Work Text:
Chuck wakes up itching to write.
It's a familiar feeling, but his limbs are strange and rubbery, his legs heavy. He opens his eyes, takes a moment to think, "Huh," because the sun is shining down on his face through a hole in the ceiling.
Then he realizes he's on the floor and that the gigantic hole is from his roof and his second floor.
And something has blocked out the sun.
"Are you alright?" Castiel's voice asks him. He doesn't even sound particularly concerned.
Chuck rolls over and throws up, acid of last night's tequila burning his throat and coating the debris of what used to be his windows, second floor, his fucking roof.
And the bitch of it is, he thinks bitterly, he still feels the need to write.
"So," he tells Castiel after he manages to drag himself towards the kitchen sink and hold his head under the tap. "So, end of the world, huh?"
Castiel only looks at him. "It would seem that way."
Chuck's fingers twitch and he tries not to look at the computer. Last night's dream is still vivid in his mind, all jumbled and weird. "I had a dream," he says. "You thinking I should throw away that chapter I was planning out last night when you crashed into my house? Seems like there's something new."
"If you could write it down," Castiel says, points to a paper and a pen.
Chuck wonders if he can ever refuse, if he can stand by the kitchen counter and simply not do it. Would Zachariah arrive? Would the Archangels? Would Castiel even be there to defend him of his basic human right?
He looks at Castiel, wonders about it all, then wonders about the absent way Castiel turns to look out the window, the way he distractedly scratches his neck.
Chuck ignores the paper the other man had pointed to; he goes for the computer instead.
Hours later, he has to stop and rub his eyes, the scene fading in his mind.
"Read it to me," Castiel demands, making Chuck jump in his chair. He'd forgotten about him.
"It's unedited," he tries protesting, but the angel only stares at him. Chuck clears his throat, then starts:
It's been five hours and Dean hasn't stopped glancing at Sam every ten minutes. Sam refuses to turn to him, but he can feel the way his brother is staring at him when he's not looking out the windshield, he can hear the small sounds Dean makes as if he wants to say something, only to let it die down.Sam doesn't talk, doesn't look at him. He's waiting for the I told you so, so when it comes, he's surprised when Dean says, "It's not so bad."
Sam snaps upright into his seat and stares at Dean. "Not so bad?" he shouts, feeling tears stinging his eyes. "It's the end of the world, and all you can say is, it's not so bad?"
"I thought it was cute."
The story feels heavy in its lack of conversation. He stops reading aloud at the part where Sam and Dean are trying to come up with a plan to find Lucifer when he realizes Castiel has stopped listening and is walking towards the door. "Where're you going?" he asks stupidly.
At least Castiel has the decency to reply, "To them," before he opens the door and disappears.
Chuck sighs and saves the document. He'll know what happens soon. And hopefully, Castiel will manage to save them from this shitty emo Sam writing.
But the thing is, he doesn't dream.
He doesn't dream for the next five days. Instead, he wakes up on his couch, feeling strangely refreshed and undoubtedly uncomfortable. His neighbors have commented on his wrecked roof and windows ("Freak lightning," he lies effortlessly, and they believe him.), so Chuck pulls enough money from his bank account to replace the glass, clean the debris. He sweeps as much broken glass as he can, ends up gathering his beer and tequila bottles anyway, then graduates to tidying up his floor. A bit. Not so much, but there's already a patch of carpet showing.
He climbs up the roof and makes a haphazard replacement.
He doesn't wonder about the Winchesters. He's curious, of course, but there had been weeks where he couldn't write anything about them, so it's nothing new.
On the fourth week, he dreams, but it's not about the Winchesters. It's strange, stranger than anything he's ever dreamt of for the past five years. He's back in high school, and he just saw his ex-girlfriend making out with one of his college buddies. But Chuck is more worried that his ex-girlfriend will tell his friend that he used to jerk off to his image, and that he never did pass that English paper to Mrs. Hammond.
