ghosts and spirits and other things that go bump in the night – werewolves, zombies, standard horror fare – things that, according to Fred's logic, don't and can't exist. "Bigfoot and vampires, though," he tells her, "I'm pretty sure they're not real. Never have come across them, although my br--" He stops. "Anyway, most of the legends and stuff are true."
Velma's only half-listening as he details how to kill a werewolf, but she jumps when he fires the shotgun again.
"Sorry, ghost." She nods, and he relaunches his lecture.
When he's in the middle of explaining how to properly eviscerate a zombie, she interrupts. "Hey, uh, Dean?"
"Yeah?"
Velma holds up the piece of gauzy fabric she found in the steamer chest at the foot of the bed. "Does this look like a wedding veil to you?"
Dean grins, and Velma's really starting to warm to that smile. "Let's torch the sucker, shall we?"
Velma discovers that lighting stuff on fire and watching a ghost implode is a lot more satisfying than pulling a mask off someone's face and handing them over to the local authorities. There's just something about knowing that the job is done that appeals to her. She supposes it could be the adrenaline rush; after all, there was a lot more action in terms of actually doing stuff than on most of their jobs. And then she thinks that the difference probably has something to do with Dean, who didn't relegate her to solving the mystery while he took all the credit. Or maybe it's because there's no one around to give them any credit. Instead, it's just over, and the only people who know are them.
Velma's not even entirely sure she wants to tell Fred and Daphne that the mystery's been solved.
"Hey. You gonna stare at the ashes all night, or do you wanna get out of here?" Dean asks, jolting her from her thoughts.
Velma grins. "Let's get out of here."
When they get outside, the Mystery Machine is nowhere to be seen.
"Looks like your friends played ditch'em. You want a ride?"
Velma's grateful she doesn't have to ask. "Yeah, thanks."
He leads her to a black car that looks like it could probably eat the Mystery Machine for lunch and still have room left over for dessert. It's cleaner than the Machine, too; he obviously takes care of the car (unlike Fred, who's never even bothered to vacuum the shag in the back, which has led to some unsolved mysteries of its own). The interior smells like leather and what she now recognizes as the acrid scent of gunpowder. She likes it.
"Where to?"
Dean's question startles her from her revery, and Velma starts to give him the name of their motel but her stomach beats her to a response. Dean chuckles. "Luckily for you, there's an all-night diner not too far away." He pauses. "If that's all right with you."
"Peachy," she answers sincerely.
"Awesome. I could kill for a burger." He laughs at the look of horror on Velma's face. "Kidding. Jeez."
The diner is sketchy at best; the waitress smacks a piece of chewing gum between her teeth, and the cook in the back is smoking a fat cigar. Velma is sure there are health regulations against these things, but Dean ignores the sanitation concerns and slides into a booth in the corner.
"How y'all doin' tonight?" the waitress asks as she comes toward them.
Dean smiles warmly up at her. "We're doing great, Donna." For a moment, Velma thinks he must know the waitress, but then she realizes he'd read Donna's nametag. "How are you? Slow night?"
Donna shrugs. "Not too bad. Had a rush around midnight; the usual truckers and a couple of kids who were more interested in making out than eating."
Dean laughs easily. "Well, we won't be doing that, no worries."
"What can I get you?"
He doesn't even look at the menu. "Coffee, please, and whatever special you've got going." For the first time since Donna came over, he turns to Velma. "You? I'm paying."
"Uh, the same. But can I have juice instead of coffee?"
"Sure thing, hun. Order'll be right up." Donna wanders away, sashaying a little, even though she's pushing fifty.
"So, I meant to ask," Velma starts. "How long have you been…" She trails off, not sure what to call what Dean does. It's certainly not solving mysteries, or at least not just solving mysteries.
"Hunting?" he offers.
"Yeah."
He blows out his cheeks. "Actively, ten years, but I've known about it for most of my life. I was four when my…when I first learned about it."
"Jinkies," Velma whispers.
"What does that mean anyway?"
"It's what my mom uses in place of--" She waves a hand. "My family's pretty conservative. 'Crap' is considered a four-letter word."
Dean whistles. "Wow."
