A/N: I come bearing cookies and crappy writing. Enjoy (:

He could feel it building, a slow burning ache that turned into a relentless pounding inside his head, and he squeezed his eyes shut, downing the rest of his scotch in one go, bracing himself for another migraine of epic proportions as visions were seared across his mind's eye.

Dean straightening up from where he's been washing his face – turning around only to find Castiel almost on top of him – Dean jumping and cursing and lecturing the angel about the concept of personal space, dammit – awkward pauses and intense eye contact between the two – Dean fisting his hands into the lapels of Castiel's tan trenchcoat – the meeting of mouths and stifled moans and hands gripping too tight and hands being buried in hair –

Chuck opened his eyes, groaning, his still-throbbing head indicating that no, that was not in fact a dream, which meant that in a motel bathroom three states over, Dean Winchester and Castiel were about to passionately make out.

Scrubbing a weary hand across his eyes, Chuck poured himself another glass and used the scotch to down a couple of painkillers because it was eight in the fucking morning and he was far to sober to be writing interspecies porn.

When more than half the bottle was empty, a dozen Word documents had been discarded and Chuck's head felt like it would explode, Chuck looked contemplatively over the sheaf of paper he had just printed out.

"…the way Cas said his name, like a prayer – no," Chuck paused, pencil poised hesitantly over the line, "– like a benediction, yes, much better."

And maybe he should be worried about what it said of his mental state, because what Chuck was doing was most certainly blasphemous on so many levels he didn't even want to think about it – he was writing legitimate angel porn, for crying out loud – but then again, it wasn't as if he could help it. He'd never asked to be made Prophet of the Lord, never wanted to be granted generous helpings of migraines that allowed him insight into others' lives, especially not the more private aspects of them.

Perhaps writing it down would get it out of his system, was what he kept repeating like a mantra to reason with himself. And then he could go back to writing crap about Sam and Dean hunting wendigo, fighting for first-shower rights, battling to stake their claim on the laptop, talking about their feelings on the hood of the Impala.

Anything. Anything but certified angel porn.

The thought had barely crossed his mind before searing pain wracked his head, causing him to double over, gasping – the pain was so intense Chuck swore his head had been cleaved in two – the dull haze of alcohol doing little to alleviate his suffering, as he moaned and did his best to pass out.

The heavy thud as Cas lets his head fall back against the bathroom door – Dean crowding in close and leaning down to trail kisses along the angel's bared throat – the hitch in Castiel's breath as his Adam's apple jumps and he inhales harshly through his nose – Dean's shirt being pushed off his shoulders – the angel's trenchcoat and suit jacket falling to the floor – Castiel's hand gripping Dean's shoulder, right over the handprint showing where he'd raised him from perdition – the angel's lips following to brush reverently against Dean's shoulder – Dean's strangled groan as he hauls Cas up by the tie so their lips meet –

Chuck came to with a gasp as he sucked in a lungful of much-needed oxygen, before blindly reaching for his three-quarters-empty bottle and downing it in one go. He flopped back down onto the couch he'd been collapsed against, and resolved not to move again until he had enough alcohol in his system to blur the edges of reality so he could forget the fact that he was an unwitting voyeur in a make-out session between a hunter and a friggin' angel of the Lord.

He spent all of ten minutes bitching about the unfairness of his life to himself – because it was unfair, that even a celibate-for-millennia angel was getting some action while Chuck and Mr. Right Hand had been in a steady relationship for longer than he cared to think about – before heaving himself off the sagging couch and settling himself in front of the computer, a new bottle of Johnnie Walker at his elbow.

"…eyes the colour of summer sky and – hm, no, too sappy," Chuck muttered, frowning down at the line as though it had personally offended him, " – eyes the colour of fucking forever – that's more like something Dean would think."

By the time Chuck was a third of the way through with his new bottle, he had managed to piece together something that he was moderately pleased with; for some reason, writing about Dean and Cas getting it on was by far the easier than anything else he'd written so far. What that said about himself, Chuck didn't want to know.

When his third headache of the day began, Chuck threw himself at the couch and did his level best to ignore how his head was being turned inside out and to fade into unconsciousness.

Dean backing Cas towards the motel bed – the two falling in an ungainly sprawl of limbs to land on the sheets – Dean pressing Castiel's wrists to the bed on either side of his head – the angel letting Dean maneuver him without protest, only arching up to press his lips to the dip in his collarbone – Dean shuddering as an exploratory tongue carefully flicks into the hollow of his throat – a gasp wrenched from Dean's throat as the angel's teeth graze his nipple – Dean ducking his head to capture Castiel's lips in a bruising kiss – Cas effortlessly breaking Dean's hold on him to tangle his hands in Dean's hair – a mumbled protest about it being not long enough – before the angel's lips are reclaimed and his words swallowed by Dean's mouth on his –

Chuck woke with considerably less of a headache and, to his horror, a completely inappropriate erection tenting his pants.

"What is my life," he groaned, as he reached for his trusty bottle of scotch.