Amen To That!
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This fic is proudly (not) sponsored by Stolichnaya (a Government of Russia and Soyuzplodimport product): inspiring crack-like fic since the bottle was first opened.
Drink responsibly.
Read as irresponsibly as possible.
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ONE
Touched By An Angel
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It was a dark and stormy night. Rain lashed against the window pane like a very lashy thing, making strange little lashing sounds. Although it was a small motel room, there was a surprising amount of room for the two men. The two tall, strapping young men who had prevented carnage and killed monsters with frightening regularity in their fifteen or so years of carnage prevention and monster killing.
To the outside world they appeared to be sleeping peacefully in their separate beds. But little did the army of undead creatures and nightmarish ghouls know, Sam and Dean always slept with one eye open. Each. They were ready for the smallest sound, the slightest call to arms. That's what they did. That's what they were. Ready.
Chuck Shurley sat back, re-reading his efforts and sighing. He wiped his hands over his face, shaking his head in pity.
"What an absolute load of crap," he judged, leaning forwards. He put his fingers to the Command and 'A' buttons on the keyboard, highlighting everything he had managed to type out in the last few hours. His finger hovered over the 'delete' key.
He drew his hand back and sagged, thinking.
"Now I know why Sam and Dean want me to stop," he smiled ruefully, reaching his left hand out for the beer bottle next to him. "But then…"
An image of Castiel ninja'd its way up behind him and jimmied open the window to his subconscious, stealing in and positioning itself in the dark. It sneaked forward and infiltrated Chuck's memories, reminding him that Zachariah had ordered him to carry on writing. And that Castiel himself had let himself be blown to pieces in order to protect Chuck and, by extension, his work.
He put the bottle down again and leaned forward.
"Ok, so maybe I'll finish this," he allowed. "After all, what's the worst that could happen?"
His mobile phone began to vibrate and trill on the desk next to him. He pushed his left hand out, shoved papers onto the floor, and picked it up.
"Hi! Chuck! Guess what?" Becky cried excitedly down the line.
He closed his eyes in resignation. "Becky, hi. Look, please don't squeee at me. What is it? I thought we weren't meeting up till tonight."
"It's the best thing ever! Like, ever!" she wibbled. "You know you said you wanted a way to get more of your books sold cos you needed the money?"
"Oh no," Chuck groaned, slapping his right hand to his forehead. "What have you done now?"
"I did it! I did it! You are gonna be sooooo pleased!"
"What? Becky? What. Have. You. Done?"
"I set up a meeting between you and the execs over at Fox. They want to make a TV series of your books!"
Chuck dropped the phone. He sat back in the chair.
"Holy crap," he whimpered. "I'm a dead man."
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Sam and Dean spent the night in Dean's second favourite way. That is to say, they were both flat on their backs but very much asleep. Sam's amusingly Technicolor dreams of lollipops and candy-canes were unwittingly trumped by Dean's flickering black and white Capra-esque memories of his father letting him help polish the Impala.
A single noise disturbed the carpet and Dean's right eye popped open. His hand slid up and grasped the butt of the gun under his pillow before his eye reported back to his brain that it wouldn't be needed. He let his hand relax.
"Cas," he managed, struggling out of his weariness to sit up in bed.
Sam was similarly pushing himself up to see the room, bravely pretending he wasn't still half asleep. "Hey," he managed blearily.
Castiel, angel of the Lord and pathological raincoat-wearer, simply swung his hands out in a desperate bid to show his apology. "I have work for you."
Dean blew out a sigh, his lips bobbing together repeatedly much like a child's noise-maker. "What is it this time? Demons that eat angels? Angels not playing nice with other angels?"
"Worse," Castiel warned.
Sam smiled to himself, unable to stop the risibility of the situation poking at his sense of humour. "Right. What could be worse?"
Dean's bare shoulders sagged before his eyes leapt off his face and flew across the room, dragging a huge glare with them. They pinned it on his brother's face with a slap that told him off for asking such ominous questions. "Dude?"
Sam cleared his throat, and Dean's eyes returned to his own head.
