Fic: Three-legged Races and Horrified Faces
Title: Three-legged Races and Horrified Faces
Rating: PG-17 (just a few naughty words)
Characters: Chuck, Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: General season four
Summary: What Chuck needs is a book on self-esteem. What Chuck gets is people drinking his booze.
Author's note: I laughed as I wrote this, so I hope you laugh while you read it. Many thanks to anime_queen701 for editing this and letting me know that it's okay to rhyme in a title! For her amusement anyway... Feel free to comment and leave constructive criticism. I am nothing without comments and crits. NOTHING!!!
Three-legged Races and Horrified Faces
Staring at the back of a tan trenchcoat, Chuck does not find himself surprised to realize he can do nothing to save Castiel from his bodyguard's wrath. The angel is about to sacrifice his life to prevent Lucifer from rising - to save mankind - in Chuck's freaking living room, and he can do shit all but watch. At least he won't have to write about it: it seems that his writing days are over. The entire apocalypse he witnessed in his head is wrong. Maybe Lucifer will rise, maybe he won't, but either way Chuck was wrong.
It feels a little like being useless, and if watching Castiel face his death isn't depressing enough, the fact that Chuck's regretting his prophesied apocalypse is plain suicidal.
At least when he knew his visions were fact, he felt helpful. He had done a spectacular job in warning his ruled paper to stay away from San Francisco come this April 13. His laptop would never stray south of the border after late October.
A bloody hero, he is.
Not like Castiel. Or the Winchesters. Or Ellen, or any of the dozen heroic hunters he'd seen in his head. Yes, they did use really cheesy lines at moments of strife but isn't that what heroes do? They bottle up their own angsty feelings for an emotional scene later on, load their guns with a snappy line and either win or die in a blaze of glory.
When faced with a gun, loaded or not, Chuck's bladder tended to fill.
Now, however, is really not a good time to be waxing upon what an utter failure he is. Perhaps he can put that aside until his Best-Archangel-for-Life finishes mincing Castiel.
Unless, you know, Chuck dies too. He doesn't really know anymore.
The piercing whistle that shatters his thoughts sends Chuck scrambling under his desk. He had written the scene of Dean in the gas station sober (shockingly). He remembers that clapping his hands over his ears would do no good, but he can't stop himself. It hurts. He feels a cold liquid ooze out his ears and ew ew EW my ears are bleeding-
When the noise tapers off he peers out at Castiel, expecting either a deadly stare-off between angel and archangel or well-done-Castiel-on-carpet. To his surprise, the angel's head is cocked, not cooked, and he's smiling. Grinning, even. Then he opens his mouth and damn it, that sound HURTS.
Chuck's not sure how much time passes when his eardrums finally stop oozing and pounding. What, are the two of them going to have a little divine chat before they duel? Never mind that it makes Chuck's ears bleed and more surprisingly-
"Why aren't you dead?" he blurts out. Nice. No wonder there's only one angel on the humans' side. Would he have to write into the gospel that it was the Prophet of the Lord's fault that Team Free Will lost their most powerful ally?
Apparently not, because Castiel ignores him. Which is totally rude, but in this case, okay by him. And, okay, there's another person in the room next to Castiel now. The man is taller than the angel, and Chuck supposes that's only proper as the man in question is an archangel. Chuck knows from the millennia of wisdom twinkling in his eyes - and he was never going to use that line - that this is an archangel, presumably the being who watched over Chuck while he wrote and drank and ordered hookers.
And now he's going to court-martial Castiel.
"Whiskers!" cries the archangel, at the same time Castiel cries "Remiel!" and then they embrace. Chuck didn't even think Castiel knew how.
"How long has it been, runt?" says Remiel.
"It was at Jesus' thousandth re-birthday, wasn't it?"
"Best party we've had in ages!"
"I still enjoyed our farewell party for the dinosaurs best."
"Only because you won the three-legged velociraptor-angel races! I think I could win with this vessel, though."
"It was divine providence that I won, not physical strength."
"Bullshit, this vessel's legs are ridiculous! I could outrun freaking divine providence!"
"That is blaspheme."
"Oh, you and your blaspheme Cassy. Speaking of vessels, I DID take this one just so I wouldn't kill you Prophet. Feel free to stand up."
Chuck's head is spinning from their conversation when the angels turn their borrowed eyes on him. "What? Oh, ri- right." He struggles to his feet, forgetting for a moment that he's under his desk, and bumps his head. "Jesus Christ," he mutters, rubbing what is sure to be a bruise tomorrow.