"Yeah." She changes subjects, still curious about Dean and his life. "How'd you find out about…hunting?"
The question is obviously the wrong one; his entire demeanor changes from open and guileless to shut down and unreadable.
"I – you don't have to tell me. I just--"
"No, it's okay." He talks softly and quickly, and Velma has to strain to hear. "My mom was killed in a fire in my little brother's nursery when I was four. It wasn't a normal housefire. My dad… He found out the truth, and we've been hunting ever since, looking for the thing that killed Mom."
"And your brother?"
He smiles again, but it's far away, as if he's somewhere completely different. "Sammy's in California, going to school." The smile grows. "Stanford, on a full scholarship."
"You must be proud."
Dean looks up at her, his grin even wider. "He's my geek brother; I'd be stupid not to be. I mean, Stanford."
"Does he meet up with you on breaks then?"
The wrong question again. "We haven't spoken in a while," he answers roughly. "There was… Sam never really took to hunting, always wanted a way out of it." His smile is practically a wince. "He finally found one that lasted beyond a night or two."
The arrival of their food interrupts the conversation. Velma looks down to see a massive burger taking up half the plate with fries filling the rest of it.
"Golly," she whispers. "How am I supposed to eat all of this?"
Dean laughs. "I might help you with your fries."
They eat in contented silence for a little while, and then Dean speaks up with, "So what about you? How'd you get into doing whatever it is that you do?"
Velma smiles. "Well, the first time it happened, we were coming back from the movies. It was the four of us – me, Daphne, Fred, and Shaggy – and we found an abandoned truck on the side of the road. Thing was, there was a suit of armor in the passenger seat." She tells him about the professor and the legend of the black knight, concluding with, "And that was just the beginning. For whatever reason, we kept stumbling upon mysteries, and we finally decided to make it our job."
Dean shakes his head in disbelief. "And even after all this time, you've only just now run into a real ghost?"
"Apparently."
"Wow." He snatches a handful of fries from her plate even though there is still a fair-sized pile on his own.
"What about you?" she asks. "Surely, you've come across things that were just people, right?"
"Well, yeah, but not as often as you'd think." He goes quiet again. "To tell you the truth, I think it's easier when it's not human – it's hard enough when monsters hurt people, especially kids, and it's even worse when it turns out to just be other people." He looks up at her thoughtfully and then changes the subject abruptly. "But this Shaggy guy. Tell me about him. Why'd he leave?"
"Shaggy's, well, Fred kicked him out because – he said it was because Shaggy complains too much, but really I think Fred was mad at him for being right." She gets started, and she can't stop, too much frustration pent up over the past several months. "Fred was taking all the credit for our work, and Shaggy called him on it. The last straw was the scarecrow in Iowa." The twitch of his lips warns her that Dean is about to start laughing. "No pun intended," she says quickly. "Anyway, the town was so glad the whole ordeal was over that they held an award ceremony. And they gave Fred the medal of honor and the key to the city. Shaggy was livid, and it was all a big mess. They fought, and finally Fred told him that if he didn't like the way things were run, he could leave, but that he wouldn't be welcome back. So Shaggy packed up his stuff and went."
"Must've been hard for you," Dean says, his voice dull, and Velma realizes he must be thinking about his brother.
She smiles gently. "It could've been worse. I talk to Shaggy every couple of weeks. He's in Oregon, wants me to come visit sometime. He said he misses the gang – even misses Freddie, a little."
Dean seems to think pretty hard about that, but then that sudden change comes over him again, like he remembers that he has to put on a front, and he's reaching for his wallet. "Thanks for the grub, Donna," he calls out as he stands and stretches. He taps his stomach. "It was good."
Velma slides out of the booth, trying not to let her eyes grow too wide when he lays a twenty down on the table - tipping almost the full price of their meal. She's spent most of the night with him, but Dean's still very much an enigma to her – she can't decide whether he's ignorant of social norms or just doesn't care. She's fairly certain it's the latter, and she likes him all the more for it.
"To your motel?" Dean asks once they're back in the car.
She's about to say yes but thinks better of it. "Do you know if there's a Greyhound station around here?"
