AN: This is just a little something that came to me when I saw the pic Rob Benedict posted of Jensen hugging him and someone wrote... "if that was Dean and Chuck, Dean would stab him with a knife."
I prefered the beer bottle in Jensen's hand.
***SPN***
„I'm sorry, Dean," Chuck said, monotone. „But this is how it has to be."
„Yeah, I bet you are," Dean growled, glowering at Chuck. „You don't have a choice, you're just the writer, right?"
„It's what I do," Chuck shrugged.
„Well, I'm sorry Sam and I haven't been your perfect, obedient characters, chucking through everything you've thrown at us," Dean pressed through clenched teeth.
He looked past Chuck, where Sam was laying on the floor of the bunker's main room, passed out. For now. They had both been startled when Chuck had materialized right in front of them, offering them a truce. Dean had been ready to hurl whatever was handy at him, but Sam had stopped him.
„Why a truce?" Sam had asked.
It turned out, the wound the equalizer had caused, not only hindered Chuck to leave the place, but also became increasingly painful. But just like the equalizer had caused injury to both him and Sam, it could only be healed in him and Sam at the same time.
„It's a deal. I rid the two of us from this wound and I'll get out of your hair. Won't ever write another word about you, not here nor in any other world I might create," Chuck declared. The Winchesters shared a glance.
„Alright," Dean had finally said, drawing a smile from Chuck. „But no monkey business, or I'll end you."
„Promise," Chuck had replied, raising his hands in innocence. Then the had exposed Sam's wound and pressed his palm to it, prompting Sam to do the same to him. Chuck had closed his eyes in concentration. Dean had watched, tense, ready to pounce if needed. Sam's eyes had gone big as Chuck's power drew out whatever the equalizer had embedded in him. When Chuck had withdrawn his hand, the wound had gone and Sam crumpled to the ground, out cold.
„What's wrong with Sam?" Dean demanded. Chuck turned and looked over his shoulder, flexing it experimentally.
„Um, yeah… that. Extracting the equalizer zapps all energy from a human. He's rock bottom empty."
„What? Tell me he'll be okay!"
Chuck shrugged. „There's no telling."
„Damnit, Chuck!" Dean growled. „You promised, no monkey business."
Chuck grinned and walked towards Dean, who was standing next to the big table.
„What did you expect, Dean? I'm a writer. Writers lie. I told you that."
Dean's eyes narrowed dangerously and his hand unerringly grabbed an empty beer bottle from the table. Quickly he smashed the bottom on the edge of it and lifted it towards Chuck.
„That's cute, Dean. You know that can't hurt me."
Dean just flashed him a fake grin.
„Then you got nothing to worry about, eh?"
Smoothly, Dean pulled Chuck close, almost like a hug, and buried the broken bottle in Chuck's side. Chuck gasped when the intrusion hurt a lot more than it should. Dean brought his mouth close to Chuck's ear.
„Surprise, Chuck. You've been writing our lives forever, causing us grief and pain and all kind of imaginable shit. Guess what. I write, too. This is my story. And in my story, you can die."
He twisted the bottle in Chuck's side, grinding it in even deeper, and Chuck began coughing up blood, eyes wide with panic.
„And I promise you this, Chuck. If Sam isn't alright, I'll visit you in Hell. As you know, Alistair was a most prolific teacher..."