You Win or You Hide, 3/?
Title: You Win or You Hide, 3/?
or,
The Adventures of Charlie and Chuck in the Mysterious Kingdom
Author: reading_is_in
Chars: Charlie, Chuck, Crowley, ensemble.
Pairings: (later) Cas/Dean, Charlie/Anna
Rating: PG
Genre: Crack, Adventure, AU
A/N: What, Jude, I hear you cry - why are you posting fic instead of working on your thesis? Well, I wrote this installment in something pointless I had to attend. It looked like I was taking notes. Reminds me of my entire high school career.
3. Charlie
“Charles. And his sister Charlie,” she shook her head. “Really, Chuck? Really?”
“I panicked!”
“Why didn’t you make up a name?”
Chuck sighed. “I have a really bad imagination.”
They were locked in adjoining cells, with iron bars between them, bars in front of them facing a central corridor and stone at their backs. Each cell had a pallet, a chamber pot and a water jug. The only light came from a window at the far end of the corridor. It was cold.
“Will your father really ransom us?” Charlie asked in a small voice.
“Well,” said Chuck after a pause. “He liked you.”
“He liked me?”
“Oh yeah. Trust me. By dad’s standards, that was like.”
“Huh.”
They fell silent for an indeterminate time.
“What do you suppose will happen now?” Charlie asked.
“They’ll send horses to my father’s homestead. If he’s feeling especially generous, he might help us. If he doen’t answer they’ll kill us.”
A sob rose in Charlie’s throat. She hated Meg more than she’d ever hated anyone. How - why - for a few pieces of gold - the respect of the awful Azazel - she would get them murdered? How could anyone be so wicked?
It was her fault. Clearly, she knew nothing about the world, and Chuck had tried to warn her. “Do you hate me? she asked quietly.
“No,” said Chuck: “I should have stopped you.”
Charlie frowned. That didn’t sound right at all. But she grew hungier and colder, exhausted but unable to sleep, and she wished - she wished she’d never -
“Why would he say Castiel was dead?” she asked abruptly. Chuck was licking the tin platter from the last bits of porridge they’d been given. He lowered it from his face:
“Maybe he is.”
“How would Azazel know?”
“Maybe he killed him.”
Just as Charlie was starting to think, for the first time in her life, that this was truly the end of the line, the clink of chains from the corridor made her look up abruptly. A hunched figure was marched past in chains between two bronze-plated guards. Even bent as he was, with his face concealed, Charlie recognised the lanky frame and shaggy hair. The exclamation “Sam!” rose to her lips. She stifled it. She must have made some sound, however, because Sam’s head turned just enough for her to catch his eye. He looked different - darker and dirtier- but he was still in his armor. To her surprise, Charlie saw he was armed. He made no attempt to break free from his guards though. When their eyes met, Sam’s widened with recognition. Charlie quelled herself, but once the guard passed, she slapped the bars of her cell and hissed,
“Chuck!”
“What? What?” Chuck sprang awake.
“Sam Winchester is here.”
“What? Where?” Chuck looked all around as though he expected to be rescued at any moment.
“Well not here here,” Charlie admitted. “I mean here at the castle. He’s a prisoner, like us.”
Chuck stared at her. “That’s the good news?”
“The good news is he’s not dead,” Charlie pointed out. “And if Sam’s here, so must Dean be.”
“It’s more likely,” Chuck said slowly. “I can’t see why they’d keep one alive and not the other.”
“So,” Charlie brightened: “now we just all need a way to get out and find Castiel.”
Chuck thought. Then he said: “You know, ridiculous as that sounds, the fact that we’ve made it this far is pretty ridiculous. So what the hell,” he shrugged. “What’s your plan?”
“I haven’t gotten that far yet. But look, it’s the Winchesters. They’ll be working on one right now.”
A short while later, Sam was escorted back through the passage. Charlie stared at him, but this time he deliberately didn’t look at her. There were splashes of blood on his breastplate, but he moved unhampered. ‘He’s fighting? Why? For who?’ Charlie’s mind spun with questions.
