Dean parked the car outside of Chuck's house before getting out. Getting out of the car, you followed the brothers up the stairs to the rundown house that clearly needed maintenance. Ringing the doorbell, you waited for someone to answer the door, not knowing what you might find on the other side. When the door opened, you stared at the man who has been writing down your lives, but all you could think about was how familiar he looked.
The feeling you got from seeing Castiel for the first time was the same, and you tried to remember how you knew this man. If he appeared in your dreams, then why? Flashes of a bar kept coming to you along with this man in front of you, talking about something you couldn't remember. Who was this man?
"You Chuck Shurley?" Dean asked as the man looked between the three of you.
"The Chuck Shurley who wrote the 'Supernatural' books?" Sam added.
"Maybe. Why?"
"I'm Dean. This is Sam and she is Y/N. The Dean, Sam, and Y/N you've been writing about." Chuck chuckled before closing the door which made Dean ring the doorbell.
"Look," Chuck said as he opened it back up, "uh... I appreciate your enthusiasm. Really, I do. It's, uh, it's always nice to hear from the fans. But, uh, for your own good, I strongly suggest you get a life." He tried shutting the door, but you placed your hand on it to stop it.
"See, here's the thing. We have a life. You've been using it to write your books," you glared as you shoved the door opened, forcing yourself into his house. Chuck backed up as you advanced onto him with the Winchesters behind you.
"Now, wait a minute. Now, this isn't funny," Chuck panicked.
"Damn straight, it's not funny," you glared.
"Look, we just want to know how you're doing it."
"I'm not doing anything."
"Are you a hunter?" Dean asked.
"What? No. I'm a writer."
"Then how do you know so much about demons?" you asked as you advanced some more, causing Chuck to fall back onto his couch. "And Tulpas, and changelings?"
"Is this some kind of 'Misery' thing? Ah, it is, isn't it? It's a 'Misery' thing!"
"No, it's not a 'Misery' thing. Believe me, we are not fans!" Dean exclaimed.
"Well, then, what do you want?!"
"I'm Sam, and that's Dean, and she is Y/N."
"Sam, Dean, and Y/N are fictional characters. I made them up! They're not real!"
"Then how do you explain this?" you asked as you grabbed Chuck's arm before hauling him up. He had no choice but to follow you outside to the car where you had Dean open his trunk to show Chuck the guns.
"Are those real guns?" Chuck asked surprised.
"Yup. This is real rock salt, these are real fake IDs," Dean said as he showed them.
"Well, I got to hand it to you guys. You really are my number one fans," he chuckled nervously. "That's, that's awesome. So, I-I think I've got some posters in the house."
"Chuck, stop," you said sternly.
"Please. Wait. Please, don't hurt me."
"How much do you know? Do you know about the angels? Or Lilith breaking the seals?" Sam wondered.
"Wait a minute. How do you know about that?"
"The question is, how do you?" Dean counteracted.
"Because I wrote it?"
"You kept writing?" you asked.
"Yeah, even after the publisher went bankrupt, but those books never came out. Okay, wait a minute. This is some kind of joke, right? Did that—Did Phil put you up to this?"
"Well, nice to meet you. I'm Dean Winchester, this is my brother, Sam, and she is my girlfriend, Y/N Y/L/N or Singer. I'm not sure which one she is going by."
"Singer. My last name is Singer," you said to Dean before looking at Chuck. "If your books weren't real, could I do this?" You lifted your hand and a wisp of blue magic danced between your fingers, making Chuck's eyes widen.
"The last names were never in the books. I never told anybody about that. I never even wrote that down. I didn't even tell anyone that Y/N was a witch, let alone what kind."
"Now you believe us?" you asked. The only response you got was Chuck turning around and running back into his house. Exchanging glances at the brothers, you followed Chuck into his home to see him in his kitchen, downing a glass of whiskey. When he turned around, he saw you three and groaned.
"Oh! Oh, you're still there. You're not a hallucination."
"Nope," you sighed as you stood next to Dean who leaned against the wall.
"Well, there's only one explanation. Obviously, I'm a god."
"You're not a god," Sam sighed.
"A God," you whispered to yourself, getting a vision of some sorts.
"Ah, you must be Y/N." You heard someone say from behind you. You whipped around to see a short man with a beard, smiling at you. Where the hell did he come from?
"Who are you?" You asked, cautious.
"I go by many names. But for right now, call me Chuck."
Was this the same Chuck that was in front of you? Why did you suddenly have that vision?
"How else do you explain it?" Chuck asked, bringing you out of your thoughts. "I write things and then they come to life. Yeah, no, I'm definitely a god. A cruel, cruel, capricious god. The things I put you through—the physical beatings alone."
"Yeah, we're still in one piece," Dean said with a tight smile.
