SPN: Fixing the Primus Stove (It Ain't Easy) [Chuck, Castiel]
Title: “Fixing the Primus Stove (It Ain’t Easy)”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG (some swear words)
Timeline: post-6x22
Summary: Chuck Shurley is a prophet of the Lord even if the Lord has changed.
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to CW and Eric Kripke. Or to Carver Edlund, depends on which side you look at it from. The title is an allusion to “The Master and Margarita” by Mikhail Bulgakov.
A/N: Make of this what you will. I mean… is Chuck-? Or isn’t he? ;) Also, never mind the title… unless you’re jayazz.
FIXING THE PRIMUS STOVE (IT AIN’T EASY)
Chuck Shurley is trying to write. Maybe he’s not that good at it. Maybe it’s not needed anymore. But hell if Chuck lets all that inspiration go to waste because after all, he is a freaking writer.
It’s not going so well, though. Must be the double bacon cheeseburger from that joint nearby. The cheese did taste kind of… sticky. Or it could be that he misses Becky. She was always so enthusiastic about his work.
Or it’s the story itself. Yes, it’s probably that.
Chuck has been writing Supernatural for so long that every supposedly new idea of his looks like a measly rip-off now. The way he looks at it, it’s pretty much impossible to make a good story without throwing in some family issues, a few reversible deaths and hell of a subtext for eager fans to toy with. Okay, he doesn’t actually plan that last part, but somehow it always comes through.
Chuck has been writing about some people lately. Hopefully, not real people. Or at least people that don’t have guns and are unlikely to show up on his doorstep. But he finds himself missing the one story where he is a character, too.
It’s not like he doesn’t know what has happened to Sam and Dean after Swan Song. Even if he could technically give them up, why would he? Their story is not perfect, but it’s his story too. Stories like that are always ultimately about the creator.
From what Chuck hears, there is a God in picture now. Wow, he would never have gone that far.
“I’ve always liked you,” he says defensively when the new God finally shows up. Chuck hasn’t heard him arrive; the characteristic flutter of wings is gone now, it’s all sinister and quiet and eerily sublime (and yeah, Chuck sucks a little at epithets).
“I have a task for you, prophet,” the new God says.
Chuck has his back on him. He sits still in front of his laptop, pondering how to get to the bottle of whiskey, which is in the kitchen, because you know what they say: when you talk to God, it’s prayer; when God answers, it’s insanity. He’s not sure he can take this conversation sober.
“You shall write scriptures about me.”
On second thought, it’s good that Chuck isn’t drinking, otherwise he’d be spluttering and gasping for air like a fish on ice right about now.
“You mean like… the Bible?” That’s a bit mental, even for him.
It’s sad actually because he doesn’t just say he likes Castiel because Castiel is big and scary. This angel has always been his favourite. That little pencil of celestial light had amassed so much power even before he got all juiced up on Purgatory souls. But hey, that’s just what life does to heroes. It tarnishes them, tramples them down into the dirt; there has to be a conflict, there has to be angst.
“And, uh…” Chuck clears his throat warily. “What would I write about? I mean, no offence, but you seemed to get more action when you were, you know…” with the Winchesters, “an angel.”
“I shall fix this broken world,” the new God says. One would think his voice should be thunderous, majestic, but, on the contrary, it sounds gentle and almost lulls Chuck to sleep. Like Castiel is the one telling a story. “I shall give you plenty to write about.”
“Yeah, but-,” Chuck blurts out before he can stop himself.
“But?”
Chuck remembers that stupid old saying: If you pledge, don’t hedge, which means that he has to finish his sentence. And if the terrifying God-Cas smites him for talking back, that will be the very definition of unfair.
“I, uh… I’m not a good writer,” he says cautiously. “I suck at this whole deep, slice-of-life stuff. I write horror stories,” which just happen to coincide with life a little too much, “and I’ve certainly never written a… a holy book thing before.”
