Ficlet: Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap (and other alliterations)
Could I possibly have been inspired to work on the other two fics I have due soon for challenges? NO! I had to get freaking blindsided by a plot that wouldn’t get out of my head all weekend!
Title: Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap (and other alliterations)
Rating: gen, PG
Characters/Pairing: Chuck, Dean, Castiel
Word Count: 712
Warnings: Spoilers through 5.03, probably to be Kripke’d or Joss’d or whatever you want to call it by next week’s ep.
Disclaimer: I love them like they’re my own, but they’re not.
Summary: He’s going to unplug his phone one of these days, he swears. Nail shut the doors, move to Bermuda, and forget he ever thought up the Winchesters.
He knows his phone is going to ring long before it actually does. He lets his machine pick up the first three calls, listens as the messages get more and more frustrated, then finally answers on ring four.
“I won’t do it, Dean.” He thinks the rude, abrupt greeting is highly appropriate in these circumstances.
“C’mon Chuck, what’s a favor between friends?”
“Your favors have a high probability of bodily harm attached.”
There’s a huff over the line. “Look, the oil is going to burn out in-” Chuck can hear Castiel mumble something in the background, then Dean’s back. “One hour, six minutes and forty-seven seconds, apparently. We’ll almost be clear by then, but we just need a distraction. Go…play in traffic or something.”
Chuck drags a hand down the side of his face and groans. He’s going to unplug his phone one of these days, he swears. Nail shut the doors, move to Bermuda, and forget he ever thought up the Winchesters. “Last time I did something like this, I ended up with Cas bits in my ear. You know that.”
“Good thing he’s not there this time, then.” And Dean hangs up.
A little more than an hour later, Chuck steps off the curb and right in front of a four-door sedan. His archangel, freaking Raphael, shows up just in time, and the car gets launched onto the roof of a nearby strip mall.
And Chuck thinks, this is the last time he becomes friends with his story characters. It’s not worth the anxiety.
*****
Dean and Castiel are obviously on the lam, nothing worse than a vengeful archangel on your tail, and Dean calls Chuck every time Raphael is getting too close for comfort. It’s to the point where Chuck has started a spreadsheet of all the near-death experiences he’s thrown himself into.
So far, his favorite has been that thing with the harpoon.
He’s resolutely decided that he’s no longer involving other people in his distraction attempts. The one time Dean had given him enough heads-up that they were going to do something that would put them on the heavenly radar, Chuck had headed into the seedier side of town. His logic at the time had been that a good attempted mugging would probably make a sufficient distraction.
He hadn’t intended for his would-be attackers to end up impaled on tree limbs.
Never again.
*****
“You’re not ever going to ask about Sam during these little chats, are you, Dean?”
There’s wind rushing over the line, driving with the Impala’s windows down, then, but Chuck can clearly hear Dean’s definitive “nope.”
“You really should know.”
“Sam’s a big boy now. I don’t think he’d appreciate me prying all crystal ball style. He wants me to know what’s going on, he’ll pick up the phone.”
“But Dean-”
He can also clearly hear the click of the connection being cut.
*****
He breaks his leg falling off his roof. Turns out his house isn’t tall enough to be considered a “mortal danger” and Raphael never shows up to catch him.
When he gets back from the hospital, there are two messages on his machine, asking him what the hell was taking so long. “I think I’m a few pints low from that damn banishing ritual,” Dean’s voice is complaining.
He doesn’t hear from them again for more than a week, but he does open his front door one afternoon to find a fifth of whiskey and a note that says, “Sorry about that.”
He takes his peace offering and hobbles back inside.
*****
One day, Castiel just shows up without calling first. Chuck doesn’t care; he’s been drunk for the last two days anyway.
“You knew.” Castiel doesn’t let it sound like a question. Chuck takes another healthy gulp from his latest bottle and then passes it to the angel, who takes his own swallow.
They drink in silence for a while, never bothering with glasses, until Chuck can’t keep it in anymore. He’s used to speaking out loud to himself anyway. “You think we’ll ever get them back? As they were?”