"I killed your father, and your mother. I burned your mother alive, and then you had to go through the whole horrific deal again with Jessica. All for what? All for the sake of literary symmetry. I toyed with your lives, your emotions, for... entertainment."
"You didn't toy with us, Chuck, okay? You didn't create us," you sighed.
"Did you really have to live through the bugs?"
"Yeah."
"What about the ghost ship?"
"Yes, that too."
"I am so sorry. I mean, horror is one thing, but to be forced to live bad writing... if I would have known it was real, I would have done another pass."
"Chuck, you're not a god!" you exclaimed.
"We think you're probably just psychic," Sam said.
"No. If I were psychic, you think I'd be writing? Writing is hard."
"It seems that somehow, you're just... focused on our lives, like laser-focused. Are you working on anything right now?" you asked.
"Holy shit," Chuck breathed out as he grabbed some pages off his desk. "The, uh, latest book? It's, uh, it's kind of weird."
"Weird how?" Sam asked.
"It's very Vonnegut."
"'Slaughterhouse-Five' Vonnegut or 'Cat's Cradle' Vonnegut?" Dean asked.
"It's, uh, 'Kilgore Trout' Vonnegut. I wrote myself into it. I wrote myself, at my house... confronted by my characters."
"I need that last manuscript," you said as your eyes turned blue, not taking no for an answer.
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As Sam did his laundry in a laundry mat, you and Dean were reading the manuscript you threatened Chuck to give you. Having already done yours and Dean's, Sam wanted to do his own for personal reasons you didn't delve into.
"I'm sitting in a laundromat, reading about myself sitting in a laundromat reading about myself. My head hurts," Dean sighed, and you grabbed the pages.
"There's got to be something this guy's not telling us," Sam said as he grabbed all of his darks, shoving them into the machine.
"Sam tossed his gigantic darks into the machine. He was starting to have doubts about Chuck, about whether he was telling the whole truth," you read straight from the pages.
"Stop it," Sam glared at you.
"'Stop it,' Sam said," Dean read from over your shoulder before looking at his brother. "Guess what you do next." Sam scowled before turning away.
"Sam turned his back on Dean, his face brooding and pensive," you read as you handed over the pages to Dean and got up.
"I mean, I don't know how he's doing it, but this guy is doing it. I can't see your face, but those are definitely your 'brooding and pensive' shoulders," Dean said as you walked to see Sam's face.
"He is brooding and pensive," you confirmed with a nod.
"You just thought we were dicks," Dean said with a surprised look. Sam raised his eyebrows in shock before turning to his brother.
"That guy's good."
"It's weird, I didn't get a bad vibe from him," you sighed, deciding not to tell them of the vision you got. "Whatever he is, he's not a monster."
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While you three were doing your due diligence, Chuck was having another... whatever he likes to call it and wrote another chapter. When you first heard about it, you headed right over there as soon as you could.
"So... You wrote another chapter?" you asked as Chuck held the pages nervously.
"This was all so much easier before you were real."
"We can take it; just spit it out," Dean sighed.
"You two especially are not gonna like this," Chuck looked at you and Dean.
"I didn't like hell."
"It's Lilith," Chuck said after a moment of silence. "She's coming for Sam."
"Coming to kill him?" you asked.
"When?" Sam wondered.
"Tonight."
"She's just gonna show up? Here?"
"Uh... let's see, uh," Chuck sat and put on his glasses so he could read the script. "Lilith patted the bed seductively. Unable to deny his desire, Sam succumbed, and they sank into the throes of fiery demonic passion."
"You're kidding me, right?" Sam laughed.
"You think this is funny?" you scoffed.
"You don't? I mean, come on. 'Fiery demonic passion'?
"Wait, wait, wait, wait. Lilith is a little girl," Dean interrupted.
"No, uh, this time she's a 'comely dental hygienist from Bloomington, Indiana'."
"Great. Perfect. So, what happens after the... 'fiery demonic' whatever?"
"I don't know, it hasn't come to me yet."
"Dean, look, there's nothing to worry about. Lilith and me? In bed?"
"Ruby?" you asked, glaring at Sam who shut up.
"How does this whole psychic thing of yours work?" Dean asked.
"Well, it usually starts with a headache, a really bad headache. Aspirin is useless, so... I drink. Until I fall asleep. The first time it happened, I thought it was just a crazy dream."
"The first time you dreamt about us?"
"It flowed. It just, it kept flowing. It still does. I-I can't stop it, really."
"You can't seriously believe—"
"Humor me," Dean interrupted his brother as you stood up.
"Look, why don't we just," you spoke as you looked at Chuck who held out the script for you to take. Pausing, you slowly took the script from his hand, "take a look at these and see what's what. Did you,"
"know you were going to ask for that? Yeah," Chuck finished your sentence. Nodding, you looked at Sam and Dean before walking away. If whatever Chuck writes happens, you just hope that something good will come of it.