Fic: The Tribulation of Chuck (5/5)
The epilogue - for real this time.
THE WHOLE 'VERSE IS DONE OH GOD WHAT DO I DO WITH MY HANDS
Title: The Tribulation of Chuck (Part 5/5)
Word Count: 2900
Summary: End credits.
Chuck had written the paragraph dozens of time - hundreds, probably, counting the times in his head. It had been crammed into the margins of notebooks on occasions when he’d been weepy drunk, written on napkins at bars during bad dates and worse nights out alone, and scrawled on the backs of random envelopes on his bedside table at two in the morning. Back before the prophet plot line had begun, he’d always figured it would be the final words of the Supernatural series - someday, when he was ready to be done writing it. The paragraph read:
Sam and Dean finally made it to the Grand Canyon - and not the Morton House kind of Grand Canyon but the literal one, a great divide in the rock of the earth. Dean pulled off the road at a scenic overlook, and they sat on the hood of the car all afternoon, splitting a six-pack while the tourists around them snapped photos and complained about leg cramps. As night fell, Sam put on Led Zeppelin. The two brothers sat on the still sun-warmed hood of the Impala, silently toasting to their mom, each other, and the classics, while the canyon stretched between horizons in front of them.
He’d been right - those were the last words he’d ever write about the Winchesters. The moment he’d written “The End” below them on the Google doc for the climactic Supernatural book (working title: Deus Ex Machina - Sam’s suggestion), he knew the visions were over. The story was done with him.
What surprised Chuck most about the ending was that he wasn’t ready to be done with the story. Parts of the Winchester Gospel had sucked epic amounts of ass to write - never mind being involved in them personally - and he’d earned enough emotional scars in the process to last a lifetime, but…dammit, it was the best thing he’d ever written. And the most successful - hell, the series had like five LiveJournal communities dedicated to it! Plus, y’know, he’d helped save the world. He’d talked with Jesus personally and seen the devil himself drop to his knees seeking redemption. Not many people could say that - except maybe country singers, and Chuck was pretty sure they were speaking metaphorically.
And then there were his characters. Friends. Weird surrogate family. Whatever.
Sam and Dean had taken off the moment everything was settled, and no one faulted them for it. They’d be back eventually, once they’d processed the whole apocalypse thing.
Crowley’s first act upon being resurrected by an angel had been to shake off a case of the willies, smooth the wrinkles out of his Armani jacket, and announce to all his demon chums on the front lawn that they were going out for a post-averted-apocalypse pie run. When the rest of the group got back to Missouri’s, the demons’ tents and things were gone. They didn’t come back in the week that Chuck stayed afterwards, and he suspected Crowley was actually leading them out to that pie shop in Wisconsin - probably trying to get as far as possible from the angel cooties in Lawrence.
Missouri had launched straight into cleanup mode when she got home, repairing broken doors, painting over sigils and demons’ drinks stains on the walls, and replanting her trampled flower beds. Bobby helped, even though everyone knew he didn’t give a damn about antique doors or flower beds. Chuck had gotten about two bars into the “Bobby and Missouri, sitting in a tree” song before Bobby shut him up with the “Your ass, framed on my mantle” song. Chuck pretended not to notice the blush in the old man’s cheeks as he spat out the threat.
As for Castiel… Castiel was different now - not in the ways that Chuck had feared, but in quieter, more subtle ways. He moved more fluidly and held a glass with greater care, as if he might break it. He no longer licked his lips as much - probably because his no-longer-human body could do its own magical Chapstick thing. He tilted his head more, peered more, and observed the world more like it was a strange rock he’d landed on. And he was, overall, quieter, but not in a bad way. It was like those times in the car before, when he’d already spent an hour singing at the top of his lungs and was now content to spend some time watching the landscape slide by outside. In short, he was more like the Castiel that Chuck used to write. But he was still every bit his friend.
