Joanna Beth Harvelle (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} harvelle) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} wariscoming,@ 2010-07-25 22:29:00 |
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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 2/2
“If you say so.” A guy’s pride was something else she was more than familiar with, so she wasn’t going to offer to help unless he actually started to go horizontal. “Truck’s not far.” She nodded in the direction she had come from, and started to head that way herself.
“You sure about that?” was probably a stupid thing to ask, since apparently he was now supposed to be the apocalypse version of the Weather Channel or something. But it’s been kind of hit-and-miss, <i>really</i> kind of hit-and-miss, especially lately, with this whole broken-visions thing... He wasn’t a writer, and he wasn’t a vision-having ...whatever, anymore, either. Or at least not a reliable one? So what <I>was</i> he, now? Just some drunk guy in a playground wearing a bathrobe and slippers?
Which was probably not the kind of things he needed to be worrying about right now, but... well, he’s pretty sure he was fully entitled to a mild existential crisis at a time like this.
Having a direction to go in was a good thing, because if he tried to guess where he was going he’d probably end up walking off somewhere, but he was pretty sure Jo wouldn’t have let him get too far... still, it’s nice knowing where he’s going. And that it’s not too far. Standing, walking, moving makes his head hurt worse, and it’s not the alcohol’s fault, for that part. Still, he mostly manages to do it without, you know, staggering all over the place, because he’s had a lot of practice at the whole <I>wandering around while plastered</i> gig.
Jo put a hand out and caught his sleeve, shifting so that she faced him full on. “Yeah, I am, Chuck. Despite what you may think about yourself, or your ability, we do need you. And if I have anything to say about it, you’re not going to kill yourself with Jim Bean anytime soon. Got it?” That being said, she started to walk again, figuring he’d most likely follow her. After all, he didn’t exactly have anywhere else to go, and she was offering a bed, a shower, and - more importantly - a safe place for the night.
Chuck wasn’t expecting the tug at his sleeve, stopped short while she turned to face him and he frowned slightly, about to remark on how doing sudden and random things to drunk guys is a bad plan, shouldn’t she know this? But then her words sunk in, and he bit back on that in favor of a more subdued “Yeah. Got it.” Which wasn’t a promise, because that wasn’t something he was able or ready <i>to</i> promise - but it was something, at least, hopefully enough to pacify her, for now. He followed after her, occupying himself with making sure he didn’t trip or fall over anything on the way to her truck.
She looked over at him to make sure he really did ‘get’ it, and nodded in satisfaction. At least he wasn’t being so self-deprecating now. She hadn’t been lying when she told him they needed him. In her opinion, they needed every helping hand they could get. As they walked, she glanced back at him occasionally to make sure he was still following her. When they reached the truck, she unlocked the passenger side and pulled open the door for him. She had a feeling he would be insulted if she actually tried to help him in, so she just moved around the hood to the driver’s side and climbed into the cab herself, tucking the bottle down beside her after she pulled the door shut. For Chuck to reach it, he’d have to lean over her to get to it.
Chuck managed to get safely to and inside of the truck, with no problems. It was a learned skill, managing to maintain steady footing and coordination enough to pull himself into a seat - although he was actually a little glad she opened the door for him, because fumbling for the handle would take more concentration than he had right now. Once they were both in - and he noticed the placement of the bottle with a wry little smirk to himself, because of course she wasn’t going to put it anywhere he could reach, but whatever, that was fine, he wasn’t going to cause a problem - and moving, he tipped his head back to lean against the seat, eyes closed, so he didn’t have to watch the trees fly past and the bright lights of other cars... he wasn’t a very good car passenger when he was drunk, and he really wanted to avoid puking (although the bucket she’d put in there didn’t go unnoticed, he just really, really didn’t feel like dealing with that).
“So... You didn’seem t’mind, when evr’one found out I was writing ‘bout them,” he remarked, possibly a little random, but it had been kind of on his mind on and off, in passing, and popped back up now, “Why?”