Surprise flashes in his eyes. "Saw one on my way into town."
"Take me there?"
He nods and puts the car into gear. "So where will you go?" he says after a few moments of quiet.
"Oregon," she answers without hesitation. "You?"
"I'm headed to New Orleans. There's always spirits needing rest there, both long- and freshly-dead, especially during hurricane season, and I heard they just got hit by a big one."
"You won't take a break?"
He shakes his head. "There's never a break with this gig. Always something out there that needs taken care of, and there's not many of us who know how to do it."
"Oh," she mumbles. Velma presses her forehead against the window, staring out at the trees on the side of the road. She's not sure what she'll do with her newfound knowledge about ghosts and vampires and everything. She does know that she won't ever be able to look at another mystery the same way again. She idly wonders what Shaggy will think of it, and really, she can't wait to tell him.
*
A brief note on the title: Titling this story was the very last part of the writing process for me. I wasn't sure where I was going with the idea – I never really intended to write it (except I totally did). Elaeazeph wanted me to name it "Those Meddling Kids," but that never sat well with me, though when we got to the end of it, I couldn't come up with anything better. I finally decided to google Scooby-Doo one last time just to see if there was a better quip (or a Make-Your-Own Scooby-Doo Title Generator) (sadly there isn't one), and I came across the show's origin story, complete with the fact that Scooby-Doo's name was derived from Frank Sinatra's "doo-be-doo"s at the end of "Strangers in the Night." And it fit perfectly.
Characters: Dean, Velma (one-sided Dean/Velma, Fred/Daphne mentioned)
Rating: PG-13 (for Dean's mouth and a shag wagon)
Word Count: 3697
Summary: It's just not the same without Shaggy and his dog.
Notes: Probably crack. Inspired by too many hours of watching Scooby-Doo reruns while baby-sitting. Set during the Stanford years for Supernatural, and in an obscure time post-show for Scooby-Doo. Title is from the Frank Sinatra song of the same name. Many thanks to
elaeazeph for the supremely awesome beta work. Without her, this would have been a lot of bad puns and a cheesy one-liner about those meddling kids.Strangers in the Night
Velma actually kind of hates solving mysteries. It was fun the first few times, but now it's dull, especially since Shaggy left, leaving her as third wheel to Fred and Daphne. It's just not the same without Shaggy and his dog. And it gets really tiresome doing all the work and getting no recognition. Especially since she knows Fred and Daphne are probably making out in the back of the van while she checks out the "haunted" house of the week.
She checks her watch for the third time, but it hasn't changed much in the past five minutes. She's not supposed to meet up with Daphne and Fred for another thirty minutes. She hopes they at least have the decency to clean up this time.
The floorboards above her creak, and Velma smiles in grim satisfaction. It seems their "ghost" is still in the house.
She starts up the stairs, taking care to walk quietly so as not to alert the person to her presence. At the top of the stairs, there's a door ajar, and she can see the criminal. He appears to be younger than their usual suspects, and she gulps when she realizes he has a gun. Still, if she doesn't catch him now, Fred will once again take all the credit…
She's pushing the door further open when it swings back on its hinges, knocking her down and, of course, knocking her glasses off her face. There's a loud blast, and she can feel some sort of pellets raining down on her.
"Shit," says a voice. It sounds annoyed more than angry, which is weird. "It didn't hurt you, did it?"
"Were you trying to shoot me?" she asks, frowning up at the person-shaped blob in front of her.
"I was trying to shoot the ghost." The blob pauses. "What are you doing?"
Velma blushes. She's aware she probably looks ridiculous, brushing her hands along the dusty floor. "I-I lost my glasses when I tripped," she says. "Can you see them?"
The blob casts a flashlight beam around for a moment before crouching down in front of her. "Are they thick and black?" he asks, reaching for something and brushing against her hand.
"Yes." She takes them from him and puts them on her face. Daphne's been telling her to get contacts, but she's just not sure they're worth the hassle. Besides, her glasses have worked fine for years, and they've become a part of her personality. She looks at her rescuer. "Jinkies," she whispers.
