Chuck Shurley: that beardy dude with the laptop. (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} capriciousgod) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} wariscoming,@ 2010-07-27 17:19:00 |
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What? Soup, sandwiches, alcohol, and angst.
Where? The Roadhouse
When? After this network post.
Rating? Mild to moderate? Angst and alcoholic beverages, probably.
One of the bonuses, Chuck was learning, of writing someone as a character, was that you knew little things about them that most people probably didn’t. It could probably have been something that would make everything awkward, but in this case he was hoping it was a positive, something to help cheer Jo up.
It was, technically, his fault she was so upset right now. His fault she’d died, because he hadn’t warned her about it, not really, and he understood that, and felt bad about it and he wished he’d done it differently. Sure, he didn’t actually physically kill her, he wouldn’t do something like that, but he may as well have, by not warning her. Not that he’d known exactly what was coming, just that she’dget hurt die, he didn’t see more than flashes until after she was already gone and he’d had no chance to get to her, what with Dean and Cas and the archangel and everything...
But it was his fault, anyway.
Which was why he’d just been in the complex kitchen making tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches to bring over. The soup went into a thermos, the sandwiches were wrapped up and then bundled in a clean towel in an effort to keep them warm, and he’d snagged a package of cookies, thrown everything into a bag and set off for the Roadhouse. Yeah, this was decidedly one of the least masculine things he’d done recently, but whatever. He didn’t really care.
This was also the longest he’d been sober for a while, two whole days and he really didn’t want to be sober, but he couldn’t very well do this without his mind at least somewhat clear, right? Besides, he’d feel kind of hypocritical, telling her not to drown herself in alcohol if he was actively doing the same thing - drinking and brooding alone, the whole nine yards.
Chuck wasn’t entirely sure if she’d even actually let him inside - she’d (reluctantly) agreed to let him come, told him to be careful, but that... didn’t actually mean anything. He hoped she would, though. He moved up to the door and knocked, anxious and uneasy and hoping she didn’t plan on punching him in the face or chasing him away with a gun or something, for pushing her when she wanted to be alone.
It was, technically, his fault she was so upset right now. His fault she’d died, because he hadn’t warned her about it, not really, and he understood that, and felt bad about it and he wished he’d done it differently. Sure, he didn’t actually physically kill her, he wouldn’t do something like that, but he may as well have, by not warning her. Not that he’d known exactly what was coming, just that she’d
But it was his fault, anyway.
Which was why he’d just been in the complex kitchen making tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches to bring over. The soup went into a thermos, the sandwiches were wrapped up and then bundled in a clean towel in an effort to keep them warm, and he’d snagged a package of cookies, thrown everything into a bag and set off for the Roadhouse. Yeah, this was decidedly one of the least masculine things he’d done recently, but whatever. He didn’t really care.
This was also the longest he’d been sober for a while, two whole days and he really didn’t want to be sober, but he couldn’t very well do this without his mind at least somewhat clear, right? Besides, he’d feel kind of hypocritical, telling her not to drown herself in alcohol if he was actively doing the same thing - drinking and brooding alone, the whole nine yards.
Chuck wasn’t entirely sure if she’d even actually let him inside - she’d (reluctantly) agreed to let him come, told him to be careful, but that... didn’t actually mean anything. He hoped she would, though. He moved up to the door and knocked, anxious and uneasy and hoping she didn’t plan on punching him in the face or chasing him away with a gun or something, for pushing her when she wanted to be alone.