She had started up the truck and shifted gears, pulling out of the lot once he was buckled. She was concentrating on the road - while of course keeping an eye out for anything that might be off, the way she normally did. When he spoke, her dark gaze flickered to him briefly, then away as she gave a half-shrug.
“It’s a little weird, but . . . so’s everything else that’s happening. I mean, we’ve got angels helping us, and then all these people showing up from bizarre worlds and realities,” she paused to shake her head. “You know there’s a girl who looks like a 17 year old version of me?” Jo glanced at him again. “So I guess being in some books written by a prophet isn’t that really that big of a deal in the grand scheme. In fact, it’s kinda cool. You know, that if...well, if we all die, maybe people will still know what happened here. What we did.”
“Oh,” Chuck nodded slightly, “I guess that makes sense, yeah. And... I mean, if we all die, there probably won’t be anybody left to read, but if there were... and they could find the books... I guess they’d know. If they, uh, knew they were real.” It was less of an optimistic thing to say than he’d meant to come out with, but ...well, he couldn’t help it if he was just spilling out words at this point. Besides, it was really hard to be optimistic anymore. Not that he’d ever really been good at it, but, still. Now it was even harder.
Honestly, if the world ended tonight, Chuck would almost be okay with it, if it meant he didn’t have to keep having these headaches and these visions, images he didn’t want to see. It wasn’t like when he thought he just had a strange way of being creative, when he’d thought migraines were the price to pay for the amazing story that came out of it. Now, it’s just exhausting, overwhelming, too much responsibility and stress and pain to be something he wants to keep having to deal with forever.
"If we all die, but there's still someone left after, then they'd probably be able to figure out that the books are real. Maybe it'll help them." Jo shrugged again, her eyes focusing on the road. "Besides, why be upset about it when it's not something I can control? Might as well just deal and move past it. Easier that way, in the long run." She let the silence go on for a few minutes, then spoke up.
"Why did you start writing them? I mean, you could have just ignored the dreams and stuff, right?"
“Y’probably right,” he responded, glancing over. Yeah, Jo was something of an optimist, he remembered that, writing her. “I get upset ‘bout things I can’t control all th’time,” he added, “S’sort of how I do things. Panic, drink, zombie out in a corner somewhere, rinse, repeat.” He dropped his head back, let his eyes fall closed again, “S’the only logical thing t’do.”
After the pause, broken by her question, he looked back over again - “I was a writer already, before these books. Or I wanted t’be, anyway, nothin’ ever came of it, before. Figured this, the dreams ...this was a story I could go somewhere with.” He smiled a little, wry and bitter and not really anything like a real smile, “An’ turns out th’only reason it was worth somethin’ was ‘cause it was <i>real</i>. I didn’ come up with it.”
"And all that gets you is a headache in the morning, right?" She sent him a faint smile, though he didn't see it because by then his eyes were closed.
"Maybe you're the only one who could write them the right way, the way they needed to be written. After all, they had to be written by someone, apparently. Turns out you were the best choice. You shouldn't be so hard on yourself, Chuck. No one else can do what you're doing, so that's pretty awesome if you really think about it." She glanced at him a second time, meeting his eyes, and gave him another smile in an attempt to cheer him up.
“Pretty much.” Yeah, okay, so it wasn’t the most effective coping mechanism, but it worked, right? And the hangover headaches were much less brutal than the ones that drove him to want to seek oblivion. “But I have headaches anyway, so...”
“I dunno <i>why</i>, though,” he said, tone dipping dangerously close to a <I>whine</i>. He felt a little bad, being so down in the face of her attempts to cheer him up, but he really couldn’t help it. “I’m not even that good’va writer... And, it doesn’t make sense. Visions? I mean, it’s not like that’s <I>normal</i>. I’m some kind’a psychic...<I>freak</i>, or something. It’s not awesome. I don’ know why it’s happening. I don’ want it t’happen.”