That night - Charlie thought it was night from the light quality - the slave paused when she came to empty the chamberpots. The slave was young, pretty, kept her eyes on the floor and her hair over her face. From the dirt on her skin and the look in her eyes, it didn’t seem likely she bore any love to Azazel.
“Hi,” Charlie said, thinking that any friend couldn’t be a bad thing. The girl ignored her.
“I’m Charlie,” Charlie offered. The girl paused, didn’t turn around. But she blew out her breath and looked left and right. Chuck came up to the bars.
“Are you okay?” he tried. The girl said nothing. But the next night she was back, and this time she stopped in Chuck’s cell:
“Your friend says to say yes.” Her voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible. Charlie sprung up and pressed closer. It was Chuck who had been addressed, but she took charge:
“Yes? Yes to what? What friends? You’ve seen the Winchesters?”
“Shh,” said the girl frantically: “Keep your voice down. I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”
“You’ve seen the Winchesters?” Charlie asked again, more quietly.
“Yes,” whispered the girl. “Dean Winchester says: when they ask you, say yes.”
“Yes to what?” asked Chuck.
“That’s all I know,” the girl lied badly. She sucked her thin lips in.
“Please!” Charlie begged. “Yes to what? You have to help us,” but the girl shook her head, clutched the chamber pot tighter and scurried out of the cells.
They got the answer soon enough.
“You!” a guard pointed at Chuck with a thin blade. “Can you fight? Shoot? Joust?”
Chuck blinked, and Charlie coughed loudly.
“YES,” said Chuck.
“Can you wield a sword?”
“….yes,” said Chuck.
“Alright come with me. We’re down three competitors.” The guard let himself into Chuck’s cell and clicked a single manacle around his right wrist. The manacle was attached to a chain, which the guard kept hold of. Then he showed Chuck the door.
“I can fight too,” Charlie called. It was almost true. She’d had a few lessons with a short blade when she was younger, just enough to defend herself in a fair fight with a single assailant. She could also shoot well enough.
“You’re a woman,” the guard looked her over.
“So?”
“No place for women in the lists.”
“Lists?” squeaked Chuck.
“Aye, the lists! How else is Lord Azazel like to find his champion?”
4. Chuck
“Probably I shouldn’t joust today,” Chuck said to the page who was lacing his breastplate. “ Not that I can't, of course. I just mean, it’s been a while since I’ve jousted, and, well. it takes time to get back in the way of things. Oh, and you know, I think my toe is sore, my big toe…that’s the one I use for spurring? I probably sprained it. Maybe I should just watch the others today?”
“Get on with it,” said the guard from the doorway. “You can fight or you can get back in the cell, which is it?”
“Yes sir,” said Chuck. “I mean, fight sir.” The guard grunted. The page was silent: a grim-faced boy of fourteen or fifteen, he bore more than a passing resemblance to the horses behind them. Azazel kept a fine stable, at least twenty horses with black and bronze coats, fiery eyes and the sigil of the Eye on their accoutrements. One thing Chuck could admit for the man: he had a sense of style.
Chuck was wearing armour. It was - heavier than it looked, tin plate with no emblem and nothing distinctive about it. “Lance,” grunted the page, and shoved a thin blade at Chuck. Chuck dodged, then realized he was supposed to take it. He had jousted exactly once before, forced into it by his older brother, and he wondered if this was simply a plan to kill him by entertaining means.
He took the lance and mounted the charger brought out for him. It was a stallion: black, sleek and extremely powerful. Chuck gave the forward command and the horse snorted shook his mane derisively, prancing in place a little. Chuck’s visor clanged down across his face.
“’E don’t like your chances,” said the page, grinning to show a gap between his front teeth. "And 'e don't like to lose."
