Hell's Angel (A Supernatural Fanfiction) {2}

Chapter 15

One of my top 5 favorite chapters of Hell's Angel. And just a warning, Hell's Angel might go on hiatus for awhile. I've been having really bad writer's block and can't seem to get through writing one chapter.

If you had talked to Libby just a month before and asked her when she thought she'd die, she'd tell you that it was sometime after both Winchester brothers died. And if you asked her how, she'd reply with, "Killing the Darkness." But Libby knew that the Darkness wasn't coming anytime in the next three weeks and she also knew that she wouldn't even be able to defeat it by then. She knew that something else had to happen to led up to her death. Whether it be that they couldn't find Andrew in time or that the plan backfired and the book was wrong, she didn't die a noble death.

Instead, as Libby read through the last thirty pages, she found out that she'd die at the hands of Dean Winchester himself. She didn't dare share that information with Sam in fear of ruining things for everyone.

Libby seemed to reread the last few pages constantly, hoping--no, praying--that they'd magically change and it'd stop when she was let out of Hell or when she died defeating the Darkness. Instead it stopped at the same place every time; Dean choosing between Sam and Elizabeth to stop the Trials and save his brother or the Archangel. Of course he'd choose his own flesh and blood over a girl he had only known for a few years, but it still hurt every time Libby would read it. The thoughts of her death kept her up at night, replaying different scenarios of how it could go down since the book wasn't very detailed. It look rushed almost, as if it had a due date and the person procrastinated until the last minute.

So one night when Sam and Dean were fast asleep, Charlie back at home safe and sound, Libby packed a small bag and grabbed her Sword, paying a visit to the one man who could tell her everything she needed.

Chuck Shurley was convinced that he had fallen off the grid well enough to keep the angels and Hunters off of his ass, but he was proved very wrong very fast when Elizabeth Wilson showed up on his doorstep.

His eyes widened when he did a once-over of her body. He had known she was sick, but he didn't know what she looked like.

The bulging red and black veins had crept up her skin even further, slipping around her delicate waist and dancing around her heart, almost like a shark circling its food. The veins threatened to escape past the collar of her v-neck, but stopped just below it. Her skin was pale, almost snow white, and her cheeks had hollowed in a bit, giving her the look of a sick, anorexic girl.

"Elizabeth," Chuck breathed, meeting her now-dull green eyes.

"I need your help," she croaked out. Not only did she look worse than Death himself, she sounded worse than him. Her voice was dry and it cracked a lot, no matter how much water she drank it was never enough.

Chuck stepped aside and let the redheaded Huntress in before closing the door behind them. She examined the small apartment, her eyes skimming over the OCD-induced living room. She couldn't find a single speck of dust anywhere.

Books were neatly stacked on shelves next to the TV and the desk had stacks of papers sitting in the corners of the wooden top. Pens and pencils rested in a coffee mug, an identical 'World's #1 Dad' mug filled with coffee off to the side on a coaster. It was all a step up from Chuck's messy house in Kripke's Hollow.

Chuck rubbed his hands together and attempted a laugh, but the sight of Libby was too horrible to even manage a smile. "I don't see how I could help you. I-" She slammed the red book down on the desk, making the man jump slightly. Chuck gulped when he recognized the old book.

"This writing style matches the Supernatural series exactly. Every description, every line of dialogue, every variation of spellings--exactly the same. I know you wrote it and I don't want to know why it looks so old or shows my fate three weeks away, but I want to know how to change it and fast," Elizabeth demanded. There was no remorse in her tone or sympathy. Only authority, determination, and what sounded like a threat of violence.