"Does it really matter why? I mean, it doesn't look to me like anyone's going to change it, so maybe you should just make the best of it. You're not a freak, Chuck." Her voice was firm as they pulled up to the back of the Roadhouse, and she killed the engine. "You actually have a direct line to whoever's up there, and you can see what's coming. That doesn't make you a freak. It makes you useful."
She unbuckled and shifted in her seat to face him. "You can help out, you know, instead of just getting drunk every time you see something that scares you. Help Dean, Sam, and all the rest of us get ready, no matter what's going to happen. I think we both know that even if you told us it was hopeless, we'd all still be trying to fight anyway."
Jo nodded towards the building outside. "Ready to head in?"
“It matters to <I>me</I>.” There was that whining tone again, and he scowled slightly, wished he had something to drink. Or, rather, that it wasn’t somewhere so inaccessible. “And I’m pretty sure having visions of the <I>future</i> means I’m a freak. Orrr, that I could make lots’a money telling fortunes. But I don’ think I’d look good in a turban. I think y’need a turban t’be a fortune-teller dude, right?”
A month ago, he’d have said there was nothing <I>up there</i>, that it was all fiction and everything was nothing and all that - but then again a month ago he wouldn’t have been sitting in a truck with <I>Jo Harvelle</i>, his <I>fictional</i> character who actually wasn’t fictional at all. But, see, whatever was <I>up there</i>, whatever was putting this stuff in his head, it wasn’t very nice about it, didn’t give him anything he could work with, lately. “I can’ ev’n <I>see</i> a complete picture, Jo. I don’ know how ‘M supposed t’be useful’ if it doesn’ make any sense.”
He looked over at her as she shifted around to face him, tried to focus on her words, figure out what he’s supposed to say. Unfortunately the first that comes out is a defensive “I don’ get drunk ‘cause I’m scared. Or, well. I mean, not usually. S’cause it helps. With the pain, the headaches.” He offered a slightly sheepish look after that burst out, lifted a clumsy hand to scrub it across his face, “I know you wouldn’t stop, I jus’, I’m not like that.”
When she asked if he was ready to go in, he nodded a little, reached around a little for the handle. Finally catching it, he tugged the door open-
-and practically tumbled out of the truck with a very undignified squawk.
“Yeah, can’t exactly see you wearing a turban,” Jo replied as she shook her head a little. “As for not seeing a complete picture, well, maybe you just haven’t gotten all the puzzle pieces yet.” She shrugged. She was trying to cheer him up, but he was starting to dampen even her optimism somewhat, so it was probably a good idea they were already at the Roadhouse.
Pushing open the driver’s side door, she stepped out, then reached back in to pull out most of her weapons, namely the guns, and her bag. She shut the door and walked around in time to watch him fall out. Reaching out, she gripped his arm to steady him. “Easy there, Chuck.” She waited until he was standing <i>mostly</i> straight, then shut the truck door herself and turned to lead the way up to the back door of the saloon.
“I just hope the pieces aren’t lost.” Yeah, Chuck was possibly the least optimistic person ever tonight. It was hard to be optimistic when you’ve got a pounding headache that’s been lasting about a week or two and you’re drunk and, oh, you’re having incomplete visions of the end of the world that you’d maybe be able to stop, except that you can’t see enough to do anything about it. Yeah, optimism doesn’t exactly thrive under those circumstances.
Managing to right himself after he’d practically gone flying out onto the parking lot took Jo’s help, which would have made him feel kind of pathetic or something like that, but at the moment he didn’t completely mind, if only because it was that, or sit on the pavement until he sobered up enough for his legs to untangle themselves. He followed her up to the Roadhouse, looking at the ground and at her so he didn’t trip or bump into her or something.
“Thanks, again. For all’a this. S’really nice of you t’come get me like this...”
“They aren’t.” She hoped they weren’t, anyway, but now wasn’t the time to voice any doubts of her own. Instead she’d just try to have enough faith for both of them. Besides, how could they fail? They had angels on their side, right? She glanced over to him when he thanked her, and gave a small shrug.