At least, Chuck thought so. It was hard to tell. There was so much to do at Missouri’s, and so much for Chuck to write down, that the two of them had been constantly busy, and then Castiel had angeled off to check on Heaven with one of those crappy “Until we meet again” goodbyes. Chuck had always hated those goodbyes in movies. They were such a cop-out. Okay, so the two characters from different worlds had met and bonded and forever changed one another, and now that the action was over, they were just gonna be friends on a “whenever we happen to bump into each other” basis? That sucked. Where was the compromise? Where was the building of common ground to keep them together? It was like Lord of the Rings all over again. Freaking hobbits. Freaking Gimli and Legolas bromance. Freaking Annie Lennox song that always made him cry. The remaining members of the fellowship should’ve held a semi-annual retreat weekend at Aragorn’s new crib, goddammit.
Chuck blinked hard, not sure if he was tearing up over hobbits or his own friends. The road in front of him wavered slightly with tears, then steadied. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and cleared his throat. “So, where do you want me to drop you off?”
Jesus tapped the window, pointing at the IHOP off the interstate. He’d been curled up in the passenger seat of Chuck’s station wagon when Chuck went to leave Missouri’s, a backpack full of spare clothes and paper for origami balloons at his feet and a map of Illinois open in his lap. It was a different sort of road trip with Jesus playing copilot - quieter, calmer, and with a constant stream of commercial-free hits from the mid-80’s playing mysteriously through the speakers. The dude seemed to have a thing for Tears For Fears.
“Okay,” Chuck said, taking the nearest exit. “You do know there’s no Shermer, Illinois?”
Jesus chuckled.
“Just checking.”
They pulled into the IHOP parking lot, and Jesus stuffed the map into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder.
“So,” Chuck said, stopping at the curb, “you owe me thirty bucks for gas.”
Jesus frowned, then shrugged and dug in the front pocket of the backpack, pulling out a canvas wallet Missouri had given him.
Chuck shook his head with a laugh. “No, man, I’m kidding. You saved the world - of course you get a free ride. It’s cool. I just-”
Jesus paused with his hand on the door handle, waiting.
Chuck let out a deep breath. “I just-I’ve got so many questions I want to ask you. What happens now? Is there some other religion’s big bad waiting to step up next? What’s going to happen to the angels? Why are we here? Am I supposed to just go home and pretend all of this never happened? What are you gonna do in Illinois? How did you get to the church from Missouri’s house?”
Jesus smiled and let himself out of the car. The old station wagon groaned. Jesus took a step as if to close the door, then turned around and ducked his head down into Chuck’s line of sight. Extending his arm, he offered a fist bump, and Chuck took it. Jesus opened his lips, and from between them came a hoarse voice:
“Bus pass.”
Grinning broadly, the son of God shut the door and started off toward the front doors of the IHOP.
Chuck sat there with his mouth hanging open for a few seconds. Then he leaned over to the open passenger side window and yelled, “Where did you get a bus pass?”
Jesus waved a hand over his shoulder but didn’t turn back.
Chuck sighed, leaning back in his seat, and said a silent prayer: Take care of yourself. Jesus had left an origami balloon in the footwell of the passenger seat. Chuck picked it up and hung it from the rearview window with a bit of string. Turning off the broken radio, he pulled away from the curb and started the drive home.
***
Chuck’s ramshackle house was even more ramshackle than he’d left it - so much so that he almost didn’t recognize it. If the route home hadn’t been programmed into his mental autopilot feature from decades of living there, he might’ve missed the driveway. The front lawn was a meadow of tall grass and nettles, the driveway scattered with shingles and cardboard. Someone had covered the gaping hole in the side of the house with a haphazardly nailed tarp, and someone else had evidently looted the garage.
Suckers. He didn’t have anything worth stealing in there - all the valuable action figures were wrapped in plastic in his spare bedroom.
Chuck pulled into his driveway, shuffled up the walk, yanked the “Abandoned Building” notice off the front door, and put his key in the lock. The door fought against him in its usual stubborn door way - at least that was one thing that hadn’t changed. He manhandled the doorknob, shoved his shoulder against the door, and slammed it behind himself.