The archangel cocks his head. Uncanny. "No," he says patiently, "Re-mi-el."
Chuck belatedly realizes his heavenly faux pas and somehow panics his way to his feet. "Sorry, right. Remiel. Not Jes- Remiel, okay. Ah, I'm Chuck. But I guess you know that since you watch me constantly?"
"Nope, I'm just covering your regular guardian for the day, Prophet," Remiel gabs, "Rafael went to spread sinus infections or whatever it is that he does on his days off."
"You guys get vacations?" Castiel just stares at him. "Okay, so heavenly beings are, like, unionized. Can you call in sick if Lucifer rages divine war on Earth and you have a cold?"
They've both got their heads cocked now. Freaks. "You are a strange prophet, Prophet." says Remiel, eyeing the empty bottles of alcohol littered around Chuck's house.
Chuck doesn't know what to say to that, so he just asks if Remiel wants a drink a little too loudly.
"I'd love one! Whiskers'll have some too, but don't let him pick. He always gets pussy Lite shit."
Castiel looks embarrassed (even freakier). "Don't mock my beverage tastes."
It isn't until he reaches one of his booze cabinets in the kitchen that Chuck remembers Remiel is going to melt Castiel off the face of the planet. He grabs whatever he can hold and rushes back into the living room.
Remiel is now sitting on his couch, feet on the coffee table, and Castiel is sitting in his recliner looking more relaxed than Chuck thinks he's ever envisioned him.
This is too weird. Angels, demons, hunters- none of them are normal. Chuck is normal. It's why he never wanted to get too closely involved with the Winchesters- they're so different from him, he'd have no hope at survival. But this? Two chill friends drinking a beer on his couch? Chuck could deal with that without freaking out. Maybe he could get a bit more involved. Maybe he could even convince Remiel to help the Winchesters. Or maybe Chuck's getting ahead of himself, because Remiel suddenly looks like he's going to smoke Castiel after all.
"Cassy, why did you screw with the big plan? You know what I'm supposed to do here."
Chuck thinks this would be the perfect time for him to pull out the gun he has hidden behind his bathroom sink. He would point it - not sideways, holding a gun sideways is for noobs - at Remiel's heart and say get out of my house. Or get out of my living room. Or just GTFO, fool.
Chuck does not do this, because he does not know how to use a gun. He only bought it to feel the weight in his hand to better write shoot-up scenes and besides that, he can't move his feet. He tries, he does, but Remiel blinks and he nearly pees.
Castiel is suddenly not so relaxed. "I had to do what I thought was just. You must know that what the angels are doing is not right."
"I do know that, but you can fight from within, Cassy. I'm working to change things from inside the ranks. You say 'the angels' as if you're excluding yourself from them."
"I do not wish to be part of a group capable of such rash destruction of life."
Remiel looks at him keenly. "Destruction of life, Whiskers? Or destruction of a life? Got a crush?" He grins wickedly at the rosy blush tinging Castiel's cheeks. "Aw, that's so sweet, Whiskers has a crush-"
The front door bursts violently open, tearing off one of its hinges. "CAS!?" Dean cries as he runs into the house. Sam tromps in behind him more warily. "Dean, be careful, who knows-"
They stop.
Remiel's smile had stretched into something resembling the Cheshire cat's when he heard Dean's shout. Castiel's blush had spread and nearly made his face glow. Chuck still has his arms full of random alcohol, his jaw slightly dropped, mourning his trusty door.
"Who the fuck's this asshole?" says Dean.
And so it starts.
"Dean, calm down-"
"Dean, this is Remiel. He is an archangel-"
"He's the shit that's gonna gank you? Gimme your sword Cas, I'll take care of him-"
"For God's sake Dean, let's hear him out, he doesn't LOOK violent-"
"Dean, Remiel is my friend. Sam, I'm glad that you are okay."
"Thanks man, I'm so so- PUT THE GUN DOWN DEAN!"
"HE'S GONNA KILL CAS!"
Remiel chooses this time to select a drink from Chuck's arms and asks him for a bottle opener. Chuck decides not to question why a divine being needs a bottle opener and slips back into the kitchen. He dumps the rest of the alcohol he's holding on the counter and splashes his face clean of perspiration in the sink. When he wanders back in with the bottle opener, everyone is sitting down and it's much quieter. Dean still looks pissed.
"Well," Chuck squeaks and clears his throat, "that's a bit better."
"Sam said he'd tell Bobby," explains Castiel. Dean throws a glare at him. Castiel glares back. Sexual tension rises.