“Not a problem. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve helped someone who’s gotten trashed.” She pushed open the door and held it open for him, then led him into a room that was down a short hall. “Alright, you can stay in here for the night. In the morning, whenever you’re ready, I’ll take you back to the complex.” After giving him some of the Harvelle Hangover Cure, of course. The room was fairly plain, with a soft, comfortable looking bed, a small table with a lamp and clock, and a door to one side that was open, revealing it to be a bathroom.
Chuck stayed silent - there was really no arguing with Jo’s intent optimism, sometimes. Which wasn’t bad, not really, it just made him feel kind of horrible, because he had no such hope left, and he really wished this time, just this once, he was wrong.
He kept following her, smiled and managed a little laugh when she said this wasn’t the first time she’d done something like this, “Yeah, well, it’s still really awesome of you.” She lead him to a room, offered a ride home tomorrow and he offered another smile, walking into the room and sitting at the edge of the bed. “You know, I knew you were one of my favorite characters for a reason.” Right, probably not the best thing to say, in terms of weirdness levels.
She looked over at him when he said she was one of his favorite characters, thinking that over for a moment. “Thanks. I think. Sorry, it’s a little hard to take in sometimes, knowing that you know about all...that.” She hesitated for a long moment, glancing at the doorway, then back to him, deciding to ask that question because now, while he was drunk, might be the only time she could.
“Do you remember when Meg was possessing Sam, and using me as bait?” She waited for him to acknowledge that, then continued, “...Was she telling the truth? About John Winchester shooting my dad? Do you know?”
He nodded a little at her first question - of course he remembered that. It had pretty much sucked, even though he hadn’t lived it like she did. “Sorry ‘bout that,” slipped out before he checked himself; he shouldn’t have apologized, probably, since even if he hadn’t written it, it probably would still have happened, but the sentiment still stands. He’d done a lot of horrible things to his characters, but he’d never thought it would matter.
...He should have known she’d be asking that question. He should have known, but he didn’t, until she spoke and he sighed, rubbed at his eyes and ran a hand up through his hair, “I don’t know for sure, Jo. I didn’t... see that far back.” It wasn’t a lie. He really hadn’t seen that far back. But, thing was, he was pretty sure it <I>was</i> true. It hadn’t felt like a lie designed to hurt, writing the lines out. It had felt like revealing some new information, some fact none of them had known so far.
“It’s not your fault.” She responded, giving a shrug. She tried for a smile, but failed. Even though there hadn’t been anything actually <i>done</i> to her, it was still a bad memory, thanks to what Meg had said about John Winchester. For two years, she had wondered if it was true.
And it seemed like she’d still be wondering. When he said he wasn’t sure, she gave a nod, turning away. “Okay. Figured asking was at least worth a shot.” She walked over to the window and opened it a small crack to let in a little bit of air. “The room gets a little stuffy, so this should help.” Yep, changing the subject should work. “If it gets chilly, just close it.” Having taken those few seconds to compose herself, she turned back to him and gave him a faint smile.
“Good night, Chuck. Sleep well,” she said, and started to head for the door again.
“Yes it is,” was probably the wrong response there, wasn’t it? He wasn’t really to blame for it. He didn’t really make it happen to her, she wasn’t really a character in his stories. But it was out there now, and he just sort of shrugged, like brushing it off, like <I>pretend I didn’t say that</i>, offering a sheepish smile.
He was pretty glad when she changed the subject, glad she didn’t keep asking questions, make him say what he <I>thought</i> even though he didn’t <I>know</i>, grinned almost brightly in response to her smile. “Thanks.” For the window, for the subject change, for getting him out of the playground, for being nice to the stupid drunk freak who saw the future and wrote her into his books.
“Good night, Jo,” he responded, waved a little with one hand, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket with the other. He probably shouldn’t have wanted to ask her to stay and talk, keep him company because he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while, not with his head like it was and the flashes of confusing and disorienting images he knew would be waiting for him. But he didn’t. He wasn’t going to do that - she probably had things to do, and she might have wanted to sleep, too, and she might think he’s a creeper if he asked... it’s just a bad idea. Sleep is good, right? Yep. He can do that.