“Out you go!” the guards opened the stable doors and Chuck had no choice but to urge the stallion out into the tourney grounds. It was a bright cool day, and many of Azazel’s retinue had turned out to fill the stands. Azazel himself sat on a dais decorated by his flags. Meg was not him, Chuck noticed, and quickly scanned the lists. He caught sight of her in the ordinary stands, a horn of ale in one hand. She grinned nastily and waved at him. Chuck had a lance in one hand and a shield in the other, but for some strange reason, his initial impulse was to wave back.
At the other end of the jousting field was a man on horseback. At least his armour was plain too - less likely a knight then.
“Andrew of Gallagher versus Charles Shurley!” called a herald, and a trumpet blew. “Charge the first!” Andrew of Gallagher surged forward. Chuck froze, squeezed his eyes shut and gripped his lance, but the stallion had decided they were playing. The great horse charged, and Chuck held on. Hooves thundered beneath him. the crowd’s roar blurred in his ears, and he felt sick - the other rider passed in a rush of air, and then they were circling, trotting, at the far end of the lists.
“No strike!” called the herald.
‘I’m still alive!’ The crowd booed. The herald’s trumpet sounded again:
“Charge the second!”
This time Chuck had a plan. Giving up any thought of knocking the other man off his horse, he simple lurched to the left to avoid his opponent’s lance. Andrew’s weapon glanced off the side of his breastplate as they passed. The crowd booed louder, and the great stallion seemed to agree - he snorted and shook Chuck angrily.
“Charge the third!”
On the last charge Chuck managed to avoid the lance entirely, though he almost fell off his horse.
“Craven!” called the crowd: “Cowardice!”
Chuck raised a hand meekly in acknowledgment. That got him a few laughs, at least. The stallion had had enough - he bucked, neighing angrily, and Chuck hit dirt. The back of his head clanged against his helmet and his teeth jarred together, pain ricocheting through his skull. Dimly, he was aware of the crowd laughing harder. When the stars cleared from his vision, Andrew of Gallagher was standing over him. With his visor up, Chuck saw that the other man was young, with wide brown eyes and a friendly face.
“What are you doing?” asked Andrew.
“I’m not a knight,” Chuck groaned, struggling for breath: “I’m just trying not to get killed.”
“Well - what do you think Lord Azazel does to the losers?” Andrew offered a hand and helped Chuck up.
“Uh - sends them home with a consolation prize, maybe?”
Andrew rolled his eyes. “This is a death match. An elimination process. I didn’t knock you off your horse, so you didn’t lose, exactly, but you won’t get another chance.”
“Oh,” said Chuck, then, “Wait!” as Andrew turned to go. “Have you seen a pair of knights from the Northlands? Brothers?”
“The Winchesters? Of course. Who hasn’t? I’ll introduce you at the tournament quarters.”
*
The quarters, where Chuck was escorted after the joust, were definitely a step up from the prison. They were barracks, bolted from outside and guarded by Azazel’s men, but inside there was food and water and pallet beds and even a hearth. The windows were barred, but at least light got in. Chuck was allowed to clean himself up, then Andrew led him into the main hall.
Pallets lined either side of the long room. Several were occupied: men lounged or played at cards or stared moodily out of the window. even unarmed, they looked like knights: tall and well-muscled. Some gave Chuck a derisive glance and others ignored him.
“I know,” said Andrew, when Chuck looked at him again: “I’m primarily an archer.”
“How long have you been here?” Chuck asked.
“Eight nights. I won’t last much longer.”
Chuck supposed he should say: “Of course you will!” but really, that was groundless, so he said, “You might if you fight me again.”
One of the real knights snorted.
“So - the Winchesters?” Chuck prompted.
“Back room,” said another man, gesturing with a thumb to a wooden door adjoining. “Shacked up together as usual.” There were general sniggers. “Think they’re better than us.”
“They are better than us,” Andrew pointed, “Better warriors, I mean.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“O-kay,” Chuck edged towards the door. “I’m gonna go in here now.” There were no locks in the interior, so he scurried inside. It was smaller and dimmer in this room, dull without a window.
