The New Gospel According to Chuck and Company
By Criminally Charmed
Dislaimer - Do not own Supernatural.
Debbie Shirley sighed as she lay down on the couch in her uncle's house. Chuck Shirley was an author who wrote under the pseudonym of Carver Edlund. OK, so he was only a semi-successful author, but he had two dozen books in a series that Uncle Chuck had poured his heart and soul into. Debbie had worried about her uncle after his publisher had gone bankrupt. But the man had always lived fairly modestly and having inherited both Grandma Shirley's house and a modest income, Uncle Chuck was fine with simply pouring more of his stories out, in what Debbie suspected was the hope of finding another publisher some day.
Uncle Chuck was the only member of her family who had believed in Debbie when she had wanted to become a writer. Like Grandma Shirley had for her son, her uncle had given Debbie the encouragement and support that the young woman had so desperately needed to pursue her dream. But while Chuck had never left the house that he had grown up in, Debbie had fallen in love with script writing and had moved to Los Angeles right after college. The older man had given Debbie a loan to get her started and had also loaned her money when the writers' strike had eaten up her savings. Coming out here after his accident was the least she could do for him.
She could hear her father's disdainful voice at her calling what happened to Uncle Chuck an accident. According to the police, Chuck Shirley had become seriously wasted and had fallen off of his own front porch. The paperboy had found him early the next morning and called for help. Three days later, Debbie, who had flown out from L.A. when the hospital couldn't reach any other family member, brought her uncle back to his house, with plans to watch over him until he was off of the pain meds. One good thing about being a script writer was that she could work anywhere and e-mail her completed documents to her boss.
Debbie had to admit, she was worried about her uncle. While putting him to bed, the man had rambled about demons, angels, Armageddon, and Sam and Dean. Finally realizing that Chuck was talking about characters from his books had relieved Debbie somewhat but not completely. To hear Uncle Chuck talking, this wasn't fantasy but reality.
She supposed living in this house, with no other company than his imagination could play with a person, but Debbie sincerely hoped it was the medications. The one med would allow Uncle Chuck to sleep through the night without any of the dreams that had plagued him for years now.
Closing her eyes, Debbie sighed, looking forward to the first good sleep she would get since the call had come from the hospital. Feeling the thin cushion of the couch that had surely been there when her father and uncle had been growing up in the house, Debbie vowed to clean out one of the upstairs bedrooms so that she could sleep in a real bed the next night.
Three hours later, Debbie sat up in darkened living room, sweat pouring down her face, plastering her hair to her head. Tossing off the blanket that was already half on the floor, Debbie got up to shower and change her clothes, knowing she would get no sleep in her current state. As the water had poured over her, Debbie had obsessed over the images that had invaded her dreams. She wasn't sure how she knew, but Debbie was certain – Sam and Dean Winchester were not fictional characters her uncle had dreamed up. They were real and so was the life they lived. And for some reason, Debbie was now a party to the same prophetic dreams that Uncle Chuck had been having for the last few years.
Pulling on a pair of sweat pants and an old t-shirt, Debbie patted down her hair until it was only mildly damp. Once it felt comfortable, Debbie pulled out her laptop and opened it up on the kitchen table. Until she wrote down the story, Debbie knew there would be no more sleep tonight.
A couple of hours passed and Debbie continued to write the story, as obsessed by the Winchesters' tale as Chuck had ever been. She heard the sound of what seemed to be a large bird. Debbie paused in her writing, wondering what kind of avian creature could make that sound when she sensed someone behind her. Shaking her head slightly, she continued to type even as she acknowledged her silent guest.
"Hiya, Castiel. Or can I call you Cas, like Dean does?"
The angel moved closer, before speaking to her gravely. "I have come to speak with you, Deborah. You have been blessed, given a gift from Heaven. Your uncle understands how vital his role is, you must as well."
Ignoring the heavenly messenger, Debbie stood up and went into the kitchen where she nuked a mug of water and made a cup of tea. Heading back to the table, she set down the mug and continued typing, ignoring the angel.
"Deborah, do you not comprehend…" Castiel was quickly cut off by the young writer, who continued to furiously type.