“You sure about that?” was probably a stupid thing to ask, since apparently he was now supposed to be the apocalypse version of the Weather Channel or something. But it’s been kind of hit-and-miss, <i>really</i> kind of hit-and-miss, especially lately, with this whole broken-visions thing... He wasn’t a writer, and he wasn’t a vision-having ...whatever, anymore, either. Or at least not a reliable one? So what <I>was</i> he, now? Just some drunk guy in a playground wearing a bathrobe and slippers?
Which was probably not the kind of things he needed to be worrying about right now, but... well, he’s pretty sure he was fully entitled to a mild existential crisis at a time like this.
Having a direction to go in was a good thing, because if he tried to guess where he was going he’d probably end up walking off somewhere, but he was pretty sure Jo wouldn’t have let him get too far... still, it’s nice knowing where he’s going. And that it’s not too far. Standing, walking, moving makes his head hurt worse, and it’s not the alcohol’s fault, for that part. Still, he mostly manages to do it without, you know, staggering all over the place, because he’s had a lot of practice at the whole <I>wandering around while plastered</i> gig.
Jo put a hand out and caught his sleeve, shifting so that she faced him full on. “Yeah, I am, Chuck. Despite what you may think about yourself, or your ability, we do need you. And if I have anything to say about it, you’re not going to kill yourself with Jim Bean anytime soon. Got it?” That being said, she started to walk again, figuring he’d most likely follow her. After all, he didn’t exactly have anywhere else to go, and she was offering a bed, a shower, and - more importantly - a safe place for the night.
Chuck wasn’t expecting the tug at his sleeve, stopped short while she turned to face him and he frowned slightly, about to remark on how doing sudden and random things to drunk guys is a bad plan, shouldn’t she know this? But then her words sunk in, and he bit back on that in favor of a more subdued “Yeah. Got it.” Which wasn’t a promise, because that wasn’t something he was able or ready <i>to</i> promise - but it was something, at least, hopefully enough to pacify her, for now. He followed after her, occupying himself with making sure he didn’t trip or fall over anything on the way to her truck.
She looked over at him to make sure he really did ‘get’ it, and nodded in satisfaction. At least he wasn’t being so self-deprecating now. She hadn’t been lying when she told him they needed him. In her opinion, they needed every helping hand they could get. As they walked, she glanced back at him occasionally to make sure he was still following her. When they reached the truck, she unlocked the passenger side and pulled open the door for him. She had a feeling he would be insulted if she actually tried to help him in, so she just moved around the hood to the driver’s side and climbed into the cab herself, tucking the bottle down beside her after she pulled the door shut. For Chuck to reach it, he’d have to lean over her to get to it.
Chuck managed to get safely to and inside of the truck, with no problems. It was a learned skill, managing to maintain steady footing and coordination enough to pull himself into a seat - although he was actually a little glad she opened the door for him, because fumbling for the handle would take more concentration than he had right now. Once they were both in - and he noticed the placement of the bottle with a wry little smirk to himself, because of course she wasn’t going to put it anywhere he could reach, but whatever, that was fine, he wasn’t going to cause a problem - and moving, he tipped his head back to lean against the seat, eyes closed, so he didn’t have to watch the trees fly past and the bright lights of other cars... he wasn’t a very good car passenger when he was drunk, and he really wanted to avoid puking (although the bucket she’d put in there didn’t go unnoticed, he just really, really didn’t feel like dealing with that).
“So... You didn’seem t’mind, when evr’one found out I was writing ‘bout them,” he remarked, possibly a little random, but it had been kind of on his mind on and off, in passing, and popped back up now, “Why?”
She had started up the truck and shifted gears, pulling out of the lot once he was buckled. She was concentrating on the road - while of course keeping an eye out for anything that might be off, the way she normally did. When he spoke, her dark gaze flickered to him briefly, then away as she gave a half-shrug.