Castiel takes another sip before passing back the liquor. “I don’t know. You’re the prophet.”
Then he’s gone, and Chuck chugs the last of it down.
Title: Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap (and other alliterations)
Rating: gen, PG
Characters/Pairing: Chuck, Dean, Castiel
Word Count: 712
Warnings: Spoilers through 5.03, probably to be Kripke’d or Joss’d or whatever you want to call it by next week’s ep.
Disclaimer: I love them like they’re my own, but they’re not.
Summary: He’s going to unplug his phone one of these days, he swears. Nail shut the doors, move to Bermuda, and forget he ever thought up the Winchesters.
He knows his phone is going to ring long before it actually does. He lets his machine pick up the first three calls, listens as the messages get more and more frustrated, then finally answers on ring four.
“I won’t do it, Dean.” He thinks the rude, abrupt greeting is highly appropriate in these circumstances.
“C’mon Chuck, what’s a favor between friends?”
“Your favors have a high probability of bodily harm attached.”
There’s a huff over the line. “Look, the oil is going to burn out in-” Chuck can hear Castiel mumble something in the background, then Dean’s back. “One hour, six minutes and forty-seven seconds, apparently. We’ll almost be clear by then, but we just need a distraction. Go…play in traffic or something.”
Chuck drags a hand down the side of his face and groans. He’s going to unplug his phone one of these days, he swears. Nail shut the doors, move to Bermuda, and forget he ever thought up the Winchesters. “Last time I did something like this, I ended up with Cas bits in my ear. You know that.”
“Good thing he’s not there this time, then.” And Dean hangs up.
A little more than an hour later, Chuck steps off the curb and right in front of a four-door sedan. His archangel, freaking Raphael, shows up just in time, and the car gets launched onto the roof of a nearby strip mall.
And Chuck thinks, this is the last time he becomes friends with his story characters. It’s not worth the anxiety.
*****
Dean and Castiel are obviously on the lam, nothing worse than a vengeful archangel on your tail, and Dean calls Chuck every time Raphael is getting too close for comfort. It’s to the point where Chuck has started a spreadsheet of all the near-death experiences he’s thrown himself into.
So far, his favorite has been that thing with the harpoon.
He’s resolutely decided that he’s no longer involving other people in his distraction attempts. The one time Dean had given him enough heads-up that they were going to do something that would put them on the heavenly radar, Chuck had headed into the seedier side of town. His logic at the time had been that a good attempted mugging would probably make a sufficient distraction.
He hadn’t intended for his would-be attackers to end up impaled on tree limbs.
Never again.
*****
“You’re not ever going to ask about Sam during these little chats, are you, Dean?”
There’s wind rushing over the line, driving with the Impala’s windows down, then, but Chuck can clearly hear Dean’s definitive “nope.”
“You really should know.”
“Sam’s a big boy now. I don’t think he’d appreciate me prying all crystal ball style. He wants me to know what’s going on, he’ll pick up the phone.”
“But Dean-”
He can also clearly hear the click of the connection being cut.
*****
He breaks his leg falling off his roof. Turns out his house isn’t tall enough to be considered a “mortal danger” and Raphael never shows up to catch him.
When he gets back from the hospital, there are two messages on his machine, asking him what the hell was taking so long. “I think I’m a few pints low from that damn banishing ritual,” Dean’s voice is complaining.
He doesn’t hear from them again for more than a week, but he does open his front door one afternoon to find a fifth of whiskey and a note that says, “Sorry about that.”
He takes his peace offering and hobbles back inside.
*****
One day, Castiel just shows up without calling first. Chuck doesn’t care; he’s been drunk for the last two days anyway.
“You knew.” Castiel doesn’t let it sound like a question. Chuck takes another healthy gulp from his latest bottle and then passes it to the angel, who takes his own swallow.
They drink in silence for a while, never bothering with glasses, until Chuck can’t keep it in anymore. He’s used to speaking out loud to himself anyway. “You think we’ll ever get them back? As they were?”
Castiel takes another sip before passing back the liquor. “I don’t know. You’re the prophet.”
Then he’s gone, and Chuck chugs the last of it down.