It's one of his most incoherent dreams, and it feels so normal. Not...Winchester-y.
Which is when Castiel decides to drop by for breakfast.
Chuck barely manages to stop hurling his coffee at Castiel. "What the hell?" he bursts out, glaring. "How'd you get in here?" He almost kicks himself for the stupid question.
Castiel doesn't look smug; he even looks faintly remorseful. "I need your help," he says instead.
Chuck brushes past him, taking a huge gulp of his scalding coffee. "I can't. Your archangels did something strange and now I had a normal dream last night—" He stops when he realizes Castiel has placed a hand on his arm.
He looks down at it, then looks up at Castiel with a raised eyebrow. He remembers the way the angel had glared at him when Chuck had reached out to touch, just before the lights engulfed them.
"This had better be good," he mutters.
"I need a place to stay," Castiel tells him apologetically. Chuck stares at him, long enough that the angel has the grace to look embarrassed when he pulls back his hand.
"How're the Winchesters doing?" he mutters, but still curious.
Castiel cocks his head, puzzled. "You must have seen..."
"No."
This apparently makes Castiel pause. "...They're fine. Handling themselves as good as they can. You're not dreaming about them." He makes it sound like both a question and a statement.
Chuck crams a toast into his mouth. "No, not now," he says. "I used to be normal, you know. I mean, by human standards. Male standards. I didn't have dreams about two guys trying to get killed all the time. You know it's been a long time I dreamed about naked chicks? It's hard, man. And I dreamed about them last night. Well, only one of them, my ex-girlfriend Lorna of all people. And my roommate. Something about high school? Seriously, what the fuck?" He makes a face.
"Perhaps it's a side-effect," Castiel tells him.
"Of what?" Chuck stares at him in alarm.
The angel shrugs. "Free will." He has that far-away look in his eyes, as if he's seeing something strange and beautiful, and also incredibly sad.
But Chuck only swallows his toast and says, "Yeah, I'm not sorry about it at all," he says truthfully, his throat dry. "You know, maybe it's not a bad thing."
Castiel seems surprised, and he almost smiles. "I didn't say it's not unwelcome," he replies.
Chuck has written enough of the last book's chapter that he knows about Zachariah's plans; only, he stopped writing it once he fully understood what the angel had been telling Dean that he'd stared at his computer in horror for a full minute, saw visions of Sam raising Lilith behind his eyes, before he reached for his phone to order for hookers.
"What happened?" he asks Castiel. "I remember the light, and there was an earthquake or something, and the archangels..."
"One of them came and spoke to us," Castiel replies. "You couldn't understand them, just as Dean Winchester could not understand. But your mind couldn't take it, and they likely shone too brightly. It was a blessing that you finally turned away." He says it very kindly.
Chuck doesn't appreciate being told he fainted, no matter how diplomatic it all sounds. "You should have translated for me," he snaps.
But Castiel looks troubled. He looks out the window. "They came in their purest forms," he says softly, as if confessing a shameful secret. "But for the first time, I could not understand what they said."
After a few days, Chuck finally bursts out, "Didn't the Winchesters ever tell you to change your clothes?"
"The Winchesters have more pressing things to do," Castiel points out, but he looks amused. "Jimmy Novak's clothes serve their purpose. I don't need anything else."
The suit is, admittedly, spotless, but Chuck wrinkles his nose and stomps upstairs, hating dramatic angels and their mystical bullshit. But he manages to find some clean clothes his older brother had left in the house. He rummages through them, picks out something decent that he thinks Castiel might wear without actually embarrassing the guy.
When he comes back down, he finds Castiel staring out the window, his head tilted up to the sunlight. He looks like he's concentrating, but his eyebrows are drawn to the middle. Revelation, Chuck realizes, his mouth dropping open. He feels like he just walked in on something private, and he steps back.
Castiel still looks troubled when he finally follows into the kitchen, but the look melts into confusion when Chuck thrusts the clothes into his arms.