“It’s a little weird, but . . . so’s everything else that’s happening. I mean, we’ve got angels helping us, and then all these people showing up from bizarre worlds and realities,” she paused to shake her head. “You know there’s a girl who looks like a 17 year old version of me?” Jo glanced at him again. “So I guess being in some books written by a prophet isn’t that really that big of a deal in the grand scheme. In fact, it’s kinda cool. You know, that if...well, if we all die, maybe people will still know what happened here. What we did.”
“Oh,” Chuck nodded slightly, “I guess that makes sense, yeah. And... I mean, if we all die, there probably won’t be anybody left to read, but if there were... and they could find the books... I guess they’d know. If they, uh, knew they were real.” It was less of an optimistic thing to say than he’d meant to come out with, but ...well, he couldn’t help it if he was just spilling out words at this point. Besides, it was really hard to be optimistic anymore. Not that he’d ever really been good at it, but, still. Now it was even harder.
Honestly, if the world ended tonight, Chuck would almost be okay with it, if it meant he didn’t have to keep having these headaches and these visions, images he didn’t want to see. It wasn’t like when he thought he just had a strange way of being creative, when he’d thought migraines were the price to pay for the amazing story that came out of it. Now, it’s just exhausting, overwhelming, too much responsibility and stress and pain to be something he wants to keep having to deal with forever.
"If we all die, but there's still someone left after, then they'd probably be able to figure out that the books are real. Maybe it'll help them." Jo shrugged again, her eyes focusing on the road. "Besides, why be upset about it when it's not something I can control? Might as well just deal and move past it. Easier that way, in the long run." She let the silence go on for a few minutes, then spoke up.
"Why did you start writing them? I mean, you could have just ignored the dreams and stuff, right?"
“Y’probably right,” he responded, glancing over. Yeah, Jo was something of an optimist, he remembered that, writing her. “I get upset ‘bout things I can’t control all th’time,” he added, “S’sort of how I do things. Panic, drink, zombie out in a corner somewhere, rinse, repeat.” He dropped his head back, let his eyes fall closed again, “S’the only logical thing t’do.”
After the pause, broken by her question, he looked back over again - “I was a writer already, before these books. Or I wanted t’be, anyway, nothin’ ever came of it, before. Figured this, the dreams ...this was a story I could go somewhere with.” He smiled a little, wry and bitter and not really anything like a real smile, “An’ turns out th’only reason it was worth somethin’ was ‘cause it was <i>real</i>. I didn’ come up with it.”
"And all that gets you is a headache in the morning, right?" She sent him a faint smile, though he didn't see it because by then his eyes were closed.
"Maybe you're the only one who could write them the right way, the way they needed to be written. After all, they had to be written by someone, apparently. Turns out you were the best choice. You shouldn't be so hard on yourself, Chuck. No one else can do what you're doing, so that's pretty awesome if you really think about it." She glanced at him a second time, meeting his eyes, and gave him another smile in an attempt to cheer him up.
“Pretty much.” Yeah, okay, so it wasn’t the most effective coping mechanism, but it worked, right? And the hangover headaches were much less brutal than the ones that drove him to want to seek oblivion. “But I have headaches anyway, so...”
“I dunno <i>why</i>, though,” he said, tone dipping dangerously close to a <I>whine</i>. He felt a little bad, being so down in the face of her attempts to cheer him up, but he really couldn’t help it. “I’m not even that good’va writer... And, it doesn’t make sense. Visions? I mean, it’s not like that’s <I>normal</i>. I’m some kind’a psychic...<I>freak</i>, or something. It’s not awesome. I don’ know why it’s happening. I don’ want it t’happen.”
"Does it really matter why? I mean, it doesn't look to me like anyone's going to change it, so maybe you should just make the best of it. You're not a freak, Chuck." Her voice was firm as they pulled up to the back of the Roadhouse, and she killed the engine. "You actually have a direct line to whoever's up there, and you can see what's coming. That doesn't make you a freak. It makes you useful."