Sir Dean Winchester himself looked up from his wine and said to Chuck,
“Who the hell are you?”
or,
The Adventures of Charlie and Chuck in the Mysterious Kingdom
Author: reading_is_in
Chars: Charlie, Chuck, Crowley, ensemble.
Pairings: (later) Cas/Dean, Charlie/Anna
Rating: PG
Genre: Crack, Adventure, AU
A/N: What, Jude, I hear you cry - why are you posting fic instead of working on your thesis? Well, I wrote this installment in something pointless I had to attend. It looked like I was taking notes. Reminds me of my entire high school career.
3. Charlie
“Charles. And his sister Charlie,” she shook her head. “Really, Chuck? Really?”
“I panicked!”
“Why didn’t you make up a name?”
Chuck sighed. “I have a really bad imagination.”
They were locked in adjoining cells, with iron bars between them, bars in front of them facing a central corridor and stone at their backs. Each cell had a pallet, a chamber pot and a water jug. The only light came from a window at the far end of the corridor. It was cold.
“Will your father really ransom us?” Charlie asked in a small voice.
“Well,” said Chuck after a pause. “He liked you.”
“He liked me?”
“Oh yeah. Trust me. By dad’s standards, that was like.”
“Huh.”
They fell silent for an indeterminate time.
“What do you suppose will happen now?” Charlie asked.
“They’ll send horses to my father’s homestead. If he’s feeling especially generous, he might help us. If he doen’t answer they’ll kill us.”
A sob rose in Charlie’s throat. She hated Meg more than she’d ever hated anyone. How - why - for a few pieces of gold - the respect of the awful Azazel - she would get them murdered? How could anyone be so wicked?
It was her fault. Clearly, she knew nothing about the world, and Chuck had tried to warn her. “Do you hate me? she asked quietly.
“No,” said Chuck: “I should have stopped you.”
Charlie frowned. That didn’t sound right at all. But she grew hungier and colder, exhausted but unable to sleep, and she wished - she wished she’d never -
“Why would he say Castiel was dead?” she asked abruptly. Chuck was licking the tin platter from the last bits of porridge they’d been given. He lowered it from his face:
“Maybe he is.”
“How would Azazel know?”
“Maybe he killed him.”
Just as Charlie was starting to think, for the first time in her life, that this was truly the end of the line, the clink of chains from the corridor made her look up abruptly. A hunched figure was marched past in chains between two bronze-plated guards. Even bent as he was, with his face concealed, Charlie recognised the lanky frame and shaggy hair. The exclamation “Sam!” rose to her lips. She stifled it. She must have made some sound, however, because Sam’s head turned just enough for her to catch his eye. He looked different - darker and dirtier- but he was still in his armor. To her surprise, Charlie saw he was armed. He made no attempt to break free from his guards though. When their eyes met, Sam’s widened with recognition. Charlie quelled herself, but once the guard passed, she slapped the bars of her cell and hissed,
“Chuck!”
“What? What?” Chuck sprang awake.
“Sam Winchester is here.”
“What? Where?” Chuck looked all around as though he expected to be rescued at any moment.
“Well not here here,” Charlie admitted. “I mean here at the castle. He’s a prisoner, like us.”
Chuck stared at her. “That’s the good news?”
“The good news is he’s not dead,” Charlie pointed out. “And if Sam’s here, so must Dean be.”
“It’s more likely,” Chuck said slowly. “I can’t see why they’d keep one alive and not the other.”
“So,” Charlie brightened: “now we just all need a way to get out and find Castiel.”
Chuck thought. Then he said: “You know, ridiculous as that sounds, the fact that we’ve made it this far is pretty ridiculous. So what the hell,” he shrugged. “What’s your plan?”
“I haven’t gotten that far yet. But look, it’s the Winchesters. They’ll be working on one right now.”
A short while later, Sam was escorted back through the passage. Charlie stared at him, but this time he deliberately didn’t look at her. There were splashes of blood on his breastplate, but he moved unhampered. ‘He’s fighting? Why? For who?’ Charlie’s mind spun with questions.
