Chapter Text
He hadn’t answered the door when Dean arrived. The man had banged on the door with such intensity that it frankly frightened the wisp of a writer, but then he had started yelling Chuck’s name and airing his dirty laundry loudly to the whole neighborhood. He may have a reputation as a hermit drunk, but he didn’t want his neighbors to genuinely dislike him, so he had opened the door just barely and pathetically told the Winchester to go away. Dean, being Dean, barged in and rounded on the prophet, all huff and bluster about Sam’s latest romance. Chuck had sighed, closed the door, and blatantly ignored the hunter. Mutely, he had walked to his kitchen, grabbed his whiskey and an ice pack, and flopped on the couch. That had been a half hour ago.
“First Ruby, then fucking Lucifer, and now the shithead trickster?!” Dean roared. He was pacing Chuck’s living room floor and Chuck was laying on the couch, an ice pack on his head and a half-drunk bottle of whiskey in his left hand. He groaned at the volume of Dean’s voice and Dean glanced to the prophet on the couch.
“I mean, what the fuck, Chuck?! Why can’t my brother want to bone someone decent or at least SANE?! Why’s it always gotta be the crazy, evil motherfuckers?"
Chuck sighed.
“Consider the options he’s got, Dean,” Chuck tried finally. The condensation from the melted ice pack was dripping on his face and he had heard enough Winchester whining to write another novel.
“You mean like entire bars and towns full of women who aren’t demons?” Dean returned. He threw out his hands. “Hell, guys who aren’t the devil, too, if that’s the sticking point!”
“He’d have to leave those people.”
That stopped him. Dean frowned at Chuck and crossed his arms, making that icy “I’m listening to you, but I hate you,” face that Chuck never quite could describe well enough in the books. Chuck sighed and sat up. “Sam doesn’t like one night stands, Dean. He falls in love slowly and then he stays there.”
“Yeah, but fucking Lucifer?” Dean asked, uncrossing his arms and looking as Chuck desperately, his shoulder slumped. He was worried. That face, at least, Chuck could get right: the way his eyebrows went up and creased his forehead, the tightening of his jaw.
It hit him suddenly that Dean wasn’t looking at Sam’s paramours as people: he was thinking of them like monsters. To him, it was like wanting to have a relationship with a chupacabra. They were a different species. It didn’t make any sense and verged on bestiality in Dean’s mind. Ohhh, Chuck thought to himself. Poor Cas. That’ll certainly throw a wrench in the works…
Chuck sighed, realizing that he was still staring at Dean, and set the melted ice pack on the cushion beside him. “Okay, yes. The Devil is a bit extreme, even for Sam,” he conceded. “But think about why he liked him, Dean.”
“Excuse me?”
“Character traits, dummy.”
Dean scowled dangerously and Chuck decided he was too tired to feel threatened. “Remember when we first met? And you found fanfiction about you & Sam being in love?”
Okay, maybe not that tired. Damn, Dean Winchester was intimidating. “Sam’s pretty much only known YOU for any real length of time, Dean,” Chuck continued quickly. “You, Ruby, Lucifer, Gabriel — you have a lot in common.” He huffed a short laugh as a thought struck him: “Actually, it might be why you all hate each other so much.”
“Dude, do you realize you just not only compared me to a douche, a demon, and the DEVIL, but implied that Sammy — who’s my BROTHER — is in love with me,” Dean asked, lowering his voice dangerously. He was doing that thing where he backs up in disbelief before reaching for his gun and Chuck scrambled for words.
“I compared you to brave, smart, stubborn assholes, two of whom are archangels!” he yelled defensively. “And Sam DOES love you! Not like in the fanfiction — AND I WOULD KNOW — but dude! You’re the only person he’s ever felt safe around! Of COURSE he’s going to want to be with people like you! He doesn’t KNOW ANY BETTER.” Dean froze. Chuck blinked in surprised at the anger in his own voice before dropping the whiskey on the couch and throwing up his hands in front of his face and mumbling, “Pleasedon’tshootme.”
Oh God, he thought from behind his forearms. This is where I die. I just yelled at Dean Winchester and compared him to the devil, oh god, he is going to strangle me. I am going to die drunk in my pajamas.
Chuck heard Dean’s footsteps and tensed up, squeezing his eyes shut tight. He flinched when he felt the hunter’s hand on his arms, but was flooded with confusion as Dean pushed his arms down from his face and — from the sound of it — crouched down in front of him. Terrified curiosity got the better of Chuck and he opened his eyes to find himself face to face with the Winchester.
Wow, his eyes really are that green, Chuck thought. And that’s gonna be my last thought. What a shitty last thought.
“Chuck, focus,” Dean said, snapping his fingers in front of the writer’s face. Dean still looked pissed, but not the I’m-going-to-shoot-you kind of pissed, so Chuck relaxed a little bit. That seemed to be good enough for Dean, who nodded and snagged the whiskey bottle from the couch before standing back up. His judgemental green eyes looked from the two shots left in the bottle to the very drunk prophet cowering on the couch. The younger man sighed and walked off towards the kitchen.
Hoo boy. You know you’re an alcoholic when Dean Winchester is exasperated about your whiskey consumption.