She unbuckled and shifted in her seat to face him. "You can help out, you know, instead of just getting drunk every time you see something that scares you. Help Dean, Sam, and all the rest of us get ready, no matter what's going to happen. I think we both know that even if you told us it was hopeless, we'd all still be trying to fight anyway."
Jo nodded towards the building outside. "Ready to head in?"
“It matters to <I>me</I>.” There was that whining tone again, and he scowled slightly, wished he had something to drink. Or, rather, that it wasn’t somewhere so inaccessible. “And I’m pretty sure having visions of the <I>future</i> means I’m a freak. Orrr, that I could make lots’a money telling fortunes. But I don’ think I’d look good in a turban. I think y’need a turban t’be a fortune-teller dude, right?”
A month ago, he’d have said there was nothing <I>up there</i>, that it was all fiction and everything was nothing and all that - but then again a month ago he wouldn’t have been sitting in a truck with <I>Jo Harvelle</i>, his <I>fictional</i> character who actually wasn’t fictional at all. But, see, whatever was <I>up there</i>, whatever was putting this stuff in his head, it wasn’t very nice about it, didn’t give him anything he could work with, lately. “I can’ ev’n <I>see</i> a complete picture, Jo. I don’ know how ‘M supposed t’be useful’ if it doesn’ make any sense.”
He looked over at her as she shifted around to face him, tried to focus on her words, figure out what he’s supposed to say. Unfortunately the first that comes out is a defensive “I don’ get drunk ‘cause I’m scared. Or, well. I mean, not usually. S’cause it helps. With the pain, the headaches.” He offered a slightly sheepish look after that burst out, lifted a clumsy hand to scrub it across his face, “I know you wouldn’t stop, I jus’, I’m not like that.”
When she asked if he was ready to go in, he nodded a little, reached around a little for the handle. Finally catching it, he tugged the door open-
-and practically tumbled out of the truck with a very undignified squawk.
“Yeah, can’t exactly see you wearing a turban,” Jo replied as she shook her head a little. “As for not seeing a complete picture, well, maybe you just haven’t gotten all the puzzle pieces yet.” She shrugged. She was trying to cheer him up, but he was starting to dampen even her optimism somewhat, so it was probably a good idea they were already at the Roadhouse.
Pushing open the driver’s side door, she stepped out, then reached back in to pull out most of her weapons, namely the guns, and her bag. She shut the door and walked around in time to watch him fall out. Reaching out, she gripped his arm to steady him. “Easy there, Chuck.” She waited until he was standing <i>mostly</i> straight, then shut the truck door herself and turned to lead the way up to the back door of the saloon.
“I just hope the pieces aren’t lost.” Yeah, Chuck was possibly the least optimistic person ever tonight. It was hard to be optimistic when you’ve got a pounding headache that’s been lasting about a week or two and you’re drunk and, oh, you’re having incomplete visions of the end of the world that you’d maybe be able to stop, except that you can’t see enough to do anything about it. Yeah, optimism doesn’t exactly thrive under those circumstances.
Managing to right himself after he’d practically gone flying out onto the parking lot took Jo’s help, which would have made him feel kind of pathetic or something like that, but at the moment he didn’t completely mind, if only because it was that, or sit on the pavement until he sobered up enough for his legs to untangle themselves. He followed her up to the Roadhouse, looking at the ground and at her so he didn’t trip or bump into her or something.
“Thanks, again. For all’a this. S’really nice of you t’come get me like this...”
“They aren’t.” She hoped they weren’t, anyway, but now wasn’t the time to voice any doubts of her own. Instead she’d just try to have enough faith for both of them. Besides, how could they fail? They had angels on their side, right? She glanced over to him when he thanked her, and gave a small shrug.
