automated joke machine (dreamingwriter) wrote in justasmattering,
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fic: You Can Move the Furniture (In Your Dreams)

Title: You Can Move the Furniture (In Your Dreams)
Author: dreamingwriter
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Chuck/Becky/Sam (The OT3), some OTP (Dean/Cas)
Warnings: Some language.
Spoilers: Not really spoilers for any episode, but this was written after 5x09.
Disclaimer: Supernatural would be much happier if I owned it.
Summary: Since when do I own that chair? And when did I paint the walls? (Chuck thinks about his life.)
Author's Note: For bubbles83 and fledmusic because they introduced me to the wonderful world of The OT3. This is fluffy beyond belief and filled with a level of schmoop I had only dreamed could exist. Like, almost 2000 words of love. ♥



The first thing Chuck thinks of when he manages to drag himself away from the computer in his room is sleep. Well, that's not exactly true, he first thinks of his bed, which leads to thoughts of Becky and Sam and - Sleep is actually thought of much later than bed and amazing sex, but the point is that he doesn't faceplant into his pillow like he wants to because while he scrubs at his face with aching hands (and who knew that typing for hours at a time would be worse than writing that ten page college exam paper in under three hours) he smells bacon.

Not that bacon is the strangest of smells, but in his house it may as well be the nectar of the gods and is well worth investigating. He can't even remember the last time he did something in his kitchen besides throw away two week old take out containers or make new coffee. Or pull another beer from his refrigerator, but even that is a fading memory.

His knees crack when he stands, but when Chuck opens his door and that smell hits him in the face his stomach rumbles something about getting a move on and his legs seem to agree because he's moving down the stairs and towards the kitchen with remarkable agility. Remarkable for him, he corrects and wonders what Sam would think of it.

A bright blur of something makes him pause ten feet from the kitchen. Reluctantly he turns to see what the offending object could be, because he does not remember seeing that before. It's a recliner, one of those comfortable looking ones stuck with girly upholstery that no straight male would buy. Chuck eyes the slightly overstuffed chair and decides to ignore it for now; he'll worry if it starts to talk or moves from one end of the room to the other without help.

The thing is, he’s not even sure he can call himself straight anymore. A few months ago, Chuck would have said absolutely, I'm one hundred percent straight. Okay, maybe ninety-eight percent because if someone's hot, they're hot, and gender really doesn't apply. But since Sam appeared, pouting about Dean and Cas kicking him out of the motel two of the last three nights (And Chuck knew about that because, yeah, he'd been writing about it for weeks. It started to wear on him after the first few rounds because seriously? There's nothing better for him to write during the apocalypse than angel porn?) and Becky welcomed him in without rambling, things have changed. He enjoys the sex way too much to be straight, but it's not like he's fawning over every handsome guy on the street either.

He's considering the perks of checking both male and female boxes of the Interested In part of his Facebook profile when he walks into the kitchen and stops. There are pots and pans on his stove, one of which is emitting a pleasant hissing noise and he assumes that's where the bacon is, and the walls that he remembers being an off-white (eggshell or vanilla or winter's day, something like that) are now a cheery pale yellow. Becky glances up from setting the table with matching plates and smiles. And if he was half convinced this is a dream, the doubt is gone now because it's not her samlicker81 smile, it's the soft, not-so-creepy smile he only ever sees when she's really happy.

"I figured you were done writing," she says. “I couldn't hear you typing and it wasn't quiet like you were in the bathroom." She fidgets a little at that and adds, "Sound carries really well in this house."

"I'll remember that," Chuck murmurs, sitting at one of the places she made at the table. From his spot he can see out the little window into his backyard and it's dark enough to be the middle of the night. Becky pushes bacon, scrambled eggs, and some hash browns onto both their plates. "Thanks, Becky," Chuck says and means it. But- "What are you doing here?"

"We were going to see a movie a couple nights ago, "she reminds him.”But when I got here you were chugging Jack Daniels like it was Gatorade and moaning about your head, so I set you up by your computer and gave you some water. I couldn't leave you after that, so I grabbed some more stuff from home and came back here. I've been trying to get you to eat, but you only picked at the macaroni and cheese I made you."

"I like the Kraft noodles, but not the cheese," he says absently, thinking over words like 'more' and 'stuff.' The walls and the chair make much more sense now, though he wonders who helped her with both projects. As he's thinking about it, dozens of other Becky-shaped details come into focus, from the way she let them in the house a week ago when his hands had better things to do to the toothbrush he noticed sitting next to his in the bathroom. If he focuses he can see Becky climbing into his bed the last few nights after asking if he needed anything. "You moved in without asking?"