"Well?" Sam asked carefully.
"Something, possibly demons, is causing trouble at a TV studio in Los Angeles. I have no idea why, but it must be something big."
Sam and Dean simply exchanged glances.
"Well hey, it's an excuse to go back to LA," Dean shrugged. "Last time we were there the weather sucked."
"Hmm," Sam allowed. He appraised Castiel for a long moment. "Is there… any other reason you want to go there?"
"I am convinced something is in dire need of straightening out," he acceded.
"And you got wind of it being demons," Dean prompted suspiciously.
Castiel looked at his feet suddenly.
"What is it?" Sam asked, intrigued. "What?"
"I…" Castiel lifted his head but his gaze ranged around the small table in between the boys' beds, as if worried what might happen if it actually met with anyone's else eyes. "I am not sure it is demons. I just… have a feeling."
"You? A feeling?" Dean accused, but he grinned.
Sam sighed. "You've been hanging out with Dean too long," he observed, already climbing out of bed.
Castiel backed away to give Sam room to walk past him. The youngest Winchester disappeared into the bathroom and Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair. He sniffed, thinking, as Castiel sat on the wooden chair by the motel window.
"So… this feeling," Dean prompted. "A feeling that something usually crap-tastic is happening?"
"Yes."
"Caused by demons?"
"Almost certainly."
"Right."
"No, it is not."
"No, I meant…" Dean sighed. "Whatever. You go beam yourself into the car. We'll be right out."
He looked over. Castiel was gone.
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"This would be faster if I moved us there myself," Castiel observed from the rear seat of the car.
"This would be easier if you stopped saying that," Dean said pleasantly, although from the way his smile was far wider than the Atlantic, Sam recognised it as a warning.
"Besides," Sam put in quickly, "we need our tools and stuff from the trunk. How would you 'move' all those things, too?"
"Oh. Good point," Castiel nodded, and lapsed into silence.
The Impala rumbled along, happily ignoring the speed limit and going with her driver's wishes, glad to be out in the sunshine and enjoying the fresh air. Dean leaned forward and snapped on the tape player, waiting with his hand over the 'Eject' button as he listened for which tape he had left in there. As he had totally forgotten but just as he had left it, the tape was a battered example of Metallica, and he sat back with contentment.
"What is that?" Castiel asked, his nose wrinkling as if Dean had recently tracked waste material from a large and physically ill dog back into the car.
"Music," Dean said defensively. "Helps pass the time and keeps me from asking stupid questions."
"Stupid questions?" the angel prompted.
Dean sighed. "Like - what are demons doing on a film set?"
"Making films?" Castiel hazarded, and Dean raised a hand from the steering wheel and waved it slightly in vindication. "Oh," the angel nodded, "I see."
"You said it was a television studio," Sam pointed out. "How did you get wind of this in the first place?"
"Yeah - what were you doing there, trying to get Keifer Sutherland's autograph?" Dean asked innocently.
"I… was not near there when it started. I sensed a disturbance and arrived there shortly after two people had died. Possibly while possessed."
"Hunters are killing demons? Great," Dean shrugged. "I'll turn the car around and we'll--"
"Not hunters," Castiel interrupted.
"Then who - or what?" Sam asked.
"Something that is not human," Castiel glowered. "All I saw was dead hosts. I did not see who or what killed the demons within - but I know it was not human."
Dean glanced at the rear view mirror to check the angel's expression of seriousness. It was, as he had suspected, very sombre. "Or an angel?"
"Nor an angel," Castiel nodded. "How many miles to Los Angeles?"
"A hundred, give or take," Dean supplied happily.
"Is that far?" Castiel wondered.
"Far enough."
Sam settled himself in the passenger seat, his Blackberry on his knee, readying to do battle with e-mail and networking sites. The countryside whizzed by, the song changed into another raucous demonstration of James Hetfield raging against the dying of the Coke Light, and Castiel made himself count to one hundred in his head.
Then he turned and looked at the rear right quarter of Dean's head.
"Are we there yet?" he asked hopefully.