“You have written about the Winchesters,” Castiel reasons coolly.
“Yeah, I have, but most of the time I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. And they didn’t thank me for it.”
“I shall thank you.”
Somehow that does not sound promising at all.
Chuck decides to put it bluntly against all better judgment. “I don’t want to write about a God. Gods are boring.” Except in Hammer of the Gods, but Castiel does not need to know that.
There is a heavy pause, and Chuck is tempted to turn around, but he is too damn frightened. A pause like this can only bode ill. He stares determinedly at his laptop and reads names that don’t mean anything, that belong to people who don’t do anything. That is of course not entirely true; everything means something. But some people just mean more.
“You say you are a bad writer,” Castiel speaks at last. “Then write a better story.”
What the hell does that even mean? No, Chuck absolutely needs a drink. He gets up and trundles into the kitchen without looking at the trenchcoat-clad deity that looms in his room. When he gets hold of the whiskey, he guzzles it down like no tomorrow and ruminates what constitutes a better story.
A happy ending? Not necessarily. Some of the best stories out there are tragedies where everyone dies and the world comes to a dazzling end and there’s doom and gloom all over.
Believable characters? Chuck wouldn’t want to brag (or maybe he would), but it doesn’t get more believable than Sam and Dean. Except the dying part. Castiel himself used to be pretty realistic too. Character development is important. Before Cas, Chuck didn’t really go there.
Character relationships? Chuck is exceptionally good at screwing those up.
And then it strikes him: this is what Castiel wants him to fix. But this time it’s not his screw-up.
Chuck lets out a sigh of veritable suffering. Things don’t happen the way he writes. He writes them the way they happen. There’s a difference; Cas knows that, right?
Aw, hell. Come to think of it, Chuck isn’t sure there is a difference. There used to be when he wrote only for himself, when he ruled his little made-up world, before the angels and the Winchesters came tumbling in.
Chuck has never been one to overanalyze his characters. He knows a lot of details that haven’t made it into any of the books. He doesn’t write them down because he generally doesn’t do any plot outlines at all, but he catalogues them in his memory either way. He knows for example that Dean and Castiel have met and even sort of talked before their official first meeting in Lazarus Rising. He knows how many nightmares Castiel has had in his short spell as a human. He knows that no matter what Dean says, he would have told Cas to piss off if Cas had asked him for help during that year he had spent with Lisa - because Dean had promised Sam. It’s not Dean’s fault or Chuck’s fault or anyone’s fault really; it’s just the way the Winchesters are. Sometimes Chuck takes credit for it (mostly when it helps him get laid) and sometimes he doesn’t.
He wills himself to look at Castiel who hasn’t moved an inch since he came, which is frankly disturbing. What if he’s stuck there for good? He’s, like, super-eternal now; so what, he won’t move until Chuck writes about him?
For all of ten seconds Chuck contemplates a crazy idea of redirecting Cas to Becky; she would certainly know how to get around the relationship stuff.
“I can’t-,” Chuck stumbles. He can’t… what? Write a fanfic? Write another gospel? “I can’t promise anything.” Castiel gives him the look that clearly spells: I am your Lord, and you shall write what I command and when I command it. Chuck slumps his shoulders and takes a swig from his bottle. “But I’ll do my best.”
As soon as Castiel leaves, Chuck practically falls down on the sofa. He feels drained. Supernatural is the kind of a story that would do that to you. Before you know it, it will rip your heart out, turn your brain into mush and open a faucet in your tear ducts, and afterwards it’s all tears.
The sucky part is that no matter how freaked out Chuck is by Castiel’s request, he can’t help feeling sorry for the guy. Cas has got to know that what Chuck writes doesn’t depend on him, so what he’s asking for is essentially a biography. Something that he could later hand over to a certain someone and say: well, there you go, here’s my motivation, embrace it and freaking love me again!