He stood for a minute in the entryway, breathing in the lingering smell of old carpet and liquor and trying to ignore the pigeons roosting on the mantle beside his mother’s antique lamp.
“I’m home,” he called, to no one in particular, and dropped his keys on the shelf next to the door. They fell with a clink to the floor. Oh, right - the archangel smote that shelf. The archangel had smote almost everything he could see, actually - and what it hadn’t touched, the local wildlife had turned into food or nests. He thought he heard a raccoon shuffling around in the kitchen.
Well, that was…disconcerting. Oh, well. All he had to do was call Animal Control, and that’d be fixed soon enough. And call the city to let them know his house wasn’t abandoned. And the cable and electric companies, to pay his outstanding debts. No biggie.
Chuck shucked off his shoes by the door and tromped upstairs. The second floor was scattered with leaves, and it took until he reached his bedroom to figure out where they’d come from - a goddamn tree branch had fallen through the wall over his bed, probably knocked down by some apocalyptic storm or other.
Crap. Okay. This was fine. The world wasn’t over, he was home, and it would all be okay in the end. He’d go back to his normal life, maybe accept one of those convention invites to sell more books, and pay to get all the damages fixed. He could do it. And then he’d have his old life back in, what? Three months, tops. It would be easy to slip back into - writing fueled by cheap liquor, avoiding fan mail and creditors, watching Xena: Warrior Princess reruns until 2am. A quiet, not particularly notable life.
Chuck’s favorite bathrobe was lying in a lump on the floor. He picked it up, shook the squirrel droppings off it, and wrapped it around himself, sitting down on the edge of his bed. Dead leaves crunched beneath him, and a twig prodded his arm. He grabbed the whole branch it was attached to, tore off what he could, and threw it across the room.
Curling up on his bed, the former prophet broke down and cried.
***
The city courthouse’s hold music was smooth jazz, which made Chuck think they wanted him to be pissed off by the time they patched him through to whoever he needed to talk to about this abandoned house thing. He paced the newly swept floor of his bedroom, then out onto the landing, then into the guest room and back, running over his story in his head.
Missing for four months. No recollection at all of what happened. Possible psychotic break or head injury.
Amnesia - classic. He hadn’t used that trope nearly as much as he would’ve liked to in his writing, thanks to the Winchesters and their stupid thick skulls that seemed impervious to brain injuries. It seemed to be serving him well now, though - so far the electric company and one concerned neighbor had already bought it.
Chuck was just starting down the stairs when the jazz cut out and a cheerful voice said, “Good morning, Mr. Shurley. My name is Kelly. I’m told you need to get some things sorted out with the status of your home?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “Y’see, I’ve, uh, sort of been a missing person for the last four months, and I just got home last night to find this notice on my do-” He stopped cold, almost slipping on the next step.
Castiel stood in the middle of the living room, reading something on yellowed paper. He was wearing his old trench coat, now over a pair of jeans and his hand-me-down Bad Religion t-shirt.
“Sir?” said Kelly, on the other end of the line.
“I, uh…hold on a sec,” Chuck said, covering the phone’s mouthpiece with his hand. Then, to Castiel: “Hey.”
“Hello, Chuck,” said the angel, not looking up. He turned the page on the thing he was reading, and Chuck caught sight of a colored pencil drawing on the next page.
“What’re you reading?”
“A story,” Castiel answered, glancing up at him with a smile. “About a young boy named Chuck whose best friend is a dinosaur unstuck in time.”
Oh good freaking lord. Chuck swallowed, rushing down the rest of the stairs, and grabbed the pages out of Castiel’s hand. “Don’t read that. It’s crap.”
“I enjoyed it,” Castiel said, frowning at the empty space between his hands where the pages had been. “That was my third read-through. I think it would make an excellent basis for a novel.”
Chuck scoffed, gave the pages a moment’s consideration, then shook his head. “Nobody wants to read that.”
“I would,” Castiel said sincerely.
“Mr. Shurley?” said the phone.
Chuck brought it back to his ear. “Yeah, sorry, just another minute.” Covering the mouthpiece again, he hissed, “I thought you were supposed to be in Heaven.”