Velma used to have a crush on Fred, but that was before he kicked Shaggy out of the club for being, well, Shaggy. She thought Fred was cute, in that pretty-boy kind of way. Fred has nothing on this guy. This guy has "bad boy" and "sex god" and all sorts of other descriptives generally associated with people who do not associate with people like Velma Dinkley written all over him.
The guy frowns. "Uh, jinkies to you, too." He stands up and holds a hand out to her, which she gladly takes. He helps her up easily, and she's sure he'd have no problem carrying her off to his secret lair so he can continue his criminal activities. "Now do you mind telling me what it is you're doing here?"
"I was looking for you." She figures he's going to kidnap her anyway, so there's no harm in saying it outright.
He blinks. "Why?"
"It's what we do. You're the one pretending to be the ghost, right?" She isn't sure whether she wants him to laugh maniacally and answer yes or to deny it and declare himself a fellow mystery-solver.
He doesn't do either. Instead he yells, "Duck!" and blasts another hole in the wall with his gun. "Come on." He grabs her hand, pulling her toward the stairs.
She struggles to break free. "Not until you tell me why you keep shooting at the wall."
"You wanna get yourself killed?" he says. "Because I'd kind of like to get out of here before Casper comes back and decides to strangle us." He starts down, and Velma figures she doesn't have much choice but to follow, even if he is the culprit. After all, it's the only way out.
"Casper? Who's that? We were sure it was Mr. Withers who was terrorizing the neighborhood."
"Casper," he repeats. "As in Casper the not-so-friendly ghost."
Velma can't help it; she laughs. "Ghosts don't exist."
"Whatever you say, sweetheart." He abruptly turns right at the bottom of the stairs, going deeper into the house. He seems to be looking for something, but what, she has no idea. Velma follows doggedly, intent on making him see reason.
"No, really. I'm sure there's a logical explanation for this. We'll probably find a projector that will explain the 'apparition'."
The guy stops suddenly in his search and turns to look at her. "A projector?" he repeats, as if it's the most absurd thing he's ever heard.
"Well, yeah." She hesitates. "People aren't very creative when it comes to scaring other people away from stuff."
He laughs, and Velma decides she doesn't like this guy after all. Not that she liked him before, since he is, after all, a criminal. "Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but that was no projector."
"How do you know?"
"For one thing, have you ever heard of a projector that could smother people to death? I mean, sure, you can bore someone to death with a slideshow, but smother them?"
"Well--" She stops. Truth is, that was an oddity in the case that Fred couldn't explain. Usually Mysteries, Inc. deals with people who just kidnapped anyone who got in the way. This is the first time there have been actual murders.
"Yeah, I thought so." The guy sighs. "Listen, did you see any sort of wedding stuff while you were walking around? A bouquet, a veil, anything?"
The change of subject catches her off-guard. "I – no. Why?"
"Fuck."
"Excuse me?"
He shakes his head. "Come on. We're gonna have to go back upstairs." Velma briefly contemplates running outside, but he says, "Stay right behind me, okay? Two pairs of eyes are better than one." She darts a glance at the front door and then looks back at the shot gun in the guy's hands. She decides she's better off staying with him for the time being.
"So what's your name?" the guy asks apropos of nothing when they reach the top of the stairs.
"Why should I tell you? You might be a serial killer."
"Fine then, don't tell me. Jeez." He huffs in annoyance before turning toward her. "I'm Dean." He holds out a hand.
She hesitates before taking it. "Velma."
He raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth.
"Don't say it," she says.
"Dude, your parents suck."
That surprises a laugh out of her. "At least they didn't name me after a dead movie star."
"Hey, James Dean is awesome."
"I was talking about Dean Martin."
"The guy from the Rat Pack?" He wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Why are you here again?"
"Because this is what we do. Solve mysteries."
"That the royal we or you got multiple personalities?"
She resists the urge to hit him. "'We' are myself, Fred, Daphne, and--" She stops herself. "And that's it. The others are outside. I think."
"Fred and Daphne? He blond and she a red-head?"
"Yeah."
"Pretty sure I saw them going at it in a rusty old Volkswagen."
Velma smiles tightly. "That would be them."
