Who: Jo Harvelle & Chuck Shurley When: Backdated to when he was doing his drunken ramblings Where: Park, then the Roadhouse What: Talks and drinking Rating: PG basically Status: Complete, log PART 1/2
It was, in Chuck’s opinion, a completely appropriate time to be this level of <i>smashed</i>. See, it was the end of the world - that was about all he knew, everything fuzzy and hazy and a little like looking through a broken mirror, if a broken mirror was also shooting its shards into your <i>brain</i> at the same time as it was being beat on by a whole group of drummers with much enthusiasm and lit on fire by... people who liked to burn things. Something like that. It <i>hurt</i>, to put it mildly, and that was <i>definitely</i> putting it mildly.
He was probably in a less-than-appropriate place, however, a playground somewhere... somewhere within walking distance from the complex, he was pretty sure, but then again maybe he was just suddenly magical and could walk <i>miles and miles</i> without even knowing... nah, he was pretty sure he didn’t do that - his feet didn’t hurt, and he was wearing slippers, not walking shoes, so he’s... pretty sure they would, if he had. There weren’t kids around - or anyone, actually - but he wasn’t entirely sure why that mattered. Probably because he was drunk, drinking, sitting on one of the swings - and he probably looked like the kind of guy a concerned parent would call the cops about, if they noticed him sitting there where their children were meant to play, bathrobe thrown over his t-shirt and pajama pants, slippers with playground mulch sticking to them.
His head hurt and it was the end of the world and it was just a really, really sucky day.
After taking care of a couple of things at the Roadhouse, Jo had headed out in her beat-up pickup truck, a shotgun behind the passenger seat where she could reach for it easily if need be. She was dressed in cargo pants and a light sweater, with a bomber jacket over it in which she had a couple of knives and a handgun. Even though things had been pretty quiet since that one Slayer chick had been possessed, Jo wasn’t a fan of not being prepared for anything. In a bag next to the shotgun, actually, were a few sports bottles full of holy water, a silver knife, chains, and a few other things she rarely went without - even if this was just going to be a short trip to pick up a drunk guy.
That’s what the bucket on the passenger seat floorboard was for.
She decided to start near the complex. She had a map half unfolded on the passenger seat which she consulted from time to time to find various nearby playgrounds. It took four and an hour to find him. When she finally spotted a man who resembled what she’d seen of Chuck on the boards sitting on a swing, she cut off the engine and slipped out of the truck. As she walked over to him, her dark gaze scanned the surrounding area and was somewhat relieved that no one was around. At least he wasn’t babbling drunkenly to random kids. On reaching the swings, she stopped a couple feet back from him and offered a smile.
“Hey, Chuck. Ready to go?”
Chuck’s head snapped up at the sound of his name, something he immediately regretted, because it sent the world pitching and swirling around him, set his head to feeling like it was being attacked by an axe murderer - the kind that murder <i>with</i> axes, not murder <i>axes</i> - and he made some kind of a sound, somewhere between an acknowledgement and painspinnygross, as the blond girl came into view. He recognized her immediately, something that should probably surprise him, given that he didn’t recognize Sam or Dean - but he hadn’t been <I>expecting to</i> recognize them, because at the time he hadn’t known they were real, but Jo he knows ahead of time, even though he’d sort of forgotten she was coming, and so he waves his hand at her and makes a slightly mangled attempt at a “Heyy th’re, Jo!”
Jo couldn’t help but grin, shaking her head as she put her hands on her hips. “And I thought some of the old Hunters that came through my mom’s place were bad.” She recognized that if she got him to move immediately, he’d probably be sick, so instead she moved over and sat on the swing next to him. One nimble-fingered hand reached out and easily snagged the paper bag in his hands, which she then looked inside to see what he had been drinking.
“JB, huh?” She eyed him and shook her head. “Just how many before this one, Chuck?” She held the bottle down at her opposite side, intending on using it in the morning to help him with the hangover he would no doubt have. “Things can’t be so bad that you’re abusing good whiskey by drinking alone.”
Chuck would be lying if he were to tell someone he wasn’t pouting when she took the bottle from him, but he didn’t put up much of a fight. Not that he’d be able to, if he tried, right now. Besides, she was just trying to help, right? He was pretty sure she wouldn’t really be able to - not with anything that mattered, because it was kind of the end of the world and all that, but she seemed to want to, seemed to want to help <i>him</i>, anyway, so he wasn’t going to fight that, even if he’d had the energy to (or the courage to - the girl was small, but she was a firecracker. With knives. Yeah, he wasn’t going to piss this one off, if he could help it).
“Lotsh,” was the immediate answer to her question of how many, because it had been a long string of bottles since he got here, a long haze that didn’t let up long enough for the pain to rise above <i>agony</i>, because if it did he was sure he was going to, you know, die. Or at least end up with brain damage... Besides, it was the end of the world. He was pretty sure a little drinking was called for - no, <i>required</i> at this point.
“Notsho bad, no. Jus’thend’v th’world.”
She pretended not to notice the pout if only to save face for him, though the fact that he <i>was</i> pouting amused her. “I can tell. I can smell ‘em on you.” Jo shook her head absently. “Just the end of the world, huh?”
Another shake was given, and she lifted the bottle to her own lips and took a sip. She needed more than that, but one of them had to stay sober tonight. As she lowered the bottle, her gaze shifted to study him. “So there’s really no way, huh? We should just give up now, ‘cause we’re all going to die?” She didn’t honestly believe that, but for the sake of everyone else, she had to know what he had seen.