Chuck stares at his laptop pensively. It’s a tough job being a God.
No wonder he quit.
June 24-26, 2011
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG (some swear words)
Timeline: post-6x22
Summary: Chuck Shurley is a prophet of the Lord even if the Lord has changed.
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to CW and Eric Kripke. Or to Carver Edlund, depends on which side you look at it from. The title is an allusion to “The Master and Margarita” by Mikhail Bulgakov.
A/N: Make of this what you will. I mean… is Chuck-? Or isn’t he? ;) Also, never mind the title… unless you’re jayazz.
FIXING THE PRIMUS STOVE (IT AIN’T EASY)
Chuck Shurley is trying to write. Maybe he’s not that good at it. Maybe it’s not needed anymore. But hell if Chuck lets all that inspiration go to waste because after all, he is a freaking writer.
It’s not going so well, though. Must be the double bacon cheeseburger from that joint nearby. The cheese did taste kind of… sticky. Or it could be that he misses Becky. She was always so enthusiastic about his work.
Or it’s the story itself. Yes, it’s probably that.
Chuck has been writing Supernatural for so long that every supposedly new idea of his looks like a measly rip-off now. The way he looks at it, it’s pretty much impossible to make a good story without throwing in some family issues, a few reversible deaths and hell of a subtext for eager fans to toy with. Okay, he doesn’t actually plan that last part, but somehow it always comes through.
Chuck has been writing about some people lately. Hopefully, not real people. Or at least people that don’t have guns and are unlikely to show up on his doorstep. But he finds himself missing the one story where he is a character, too.
It’s not like he doesn’t know what has happened to Sam and Dean after Swan Song. Even if he could technically give them up, why would he? Their story is not perfect, but it’s his story too. Stories like that are always ultimately about the creator.
From what Chuck hears, there is a God in picture now. Wow, he would never have gone that far.
“I’ve always liked you,” he says defensively when the new God finally shows up. Chuck hasn’t heard him arrive; the characteristic flutter of wings is gone now, it’s all sinister and quiet and eerily sublime (and yeah, Chuck sucks a little at epithets).
“I have a task for you, prophet,” the new God says.
Chuck has his back on him. He sits still in front of his laptop, pondering how to get to the bottle of whiskey, which is in the kitchen, because you know what they say: when you talk to God, it’s prayer; when God answers, it’s insanity. He’s not sure he can take this conversation sober.
“You shall write scriptures about me.”
On second thought, it’s good that Chuck isn’t drinking, otherwise he’d be spluttering and gasping for air like a fish on ice right about now.
“You mean like… the Bible?” That’s a bit mental, even for him.
It’s sad actually because he doesn’t just say he likes Castiel because Castiel is big and scary. This angel has always been his favourite. That little pencil of celestial light had amassed so much power even before he got all juiced up on Purgatory souls. But hey, that’s just what life does to heroes. It tarnishes them, tramples them down into the dirt; there has to be a conflict, there has to be angst.
“And, uh…” Chuck clears his throat warily. “What would I write about? I mean, no offence, but you seemed to get more action when you were, you know…” with the Winchesters, “an angel.”
“I shall fix this broken world,” the new God says. One would think his voice should be thunderous, majestic, but, on the contrary, it sounds gentle and almost lulls Chuck to sleep. Like Castiel is the one telling a story. “I shall give you plenty to write about.”
“Yeah, but-,” Chuck blurts out before he can stop himself.
“But?”
Chuck remembers that stupid old saying: If you pledge, don’t hedge, which means that he has to finish his sentence. And if the terrifying God-Cas smites him for talking back, that will be the very definition of unfair.
“I, uh… I’m not a good writer,” he says cautiously. “I suck at this whole deep, slice-of-life stuff. I write horror stories,” which just happen to coincide with life a little too much, “and I’ve certainly never written a… a holy book thing before.”
“You have written about the Winchesters,” Castiel reasons coolly.