"My house, my rules," he says, as if it explains everything. "You already stink."
The angel should have known he was lying, but he doesn't call Chuck on it. Besides, he must've realized that he actually looks good in jeans.
Sometimes, Castiel will disappear somewhere in the house. Chuck knows he's still there only because there would be some occasional thumping from the second floor that would last for a few hours, before everything becomes quiet. If Castiel is like any of Chuck's few friends, he would have been worried.
As it is, Chuck spends his time thinking and making notes. For the first time in years, he feels strangely unburdened, and it's an odd feeling. He thinks he should be doing something but all he does is troll around the Internet, trying to come up with a fresh angle on a stupid story running in his head.
Finally, Castiel comes thumping down and Chuck looks up from idly surfing the web. "What've you been doing up there?" he wonders without even thinking about it.
Castiel turns to him, and there's an almost human look on his face. It's slightly unnerving, now that the angel is wearing an old gray Xbox t-shirt and jeans.
"There's a hole on your bedroom floor," Castiel tells him.
"Your angels did that," Chuck points out, but he's feels himself grinning. "Don't worry about it, man, just step around it and don't fall through. I don't even use that room."
Castiel keeps staring at him. "I want to fix it." His voice sounds uncertain, as if he's concerned about what Chuck would think.
Huh. Chuck stares at him, then stands to look for his tools. "Do you know how?" he calls over his shoulder.
"...haven't wanted to, before," he thinks he hears Castiel say. But when he returns, the angel only tells him cheekily, "I knew a Jewish carpenter once."
Chuck stares at him for a while before he bursts out laughing. "Never thought I'll actually hear someone say that and actually be justified," he teases, grinning.
He hands Castiel the toolbox.
Castiel's fingers look oddly broken.
Chuck looks at them queasily, already grabbing the first aid kit. "You aim for the nail and not for your fingers, man," he admonishes.
Castiel only shrugs. "I can still heal this body."
He's right, but Chuck tends the wounds anyway, dabbing ointment and pulling out splinters stuck between skin and nails. Castiel doesn't say anything, but he grimaces whenever Chuck has to dig deeper into the wounds to fish the smaller wood out. The evidences of hard work disappear almost instantly, leaving behind unmarred flesh.
But Chuck looks further and notices a deep slice of wound on Castiel's left forearm; it's already healing, but it looks like it's been there for a long time. Chuck can't help it; he traces it with his fingers. "What happened?" The story isn't found in any of his chapters.
"Free will," Castiel tells him, his voice strangely subdued.
Dean Winchester, Chuck thinks, and almost laughs at himself. "Ah, the unfortunate side-effect," he replies dryly instead. "Maybe I'll even get to hear the story one day."
He lets go of Castiel's hands and reaches for a beer.
Chuck wakes up from a dream only to find Castiel staring down at him. He groans, rolls over and falls out of the couch and to the floor. He feels incredibly stupid. "I'm going to start drinking tequila again," he decides.
"What do you dream of?" Castiel wonders.
Chuck laughs hoarsely. "Aliens, can you believe it?" It sounds absolutely ridiculous, but it felt strangely right, nothing at all like the confusion of his other dreams. Then, he gets the stupidest thought. "Aliens aren't gonna kidnap Sam and Dean, right?"
Castiel only smiles back but Chuck ignores him, grabs his keyboard and starts typing. He has this setting already, entirely unfamiliar, and he has a grasp of the culture he wants to show. The question is how, and why. He ponders on the finer situations, fleshes out characters, even takes time to choose which words would fit. He even falters at the beginning, realizes he wants to start at the middle, and he does.
Chuck rouses from his stupor only once, when he sees Castiel at his periphery. Just like that, his concentration is gone, and Chuck realizes he's written the better part of the day away. The sun is almost setting.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," Castiel says.
Chuck waves his hand, removing his glasses and sighing. "No worries, man, I lost track of time myself. I'll take care of dinner...you want take-out?" He squints at the ceiling. "Hey, did you actually finish the roof today?"