“I was. For a few difficult months.” The angel flicked a leaf off the couch that Chuck had found him lying across back in May. “Time passes differently there.”
“So…shouldn’t you be catching up with your boyfriend?”
“Dean is with Sam. I’ll see him when they return from their family vacation. Anyway, I have more important business here.”
Chuck’s chest clenched. “What is it? Did Lucifer get out again? Are we all gonna die? Oh god, we’re all gonna die, aren’t we?”
“Um, sir?” said the phone. He ignored it.
“Actually,” Castiel said, drawing something out of his trench coat pocket, “I had to give you this.”
Chuck reached out, and the angel dropped the object into his hand - a cassette of Ace of Base’s The Sign, still in its original case. He didn’t know what to say.
Castiel moved to the door and opened it. “I thought it would be a good soundtrack for a road trip.”
Chuck turned the cassette over in his hand, letting his grip slip on the phone. “Where to?” he said.
Castiel shrugged. “Anywhere we like. There’s a whole world out there, still intact. And eons of time at my disposal.” He gave Chuck a sly look over his shoulder, letting himself out the front door. “In case you’d like to, say, meet a real dinosaur. For book research.”
Chuck stood there for a minute with the phone dangling from his right hand and the Ace of Base tape clutched in his left.
“Mr. Shurley?” said the phone.
Castiel leaned back into the doorway, giving him a curious look. “Well? Are you coming?”
Chuck raised the phone to his ear, licked his lips, and said, “Uh, Kelly?”
“Yes?”
“Never mind. Thanks for your time.” Hanging up the phone, Chuck let it fall to the floor.
Castiel grinned.
Grabbing his shoes and a spare notebook from the mess in the living room, Chuck locked up his house for the last time and followed the angel outside.
As they pulled out of the driveway in the station wagon, Castiel asked, “So, where should we start?”
Chuck surveyed the road in front of them and felt his heart pounding in his chest. Passing his best friend the Ace of Base tape and a grin, he said, “How about side A?”
THE END.
THE WHOLE 'VERSE IS DONE OH GOD WHAT DO I DO WITH MY HANDS
Title: The Tribulation of Chuck (Part 5/5)
Word Count: 2900
Summary: End credits.
Chuck had written the paragraph dozens of time - hundreds, probably, counting the times in his head. It had been crammed into the margins of notebooks on occasions when he’d been weepy drunk, written on napkins at bars during bad dates and worse nights out alone, and scrawled on the backs of random envelopes on his bedside table at two in the morning. Back before the prophet plot line had begun, he’d always figured it would be the final words of the Supernatural series - someday, when he was ready to be done writing it. The paragraph read:
Sam and Dean finally made it to the Grand Canyon - and not the Morton House kind of Grand Canyon but the literal one, a great divide in the rock of the earth. Dean pulled off the road at a scenic overlook, and they sat on the hood of the car all afternoon, splitting a six-pack while the tourists around them snapped photos and complained about leg cramps. As night fell, Sam put on Led Zeppelin. The two brothers sat on the still sun-warmed hood of the Impala, silently toasting to their mom, each other, and the classics, while the canyon stretched between horizons in front of them.
He’d been right - those were the last words he’d ever write about the Winchesters. The moment he’d written “The End” below them on the Google doc for the climactic Supernatural book (working title: Deus Ex Machina - Sam’s suggestion), he knew the visions were over. The story was done with him.
What surprised Chuck most about the ending was that he wasn’t ready to be done with the story. Parts of the Winchester Gospel had sucked epic amounts of ass to write - never mind being involved in them personally - and he’d earned enough emotional scars in the process to last a lifetime, but…dammit, it was the best thing he’d ever written. And the most successful - hell, the series had like five LiveJournal communities dedicated to it! Plus, y’know, he’d helped save the world. He’d talked with Jesus personally and seen the devil himself drop to his knees seeking redemption. Not many people could say that - except maybe country singers, and Chuck was pretty sure they were speaking metaphorically.