That night - Charlie thought it was night from the light quality - the slave paused when she came to empty the chamberpots. The slave was young, pretty, kept her eyes on the floor and her hair over her face. From the dirt on her skin and the look in her eyes, it didn’t seem likely she bore any love to Azazel.
“Hi,” Charlie said, thinking that any friend couldn’t be a bad thing. The girl ignored her.
“I’m Charlie,” Charlie offered. The girl paused, didn’t turn around. But she blew out her breath and looked left and right. Chuck came up to the bars.
“Are you okay?” he tried. The girl said nothing. But the next night she was back, and this time she stopped in Chuck’s cell:
“Your friend says to say yes.” Her voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible. Charlie sprung up and pressed closer. It was Chuck who had been addressed, but she took charge:
“Yes? Yes to what? What friends? You’ve seen the Winchesters?”
“Shh,” said the girl frantically: “Keep your voice down. I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”
“You’ve seen the Winchesters?” Charlie asked again, more quietly.
“Yes,” whispered the girl. “Dean Winchester says: when they ask you, say yes.”
“Yes to what?” asked Chuck.
“That’s all I know,” the girl lied badly. She sucked her thin lips in.
“Please!” Charlie begged. “Yes to what? You have to help us,” but the girl shook her head, clutched the chamber pot tighter and scurried out of the cells.
They got the answer soon enough.
“You!” a guard pointed at Chuck with a thin blade. “Can you fight? Shoot? Joust?”
Chuck blinked, and Charlie coughed loudly.
“YES,” said Chuck.
“Can you wield a sword?”
“….yes,” said Chuck.
“Alright come with me. We’re down three competitors.” The guard let himself into Chuck’s cell and clicked a single manacle around his right wrist. The manacle was attached to a chain, which the guard kept hold of. Then he showed Chuck the door.
“I can fight too,” Charlie called. It was almost true. She’d had a few lessons with a short blade when she was younger, just enough to defend herself in a fair fight with a single assailant. She could also shoot well enough.
“You’re a woman,” the guard looked her over.
“So?”
“No place for women in the lists.”
“Lists?” squeaked Chuck.
“Aye, the lists! How else is Lord Azazel like to find his champion?”
4. Chuck
“Probably I shouldn’t joust today,” Chuck said to the page who was lacing his breastplate. “ Not that I can't, of course. I just mean, it’s been a while since I’ve jousted, and, well. it takes time to get back in the way of things. Oh, and you know, I think my toe is sore, my big toe…that’s the one I use for spurring? I probably sprained it. Maybe I should just watch the others today?”
“Get on with it,” said the guard from the doorway. “You can fight or you can get back in the cell, which is it?”
“Yes sir,” said Chuck. “I mean, fight sir.” The guard grunted. The page was silent: a grim-faced boy of fourteen or fifteen, he bore more than a passing resemblance to the horses behind them. Azazel kept a fine stable, at least twenty horses with black and bronze coats, fiery eyes and the sigil of the Eye on their accoutrements. One thing Chuck could admit for the man: he had a sense of style.
Chuck was wearing armour. It was - heavier than it looked, tin plate with no emblem and nothing distinctive about it. “Lance,” grunted the page, and shoved a thin blade at Chuck. Chuck dodged, then realized he was supposed to take it. He had jousted exactly once before, forced into it by his older brother, and he wondered if this was simply a plan to kill him by entertaining means.
He took the lance and mounted the charger brought out for him. It was a stallion: black, sleek and extremely powerful. Chuck gave the forward command and the horse snorted shook his mane derisively, prancing in place a little. Chuck’s visor clanged down across his face.
“’E don’t like your chances,” said the page, grinning to show a gap between his front teeth. "And 'e don't like to lose."