He chuckles. "Sucks to be you. But seriously, a shag wagon? You couldn't pay me enough to even consider getting in that thing, let alone have sex in it."
"I happen to like the Mystery Machine, thank you."
"Yeah, well I happen to like pussy, but that doesn't mean I want to be one."
"You're a jerk."
He glances back at her. "You've got me there," he answers, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "But what are you doing driving around in that thing anyway? And why the hell do you want to be third wheel to Horny Pete and his girlfriend?"
She shrugs. "Didn't used to be like this. Things haven't been the same since Shaggy left."
He snorts. "I'm sure."
Velma rolls her eyes and gives him a shove. "Not like that. Shaggy is – was – a friend." Her voice softens. "Fred might be the director of operations, but Shaggy was the heart and soul. He's what made it worth--what made it work."
Dean goes quiet after that, and Velma wonders if she hit a nerve on accident. She's about to apologize when he says, sotto voce, "Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?" she whispers back.
"Exactly." He raises his shot gun, gripping it easily in front of him, and though it looks loose and relaxed, Velma has no doubt he's simply waiting for whatever is coming their way.
Like before, the apparition comes out of nowhere, Dean shoots, and it seems to disintegrate in the shower of pellets.
He grins tightly at Velma. "We're probably close to whatever's keeping it here."
"What do you mean?"
"The ghost," he answers, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Her would-be husband murdered her on their wedding day because he'd seen her being a little too friendly with the milk man and isn't that just a bitch?"
"The legend," Velma emphasizes, "says she was smothered to death with her wedding veil."
He nods. "So we need to find the veil."
"Why?"
"So we can torch it."
"What?"
He rolls his eyes. "We gotta find the veil so we can burn it so the ghost can go to its final resting place. Not rocket science."
Velma sees her opening for escape. "Right. Okay. Let's split up."
"Hell, no. We stick together." The ferocity with which he says it startles her. "We're both better off if we don't split up. Trust me."
As if to prove his point, the ghost appears behind him. "Dean!"
He spins and fires, and the ghost dissipates again.
"How do you do that?" Velma asks as they move into one of the rooms.
He shrugs almost sheepishly. "My dad taught me to shoot when I was just a kid."
"No, I meant with the ghost."
"Oh." He shrugs again. "I make my own rock salt shells." At her raised eyebrows, he says, "Rock salt dispels spirits. It's like the proton packs in Ghostbusters only a lot more practical. And cheaper."
They move into what appears to be the master bedroom. There's all sorts of stuff just sitting around, like nobody ever bothered to clean out the house after the murder. At Dean's nod, Velma starts picking through things. Dean, on the other hand, seems to be mostly occupied with vigilance. And, oddly enough, talking.
He's telling her about ghosts and spirits and other things that go bump in the night – werewolves, zombies, standard horror fare – things that, according to Fred's logic, don't and can't exist. "Bigfoot and vampires, though," he tells her, "I'm pretty sure they're not real. Never have come across them, although my br--" He stops. "Anyway, most of the legends and stuff are true."
Velma's only half-listening as he details how to kill a werewolf, but she jumps when he fires the shotgun again.
"Sorry, ghost." She nods, and he relaunches his lecture.
When he's in the middle of explaining how to properly eviscerate a zombie, she interrupts. "Hey, uh, Dean?"
"Yeah?"
Velma holds up the piece of gauzy fabric she found in the steamer chest at the foot of the bed. "Does this look like a wedding veil to you?"
Dean grins, and Velma's really starting to warm to that smile. "Let's torch the sucker, shall we?"
Velma discovers that lighting stuff on fire and watching a ghost implode is a lot more satisfying than pulling a mask off someone's face and handing them over to the local authorities. There's just something about knowing that the job is done that appeals to her. She supposes it could be the adrenaline rush; after all, there was a lot more action in terms of actually doing stuff than on most of their jobs. And then she thinks that the difference probably has something to do with Dean, who didn't relegate her to solving the mystery while he took all the credit. Or maybe it's because there's no one around to give them any credit. Instead, it's just over, and the only people who know are them.
Velma's not even entirely sure she wants to tell Fred and Daphne that the mystery's been solved.