And then there were his characters. Friends. Weird surrogate family. Whatever.
Sam and Dean had taken off the moment everything was settled, and no one faulted them for it. They’d be back eventually, once they’d processed the whole apocalypse thing.
Crowley’s first act upon being resurrected by an angel had been to shake off a case of the willies, smooth the wrinkles out of his Armani jacket, and announce to all his demon chums on the front lawn that they were going out for a post-averted-apocalypse pie run. When the rest of the group got back to Missouri’s, the demons’ tents and things were gone. They didn’t come back in the week that Chuck stayed afterwards, and he suspected Crowley was actually leading them out to that pie shop in Wisconsin - probably trying to get as far as possible from the angel cooties in Lawrence.
Missouri had launched straight into cleanup mode when she got home, repairing broken doors, painting over sigils and demons’ drinks stains on the walls, and replanting her trampled flower beds. Bobby helped, even though everyone knew he didn’t give a damn about antique doors or flower beds. Chuck had gotten about two bars into the “Bobby and Missouri, sitting in a tree” song before Bobby shut him up with the “Your ass, framed on my mantle” song. Chuck pretended not to notice the blush in the old man’s cheeks as he spat out the threat.
As for Castiel… Castiel was different now - not in the ways that Chuck had feared, but in quieter, more subtle ways. He moved more fluidly and held a glass with greater care, as if he might break it. He no longer licked his lips as much - probably because his no-longer-human body could do its own magical Chapstick thing. He tilted his head more, peered more, and observed the world more like it was a strange rock he’d landed on. And he was, overall, quieter, but not in a bad way. It was like those times in the car before, when he’d already spent an hour singing at the top of his lungs and was now content to spend some time watching the landscape slide by outside. In short, he was more like the Castiel that Chuck used to write. But he was still every bit his friend.
At least, Chuck thought so. It was hard to tell. There was so much to do at Missouri’s, and so much for Chuck to write down, that the two of them had been constantly busy, and then Castiel had angeled off to check on Heaven with one of those crappy “Until we meet again” goodbyes. Chuck had always hated those goodbyes in movies. They were such a cop-out. Okay, so the two characters from different worlds had met and bonded and forever changed one another, and now that the action was over, they were just gonna be friends on a “whenever we happen to bump into each other” basis? That sucked. Where was the compromise? Where was the building of common ground to keep them together? It was like Lord of the Rings all over again. Freaking hobbits. Freaking Gimli and Legolas bromance. Freaking Annie Lennox song that always made him cry. The remaining members of the fellowship should’ve held a semi-annual retreat weekend at Aragorn’s new crib, goddammit.
Chuck blinked hard, not sure if he was tearing up over hobbits or his own friends. The road in front of him wavered slightly with tears, then steadied. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and cleared his throat. “So, where do you want me to drop you off?”
Jesus tapped the window, pointing at the IHOP off the interstate. He’d been curled up in the passenger seat of Chuck’s station wagon when Chuck went to leave Missouri’s, a backpack full of spare clothes and paper for origami balloons at his feet and a map of Illinois open in his lap. It was a different sort of road trip with Jesus playing copilot - quieter, calmer, and with a constant stream of commercial-free hits from the mid-80’s playing mysteriously through the speakers. The dude seemed to have a thing for Tears For Fears.
“Okay,” Chuck said, taking the nearest exit. “You do know there’s no Shermer, Illinois?”
Jesus chuckled.
“Just checking.”
They pulled into the IHOP parking lot, and Jesus stuffed the map into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder.
“So,” Chuck said, stopping at the curb, “you owe me thirty bucks for gas.”
Jesus frowned, then shrugged and dug in the front pocket of the backpack, pulling out a canvas wallet Missouri had given him.
Chuck shook his head with a laugh. “No, man, I’m kidding. You saved the world - of course you get a free ride. It’s cool. I just-”
Jesus paused with his hand on the door handle, waiting.
