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Post by Chuck Shurley on Sept 4, 2013 6:23:52 GMT -5
Well, it hadn’t been the best day but he wasn’t back in the ward, so he kept that tiny shred of relief close to his heart and told himself to soldier on. He’d been pawing over newspaper articles all day and given himself a headache doing it. Any sort of hint or sign of where the Winchesters (or anyone) were seemed to be evading him, or at very least evading the newspapers. He’d written about Sam and Dean doing this time and time again, especially in the early years when they were looking for John, and it seemed to have more or less eventually worked for them, but as soon as someone else tried it, it melted into an enigma of printed text that lead in every which direction to absolutely nothing. Nothing. He was getting nowhere tonight on this, and eventually he’d simply pushed it all forwards in his dingy little motel room and abandoned the chase.
It was raining outside, and it was getting dark too. Chuck pulled the light rain coat he had around himself in the parking lot outside of a neon signed bar, and looked skyward under his navy blue rain hood. He’d give it another shot, like he’d been doing every day since he’d been put in the ward. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes, head tilted skyward.
“Please, Castiel…Just once cut me a break. It’s me, Chuck Shurley. I need help.”
Sure, it wasn’t a regular prayer but he figured they were on talking terms already right? He willed Cas to show his face with every fibre of his being and opened his eyes with an already defeated hope that faded within seconds when he realized he was still standing the rain, alone, in a bar parking lot. What did he expect, though, after trying this a hundred times with no result? He huffed in the wet and cold, sending a burst of steam into the cold air and bustled himself into the bar. He still had that headache and he knew one, really effective amber cure for that.
He unzipped his coat and pulled it off, hanging it on a hook by the door and then looked around. It was a fairly empty one tonight, a few people in the far corners but it sure wasn’t busy. Good, that meant some peace and quiet. He shuffled over to the bar and took up a seat, ordering a Whiskey with no ice and fussed with pulling his wallet out of his Jeans pocket, throwing a Ulysses S. Grant on the bar ($50) and telling the bar man to leave the bottle. He might not get those visions or accompanying headaches anymore, but he was still very familiar with Whiskey to put himself at ease.
He swirled the liquid in the glass a moment before downing the first one to get him started, then poured himself his second, and contemplated the looming prospect of having to throw himself back into ‘hunting’ Sam and Dean, and how bad he actually was at it. What he wouldn’t give for one of them, or even the awkward angel, to walk through the door tonight…what he wouldn’t give.
It was raining outside, and it was getting dark too. Chuck pulled the light rain coat he had around himself in the parking lot outside of a neon signed bar, and looked skyward under his navy blue rain hood. He’d give it another shot, like he’d been doing every day since he’d been put in the ward. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes, head tilted skyward.
“Please, Castiel…Just once cut me a break. It’s me, Chuck Shurley. I need help.”
Sure, it wasn’t a regular prayer but he figured they were on talking terms already right? He willed Cas to show his face with every fibre of his being and opened his eyes with an already defeated hope that faded within seconds when he realized he was still standing the rain, alone, in a bar parking lot. What did he expect, though, after trying this a hundred times with no result? He huffed in the wet and cold, sending a burst of steam into the cold air and bustled himself into the bar. He still had that headache and he knew one, really effective amber cure for that.
He unzipped his coat and pulled it off, hanging it on a hook by the door and then looked around. It was a fairly empty one tonight, a few people in the far corners but it sure wasn’t busy. Good, that meant some peace and quiet. He shuffled over to the bar and took up a seat, ordering a Whiskey with no ice and fussed with pulling his wallet out of his Jeans pocket, throwing a Ulysses S. Grant on the bar ($50) and telling the bar man to leave the bottle. He might not get those visions or accompanying headaches anymore, but he was still very familiar with Whiskey to put himself at ease.
He swirled the liquid in the glass a moment before downing the first one to get him started, then poured himself his second, and contemplated the looming prospect of having to throw himself back into ‘hunting’ Sam and Dean, and how bad he actually was at it. What he wouldn’t give for one of them, or even the awkward angel, to walk through the door tonight…what he wouldn’t give.
Word count: 531
Tag: Castiel
Time: Night
Tag: Castiel
Time: Night