Chuck shrugged, an unspoken <I>looks that way</i> while she drank, frowning down at his slippers and glancing over at her out of the corner of his eye when she spoke again. “I’unno,” he mumbled, “Can’ really see much. Somethin’s keeping’t from me.” It wasn’t keeping everything from him, giving him just enough flashes to know something wasn’t right, enough to worry and panic and on top of the way his head felt, he just wasn’t equipped to handle panic right now.
He looked over at her, offered something that was meant to be a smile - hopefully it looked like one - “Th’ks f’comin’ afterr me? Y’didn’t have to. I’d’a been okay.” He was used to this - although not usually in a playground of whatever this was, true, and not usually with this much pain attached... but he’d muddle through, he always did. But he was more than a little grateful for the company.
“Then maybe you’re wrong, and it’s not the end of the world.” Jo spoke gently as she kept her eyes on him, returning his smile with a light one of her own. “Maybe it just looks bad, but we’re all going to end up okay in the end.” Someone here had to stay optimistic, otherwise they might both end up with alcohol poisoning.
She half-shrugged at his thanks. “It’s not a problem. I’m pretty used to guys getting drunk, so I figured I was qualified. ‘Sides, we don’t need you wandering in front of a car, or getting lost. Or sick.” Jo took one last sip of the bottle herself, then set it aside carefully, out of reach of Chuck. “So why a playground?”
“I hope ‘M’wrong,” he responded, “But I don’t think so.” He wasn’t very good at <I>optimism</i>. Never had been, probably never would be even if the world <I>wasn’t</i> ending.
He nodded a little as she spoke; he didn’t want to get hit by a car, not really, even if being dead for the apocalypse was probably a good plan. His self-preservation was still intact, apparently. And it would be really easy to get lost, here - he’d just arrived, he didn’t actually know where anything was, where this even was. “That would be bad...”
...why a playground was a pretty good question, actually. He looked around, shrugged a little. “I’unno,” he responded, shuffling his feet in the mulch, swinging just a little - and then stopping, because that was a really bad plan, the world tilting and pitching a little wildly, “Seemed like a good place t’be, I guess.”
She caught the look on his face when he had started to swing, and bit back a sympathetic smile. “It’s not bad, as far as playgrounds go. Got all the things a playground should have.” Except kids, but they were all home in their beds right now. Eying him to see if he could stand without falling over, she decided against getting up just yet.
“So you can’t see the stuff that’s coming...but what about all the stuff you’ve seen before? You said you only saw me when I was around the Winchesters, right?”
He glanced around, nodded a little - carefully - “If moving didn’make my head all ...” he waved a hand a little wildly to indicate the general wobbly-headedness that comes with being way too drunk and way too headachey, “...I’d like it a lot more.” He’d probably already be swinging, or climbing around on stuff. Playgrounds were something he probably would never outgrow - at least not when he was drunk. Just ...at this level of drunk, it didn’t seem like a great plan.
He nodded again a little, “I mean, sometimes you weren’t <i>with</i> them, literally in the same scene, or - I mean... y’know what I mean. Like when you were luring that ghost-guy out, or when y’were kidnapped by’im... I saw that, even though they weren’ <I>there</i>.”
Jo gave a slow nod as she thought about that, remembering that particular hunt. And what had come after. “Right, okay...it’s a little weird, still. But I’m starting to get used to the idea, I think.” She glanced back over to him. “You saw things that you didn’t put in the books though, didn’t you? Because even I can tell not everything’s in there.” One hand rose to absently push her hair back from her face, while she kept her eyes on him. Part of it was so that she could catch him if he started to fall over.
“Weird t’me, too,” he remarked, a wry smile in place, “Yeah, I left stuff out. S’a lotta stuff that... I don’ think anyone should know. An’ some of it just ...didn’ seem to work. With the plot, I mean. Although if s’all real, there is no plot. S’just writing history as it happens, or somethin’. I don’ know.”
He glanced off to the side, towards where she’d set the bottle, then shot her another look, “I can’ have anymore’a that, can I?” It wasn’t really a question, even though the end sounded like one, and he sighed, not even needing an answer to know that she probably wasn’t going to let him drink himself unconscious tonight. Which really kind of sucked, because he wasn’t looking forward to trying to sleep, otherwise.
She wondered if he’d left out things about her, and her feelings, but she didn’t ask. It was probably better not to know. That ship had long since sailed, anyway. At his question, she grinned a bit and shook her head. “Nope, sorry. Not if you want to retain whatever brain cells you might possibly still have.” And since he was asking, she tilted her head to study him.
“You ready to go? I’ve got a place at the saloon where you can sleep off the drunk away from any of the kids in the complex. There’s even a shower in the back.” A not-so-subtle hint that he should make use of it in the morning.
“Brain cells’re overrated,” he mumbles, but it’s not really a complaint. He knows better than to argue with her. With most women, actually, because women are kind of ...intimidating, sometimes. A lot of the time. Especially ones who like knives and can shoot things and all that. Yeah, hunter chicks? Terrifying. But awesome. If she weren’t a real person, he’d be proud of creating her character - as it is, he’s not entirely sure what to think about that.
“Yeah, we can go now.” He offered a grin that was probably sort of lopsided, pushing himself to his feet. The world tilted, spun, and then steadied itself, and he stepped forward a little, wobbled. “I’m good,” he offered, attempt at a preemptive strike on any help - he didn’t want to make her help him if he didn’t need it, and for now this was still something he was capable of handling, something he was used to.
“You’re not the only one who needs your brain cells, Chuck.” She sat where she was as she watched him stand, and after it was clear that he wasn’t falling, she stood herself and swooped an arm down to pick up the bag with the bottle inside.