Chuck let out a deep breath. “I just-I’ve got so many questions I want to ask you. What happens now? Is there some other religion’s big bad waiting to step up next? What’s going to happen to the angels? Why are we here? Am I supposed to just go home and pretend all of this never happened? What are you gonna do in Illinois? How did you get to the church from Missouri’s house?”
Jesus smiled and let himself out of the car. The old station wagon groaned. Jesus took a step as if to close the door, then turned around and ducked his head down into Chuck’s line of sight. Extending his arm, he offered a fist bump, and Chuck took it. Jesus opened his lips, and from between them came a hoarse voice:
“Bus pass.”
Grinning broadly, the son of God shut the door and started off toward the front doors of the IHOP.
Chuck sat there with his mouth hanging open for a few seconds. Then he leaned over to the open passenger side window and yelled, “Where did you get a bus pass?”
Jesus waved a hand over his shoulder but didn’t turn back.
Chuck sighed, leaning back in his seat, and said a silent prayer: Take care of yourself. Jesus had left an origami balloon in the footwell of the passenger seat. Chuck picked it up and hung it from the rearview window with a bit of string. Turning off the broken radio, he pulled away from the curb and started the drive home.
***
Chuck’s ramshackle house was even more ramshackle than he’d left it - so much so that he almost didn’t recognize it. If the route home hadn’t been programmed into his mental autopilot feature from decades of living there, he might’ve missed the driveway. The front lawn was a meadow of tall grass and nettles, the driveway scattered with shingles and cardboard. Someone had covered the gaping hole in the side of the house with a haphazardly nailed tarp, and someone else had evidently looted the garage.
Suckers. He didn’t have anything worth stealing in there - all the valuable action figures were wrapped in plastic in his spare bedroom.
Chuck pulled into his driveway, shuffled up the walk, yanked the “Abandoned Building” notice off the front door, and put his key in the lock. The door fought against him in its usual stubborn door way - at least that was one thing that hadn’t changed. He manhandled the doorknob, shoved his shoulder against the door, and slammed it behind himself.
He stood for a minute in the entryway, breathing in the lingering smell of old carpet and liquor and trying to ignore the pigeons roosting on the mantle beside his mother’s antique lamp.
“I’m home,” he called, to no one in particular, and dropped his keys on the shelf next to the door. They fell with a clink to the floor. Oh, right - the archangel smote that shelf. The archangel had smote almost everything he could see, actually - and what it hadn’t touched, the local wildlife had turned into food or nests. He thought he heard a raccoon shuffling around in the kitchen.
Well, that was…disconcerting. Oh, well. All he had to do was call Animal Control, and that’d be fixed soon enough. And call the city to let them know his house wasn’t abandoned. And the cable and electric companies, to pay his outstanding debts. No biggie.
Chuck shucked off his shoes by the door and tromped upstairs. The second floor was scattered with leaves, and it took until he reached his bedroom to figure out where they’d come from - a goddamn tree branch had fallen through the wall over his bed, probably knocked down by some apocalyptic storm or other.
Crap. Okay. This was fine. The world wasn’t over, he was home, and it would all be okay in the end. He’d go back to his normal life, maybe accept one of those convention invites to sell more books, and pay to get all the damages fixed. He could do it. And then he’d have his old life back in, what? Three months, tops. It would be easy to slip back into - writing fueled by cheap liquor, avoiding fan mail and creditors, watching Xena: Warrior Princess reruns until 2am. A quiet, not particularly notable life.
Chuck’s favorite bathrobe was lying in a lump on the floor. He picked it up, shook the squirrel droppings off it, and wrapped it around himself, sitting down on the edge of his bed. Dead leaves crunched beneath him, and a twig prodded his arm. He grabbed the whole branch it was attached to, tore off what he could, and threw it across the room.
Curling up on his bed, the former prophet broke down and cried.
***
The city courthouse’s hold music was smooth jazz, which made Chuck think they wanted him to be pissed off by the time they patched him through to whoever he needed to talk to about this abandoned house thing. He paced the newly swept floor of his bedroom, then out onto the landing, then into the guest room and back, running over his story in his head.
