SPN Fanfic: Playing the Odds
Title: Playing the Odds
Warnings/Rating: SPOILERS FOR 5.09, GEN, PG.
Word Count: 875-ish
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Dean and Sam have a solution to the problem of Chuck's books, and it doesn't involve gunplay.
A/N: Springing from a thought I had in my reaction post for 5.09. Mainly trying to get something written so I don't totally lose my mind. Random and pointless. [LJ-Only]
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Playing the Odds
by CaffieneKitty
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Sam copied another row of numbers down into a separate notebook, along with the date and other pertinent details. A smear of chili encroached on the final numbers in the newspaper and Sam frowned. Is that a 28? A 26?
Across the table, Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Man, my eyes are going screwy. I think I've got everything worthwhile out of the sports section. You want to swap, make sure I didn't mess anything up?"
"Sure, you can check mine. I can't get that last number through your chili splatter."
"Hey, you were the one that decided to dip the paper in my lunch." In the diner kitchen something clattered to the floor, followed by mild cursing and desultory chuckling applause from the patrons up at the counter.
"Whatever." Sam handed the Lifestyles section and his notebook over to Dean, taking the sports section and Dean's notebook in return. "You really think this is even going to work? I mean, Chuck gets visions about us, not from us."
"Ah," said Dean, tapping a finger aside his nose. "See, the way I figure, if we spend enough time each and every day doing this, it has to eventually get through."
"Will he even know what it is? Can we let him know to watch for it?"
"I don't think it's safe to give him a head's up. I get the feeling that if whatever's sending him our lives, God, angels or whatever, really wanted this to happen, it already would have."
Sam frowned.
"It'll work. Even though he's..." Dean half-shrugged, waving a hand vaguely in the vicinity of his right temple, "Chuck, I think he'll recognize opportunity when it shows up in his brain."
"I hope you're right. This is starting to drive me nuts." Sam scanned through the sports pages and compared the scores to the notes and dates on Dean's notepad. "You got 'em all."
Dean slapped the besmirched 'Lifestyles' section onto the table. "So did you, except that last number was a 23."
"You're sure?"
"I can read through chili. I'm awesome like that. Okay, ready?"
The bell over the door tinkled and a waitress called a cheery greeting to the new customer. Sam lowered his voice. "Can't we do this in the room?"
"The more public places we do this, the more likely what or whoever is sending Chuck our life story in real-time will screw up and figure it's research for a case. Diners are where we usually check out local newspapers." Dean's mouth tipped in a half-smile. "Or at least we used to."
"Most local newspapers are online now, Dean. We could do all of this on the laptops."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Do you want there to be more books about us Sam?"
"No, of course not."
"We can't actually stop Chuck from writing, but when this works, he can tell his Swedish-"
"Scandinavian," Sam corrected, feeling pedantic. "Possibly Swedish, but not necessarily."
"Whatever. When this works, he'll have all the money he'll need. He can tell the guy offering him the publication deal to go pound sand. Chuck'll still be writing no doubt - poor bastard - but no one will be reading but him and us."
Sam sighed and pulled his own notepad back towards him.
Dean waggled his pencil pack and forth in his fingers. "You're probably right, though, you know. We should change it up, keep 'em guessing. Tomorrow we'll do this in the room, or at the library."
"We're doing this tomorrow too?"
"Every day until it works." Dean smirked grimly. "Or, you know. Until the world ends."
Sam scowled. "Be serious."
"What? This is serious, Sam. It's not just a bunch of people reading about us, dressing up like us and arguing about which of us cries better." Dean glanced over his shoulder at a kid bussing tables behind them with a big grey bin and lowered his voice too. "If Chuck publishes more books, that's publicly available information about our lives and everything going on in them. Everything. And right now, we both know there's a whole lot of everything that we don't need certain people finding out about."
Glancing at the rows of numbers tidily printed in the book, Sam shook his head. "Chuck's already seen what we're doing right now though. If it had worked, it would have worked already."
"It'll never work if we don't try. Plus it takes 'em a couple days to square away the results and stuff, probably. Who knows, maybe it did already work, but won't make the papers 'til next week." Dean pulled the notebook of sports scores back towards himself. "Come on, Sam. At worst it's fifteen, twenty wasted minutes a day, staring at a bunch of numbers. No different than staring at the obituaries, or weather reports."
"Fine. Let's get this done then." Spinning his notepad around, Sam stared at what he'd just written.
Dean was right. It would be worth it if this worked. They'd never have to worry about Chuck deciding to go after a new book deal out of desperation. They'd probably even be able to hit him up for a split of the winnings if this worked, once they explained things to him.
It could be worse. We could trying to send Chuck the Stock Market Index.
Sam concentrated and started reading along the lines silently.
The winning numbers in last night's PowerBall lottery are...