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Katie Frye - a rather tall, averagely built yet strangely imposing lady of indeterminate middle age - slammed the phone back down on its cradle and stared at it. The phone cringed, wishing it could slide off her desk to the floor where it would at least have the option of cowering in fear under her desk.
"Asshole," she heaved, then marched to the door. She put her hand on the doorknob, swept it open, and drew in a deep breath. "Mar-tiiiiiiin!"
The bellow flew out of the door and coated the entire office outside in anger, outrage and demand, in that order. Katie waited the requisite four seconds before drawing in another deep breath.
Before she could expel it using her assistant's name as its vector again, a dishevelled but eager young man popped up from her right, adjusting small round lenses and dashing into her office. He stopped on a sixpence at her desk, producing a scruffy A4 file from under his right arm and ripping it open. He yanked a ball-point pen from his top pocket and clicked it eagerly.
"Right, go," he nodded enthusiastically.
She closed the door and walked back round behind her desk. "Martin. I want you to find out who this Chuck Shurley is and what his books are all about. We have a meeting in two hours." She sat with a heavy flump. "Tell Alan he's fired, get Sera to get a think-tank and episode thrashing crew ready in case we have a brand new show and - most importantly - get me a friggin' latté!"
"Chuck. Books. Meeting. Alan. Sera. Crew. Latté. Done." He clicked the pen and thrust it back in his top pocket. "Doughnut?"
"You are an angel," she nodded tersely, waving a hand at the door. "The chocolate one with--"
"--with cinnamon and apple filling. Done." He was out of the door and gone before she had a chance to thank him.
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Sam and Dean climbed out of the car, Sam turning and gesturing Castiel out of the back seat.
"Well, here we are," Dean said cheerfully, squeaking the door closed. "Fox Studios. Shall we do the tour first or just head to the restaurant and shop?"
"We find the demons," Castiel said darkly.
"Yeah yeah, that too," Dean allowed. "So what's our cover, Sam? Talent agents?"
"Actually, I thought we could be rival network executives," he said with a wide, knowing grin. "I think we'll need our FBI suits for a different purpose this time."
Dean's sense of humour ran to the library and whipped the big dictionary off the shelf, flicking through it at speed to find the word 'wicked'. It cleared Dean's throat and made its best effort to make its subsequent chuckle sound exactly that.
Castiel drew himself up. "I do not see why we cannot just go in and ask where the demons are," he pointed out.
"Cas, how many times do I have to tell you?" Dean sighed, squeaking the car door open again to reach for his duffle, "When humans want something real bad, they lie."
"And you failed to convince me of the advantages of that last time," the angel pointed out.
"When was this?" Sam asked airily, also reaching into the Impala for his duffle.
"We were on a break," Dean said tonelessly, and Sam's guilty conscious slapped at the back of his head.
"Right," he mumbled. He closed his door as Dean squeaked his shut too. "So we need to find a way to--"
"Dude, is that Chuck?" Dean interrupted, staring across the car park.
Sam turned and Castiel walked around the car to lurk behind Dean, staring over his shoulder. Dean looked at the sky for a long moment before he shrugged into his jacket uncomfortably, rather like a rhino having been swimming skinless and then finding its faithful epidermis on the shore now full of cake crumbs due to a naughty and, to all intents and purposes, obnoxious monkey.
"Dude. Again with the personal space," he pointed out. The angel backed away quickly and Dean glanced at him in disgust before turning to see where his quarry had got to.
"It looks like Chuck," Sam said carefully, watching the man and his three companions cross the studio parking lot not thirty feet from them. "Who's he with?"
"That's Becky," Dean said heavily, nodding at them. "But who are the other two?"
"They look like FBI," Castiel observed.
"So they're studio execs," Dean concluded. He frowned in consternation. "What the hell? Why would Chuck possibly be at Fox Studios walking with a couple of TV network executives?"
Then, moving so slowly they appeared to be on a DVD stuck on half speed, the Winchesters turned to look across the car at each other.
"Holy crap," they managed, in perfect 5.1 Dolby stereo.
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And away we go...! Thanks for reading! Hope it's good enough to lead you into the next chapter...