"Hey. You gonna stare at the ashes all night, or do you wanna get out of here?" Dean asks, jolting her from her thoughts.
Velma grins. "Let's get out of here."
When they get outside, the Mystery Machine is nowhere to be seen.
"Looks like your friends played ditch'em. You want a ride?"
Velma's grateful she doesn't have to ask. "Yeah, thanks."
He leads her to a black car that looks like it could probably eat the Mystery Machine for lunch and still have room left over for dessert. It's cleaner than the Machine, too; he obviously takes care of the car (unlike Fred, who's never even bothered to vacuum the shag in the back, which has led to some unsolved mysteries of its own). The interior smells like leather and what she now recognizes as the acrid scent of gunpowder. She likes it.
"Where to?"
Dean's question startles her from her revery, and Velma starts to give him the name of their motel but her stomach beats her to a response. Dean chuckles. "Luckily for you, there's an all-night diner not too far away." He pauses. "If that's all right with you."
"Peachy," she answers sincerely.
"Awesome. I could kill for a burger." He laughs at the look of horror on Velma's face. "Kidding. Jeez."
The diner is sketchy at best; the waitress smacks a piece of chewing gum between her teeth, and the cook in the back is smoking a fat cigar. Velma is sure there are health regulations against these things, but Dean ignores the sanitation concerns and slides into a booth in the corner.
"How y'all doin' tonight?" the waitress asks as she comes toward them.
Dean smiles warmly up at her. "We're doing great, Donna." For a moment, Velma thinks he must know the waitress, but then she realizes he'd read Donna's nametag. "How are you? Slow night?"
Donna shrugs. "Not too bad. Had a rush around midnight; the usual truckers and a couple of kids who were more interested in making out than eating."
Dean laughs easily. "Well, we won't be doing that, no worries."
"What can I get you?"
He doesn't even look at the menu. "Coffee, please, and whatever special you've got going." For the first time since Donna came over, he turns to Velma. "You? I'm paying."
"Uh, the same. But can I have juice instead of coffee?"
"Sure thing, hun. Order'll be right up." Donna wanders away, sashaying a little, even though she's pushing fifty.
"So, I meant to ask," Velma starts. "How long have you been…" She trails off, not sure what to call what Dean does. It's certainly not solving mysteries, or at least not just solving mysteries.
"Hunting?" he offers.
"Yeah."
He blows out his cheeks. "Actively, ten years, but I've known about it for most of my life. I was four when my…when I first learned about it."
"Jinkies," Velma whispers.
"What does that mean anyway?"
"It's what my mom uses in place of--" She waves a hand. "My family's pretty conservative. 'Crap' is considered a four-letter word."
Dean whistles. "Wow."
"Yeah." She changes subjects, still curious about Dean and his life. "How'd you find out about…hunting?"
The question is obviously the wrong one; his entire demeanor changes from open and guileless to shut down and unreadable.
"I – you don't have to tell me. I just--"
"No, it's okay." He talks softly and quickly, and Velma has to strain to hear. "My mom was killed in a fire in my little brother's nursery when I was four. It wasn't a normal housefire. My dad… He found out the truth, and we've been hunting ever since, looking for the thing that killed Mom."
"And your brother?"
He smiles again, but it's far away, as if he's somewhere completely different. "Sammy's in California, going to school." The smile grows. "Stanford, on a full scholarship."
"You must be proud."
Dean looks up at her, his grin even wider. "He's my geek brother; I'd be stupid not to be. I mean, Stanford."
"Does he meet up with you on breaks then?"
The wrong question again. "We haven't spoken in a while," he answers roughly. "There was… Sam never really took to hunting, always wanted a way out of it." His smile is practically a wince. "He finally found one that lasted beyond a night or two."
The arrival of their food interrupts the conversation. Velma looks down to see a massive burger taking up half the plate with fries filling the rest of it.
"Golly," she whispers. "How am I supposed to eat all of this?"
Dean laughs. "I might help you with your fries."
They eat in contented silence for a little while, and then Dean speaks up with, "So what about you? How'd you get into doing whatever it is that you do?"