"You need to be taken care of." It's weird, but instead of reaching for the phone to call the cops like he would've a year ago, he feels happy. And grateful and surprised and warm. He feels like calling Sam to say, "We're pretty fucking lucky, you know that?" and like everything will be okay.

Instead he whispers, "Thanks," and tears off a large bite of bacon with his teeth.

They eat quietly, Chuck mashing all his food together on his plate and Becky carefully keeping it separated. He can see Sam doing the same and realizes that he misses the guy and the easy sense of joy he brings, despite his troubles. He knows Sam would have enjoyed a home cooked meal, especially one from Becky, who a pretty good cook. He remembers his initial reluctance to try her lasagna and laughing when Sam discovered her talent too.

He realizes that he's smiling when his cheeks start to hurt and the shrill ring of the phone jolts him out of his memories. Becky leans back to grab the phone from the counter, grinning a bit when she answers. "Hey, Sam."

She stands, pacing as she talks, and Chuck likes figuring out their conversation by hearing one end of it. "He's back now, stopped writing a little while ago. We're eating dinner...No, I haven't read it yet, do you want me to?" Here she flushes a little. "Of course I'll look at them Sam, no need for flattery." Her blush says that she enjoys it, though. Chuck smiles, that ache in his cheeks kicking up again, but he finds that he doesn't want to stop. "I'll get started now... No, don't worry, I want to... Promise... Alright, here's Chuck, bye."

Becky passes him the phone and moves to leave, but Chuck pulls her into and presses a quick kiss to her lips. "Hi, Sam," he says, leaning back in his chair. Across the line Chuck can hear the television on some infomercial and Sam's breathing.

"Hi, Chuck, it's good to hear from you. Becky was getting worried, said that you don't normally write like that, you know, for days without snapping out of it." Sam manages to sound more worried than Becky did in the last hour. It makes something warm rush through him, knowing that there are people who care.

"Normally, it's just a night and then I feel like shit in the morning, but I'm fine. It's weird not feeling like I have to cut off my head to end the pain, but it's good."

"Good," Sam says firmly.

After a moment to let Sam's words sink in, Chuck asks. "How's the case going? It was ghosts again, right?"

"Yeah," Sam confirms and there's a rustling in the background like someone's shifting under covers. "We should wrap it up tomorrow. The ghost is gone, but there are a couple things I want to take care of."

"Are you coming home after that?" Chuck tries not to let how much he wants to see Sam affect his words. He's not quite sure he succeeded become Sam sounds apologetic when he replies. "We've got another case lined up on the way, but it looks like a cursed object, so I should be back by the end of the week."

"Remind me what day it is," Chuck says, mostly to hear Sam's chuckle.

"Sunday, and I think Dean and Cas are out to make this week miserable for me."

"What happened?"

"I caught them making out in the Impala twice today," Sam groans. "I don't want to see that anyway, but especially not there. I have to ride in the car too, and I don't know how to pretend I didn't see what I did."

Chuck laughs at the image of Sam seeing his brother and his angel going at it. "Sorry, man." When his amusement dies down, he twists his fingers into his napkin and bites his lip. "We miss you, Sam. I miss you, and I know Becky misses having a giant help her move my furniture around."

Sam snorts, but responds just as seriously. "You noticed that she moved in, then? I think that means I lost the bet." He sighs. "I miss you guys too, but I'll be back soon." In the background Chuck hears a rough voice, Castiel's voice, speaking to Sam. Then- "Chuck? I have to go. Cas is demanding I get a few hours sleep before dealing with Dean's possessiveness tomorrow. That reminds me, make a note not to let Cas wander alone when we get there, if only to save him the hassle of calling Dean off anyone who even glances at him for too long."

"Gotcha'. Bye Sam."

"Night, Chuck. Tell Becky I said bye and that I'll call tomorrow."

Becky enters the kitchen carrying an armful of what looks like the gospel as Chuck hangs up. She sets it next to her empty plate and starts to clean up and he watches her for a second. "Let's go to bed."

She turns. "I should take care of the dishes and Sam asked me to see if there was anything important in what you wrote."

"We can just put them in the sink; I'll take care of them tomorrow morning. And Sam won't mind if you don't get back to him tonight, he said he'd call tomorrow anyway." That seems to take care of any reluctance she had because she nods and in less than ten minutes they're curled into each other beneath his covers.

He's drifting into the haze of sleep when she grabs his hand and squeezes it. "Things are gonna be okay," he murmurs and is glad that for once he believes it.
Tags: character: chuck shurley, pairing: chuck/becky/sam, television: supernatural
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