Trans-Male Imagines

SPN Cast

this wasn't requested, i just had some ideas that i wanted to run with. i promise to get back to requests soon! this one is pretty heavy, i dug deep for a couple of days to write this one. read the warnings, stay safe, i don't want anyone to be affected negatively. there are people who care about you and your mental and physical health. i care about all of you - jules

this isn't really a direct x reader, more of a friendship with people kind of situation (but it's pretty Misha Collins-centric) - let me know if you'd want more like this

warnings: transphobia, dyshphoria, needles, anxiety, self-hate, scratching as a form of self-harm, swearing, mentions of drugs but no drug use (technically)

"Hey, are you feeling okay, dude?"

"Yeah, I guess." Damn it, just say 'no', they would help you. Idiot.

"You sure?" Misha asks. You nod, heart sinking.

"Just thinking too hard about lines. I'll be fine," you lie. Fucking stupid. God, you're dumb. Just tell them the truth. Jensen offers you a sympathetic smile, clapping his hand down on your shoulder. You flinch away ever-so-slightly, and he pulls away, smile fading out.

"Okay, just... let us know if you need anything, yeah? Either of us, Jared too," Jensen finishes, drawing away as he is called to set. You stare after him for a second, mind blanking. You are snapped back as Misha clears his throat. You look up hurriedly, already thinking that you've done something wrong. Misha glances down, and you sigh. Unknowingly, you had brought your hand to your wrist and scratched a red line out, not quite bleeding, but cracking. You stuff your hands in your jacket pockets, curling them into fists. You feel the line start to burn, and you bite your lip.

"He's only worried about you, (Y/N)," Misha starts. "You can trust him. You know that, right?" You nod.

"I know... I'm just-" you cut yourself off. "I know." You hear someone yelling Misha's name from across the studio. "You better get going, you don't want to be late because of me." Misha frowns.

"Any person here would gladly be late if they were staying to help someone else out. That includes us being here for you, okay?" he says gently. His name is called again. You're wasting his time, you're useless. They must hate you by now, you'll get fired.

"I've got to get going- unless you need me to stay?"

"No, I'll be fine," you say quickly. Misha looks at you warily. "I promise." Yeah right, because you always keep those. He gives you a solitary pat on the shoulder and you wince. He apologizes quietly and walks off, the trench coat he wears as Castiel swishing behind him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Misha was the only person on set (besides the casting agents and the director), who knew you were trans.

~One year ago ~

You took your bottle of testosterone and your syringe out of your bag placing them on the small table in what you called the living-room of your trailer. Despite having top surgery over two years ago, and having a wonderful cast of people around who only saw you as a man, you were still cripplingly self-conscious.

A knock sounds at your door- shit. Did you lock it? You're pretty sure... you decide you did and yell back.

"Just a couple of minutes, thanks!" You pick up the needle and put it to the crook of your elbow; you've grown to get used to the feeling. You were terrified when you first started. Turns out, however, you aren't going to get a couple of minutes. Your door opens, and your line of sight wrenches to the door, your eyes locking with your coworker's. Misha drops his eyes to the needle at your arms.

"Holy shit, (Y/N)," he breathes, taking a step towards you. Your body moves on it's own. You detract the now empty syringe and put it back in the case next to the bottle. Your eyes water, and you try vainly not to let them fall. He thinks you're high. He thinks you're a fucking junkie. Misha's standing by your side now, hands fluttering at his sides like trapped birds.

"Are you... are you okay?" His voice is soft and shaky, like he's afraid of the answer. You choke up. Why did this have to be how he found out? He'll hate you, he'll call you a freak, he already thinks you're an addict. A tear slips down your cheek even as you know you aren't thinking straight. You sniff.

"Do you need help?" Damn it, Misha, why are you so nice? You wipe your eyes and slump down onto the chair nearest you.

"Misha- it, it isn't what it looks like, I wear, please I promise I'm not doing drugs, I promise," you ramble, already panicking. Misha takes a knee in front of you, his blue eyes calm and reassuring. He raises his right hand, a silent question. You nod, and he sets his hand on your knee.

"Breathe, (Y/N), it's okay," he instructs. "I believe you. Calm down and and you can tell me what's going on, okay?" You manage to to suck in a breath, and Misha smiles comfortingly, the weight of his hand on your knee grounding. Once you've regained your composure, Misha speaks again.

"There you go. Why don't you tell me what I saw back there, huh?" Hearing how supportive he is makes you want to cry again, but you hold it back with a deep breath. What happened to suppressing your hormones, damn it.

"I- I'm not doing drugs," you start, voice weak and scratchy. Misha nods; you continue. "It was testosterone." You look away, ready for the gasp of horror, ready for one of your best friends to walk out of your life forever. But it never happens. You look back, and Misha rises from his knees, pulling you up and into his chest.

"Look, I don't care if you're cis or trans, gay, pan, or straight, or anything else. I'm just glad you're safe. I don't care if you're anything, because I'd love you anyways, and you're like a brother to me. I don't want you to think that I would ever care about you less because of something like this. I'm not going to treat you any differently," Misha states firmly, and there's a proud edge to his deep voice. He pulls away to grip your shoulders, and to look you in the eye. You are flooded with a sense of relief- he doesn't care. He doesn't care.

"Thank you so much," you choke out. Misha lets go of you to hand you a tissue before he continues.

"Nothing's going to change, okay? If you don't want me to tell anyone else, I won't," he promises.

~

You think back on your rather unfortunate trans-outing to Misha as you walk back to your trailer. You were always grateful (and you were always going to be) that he understood you so well, but dysphoria is a bell curve, and it always has an inevitable slope to depression. You just didn't know how to let anyone else in...

there will be a part two in a while. this was getting pretty long- i'll try not to take too long getting to the next update - jules