Chuck Shurley sat hunched over his desk in a stained bathrobe, keyboard clacking, right in the middle of drafting his next chapter when a sharp knock rattled his front door.
He sighed, pushed back, and shuffled over to pull it open.
Two tall men stood on his porch, both unamused.
"Chuck Shurley?" the one in the leather jacket asked. "I'm Dean. This is Sam."
Chuck stared at them for two seconds before his expression flattened. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, guys, I'm flattered. But you're taking this role-playing thing way too far. Get a life."
He slammed the door.
Three seconds later it burst open, splintering the frame. Chuck yelped and stumbled backward as the two men barged in, cornering him against the kitchen counter.
"Hey! What the hell is wrong with you?!" He blindly grabbed a plunger from the nearby bathroom doorway and held it up like a baseball bat.
"What's wrong with us?" Dean snapped, pinning Chuck in place with a murderous glare.
"How about you explain how you know every single detail of our lives? How do you know about the Yellow-Eyed Demon? About the trickster?"
"You're just crazy fans! You read the books!"
"We didn't read the books until today," Sam said, voice dropping into something deadly serious. "We are Sam and Dean Winchester."
Chuck froze. The plunger slowly lowered to his waist.
"Winchester? No... I never wrote that down. I never published your last name." He backed away until his spine hit the refrigerator. "Oh my god. You're real. My creations... you're real."
"We're not your creations, Chuck," Dean growled. "How do you know this stuff?"
"I don't know! The stories, they just... they come to me. Like visions. I get these blinding headaches, and then I just sit down and type until it's out of my head."
Sam and Dean exchanged a dark look. "Visions."
Chuck looked like he might pass out.
"This can't be happening. Because if you guys are real, then my latest vision is real." He looked at Sam with wide, terrified eyes. "Lilith is going to visit you. Tonight. And you're going to share a night of fiery demonic passion."
"Fiery demonic passion?" Sam repeated. "What exactly does that mean?"
Chuck shifted against the refrigerator, clutching the plunger to his chest. "It means... you and Lilith are going to have sex, Sam."
"I'm going to WHAT?!" Sam shouted, backing away from the author like he was contagious.
Dean held up both hands, looking between Chuck and his brother in pure disgust. "Whoa, whoa, hold on. Chuck, you're a sick freak. Lilith is a little girl."
"Not in the vision! She traded up. She's possessing a grown woman now. A really hot dental hygienist, actually. And you guys really go at it. It's a whole heavily detailed chapter."
Dean slowly turned to stare at his younger brother, eyebrows raised in heavy, mocking judgment. "Fiery demonic passion? Really, Sam?"
"No! Dean, why would I have sex with Lilith? She literally tries to kill us every single time we cross paths! She wants to rip our lungs out! Why the hell would I want that?"
Dean crossed his arms, chewing the inside of his cheek, letting the judgmental silence stretch out while Sam looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
"Right. Anyway. Moving on from Sam's weird demon kinks." Dean stepped right into Chuck's personal space, demeanor flipping instantly from mocking to deadly serious.
"If you see everything about our lives, then you saw what happened at the museum a month ago. You know where Henry is."
Chuck's frantic energy completely evaporated. He swallowed hard, looking down at the linoleum. "I... I saw him get pulled in. It was a dead world. Just gray ash and a sunless sky."
He looked back up at Dean, eyes filled with genuine pity. "He was completely surrounded by an endless horde of demons. He was fighting, but... that was it. The vision just stopped. The connection went dark."
"So, what you're saying," Dean said, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction, "is that he's still alive."
Chuck nodded weakly, rubbing his temples. "Yeah. He's alive. But he's definitely not in a good place."
"Dean, look at this." Sam had wandered over to the cluttered desk and picked up a stack of freshly printed pages resting beside the keyboard.
Dean walked over and scanned the top sheet. The text detailed the exact conversation they were currently having — two brothers confronting a terrified author in his kitchen.
Chuck stared at the pages in Sam's hands, breathing shallow and frantic.
"I typed that ten minutes ago. How is this possible? I write things, and they happen. I create life out of thin air." His eyes widened as a terrifying thought struck him. "Oh my god... am I a god?"
Dean snorted loudly, looking Chuck up and down with total disdain. "You're not God, Chuck. You're a guy in a stained bathrobe who writes bad supernatural erotica. There's something else going on here."
Suddenly, a distinct whoosh sounded behind them.
"Shit!" Dean cursed, instinctively reaching for the pistol at his waist as he spun around.
Standing right in the middle of the kitchen, in his rumpled tan trench coat, was Castiel.
"Dean. Sam. It is nice to see you again," Castiel said, deep and gravelly. He tilted his head slightly toward the trembling author. "And you too, Chuck."
Chuck squeaked and pressed himself flat against the refrigerator.
Dean let out an irritated breath, dropping his hand from his gun. "Cas. Care to explain what the hell is going on here? Why is this guy writing our entire lives as cheap paperbacks?"
Castiel looked at Chuck with absolute reverence, a stark contrast to Dean's disgust.
"It is quite simple, Dean. Chuck is a Prophet of the Lord. He has been given the sacred sight to record your deeds." He turned his intense gaze back to the brothers. "He is writing the Gospel of Winchester."
*****
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