Maddison Winchester: Journal 4 {Supernatural}

17 The Monster at the End of This Book: Part 2

Chuck let us follow him back into his house, where he poured himself a large glass of whiskey and gulped it down. He set the glass down on the kitchen table, took a deep breath, and then groaned when he turned to us. "Oh! Oh, you're still there."

Dean nodded. "Yup."

Chuck sighed. "You're not a hallucination."

Dean shook his head. "Nope."

"Well, there's only one explanation." Chuck laughed. "Obviously, I'm a god."

Sam shook his head. "You're not a god."

"How else do you explain it?" Chuck asked. "I write things, and then they come to life. Yeah, no, I'm definitely a god," he said, starting to sound like he was losing his mind. "A cruel, cruel, capricious god. The things I put you through..." He shook his head shamefully. "The physical beatings alone."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, we're still in one piece."

"I killed your father." Chuck looked down at me. "I tortured a little girl on several occasions." He looked back up at Sam and Dean. "I burned your mother alive." He turned to Sam. "And then you had to go through the whole horrific deal again with Jessica."

Sam shook his head. "Chuck—"

"All for what?" Chuck asked. "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," Dean said.

"Did you really have to live through the bugs?" Chuck asked.

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

"What about the ghost-ship?" Chuck asked.

Dean nodded. "Yes, that too."

Chuck shook his head and looked at us sympathetically. "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!" Dean shouted.

"We think you're probably just psychic," Sam said.

Chuck shook his head. "No. If I were psychic, you think I'd be writing? Writing is hard."

Sam shrugged. "It seems that somehow, you're just... focused on our lives."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, like laser-focused. Are you working on anything right now?"

Chuck gasped. "Holy crap."

"What?" Sam asked.

He picked up a stack of papers next to his computer. "The, uh, latest book? It's, uh— It's kind of weird."

"'Weird' how?" Sam asked.

"It's very Vonnegut," Chuck said.

"Slaughterhouse-Five, Vonnegut or Cat's Cradle, Vonnegut?" Dean asked.

Sam looked at him in shock. "What?"

"What?" Dean asked defensively.

"It's, uh, Kilgore Trout, Vonnegut. I wrote myself into it. I wrote myself, at my house... confronted by my characters," Chuck said.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After Chuck gave us his manuscript, we left his house and went to a laundromat to get some laundry done. While I helped Sam with the laundry, Dean read over the manuscript.

Dean shook his head. "I'm sitting in a laundromat, reading about myself sitting in a laundromat reading about myself. My head hurts."

"There's got to be something this guy's not telling us," Sam said and threw some laundry into the washer.