"Listen angel-boy, I am a writer. In La-La Land, I have to write what the storyline demands. I am doing the same here. I am just doing it my style. I'm no jackass straight out of college. I've been nominated for an Emmy, dude!" Pausing, she took a sip of tea before continuing with both her rant and her typing. "Well, the team of writers I was working with was nominated. I still can't believe we lost to freakin' Desperate Housewives."
Castiel continued to stand beside her as Debbie kept up her frantic typing. Leaning over her shoulder, he frowned at the words on her screen. After several minutes, he spoke.
"You are writing the words of a prophet."
"Oh, I hope so."
Frowning, Castiel shook his head "Do you really feel this is vital to the New Gospel?" He began to read from the text before them: Sam's large hands moved the soapy washcloth sensually over his sinewy skin, the rough texture of the cheap cloth an erotic stimulant to his battle worn body." Castiel looked disapproving. "This is nothing more than legal pornography. It is blasphemy. If this were to ever be printed..."
Debbie nodded as she continued to type. "Sales would go through the freakin' roof. Hey," she paused in her typing, "I know this guy who works for one of the networks. He is looking for something hot to go up against Grey's Anatomy. Maybe I should see if he is interested." Debbie continues typing. "I know this awesome actor, Misha something-or-other, he was on an episode of CSI that I worked on. He would be great to play you. He does the hot brooding perfectly."
Castiel looked dumfounded, unable to speak, but Debbie had no such problem. "And for Sam and Dean? Well, there was that hunky guy in the remake of Friday the Thirteenth. He does the combo of innocence and fire perfectly. And his eyes are like looking at a puppy's. Oh, and that guy who played in My Bloody Valentine, can't you see him as Dean? Bobby and John might be harder, but that is what the casting director is for…"
"To spread your blasphemy?" A nasally voice grated in the room, causing both Castiel and Debbie to freeze. The angel looked concerned while Debbie, oddly enough, looked annoyed. Zachariah stepped forward, frowning at the young woman.
"Castiel, I will speak with the lady. You may leave now."
Castiel looked uncertain until Debbie paused in her writing. Saving the document, she picked her mug, took another sip and nodded at the angel. "Don't worry, Cas – I got it under control." Something in the woman's demeanor actually comforted Castiel and he nodded back before vanishing as if he had never been there.
Zachariah opened his mouth to speak before Debbie raised her hand. "I'd zip it if I were you, Zacky. See, I know what you want to say. I know what you are up to. I know. And unlike Uncle Chuck, I am not in the least bit intimidated by you. See, I can accept what I am."
Glaring at the human, the celestial being growled, "And what do you think you are besides a reject from Harlequin?"
Debbie sipped her tea before returning Zachariah's glare. "I'll write what I see. I'll write when I want to. You know, I know more than you think I do - and maybe more than you do," she mused, setting down the mug and walking into the kitchen to pull out a bag of cookies. Pulling out an Oreo Double Stuff, Debbie separated the cookie and licked the cream before chewing on the cookie itself. Sighing in satisfaction, she returned to the table and sat back down.
"So, like I was saying, did you ever notice there were four people writing the Gospel in the bible? And this time, I know there is at least Uncle Chuck." Debbie grinned at the frustrated angel. "Oh, you wanna kick my ass, don't you? What's the biblical phrase? Smite me? You wanna smite my bitchy little ass, right?"
Zachariah smiled cruelly, and raised his hands, his intent to dispose of the little upstart clear. Debbie continued to grin, and her expression showed no fear at all.
Before Zachariah could act on his intent, the walls of the old house began to shake and an intense white light began to fill the room. Debbie's grin became truly smug as Zachariah grew terrified.
"That's right, Zacky – just like my uncle, I am a prophet of the Lord. And you think an archangel would have any problem kicking your ass, ripping your grace from you and tearing it to bits if you try and hurt me? If I were you, I would scram."
Zachariah vanished as suddenly as he had appeared and Debbie smiled as the light receded and the house stilled. Turning back to the keyboard, she resumed her typing. If she and the Winchesters survived what was coming, Debbie would have to see if she couldn't manage a hook-up with the Sam. After all, she would know where he was hanging. Sighing, she closed her eyes, picturing him in the shower again.
Life was good.
A/N - Blame Sammygirl1963. She wrote this one shower scene with Sam and it just got me started. Heading off to go camping with my family. Be back late Sunday...CC