"Anyway," interrupts Remiel, "what happened? Is Brother Lucy on the loose again?"
"Yeah," replies Sam, looking at his huge feet.
Remiel stands up, looking serious again. "Can your pathetic human minds even comprehend what this means?" he hisses.
Castiel looks curious. Sam looks even more downtrodden. Dean reaches for his gun again.
Chuck's still holding the bottle opener. He tries to remember when he holds things, since he tends to drop them on his feet when he forgets.
"END OF THE WORLD PARTY!"
"Can we have three-legged races?" asks Castiel eagerly.
...
Chuck sighs as he brings out the final reserves of booze from underneath his bathroom counter. Dean had needed extra alcohol to recover from his humiliating loss to the angel tag-team in the three-legged race - and to numb the pain of the nose he fell on. Dean blamed Sam for that. Since Chuck had no partner to race with, they decided to tie a chair to his leg. Unfortunately, since Chuck promptly tripped over the chair and came in last place it was decreed that he would have to stay tied to it for the rest of the night. Who was he to argue with the decree of an archangel?
I'm a prophet of the Lord, Chuck thinks glumly as he stumbles (partly from the chair, partly from the alcohol he'd consumed). That ought to count for something.
Remiel had also decreed that they need music, so Chuck had brought him a radio. He promptly set it to a hip-hop station that had Dean gagging and Castiel utterly confused at the lyrics. Sam was just trying to keep his eyes open. OD'ing on demon blood must bring on a hell of a hangover.
When Chuck returns to the living room, he's astounded to see Remiel dancing way too close to Castiel. The lesser, very drunk angel is attempting some form of dance that Chuck could see no pattern in and looks more like he's working just to stay upright.
Remiel grins at Chuck's jaw - hanging open again - and tilts his head to glance behind himself. Chuck twists to see around him. Sam is snoring, sprawling out and over the couch, while Dean hunches on the recliner, glaring at Remiel with such ferocity that Chuck is surprised he hasn't burnt a hole in his head. Maybe archangels are immune to rage-induced laser eyes.
Remiel suddenly backs away from Castiel and grabs Chuck's arm, dragging him back toward the bathroom. "C'mon, I'll help you get that chair off," he says loudly, adding an unnecessary flourishing wink. Chuck turns his head just in time to see Dean stalking toward Castiel before Remiel slams the bathroom door shut.
"Why didn't you tell Dean what Sam was going to do as soon as you found out?" Remiel asks immediately. There is no judgement in his tone, only curiosity.
Chuck figures he owes him an answer for not smoking Castiel. Even if it's a lie. "The archangel - Rafael - would have put a stop to it. It was pointless."
Remiel tilts his head at that. "So if it wasn't for the archangel issue you would help them?"
Chuck ponders this. Toys with the idea of truly being a part of Team Free Will - not hiding behind the daunting warriors he sees in his visions, but standing side-by-side with the men in his living room. Dean isn't a Champion of the Light, he's a man with daddy-issues, is apparently insanely jealous and can only keep his temper in check while killing things. Sam's an addict, Bobby's a grouch, Castiel can't dance. Chuck's a coward, an alcoholic, and can't keep his house clean- why not him? What's stopping him from saving the world? He can't use a gun. Well, if he gets his visions back he could be like the group psychic. If not, he could help research. Reading is one thing Chuck's kinda good at.
Oh God, Chuck just tilted his head while he thought.
"Maybe," sighs Chuck. "But Rafael's around for good, isn't he?"
"I can reassign him."
Chuck is shocked. "Aren't you the same rank?"
Remiel looks smug at this. "He owes me a favor. I'll take his place in 'watching' you."
Why would he do that for you? part of Chuck's mind whispers to him. You're hardly deserving of an archangel's gift. “Um...” You're nothing. He's lying, or playing some prank on you. "...um," Say no! Say no! You know best of all that all the minor characters in your books die - "yeah. Yeah, do it. Please."
Remiel nods and while he works open the knot tying poor Chuck to the chair - or the poor chair to Chuck - he finally starts to feel something like useful again.
...
When they return to the living room - the chair finally free of Chuck - Castiel has Dean pushed up against the wall, one thigh between his legs and their mouths locked. Chuck does a one-eighty toward his bed.
"Prophet?"
Chuck glances back at Remiel. His face is blank, but his eyes are glinting again.
"Try not to let the visions of them screwing each other in your kitchen bug you."
Chuck would decide later that it was the alcohol that caused him to faint. Nothing else.