"It was easy, once I knew how," Castiel tells him, a tinge of pride in his voice. "You didn't even hear me."
"Yeah, I was dead to the world," Chuck agrees, shrugging as he picks up the phone and a menu. "Sorry. You know how it goes, when you get these ideas? Man, you have to put them down or you'll lose them." Then he loses his smile when he realizes—Castiel probably does know. He's probably seen other prophets in action...and they weren't even preoccupied with writing science fiction. He clears his throat, "Hey, show me your hands."
At first, Castiel refuses, but Chuck insists and tugs his arms until he obliges. There are still splinters wedged through his skin, but they're fewer now and easier to remove.
Chuck finds himself humming the entire time. When the food arrives, they sit down in front of the TV, and Castiel coaxes, "Tell me about the aliens."
The next day, Chuck is pounding his head on the desk and wondering where his inspiration has gone.
Castiel wanders in. His expression is dazed. "I have to go," he tells Chuck. "There's something—" He breaks off, finishes with, "I have to go."
Chuck waits for a moment, then tentatively asks, "You gonna be back for lunch?"
Castiel stares at him for a moment then shakes his head. "Have you had any dreams?" he asks.
Suddenly, the uncertainty of the future looms over Chuck's head. "Um," he says in a small voice. "Do aliens count?"
He gets a genuine chuckle for his concern. "No, Chuck," Castiel replies gently, "I don't think they count." He's still smiling when he disappears.
Chuck growls. Free will be damned, he thinks in despair, then sits down to write.
That night, he dreams of Castiel at the backseat of a classic black car, looking pensive and broody, like he doesn't particularly want to be there at all. When Chuck wakes, he can't decide whether it's a prophecy or a goddamn wish.
Castiel returns just as Chuck is typing out the climax of his short story.
He gapes at the angel and only manages to say, "You came back."
Castiel shrugs, the droop of his shoulders betraying his weariness. "I haven't fixed your upstairs bathroom yet," he says easily. "And I want to find out what happened to the aliens."
It sounds a lot like something Dean Winchester would say, but it still makes Chuck laugh, albeit shakily. Castiel came back. "You'll have to earn your keep. Have you eaten something yet?" He starts to rise, but Castiel gives him a look.
"Finish your story," he says. "And I will try to fix your lunch."
"Try is an operative word," Chuck calls out to Castiel's disappearing back. "Just so you know. It's like fixing the bedroom floor."
Castiel, miraculously, doesn't burn the meatloaf. "No pun intended," Chuck says, and Castiel laughs.
They eat lunch in the bedroom where there used to be a hole. Castiel has somehow managed to make a good job, however temporary, and they sit a few meters away from it so they won't tempt fate and end up falling into the first floor.
"The kitchen faucet should be easy to fix," Castiel tells him, pushing the peas around his plate. "I wish I finished your roof."
Chuck points a fork at him. "You don't get to make fun of my work, okay. I made do with what I had, so you don't get to make fun of me. Also, tell your archangels that they should be paying my insurance." He frowns. "Why aren't they here? Shouldn't they be protecting me or something?"
"You're not in danger," Castiel says. "Not that they know of, anyway."
"Didn't they decide you were dangerous before?" Chuck asks. "That's why they came here, right? When you rescued Dean?"
The angel looks subdued, but he nods. "The course of free will has everyone confused, including angels," he says quietly. "The Winchesters apparently never do anything halfway."
Chuck nods and takes a large swing of his beer. "I'm sorry I can't help," he says carefully, and he's surprised to find that it's genuine.
They're silent for a moment, then Castiel says, "What happened to the alien in high school?"
Chuck groans and feels despair crash over him. "Oh god, don't even get me started on the stupid plot. So, I was thinking about the idea of the concept of adolescence in another culture and I went, this won't do, so I had to—"
Chuck wakes up in the dark, gasping with his arms flailing. A sudden grip on his wrist makes him cry out and kick again, only to stop when he realizes it's Castiel, who is sitting on the floor right next to his couch. He groans.