Velma smiles. "Well, the first time it happened, we were coming back from the movies. It was the four of us – me, Daphne, Fred, and Shaggy – and we found an abandoned truck on the side of the road. Thing was, there was a suit of armor in the passenger seat." She tells him about the professor and the legend of the black knight, concluding with, "And that was just the beginning. For whatever reason, we kept stumbling upon mysteries, and we finally decided to make it our job."
Dean shakes his head in disbelief. "And even after all this time, you've only just now run into a real ghost?"
"Apparently."
"Wow." He snatches a handful of fries from her plate even though there is still a fair-sized pile on his own.
"What about you?" she asks. "Surely, you've come across things that were just people, right?"
"Well, yeah, but not as often as you'd think." He goes quiet again. "To tell you the truth, I think it's easier when it's not human – it's hard enough when monsters hurt people, especially kids, and it's even worse when it turns out to just be other people." He looks up at her thoughtfully and then changes the subject abruptly. "But this Shaggy guy. Tell me about him. Why'd he leave?"
"Shaggy's, well, Fred kicked him out because – he said it was because Shaggy complains too much, but really I think Fred was mad at him for being right." She gets started, and she can't stop, too much frustration pent up over the past several months. "Fred was taking all the credit for our work, and Shaggy called him on it. The last straw was the scarecrow in Iowa." The twitch of his lips warns her that Dean is about to start laughing. "No pun intended," she says quickly. "Anyway, the town was so glad the whole ordeal was over that they held an award ceremony. And they gave Fred the medal of honor and the key to the city. Shaggy was livid, and it was all a big mess. They fought, and finally Fred told him that if he didn't like the way things were run, he could leave, but that he wouldn't be welcome back. So Shaggy packed up his stuff and went."
"Must've been hard for you," Dean says, his voice dull, and Velma realizes he must be thinking about his brother.
She smiles gently. "It could've been worse. I talk to Shaggy every couple of weeks. He's in Oregon, wants me to come visit sometime. He said he misses the gang – even misses Freddie, a little."
Dean seems to think pretty hard about that, but then that sudden change comes over him again, like he remembers that he has to put on a front, and he's reaching for his wallet. "Thanks for the grub, Donna," he calls out as he stands and stretches. He taps his stomach. "It was good."
Velma slides out of the booth, trying not to let her eyes grow too wide when he lays a twenty down on the table - tipping almost the full price of their meal. She's spent most of the night with him, but Dean's still very much an enigma to her – she can't decide whether he's ignorant of social norms or just doesn't care. She's fairly certain it's the latter, and she likes him all the more for it.
"To your motel?" Dean asks once they're back in the car.
She's about to say yes but thinks better of it. "Do you know if there's a Greyhound station around here?"
Surprise flashes in his eyes. "Saw one on my way into town."
"Take me there?"
He nods and puts the car into gear. "So where will you go?" he says after a few moments of quiet.
"Oregon," she answers without hesitation. "You?"
"I'm headed to New Orleans. There's always spirits needing rest there, both long- and freshly-dead, especially during hurricane season, and I heard they just got hit by a big one."
"You won't take a break?"
He shakes his head. "There's never a break with this gig. Always something out there that needs taken care of, and there's not many of us who know how to do it."
"Oh," she mumbles. Velma presses her forehead against the window, staring out at the trees on the side of the road. She's not sure what she'll do with her newfound knowledge about ghosts and vampires and everything. She does know that she won't ever be able to look at another mystery the same way again. She idly wonders what Shaggy will think of it, and really, she can't wait to tell him.
*
A brief note on the title: Titling this story was the very last part of the writing process for me. I wasn't sure where I was going with the idea – I never really intended to write it (except I totally did). Elaeazeph wanted me to name it "Those Meddling Kids," but that never sat well with me, though when we got to the end of it, I couldn't come up with anything better. I finally decided to google Scooby-Doo one last time just to see if there was a better quip (or a Make-Your-Own Scooby-Doo Title Generator) (sadly there isn't one), and I came across the show's origin story, complete with the fact that Scooby-Doo's name was derived from Frank Sinatra's "doo-be-doo"s at the end of "Strangers in the Night." And it fit perfectly.
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