By the time he made it upstairs to the bathroom, he'd already downed a fourth of the bottle and his eyes were burning. He locked the door and leaned back heavily, his legs unsteady.
This just couldn't be happening. The fact that his stories were real was improbable, but it made sense it a certain way. He'd never been much of a writer before Supernatural. But this, prophethood, (prophetdom?), this was where he drew the line. This was just too far. Sera should be here to tell him to lay off the hard stuff and take a few days away from writing. But this wasn't one of his novels.
This was real life.
Real. Life. His. Fuck.
Just, fuck. Fuck him. Fuck the universe. Fuck angels and demons. Fuck God (could he say that still? If he wrote that God was a huge douche, would it be true?).
But most of all, fuck those damn Winchesters. It always came back to them. Chuck wished he could blame them for everything, but they were just the constant, frustrating harbingers of all things sucky.
Like his books. He really hoped Castiel was wrong about the whole "Winchester Gospel" deal. He didn't want to be responsible for bringing this mess into religion, bringing this to the masses for study and worship. All he was going to be remembered for was bad writing. He'd never live it down. Jesus, he felt like he was going to throw up.
No, scratch that, he was throwing up. Like right now.
Flushing the toilet, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took another long pull from the bottle, then sank to the floor. His eyes were burning again and his cheeks were a little wet. Great, now he was crying. He was crying in his bathroom and there was an angel downstairs arguing about demons with a character from his stories.
God, he should have listened to his father and thrown away that first draft. Chuck wondered what his dad would think of him now, wondered how one even breaks this news. "Hey dad, you'll never guess what happened today. Turns out I'm a prophet." He'd probably still be disappointed that Chuck couldn't keep a career. That he was basically plagiarizing. Plagiarizing the Word of God. Guess he had a great defense against the creepier fanfiction now.
A hysterical giggle snuck out. Fuck, he needed to be drunker for this. Or better yet, not awake.
He wiped his nose on his sleeve, downed most of what was left in the bottle, and let his eyes close.
He woke up a half hour later with a crick in his neck and drool running down his cheek. He splashed some water on his face and headed downstairs. For a minute, he thought it had all been some kind of drunken fever dream. His headache and empty living room almost made him believe it. But as he downed some aspirin and orange juice from the carton, Chuck saw the book lying open on the table, the one Castiel had been flipping through. He sighed; of course he wasn't getting off that easy.
Chuck turned to go back upstairs and get changed when his phone buzzed. A voicemail from Dean. How quaint. He sighed again and changed his mind. Going upstairs would mean getting involved in what was sure to be a long night, and the couch looked so much better. Plus, his head was still killing him and he was probably approaching a lethal dose of aspirin at this point. What he needed right now was more whiskey. Wrapping himself in a blanket, he grabbed a bottle from the table and made a mental note to go to the liquor store, ASAP. He was going to need more alcohol, a lot more, to get through this.