"Aliens?" Castiel murmurs.
"Winchesters," Chuck mutters remorsefully, burying his face in the pillow. The hand Castiel is holding twitches, and he's afraid the angel might think Chuck wants to pull away when really, all he wants is to stop fucking feeling like this. He curls into the couch, trembling and hating himself because he doesn't need to write this, not anymore. He doesn't.
"Free will kind of sucks," he thinks out-loud, "when you start learning the difference between having it and not."
"I don't know," Castiel muses. "I think the aliens are nice." In the dark, Chuck hears the smile more than sees it.
Chuck barks out a laugh, but it ends with a shudder. He doesn't want to sleep, and he doesn't want to dream about the Winchesters again. Castiel keeps his hand on his wrist, back leaned on the couch and against Chuck's legs and knees, waiting. Maybe it's only minutes—maybe hours—but Chuck realizes that when he stops trembling, all he can feel through his numbness is the warmth of Castiel's touch.
"I was thinking I should get another pseudonym," Chuck shouts to Castiel from the bathroom. "So I won't get recognized, you know? It'll be the first story that doesn't have anything to do with the series. I mean, right, I dreamed it, but how the hell will an alien figure into the life of the Winchesters?"
"You'd be surprised," Castiel calls back, his voice muffled. Probably coming from the kitchen. He's been trying to fix the leak under the sink since early that morning. "There are things in this universe that—that humans aren't capable of—imagining, while angels—oh no."
There's enough dismay in the tone that sends Chuck hurrying to the kitchen, only to burst out laughing as Castiel emerges from the counter, spitting black fluid.
"It's not funny," the angel insists, but he's smiling.
"Your teeth are black," Chuck sniggers, bending down next to him. "Had to be Mr. Domestic, didn't you? Anyway, washing dishes isn't exactly—"
Castiel leans forward and kisses him.
It's awkward and fumbling, slightly aimed at the corner of Chuck's lips, but he's surprised enough that he jerks sideways, opens his mouth. Castiel tries again, kisses him right this time.
By the time they pull back—at the same time—there's ugly black ooze on their lips and on Chuck's cheeks where Castiel's hands brushed against. And black ooze is still dripping from the pipe.
"Uh," Chuck manages to say.
Castiel nods. "The dishes can be washed in the bathroom for the meantime," he decides. His expression is bright while he looks into Chuck's eyes. "This business about free will is exhilarating."
Chuck only manages to stammer something that sounds like, "Whergzuk nug—" before he makes a decision and kisses Castiel again.
Free will, huh. Maybe Castiel is on to something.
After they manage to plug up the pipe and clean out the goo, they sit on the couch and watch a movie on Chuck's computer. The screen is too small and too far away, but they're sitting too close to each other and Castiel looks like he's concentrating.
Chuck dreams of
Dean Winchester shouting Castiel's name.Sam Winchester running, not looking behind, no time for that, just run.
He wakes up with a start, realizes Castiel is pressed against him, his shoulder as Chuck's pillow. He stirs, tries to keep himself from shaking from that need to write.
"I must go," Castiel says quietly. "There is need for me." But he doesn't move.
Chuck gives a huff of laughter against the angel's shoulder. "Man, I don't even know anymore," he says vehemently. "If you stayed, if you go, what would you want? You and your army, your demons, even the Winchesters...you're writing your own stories now, and I'm just sitting here, just watching you make decisions. I'm like...you know, one of those fashion magazines that give the latest just when it's about to go out of style! I don't even want to be in the middle of an apocalypse, but now, I'm just a freaking useless out-of-style dress."
There's something vaguely weird about using fashion magazine analogies for the end of the world while he sits here with his cheek on an angel's shoulder.
