SPN fic: Tally.
Yet Another 5x04 Fic. All the cool kids are doing it, but there's a disturbing lack of Chuck in the ones I've seen so far. And you can never have too much Prophet Chuck. Thus, fic.
Title: Tally
Rating: PG like Up was PG.
Pairing: Dean/Cas, and CHUCK!!1!
Warnings: ...5x04, and the themes therein. THIS FIC IS NOT HAPPY. AT ALL.
Summary: Chuck kept track of how things went wrong.
Chuck had a list of what Cas was on and how much of it, but after a while it was too depressing to keep the tally going. Dean didn’t bother reading the list after the first year, Cas himself didn’t seem to care he went through probably five pages of drugs and alcohol in a single month, and Chuck was sick and tired of knowing he was one of the reasons Cas kept getting worse and worse.
But really, he could blame it on Dean. Hell, he could blame Dean for everything, but that wasn’t any way to live life, as sucky as life was nowadays. But the point was that Dean was the one Castiel reached out to when the angels were gone, and it had been Dean that had resorted to the only coping mechanisms he had, which were sex and alcohol and killing and revenge. And Cas had followed, just like he always had. Dean went for the killing and revenge, and Cas went for the sex and alcohol and drugs, and sometimes they’d meet in the middle, but the meetings got rarer and rarer.
He’d heard rumors that you could find a sober Castiel sometimes, on anniversaries that only he and Dean seemed to know and Chuck couldn’t remember anymore (it had always flowed, and he’d never had to ask questions, never had the fear of not knowing, and sometimes it scared him how reassuring that had been before the angels left and took his foresight with them). Supposedly that was when you could see the ghosts of what they’d been before Chicago, hear the whisper of something laughably close to hope.
But Chuck knew that’d been nothing but a rumor for years now. There’d been truth in it at the beginning, but Chuck had the lists to prove there’s nothing sober about their resident ex-angel.
Cas was found bloody, bruised, and unconscious outside his cabin, enough blood on the door to let them know what had knocked him out. Chuck installed a beaded curtain the next morning and pretended to not notice that Dean was actually in the camp and not out killing the poor infected bastards destroying the world, and none of them said a word about the fact they’d seen him helping Castiel - already high, already clinging to Dean in a way that could tell anyone how painfully dependent he was - into his cabin.
Dean came back to camp with four survivors one morning, and Cas stayed sober for an entire afternoon. He stayed sober until Dean showed up at his cabin again, alone, and then Chuck was handing him another bottle of scrounged-up medication only a few hours later. Chuck managed to struggle through a tally of the newcomers’ gear without eavesdropping, and he may not be a prophet anymore, but he was sure as hell a saint for that.
It was the curse of the quartermaster, Chuck learned after a while. You know everything, but can’t say a damn word. Particularly when it was your fearless, heartless leader and the resident functioning junkie you knew things about.
Sometimes Dean would return covered in blood or mud or, on one memorable occasion, feathers. It was mostly memorable because Castiel - touchy, needy, hungry Castiel, the guy who took anything you gave him and still wanted more, the man Chuck was pretty sure was only keeping himself alive because Dean occasionally needed someone who would always say yes and they all knew it - had burst into hysterical laughter and cried himself to sleep right there in the dirt, Dean standing over him with his hands in his pockets, not doing a damn thing.
That was also a memorable day because that was the day the list really got long, and it was also the day Dean stopped reading it. “I already know what it’s going to say,” Dean had explained, something only a masochist could label as a smile twisting against his teeth.
Cas broke his foot, and it got to the point Chuck couldn’t even stand in the same room with him. Dean, on the other hand, seemed to spend more time with him than he had in a year, and Chuck couldn’t figure out if Dean cared less or more afterwards. Cas seemed to care less, considering he started up something that seemed almost like a one-man whorehouse, and Dean didn’t say a damn thing about it. Barely said anything, really.
Dean got real quiet after a couple years. No more jokes, no more driving, no more of his occasional non-business social calls unless he was after something, and even then it seemed like business anyway.
He kept a tally of that, too, and uncaring or not, Chuck was fully prepared to eat the list before letting what remained of Castiel see it.
And then there was a second Dean, one from all the way back in 2009, when Chuck was still a prophet instead of a quartermaster. Back from when the world was actually a pretty great place, all things considered. Hell, certainly better than what was left in 2014. And the second Dean didn’t even notice that he was the first little bit of sunshine they’d had in what seemed like all the time Chuck could remember nowadays.
Cas’ tally went down so sharply that Chuck actually started recording it again. Dean’s tallies went down to nothing. He’d been there for less than a day, and Chuck could already see everything was getting better. Chuck wasn’t stupid, he knew things could get much worse and probably would when the second Dean left (because that was how these stories always went, but if they couldn’t keep him they could at least remember him). But, for now, it was a disturbingly happier place.
And then both Deans, and Cas, and so many others left to go kill the devil, and didn’t come back.