“Yeah, I have, but most of the time I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. And they didn’t thank me for it.”
“I shall thank you.”
Somehow that does not sound promising at all.
Chuck decides to put it bluntly against all better judgment. “I don’t want to write about a God. Gods are boring.” Except in Hammer of the Gods, but Castiel does not need to know that.
There is a heavy pause, and Chuck is tempted to turn around, but he is too damn frightened. A pause like this can only bode ill. He stares determinedly at his laptop and reads names that don’t mean anything, that belong to people who don’t do anything. That is of course not entirely true; everything means something. But some people just mean more.
“You say you are a bad writer,” Castiel speaks at last. “Then write a better story.”
What the hell does that even mean? No, Chuck absolutely needs a drink. He gets up and trundles into the kitchen without looking at the trenchcoat-clad deity that looms in his room. When he gets hold of the whiskey, he guzzles it down like no tomorrow and ruminates what constitutes a better story.
A happy ending? Not necessarily. Some of the best stories out there are tragedies where everyone dies and the world comes to a dazzling end and there’s doom and gloom all over.
Believable characters? Chuck wouldn’t want to brag (or maybe he would), but it doesn’t get more believable than Sam and Dean. Except the dying part. Castiel himself used to be pretty realistic too. Character development is important. Before Cas, Chuck didn’t really go there.
Character relationships? Chuck is exceptionally good at screwing those up.
And then it strikes him: this is what Castiel wants him to fix. But this time it’s not his screw-up.
Chuck lets out a sigh of veritable suffering. Things don’t happen the way he writes. He writes them the way they happen. There’s a difference; Cas knows that, right?
Aw, hell. Come to think of it, Chuck isn’t sure there is a difference. There used to be when he wrote only for himself, when he ruled his little made-up world, before the angels and the Winchesters came tumbling in.
Chuck has never been one to overanalyze his characters. He knows a lot of details that haven’t made it into any of the books. He doesn’t write them down because he generally doesn’t do any plot outlines at all, but he catalogues them in his memory either way. He knows for example that Dean and Castiel have met and even sort of talked before their official first meeting in Lazarus Rising. He knows how many nightmares Castiel has had in his short spell as a human. He knows that no matter what Dean says, he would have told Cas to piss off if Cas had asked him for help during that year he had spent with Lisa - because Dean had promised Sam. It’s not Dean’s fault or Chuck’s fault or anyone’s fault really; it’s just the way the Winchesters are. Sometimes Chuck takes credit for it (mostly when it helps him get laid) and sometimes he doesn’t.
He wills himself to look at Castiel who hasn’t moved an inch since he came, which is frankly disturbing. What if he’s stuck there for good? He’s, like, super-eternal now; so what, he won’t move until Chuck writes about him?
For all of ten seconds Chuck contemplates a crazy idea of redirecting Cas to Becky; she would certainly know how to get around the relationship stuff.
“I can’t-,” Chuck stumbles. He can’t… what? Write a fanfic? Write another gospel? “I can’t promise anything.” Castiel gives him the look that clearly spells: I am your Lord, and you shall write what I command and when I command it. Chuck slumps his shoulders and takes a swig from his bottle. “But I’ll do my best.”
As soon as Castiel leaves, Chuck practically falls down on the sofa. He feels drained. Supernatural is the kind of a story that would do that to you. Before you know it, it will rip your heart out, turn your brain into mush and open a faucet in your tear ducts, and afterwards it’s all tears.
The sucky part is that no matter how freaked out Chuck is by Castiel’s request, he can’t help feeling sorry for the guy. Cas has got to know that what Chuck writes doesn’t depend on him, so what he’s asking for is essentially a biography. Something that he could later hand over to a certain someone and say: well, there you go, here’s my motivation, embrace it and freaking love me again!
Chuck stares at his laptop pensively. It’s a tough job being a God.
No wonder he quit.
June 24-26, 2011