Castiel is silent for a long time, and Chuck is about to pull back when the angel puts a hand on Chuck's thigh. "You've been writing your own stories, too," he says.
Chuck shakes his head. "Just." He thinks of something nice to say, something that will make it worthwhile, but it's all trivial—insignificant next to the end of the world. He feels small. "Hey, Cas, even if you leave, you'd want to be here, right?" And even then, the question feels light and weightless.
When Castiel doesn't reply, Chuck shakes his head again and laughs. "Yeah, I'm kind of drunk. I need to write. Hurry, the Winchesters need you."
Castiel has only been gone for an hour when Chuck grabs a beer from the kitchen and runs into him again, just as he turns around from the ref.
"Jesus fuck," he blurts out. "Fucking use the door next time, okay?"
"Did you dream this?" Castiel says, his voice unnaturally hoarse. "Me coming back, did you dream?"
"No?" Chuck looks at him in bewilderment, then alarm when Castiel stalks nearer to him. "Why, what happened?"
"They're safe," Castiel tells him, already looming and too fucking near. "For now, they're fine. I could have stayed, I should have, but they're fine for now. And I wanted to be here."
Chuck's throat is dry, and he takes a hesitant step backwards, swallowing when Castiel continues to shuffle up to his space. "Um. Good for you? Uh...what..."
"I want to stay," Castiel announces. His voice is dark and edging on both despair and delight. "I've made so many choices since that first time, since I chose Dean Winchester."
Chuck nods, understands. He knows Dean Winchester, hell, he thought he'd created Dean Winchester. He knows. "It'll be harsh, dude, just—"
"The end of the world is nigh and I'm the only angel who doesn't know if I'm making the right choices," Castiel interrupts. He's not touching Chuck, but his eyes are trained on him. For the life of him, Chuck finds that he cannot look away. "Anna once said that to fall is to make a choice. At the eve of the Apocalypse, I cannot afford to be swayed more than once."
Chuck shakes his head. It sounds too Tolkien for him. "That's good but—"
"Understand this, prophet." And this time, it is Castiel who puts his hands on Chuck's arms, pulls him closer, as if making him understand. "I would fall. For Dean Winchester, even for Sam Winchester. For their cause, for their belief, for their visions. But what I would choose...what I want...is to stay with you."
They stare at each other for a long moment, but it's probably only seconds. The words reverberate in Chuck's head. Castiel wants to stay. Chuck is elated, fucking terrified. He's way out of his league.
He licks his lips. "You should go," he says, then amends at the defeated look on Castiel's eyes, "You should go to them. They need you, this instant. There's time for later, and I'll know, right? I'm, like, omniscient and shit and I've been...I've done this before." Chuck swallows, tries to grin assuredly. Enough to show that he wants this, just as bad. "Just, you know. After that, just come back."
Castiel stares at him, a smile forming on his lips. Then he nods. "I'll come back. If that's what you want."
"I do," Chuck says loudly, but Castiel is gone. He says to the empty room, "You just gotta want it, too, Cas, that's how it works."
It doesn't matter; Chuck can still feel Castiel's hands pressing pressed on his arms. Like a brand. Like a savior.
He dreams again, of Sam Winchester's path to destruction, of Dean Winchester's barked orders, "Help me, don't let him go," to Castiel. He dreams of Castiel looking determined, pushing Sam down while he screamed for demon blood.
Strange, but now, Chuck doesn't feel like a bystander in this turn of events, not even a prophet with the distant thrum of archangels' power constantly nagging at the background. He's...significant, a part of a bigger picture, a bigger world.
And now, Castiel wants to stay with him and god, gay jokes aside, Chuck actually wants him to. It has to mean something, if it's not going to be written in this big book of destiny. What did he tell the Winchesters before? "A cruel and capricious god," wasn't it? Only this time, he's not the only one writing this story.
Chuck boots his computer, opens the new document about the Winchesters, then stalls.
Long enough to give the stupid adolescent alien story a title.