- - -
(that's it. Just a thought.)
Warnings/Rating: SPOILERS FOR 5.09, GEN, PG.
Word Count: 875-ish
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Dean and Sam have a solution to the problem of Chuck's books, and it doesn't involve gunplay.
A/N: Springing from a thought I had in my reaction post for 5.09. Mainly trying to get something written so I don't totally lose my mind. Random and pointless. [LJ-Only]
-
Playing the Odds
by CaffieneKitty
-
Sam copied another row of numbers down into a separate notebook, along with the date and other pertinent details. A smear of chili encroached on the final numbers in the newspaper and Sam frowned. Is that a 28? A 26?
Across the table, Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Man, my eyes are going screwy. I think I've got everything worthwhile out of the sports section. You want to swap, make sure I didn't mess anything up?"
"Sure, you can check mine. I can't get that last number through your chili splatter."
"Hey, you were the one that decided to dip the paper in my lunch." In the diner kitchen something clattered to the floor, followed by mild cursing and desultory chuckling applause from the patrons up at the counter.
"Whatever." Sam handed the Lifestyles section and his notebook over to Dean, taking the sports section and Dean's notebook in return. "You really think this is even going to work? I mean, Chuck gets visions about us, not from us."
"Ah," said Dean, tapping a finger aside his nose. "See, the way I figure, if we spend enough time each and every day doing this, it has to eventually get through."
"Will he even know what it is? Can we let him know to watch for it?"
"I don't think it's safe to give him a head's up. I get the feeling that if whatever's sending him our lives, God, angels or whatever, really wanted this to happen, it already would have."
Sam frowned.
"It'll work. Even though he's..." Dean half-shrugged, waving a hand vaguely in the vicinity of his right temple, "Chuck, I think he'll recognize opportunity when it shows up in his brain."
"I hope you're right. This is starting to drive me nuts." Sam scanned through the sports pages and compared the scores to the notes and dates on Dean's notepad. "You got 'em all."
Dean slapped the besmirched 'Lifestyles' section onto the table. "So did you, except that last number was a 23."
"You're sure?"
"I can read through chili. I'm awesome like that. Okay, ready?"
The bell over the door tinkled and a waitress called a cheery greeting to the new customer. Sam lowered his voice. "Can't we do this in the room?"
"The more public places we do this, the more likely what or whoever is sending Chuck our life story in real-time will screw up and figure it's research for a case. Diners are where we usually check out local newspapers." Dean's mouth tipped in a half-smile. "Or at least we used to."
"Most local newspapers are online now, Dean. We could do all of this on the laptops."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Do you want there to be more books about us Sam?"
"No, of course not."
"We can't actually stop Chuck from writing, but when this works, he can tell his Swedish-"
"Scandinavian," Sam corrected, feeling pedantic. "Possibly Swedish, but not necessarily."
"Whatever. When this works, he'll have all the money he'll need. He can tell the guy offering him the publication deal to go pound sand. Chuck'll still be writing no doubt - poor bastard - but no one will be reading but him and us."
Sam sighed and pulled his own notepad back towards him.
Dean waggled his pencil pack and forth in his fingers. "You're probably right, though, you know. We should change it up, keep 'em guessing. Tomorrow we'll do this in the room, or at the library."
"We're doing this tomorrow too?"
"Every day until it works." Dean smirked grimly. "Or, you know. Until the world ends."
Sam scowled. "Be serious."
"What? This is serious, Sam. It's not just a bunch of people reading about us, dressing up like us and arguing about which of us cries better." Dean glanced over his shoulder at a kid bussing tables behind them with a big grey bin and lowered his voice too. "If Chuck publishes more books, that's publicly available information about our lives and everything going on in them. Everything. And right now, we both know there's a whole lot of everything that we don't need certain people finding out about."
Glancing at the rows of numbers tidily printed in the book, Sam shook his head. "Chuck's already seen what we're doing right now though. If it had worked, it would have worked already."
"It'll never work if we don't try. Plus it takes 'em a couple days to square away the results and stuff, probably. Who knows, maybe it did already work, but won't make the papers 'til next week." Dean pulled the notebook of sports scores back towards himself. "Come on, Sam. At worst it's fifteen, twenty wasted minutes a day, staring at a bunch of numbers. No different than staring at the obituaries, or weather reports."
"Fine. Let's get this done then." Spinning his notepad around, Sam stared at what he'd just written.
Dean was right. It would be worth it if this worked. They'd never have to worry about Chuck deciding to go after a new book deal out of desperation. They'd probably even be able to hit him up for a split of the winnings if this worked, once they explained things to him.
It could be worse. We could trying to send Chuck the Stock Market Index.
Sam concentrated and started reading along the lines silently.
The winning numbers in last night's PowerBall lottery are...
- - -
(that's it. Just a thought.)