Chuck started a tally of how long it’d been since they’d left.
It stops at twenty black, blood-splattered ticks.
Title: Tally
Rating: PG like Up was PG.
Pairing: Dean/Cas, and CHUCK!!1!
Warnings: ...5x04, and the themes therein. THIS FIC IS NOT HAPPY. AT ALL.
Summary: Chuck kept track of how things went wrong.
Chuck had a list of what Cas was on and how much of it, but after a while it was too depressing to keep the tally going. Dean didn’t bother reading the list after the first year, Cas himself didn’t seem to care he went through probably five pages of drugs and alcohol in a single month, and Chuck was sick and tired of knowing he was one of the reasons Cas kept getting worse and worse.
But really, he could blame it on Dean. Hell, he could blame Dean for everything, but that wasn’t any way to live life, as sucky as life was nowadays. But the point was that Dean was the one Castiel reached out to when the angels were gone, and it had been Dean that had resorted to the only coping mechanisms he had, which were sex and alcohol and killing and revenge. And Cas had followed, just like he always had. Dean went for the killing and revenge, and Cas went for the sex and alcohol and drugs, and sometimes they’d meet in the middle, but the meetings got rarer and rarer.
He’d heard rumors that you could find a sober Castiel sometimes, on anniversaries that only he and Dean seemed to know and Chuck couldn’t remember anymore (it had always flowed, and he’d never had to ask questions, never had the fear of not knowing, and sometimes it scared him how reassuring that had been before the angels left and took his foresight with them). Supposedly that was when you could see the ghosts of what they’d been before Chicago, hear the whisper of something laughably close to hope.
But Chuck knew that’d been nothing but a rumor for years now. There’d been truth in it at the beginning, but Chuck had the lists to prove there’s nothing sober about their resident ex-angel.
Cas was found bloody, bruised, and unconscious outside his cabin, enough blood on the door to let them know what had knocked him out. Chuck installed a beaded curtain the next morning and pretended to not notice that Dean was actually in the camp and not out killing the poor infected bastards destroying the world, and none of them said a word about the fact they’d seen him helping Castiel - already high, already clinging to Dean in a way that could tell anyone how painfully dependent he was - into his cabin.
Dean came back to camp with four survivors one morning, and Cas stayed sober for an entire afternoon. He stayed sober until Dean showed up at his cabin again, alone, and then Chuck was handing him another bottle of scrounged-up medication only a few hours later. Chuck managed to struggle through a tally of the newcomers’ gear without eavesdropping, and he may not be a prophet anymore, but he was sure as hell a saint for that.
It was the curse of the quartermaster, Chuck learned after a while. You know everything, but can’t say a damn word. Particularly when it was your fearless, heartless leader and the resident functioning junkie you knew things about.
Sometimes Dean would return covered in blood or mud or, on one memorable occasion, feathers. It was mostly memorable because Castiel - touchy, needy, hungry Castiel, the guy who took anything you gave him and still wanted more, the man Chuck was pretty sure was only keeping himself alive because Dean occasionally needed someone who would always say yes and they all knew it - had burst into hysterical laughter and cried himself to sleep right there in the dirt, Dean standing over him with his hands in his pockets, not doing a damn thing.
That was also a memorable day because that was the day the list really got long, and it was also the day Dean stopped reading it. “I already know what it’s going to say,” Dean had explained, something only a masochist could label as a smile twisting against his teeth.
Cas broke his foot, and it got to the point Chuck couldn’t even stand in the same room with him. Dean, on the other hand, seemed to spend more time with him than he had in a year, and Chuck couldn’t figure out if Dean cared less or more afterwards. Cas seemed to care less, considering he started up something that seemed almost like a one-man whorehouse, and Dean didn’t say a damn thing about it. Barely said anything, really.
Dean got real quiet after a couple years. No more jokes, no more driving, no more of his occasional non-business social calls unless he was after something, and even then it seemed like business anyway.
He kept a tally of that, too, and uncaring or not, Chuck was fully prepared to eat the list before letting what remained of Castiel see it.
And then there was a second Dean, one from all the way back in 2009, when Chuck was still a prophet instead of a quartermaster. Back from when the world was actually a pretty great place, all things considered. Hell, certainly better than what was left in 2014. And the second Dean didn’t even notice that he was the first little bit of sunshine they’d had in what seemed like all the time Chuck could remember nowadays.
Cas’ tally went down so sharply that Chuck actually started recording it again. Dean’s tallies went down to nothing. He’d been there for less than a day, and Chuck could already see everything was getting better. Chuck wasn’t stupid, he knew things could get much worse and probably would when the second Dean left (because that was how these stories always went, but if they couldn’t keep him they could at least remember him). But, for now, it was a disturbingly happier place.
And then both Deans, and Cas, and so many others left to go kill the devil, and didn’t come back.
Chuck started a tally of how long it’d been since they’d left.
It stops at twenty black, blood-splattered ticks.