Missing for four months. No recollection at all of what happened. Possible psychotic break or head injury.
Amnesia - classic. He hadn’t used that trope nearly as much as he would’ve liked to in his writing, thanks to the Winchesters and their stupid thick skulls that seemed impervious to brain injuries. It seemed to be serving him well now, though - so far the electric company and one concerned neighbor had already bought it.
Chuck was just starting down the stairs when the jazz cut out and a cheerful voice said, “Good morning, Mr. Shurley. My name is Kelly. I’m told you need to get some things sorted out with the status of your home?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “Y’see, I’ve, uh, sort of been a missing person for the last four months, and I just got home last night to find this notice on my do-” He stopped cold, almost slipping on the next step.
Castiel stood in the middle of the living room, reading something on yellowed paper. He was wearing his old trench coat, now over a pair of jeans and his hand-me-down Bad Religion t-shirt.
“Sir?” said Kelly, on the other end of the line.
“I, uh…hold on a sec,” Chuck said, covering the phone’s mouthpiece with his hand. Then, to Castiel: “Hey.”
“Hello, Chuck,” said the angel, not looking up. He turned the page on the thing he was reading, and Chuck caught sight of a colored pencil drawing on the next page.
“What’re you reading?”
“A story,” Castiel answered, glancing up at him with a smile. “About a young boy named Chuck whose best friend is a dinosaur unstuck in time.”
Oh good freaking lord. Chuck swallowed, rushing down the rest of the stairs, and grabbed the pages out of Castiel’s hand. “Don’t read that. It’s crap.”
“I enjoyed it,” Castiel said, frowning at the empty space between his hands where the pages had been. “That was my third read-through. I think it would make an excellent basis for a novel.”
Chuck scoffed, gave the pages a moment’s consideration, then shook his head. “Nobody wants to read that.”
“I would,” Castiel said sincerely.
“Mr. Shurley?” said the phone.
Chuck brought it back to his ear. “Yeah, sorry, just another minute.” Covering the mouthpiece again, he hissed, “I thought you were supposed to be in Heaven.”
“I was. For a few difficult months.” The angel flicked a leaf off the couch that Chuck had found him lying across back in May. “Time passes differently there.”
“So…shouldn’t you be catching up with your boyfriend?”
“Dean is with Sam. I’ll see him when they return from their family vacation. Anyway, I have more important business here.”
Chuck’s chest clenched. “What is it? Did Lucifer get out again? Are we all gonna die? Oh god, we’re all gonna die, aren’t we?”
“Um, sir?” said the phone. He ignored it.
“Actually,” Castiel said, drawing something out of his trench coat pocket, “I had to give you this.”
Chuck reached out, and the angel dropped the object into his hand - a cassette of Ace of Base’s The Sign, still in its original case. He didn’t know what to say.
Castiel moved to the door and opened it. “I thought it would be a good soundtrack for a road trip.”
Chuck turned the cassette over in his hand, letting his grip slip on the phone. “Where to?” he said.
Castiel shrugged. “Anywhere we like. There’s a whole world out there, still intact. And eons of time at my disposal.” He gave Chuck a sly look over his shoulder, letting himself out the front door. “In case you’d like to, say, meet a real dinosaur. For book research.”
Chuck stood there for a minute with the phone dangling from his right hand and the Ace of Base tape clutched in his left.
“Mr. Shurley?” said the phone.
Castiel leaned back into the doorway, giving him a curious look. “Well? Are you coming?”
Chuck raised the phone to his ear, licked his lips, and said, “Uh, Kelly?”
“Yes?”
“Never mind. Thanks for your time.” Hanging up the phone, Chuck let it fall to the floor.
Castiel grinned.
Grabbing his shoes and a spare notebook from the mess in the living room, Chuck locked up his house for the last time and followed the angel outside.
As they pulled out of the driveway in the station wagon, Castiel asked, “So, where should we start?”
Chuck surveyed the road in front of them and felt his heart pounding in his chest. Passing his best friend the Ace of Base tape and a grin, he said, “How about side A?”
THE END.