“Out you go!” the guards opened the stable doors and Chuck had no choice but to urge the stallion out into the tourney grounds. It was a bright cool day, and many of Azazel’s retinue had turned out to fill the stands. Azazel himself sat on a dais decorated by his flags. Meg was not him, Chuck noticed, and quickly scanned the lists. He caught sight of her in the ordinary stands, a horn of ale in one hand. She grinned nastily and waved at him. Chuck had a lance in one hand and a shield in the other, but for some strange reason, his initial impulse was to wave back.
At the other end of the jousting field was a man on horseback. At least his armour was plain too - less likely a knight then.
“Andrew of Gallagher versus Charles Shurley!” called a herald, and a trumpet blew. “Charge the first!” Andrew of Gallagher surged forward. Chuck froze, squeezed his eyes shut and gripped his lance, but the stallion had decided they were playing. The great horse charged, and Chuck held on. Hooves thundered beneath him. the crowd’s roar blurred in his ears, and he felt sick - the other rider passed in a rush of air, and then they were circling, trotting, at the far end of the lists.
“No strike!” called the herald.
‘I’m still alive!’ The crowd booed. The herald’s trumpet sounded again:
“Charge the second!”
This time Chuck had a plan. Giving up any thought of knocking the other man off his horse, he simple lurched to the left to avoid his opponent’s lance. Andrew’s weapon glanced off the side of his breastplate as they passed. The crowd booed louder, and the great stallion seemed to agree - he snorted and shook Chuck angrily.
“Charge the third!”
On the last charge Chuck managed to avoid the lance entirely, though he almost fell off his horse.
“Craven!” called the crowd: “Cowardice!”
Chuck raised a hand meekly in acknowledgment. That got him a few laughs, at least. The stallion had had enough - he bucked, neighing angrily, and Chuck hit dirt. The back of his head clanged against his helmet and his teeth jarred together, pain ricocheting through his skull. Dimly, he was aware of the crowd laughing harder. When the stars cleared from his vision, Andrew of Gallagher was standing over him. With his visor up, Chuck saw that the other man was young, with wide brown eyes and a friendly face.
“What are you doing?” asked Andrew.
“I’m not a knight,” Chuck groaned, struggling for breath: “I’m just trying not to get killed.”
“Well - what do you think Lord Azazel does to the losers?” Andrew offered a hand and helped Chuck up.
“Uh - sends them home with a consolation prize, maybe?”
Andrew rolled his eyes. “This is a death match. An elimination process. I didn’t knock you off your horse, so you didn’t lose, exactly, but you won’t get another chance.”
“Oh,” said Chuck, then, “Wait!” as Andrew turned to go. “Have you seen a pair of knights from the Northlands? Brothers?”
“The Winchesters? Of course. Who hasn’t? I’ll introduce you at the tournament quarters.”
*
The quarters, where Chuck was escorted after the joust, were definitely a step up from the prison. They were barracks, bolted from outside and guarded by Azazel’s men, but inside there was food and water and pallet beds and even a hearth. The windows were barred, but at least light got in. Chuck was allowed to clean himself up, then Andrew led him into the main hall.
Pallets lined either side of the long room. Several were occupied: men lounged or played at cards or stared moodily out of the window. even unarmed, they looked like knights: tall and well-muscled. Some gave Chuck a derisive glance and others ignored him.
“I know,” said Andrew, when Chuck looked at him again: “I’m primarily an archer.”
“How long have you been here?” Chuck asked.
“Eight nights. I won’t last much longer.”
Chuck supposed he should say: “Of course you will!” but really, that was groundless, so he said, “You might if you fight me again.”
One of the real knights snorted.
“So - the Winchesters?” Chuck prompted.
“Back room,” said another man, gesturing with a thumb to a wooden door adjoining. “Shacked up together as usual.” There were general sniggers. “Think they’re better than us.”
“They are better than us,” Andrew pointed, “Better warriors, I mean.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“O-kay,” Chuck edged towards the door. “I’m gonna go in here now.” There were no locks in the interior, so he scurried inside. It was smaller and dimmer in this room, dull without a window.
Sir Dean Winchester himself looked up from his wine and said to Chuck,
“Who the hell are you?”