A/N: My first completed/published SPN fic. It's probably insanely bad and OOC, but I tried.
(Update): Dear anon: thank you. XD I know that. I don't know why I didn't notice it.
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Sometimes—most of the time—being a Prophet sucked.
He could handle the angels keeping a constant eye on him; it kept him safe from the crap that the Winchesters had to deal with on a daily basis, after all, along with a few other things that the boys didn't even know about. The boys themselves were easy to put up with; they could be pushy—sometimes even a little scary—but they had never really tried to kill him for publishing their life story, so he would count that as a win. He could deal with the hangovers, because, really, even if it wasn't for the dreams, he would probably still drink—but in that sentence lied his problem: his dreams.
Chuck had long since gotten used to cringing at his own work while writing, but he would never actually get used to the dreams themselves. The monsters, the angels, the demons, the blood, the victims. So much death. Some days it would be enough to make him consider killing himself; never more than a consideration, mind you, because he would never actually go through with it, and the angels would stop him before he could do it anyway, but being single, jobless, and plagued with nightmares too real to forget, would get to him for all of two minutes before he would remind himself that he was doing some good in the world. And then he would take another drink, write another page, and pray that tonight, tonight he would dream of something good.
And sometimes, very rarely but sometimes, being a Prophet wouldn't be so bad—because sometimes he would get to see something good.
Maybe "good" wasn't exact; it was more like "bittersweet." But it was something, and as he turned another page out, he was actually pretty happy with what he was writing—a side story, something his fans might not even be interested in, something he probably couldn't make a profit on. Something heavenly.
He had had fun writing Andy Gallagher before, back when the man was still alive. He was laid back, he was funny, he was actually interesting, especially incomparison to some of the other sad sacks he had to write on a near-daily basis. All of the pages he had wrote about the man had never been published, probably never would be published, and the story of Gallagher's Heaven would probably make zip sells, but he wanted to do it; the fact that Andy had met up with Pamela and Ash was only an added bonus.
Sure, Andy's Heaven had pot and music in it that some of the readers wouldn't agree with, but fans would always find something to complain about. It also had a van that not everyone could appreciate, and, combined with Ash's Heaven, had more beer in it than what one could probably consider holy. But it was familiar, it was peaceful, it was nice. It was AC/DC concerts with Pam and online porn sites with Ash. It was something that, when it was time to visit the sky above, Chuck wouldn't mind seeing for himself. Maybe Jo and Ellen would even be there by then. Maybe John and Mary Winchester would join them. Maybe it would be a reunion for people who, for the most part, never got to spend enough—or any—time around each other during life. Home.
Maybe the Winchester boys would even read it. They would need something to cheer themselves up with, after all.
Few days of the year he actually enjoyed what he did, but there was, occasionally, the rare exception—and while the boys were gazing up at the sky, enjoying their easy days, he would be enjoying his own.
Of course, he would have to go back to binge drinking soon, would have to see Castiel being blown up and Sam being dropped into the Earth, but nothing lasted forever, he knew.
But it was better than nothing.