“Not a problem. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve helped someone who’s gotten trashed.” She pushed open the door and held it open for him, then led him into a room that was down a short hall. “Alright, you can stay in here for the night. In the morning, whenever you’re ready, I’ll take you back to the complex.” After giving him some of the Harvelle Hangover Cure, of course. The room was fairly plain, with a soft, comfortable looking bed, a small table with a lamp and clock, and a door to one side that was open, revealing it to be a bathroom.
Chuck stayed silent - there was really no arguing with Jo’s intent optimism, sometimes. Which wasn’t bad, not really, it just made him feel kind of horrible, because he had no such hope left, and he really wished this time, just this once, he was wrong.
He kept following her, smiled and managed a little laugh when she said this wasn’t the first time she’d done something like this, “Yeah, well, it’s still really awesome of you.” She lead him to a room, offered a ride home tomorrow and he offered another smile, walking into the room and sitting at the edge of the bed. “You know, I knew you were one of my favorite characters for a reason.” Right, probably not the best thing to say, in terms of weirdness levels.
She looked over at him when he said she was one of his favorite characters, thinking that over for a moment. “Thanks. I think. Sorry, it’s a little hard to take in sometimes, knowing that you know about all...that.” She hesitated for a long moment, glancing at the doorway, then back to him, deciding to ask that question because now, while he was drunk, might be the only time she could.
“Do you remember when Meg was possessing Sam, and using me as bait?” She waited for him to acknowledge that, then continued, “...Was she telling the truth? About John Winchester shooting my dad? Do you know?”
He nodded a little at her first question - of course he remembered that. It had pretty much sucked, even though he hadn’t lived it like she did. “Sorry ‘bout that,” slipped out before he checked himself; he shouldn’t have apologized, probably, since even if he hadn’t written it, it probably would still have happened, but the sentiment still stands. He’d done a lot of horrible things to his characters, but he’d never thought it would matter.
...He should have known she’d be asking that question. He should have known, but he didn’t, until she spoke and he sighed, rubbed at his eyes and ran a hand up through his hair, “I don’t know for sure, Jo. I didn’t... see that far back.” It wasn’t a lie. He really hadn’t seen that far back. But, thing was, he was pretty sure it <I>was</i> true. It hadn’t felt like a lie designed to hurt, writing the lines out. It had felt like revealing some new information, some fact none of them had known so far.
“It’s not your fault.” She responded, giving a shrug. She tried for a smile, but failed. Even though there hadn’t been anything actually <i>done</i> to her, it was still a bad memory, thanks to what Meg had said about John Winchester. For two years, she had wondered if it was true.
And it seemed like she’d still be wondering. When he said he wasn’t sure, she gave a nod, turning away. “Okay. Figured asking was at least worth a shot.” She walked over to the window and opened it a small crack to let in a little bit of air. “The room gets a little stuffy, so this should help.” Yep, changing the subject should work. “If it gets chilly, just close it.” Having taken those few seconds to compose herself, she turned back to him and gave him a faint smile.
“Good night, Chuck. Sleep well,” she said, and started to head for the door again.
“Yes it is,” was probably the wrong response there, wasn’t it? He wasn’t really to blame for it. He didn’t really make it happen to her, she wasn’t really a character in his stories. But it was out there now, and he just sort of shrugged, like brushing it off, like <I>pretend I didn’t say that</i>, offering a sheepish smile.
He was pretty glad when she changed the subject, glad she didn’t keep asking questions, make him say what he <I>thought</i> even though he didn’t <I>know</i>, grinned almost brightly in response to her smile. “Thanks.” For the window, for the subject change, for getting him out of the playground, for being nice to the stupid drunk freak who saw the future and wrote her into his books.
“Good night, Jo,” he responded, waved a little with one hand, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket with the other. He probably shouldn’t have wanted to ask her to stay and talk, keep him company because he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while, not with his head like it was and the flashes of confusing and disorienting images he knew would be waiting for him. But he didn’t. He wasn’t going to do that - she probably had things to do, and she might have wanted to sleep, too, and she might think he’s a creeper if he asked... it’s just a bad idea. Sleep is good, right? Yep. He can do that.