It's not that Chuck doesn't like doing things to make Becky happy — because he does. …But he doesn't quite understand why she wanted to bring him out to a club. All the bodies writhe around them, pulsing to this beat and the lyrics that Chuck can't fathom (not because they, themselves, make no sense, but because he can't hear them, for how loud the DJ's blasting them) — Becky's out among them with some of her friends from the Supernatural chat-rooms. Their names only occur to Chuck as after-thoughts, vague notions attached to them only because he can remember their distinguishing characteristics — Meggy's blue eyes sparkle with an unrivalled vivacity; Sally has bright red hair and bigger… assets than Chuck knows what to do with; Penelope has glasses and a soft, lilting voice; Barnes and Damien… are the conspicuously cuddly couple.
And it's not that any of them are particularly unsettling or anything like that, nothing like that, but Chuck… just doesn't really like being here. While everybody else has fun, he's the barely washed, unshaven writer hunching over the bar, down at the far end where no one else really wants to sit, with a glass of whisky in his hand, constantly sliding it back toward the nearest bartender and muttering for another, please. On the one hand, it's the only thing that takes his mind off of what Sam and Dean are going through — the visions he had to write about last night were awful — mass carnage, Hell-hounds, Jo being ripped to shreds trying to save Dean, Ellen sacrificing herself in order to set off a bomb, the Colt failing to kill Lucifer, even after Castiel was sure it would — and liquor is, as ever, the only way to numb the pain. Staring down into the glass, peering at the shining wood through the amber liquid, Chuck can only imagine what Sam and Dean must be feeling now.
On the other hand, though, being around so many people makes him feel so on-edge. His breath hitches in his throat every time someone gets too close or tries to sit down next to him. He ducks his head when he hears someone shouting, even when it's not to him, and the worst thing that could happen — the absolute worst. thing, he's certain of it — would be for any of these people — any of the ones who didn't come with him and Becky, he means — to recognize him from anywhere. It wouldn't even need to be as the author of the Supernatural books — Hell, they could notice and identify him as they guy they bumped into leaving the supermarket with the basket full of Jack Daniels and Patrón Silver, and it would still make his skin crawl the way it's doing now. His lungs would still twist up like this and make him feel like he's never going to breathe again.
Becky is the one person who consistently attracts Chuck's eyes — whether she's in the middle of the floor, surrounded by the mass of faceless, writhing bodies, or at the edges of it — but he still doesn't notice her advance until she leans down and pecks him on the cheek. "Chuuuuck," she drawls. Trembling more than he likes, he looks up into her smiling face — and sees the concern tugging at the corners of her lips. "Are you okay, honey? I mean… you're sort of sitting over here by yourself."
"Yeah, I… it's fine, Becky," he lies, forcing an uneasy smile. He should have more intent behind it, and he knows that. Despite all the people in this cramped little space, he should be happier to be here with his assistant-turned-girlfriend, who proudly wears tight jeans and a t-shirt that has I SUPERNATURAL emblazoned on the chest. He sighs. "You just go have fun, okay?"
She tilts her head bemusedly, running the backs of her fingers down his cheek. "You sure? I mean… you don't smell okay." Pausing, she sniffs. "…You sort of smell 'having a vision'-y."
He shakes his head. "No visions — nothing like that, yet. …I do kind of wish I could, you know, do more for Sam and Dean, but—"
"But they know you're doing everything you can! …Well, Dean might not, he expects too much from people sometimes — but Sam—"
"Becky! Can we not talk about Sam?"
Becky pauses again, and juts out her lower lip in the face that Chuck has come to identify as her Patented Deep Thought Face. After a moment, she sighs and nods, then leans down to kiss him — her lips are soft, and the hand that cups his jaw is warm, tender. "Okay," she agrees, her voice low enough that only he hears it. "How about we…" she starts, until the music changes, making her entire face light up. "Okay… I love this song — but we'll go back home after it's done?"
Chuck shouts a lukewarm, "Okay…" to Becky's back as she returns to the floor. Drink in hand, he slumps back into the bar, prepared to simply wait it out… but then she drops, crouching down so low she nearly touches the floor. Chuck feels his cheeks flush hot and buries himself in finishing his drink.
…Maybe coming here wasn't so bad after all.