We talked to the publisher, and after some convincing, she gave us the address of Carver Edlund, or as he was really called, Chuck Shurley. When we arrived, we headed up to the unassuming house, exchanging a look before Dean reached out, ringing the doorbell. A moment later, the door was opened by a short guy with curly brown hair, a scruffy beard in the same color, and wearing a white tank top and boxers under an open bathrobe.
"You Chuck Shurley?" Dean asked.
"The Chuck Shurley that wrote the Supernatural books?" I added a bit gentler, but not much.
"Maybe. Why?" the man asked.
"I'm Dean. This is Sam, and Eleanor. The Dean, Sam and Eleanor you've been writing about."
The man closed the door in our faces. Dean rang the doorbell again and it was opened faster this time. He clearly hadn't had time to move away from the door.
"Look, uh..." Chuck sighed, "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 suggest you get a life."
He tried to shut the door again, and Dean put out a hand to stop him.
"See, here's the thing," he began. "We have a life. You've been using it to write your books."
He shoved the door open and entered, Sam and I on his heels as Chuck was forced to back up into the house.
"Now wait a minute. This isn't funny," Chuck started to panic.
"Damn straight, it's not funny," Dean growled.
"Look, we just want to know how you're doing it," Sam said.
"I'm not doing anything!"
"Are you a hunter?" I asked.
"What? No. I'm a writer."
"Then how do you know so much about demons?" Dean continued, advancing on Chuck who fell back onto the couch. "And Tulpas, and changelings?"
"Is this some sort of Misery thing?" Chuck asked. "Ah, it is, isn't it? It's a Misery thing!"
"No, it's not a Misery thing," I shook my head. "Believe me, we are not fans!"
"Well, then what do you want?!"
"I'm Sam. And that's Eleanor and Dean."
"Sam, Eleanor and Dean are fictional characters! I made them up! They're not real!"
Exasperated and unsure what else to do to convince him, we dragged the writer outside, Dean opening up the trunk of the Impala to show him our arsenal. The entire time, Chuck was skittish and fidgeting nervously. Part of me didn't blame him; I'd be nervous and skeptical, too if something like this happened to me.
"Are those real guns?" came Chuck's timid voice.
"Yep," Dean nodded. "This is real rock salt, these are real fake IDs."
He gestured to the items as he listed them off, leafing through the box of fake IDs to show them off a bit more.
"Well, I got to hand it to you guys. You really are my number one fans," Chuck laughed nervously. "That's, that's awesome. So, I- I think I've got some posters in the house."
"Chuck stop!" Sam called after him.
"Please. Wait. Please, don't hurt me."
"How much do you know?" I inquired. "Do you know about the angels? Or Lilith breaking the seals?"
"Wait a minute," Chuck paused. "How do you know about that?"
"The question is, how do you?" Dean growled.
"Because I wrote it?"
"You kept writing?" Sam raised his eyebrows.
"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?"
We all exchanged a look before turning back to face Chuck once more.
"Well, nice to meet you," I smiled. "I'm Eleanor Dawson, and this is Sam and Dean Winchester."
"The last names were never in the books," Chuck muttered. "I never told anybody about that. I never even wrote that down."
⁘
Inside the house, Chuck poured himself a large glass of whiskey, gulping it down before placing it next to the sink. When he turned around to see the three of us, a groan escaped his lips.
"Oh! You're still here."
"Yup," Dean nodded.
"You're not a hallucination."
"Nope," I shook my head.
"Well, there's only one explanation. Obviously, I'm a god."
"You're not a god," Sam scoffed.
"How else do you explain it?" Chuck asked. "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," I rolled my eyes.
"I killed your fathers. I burned your mother alive. And then you had to go through the whole horrific deal again with Jessica..."
"Chuck..." Sam tried to cut in.
"All for what?" the writer continued, on a roll. "All for the sake of literary symmetry. I toyed with your lives, your emotions, for... entertainment."
"You didn't toy with us, Chuck, okay?" Dean said, raising his voice a little. "You didn't create us."
"Did you really have to live through the bugs?"
"Yeah," I wrinkled my nose in disgust at the memory.
"What about the ghost ship?"
"Yes, that too," Dean nodded.
"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 insisted.
"We think you're probably just psychic," I supplied.
"No," Chuck shook his head. "If I were psychic, you think I'd be writing? Writing is hard."
"It seems that somehow, you're just... focused on our lives," Sam continued.
"Yeah, like laser-focused," Dean added. "Are you working on anything right now?"
We watched as Chuck's eyes widened in shock.
"Holy crap," he muttered.
"What?" Sam asked.
Chuck picked up a stack of papers from a cluttered desk.
"The, uh, latest book? It's, uh, it's kind of weird."
"Weird how?" I inquired.
"It's very Vonnegut."
"Slaughterhouse-Five Vonnegut, or Cat's Cradle Vonnegut?"
"What?" I asked in surprise, looking over at Dean.
"What?" he repeated defensively.
"It's, uh, Kilgore Trout Vonnegut," Chuck elaborated. "I wrote myself into it. I wrote myself, at my house... confronted by my characters."
YOU ARE READING
She Talks to Angels | {BOOK 2}
Fanfiction-BOOK 2 IN THE DAWSON'S DAUGHTER SERIES- ___ It's been four months since Dean went to Hell, and they've all taken it pretty hard. However, when Ellie hears her angel's voice in her head for the first time since the attack, it starts a chain of event...
