If you were faced with Him in all His glory

What would you ask if you had just one question?


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IC contact: Sirenspull
- your calls are bad news
paterelohim
Uh, hi! This is Ca- I mean Chuck Shurley, just- Chuck, sorry. [Indistinct fumbling noises] Leave a message after the beep and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks?

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[Pause. Not sure he's buying this.]

Is that really the factor?

[And he pulls his arm away moodily when Chuck touches it, drifting suddenly toward another cabinet, this time in search of something to eat if he's not allowed to have alcohol.]

Kinda. I know how to drink without overdoing it, and I have a higher tolerance than you.

[He's just going to... wheel over here. And wheel backwards and forwards and quietly dick around to work off jangled nerves.]

Sorry, man. That just means you need more practice when you get off the pills.

[He just lets that go, glad that Chuck doesn't have anything in particularly high cabinets so he doesn't have to reach too much to find something edible. Pulling down a box of ritz crackers containing one roll that's half eaten and totally stale and one that's unopened, and he begins opening the sealed one.]

Can I simply stop them?

[Though the pain medication makes the injury much less bothersome, the alcohol would have the same effect and he can deal with it anyway.]

No. [Leaning back over his wheelchair at Cas.] Can you get me a fudgesicle from the freezer?

Why not?

[But he does as he's asked, going to the freezer and handing Chuck a fudgesicle before starting on his crackers.]

Because I said so.

[He takes it and immediately spins the wheelchair around once.]

Thanks, man.

But seriously- you don't have to be on them all the time, but you can't drink when they're kicked in.

[He nods slightly at the thanks.]

Your statements are contradictory.

[If he doesn't have to be on them all the time then why can't he just stop?]

Life is contradictory.

Don't plow through my booze as your pain medication. It's not exactly healthy.

I'm not using it as such.

[The pain's manageable on the medication. He just wants the other effects from the alcohol.]

Mixing substances is really risky.

If you need more pain relief, just up how much you're taking. [Licking the popsicle mildly.]

[He's quiet a moment before actually sharing something.]

The medication is making me nauseous.

[Hence the crackers. And after resting so much the past few days, he can't sleep anymore, so there's another reason, and he really wants the more mind-numbing effects of the alcohol that the pain meds aren't giving him.]

[ 8( Caaaas.]

...Okay.

So.

Cut down your dose by half a pill and next time you take them, you can have a little to drink?

[Well. Guess who's at the end of their dosage and set to take the next in about fifteen minutes anyway? Good timing.]

How much?

[He's drifting back toward the liquor cabinet now.]

[Wheeeeeling up to cut you off there, Barney.]

I'll make it. What do you want?

[And there's a flash of temper at that, before he can suppress it.]

I'm capable of doing it.

[He sighs and pinches his nose.]

Cas. You've helped me in and out of my wheelchair about, what, eighty times now? I just... come on, I know you can, but.

[He almost looks like he's going to be stubborn about it, but the flare or attitude disappears as fast as it came. He backs off and leans against the counter once more, answering the initial question.]

It doesn't matter.

[Chuck presses his lips together and whips up a quick chocolate martini- a very small one, the equivalent of two shots.]

Here. Trust me- it's all you'll need.

[Oh. Chocolate. He's just barely cheered up by that, taking the drink and actually sipping it instead of just downing it as he usually would.]

[Wheeling up to the table, picking up his popsicle again from the wrapper and finishing it off.]

You want some chocolate syrup in that?

This is fine.

[In other words, he likes it and really does appreciate you making it, even if he's not saying it.

Glancing over at the wrapper, eyes caught by the motion, he then realizes Chuck's NV is sitting on the table, open to a message. Curious, oblivious to the rudeness and not really caring anyway, he just picks the device up and begins to read, scrolling quickly in pace with his rapid reading. It takes a fraction of the time it should've for him to take in the half-written message.

And... Well. He hadn't had any idea Chuck was this angry. He'd known he was angry when his voice took on that strange quality back when they'd been treating his injuries, but not like this.]


Are you intending to send this?

[Chuck is a deer in headlights for about two seconds, then reaches out to snatch his NV away.]

No. [When he looks at the message again it's like he's seeing it with new eyes: every jab, every passive-aggressive stab and cutting remark that would have been so devastating for Sam to read. Even in his still-potent anger at the man, it strikes him as twisted that Chuck, with his intimate emotional insight into what moves and drives Sam, into his demons and innermost thoughts, should use that to know how best to hurt him.

He snaps the NV shut, tense and temporarily mollified.]


He would probably deserve it- but no.

[Castiel doesn't bother attempting to keep the NV out of reach, allowing Chuck to take it back and just watching the prophet a moment, drink forgotten on the table.

He's not sure how he feels about this. He's angry with Sam himself, and as he has been able to recognize only lately, hurt. But at the same time he was there, and he realizes that afforded him a different view of the situation than Chuck likely had. He's angry, but he almost understands.]


He wasn't himself.

[It's quiet, and out of what was, again, the protectiveness he feels for the brothers. It doesn't justify what happened, but Castiel doesn't believe Sam truly chose to do this.]

[It makes sense. On some level, Chuck knows this.]

I don't really care. Every morning when you wake up you look like a six year old who just realized that their puppy was hit by a car.

So. Yeah. Nope. In this recession economy? I don't have a fuck to give.

[He glances down, and off to the side, quiet for a moment at that. It's difficult for him to pick out what all he's feeling at the moment, some strange mix of anger and sadness and embarrassment, and at the same time almost touched. It meant something that Chuck was this angry and concerned over how Castiel felt, though at the same time he was displeased with himself for apparently being so pathetic.]

I'm fine.

[And a pause, as he brings up something he's been thinking about.]

We likely should be more concerned than we have been about the situation itself. We don't know what effect angel blood may have, how long the effects will last, or what may happen it wears off. And if he had such an intense craving for demon blood, he may again.

[The distraction talking about problems that need to be solved is far preferable to talking about himself.]

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