Inevitably, Chuck Shurley did what he was sort of destined to do; he wrote. And he wrote some more. And he just kept on writing. He saw things in his visions that he truly detested putting down on paper – obviously he'd seen terrible things before (the brothers' dad dying, Sam getting stabbed, Dean getting torn apart by hellhounds, closely followed by the older Winchester going to Hell), but now he knew it was real, and that the things he was seeing were actually going to happen to Sam and Dean, and soon, and that it was unavoidable… Well, it just changed things for him. The most recent visions Chuck had suffered included Sam's demon blood habit getting way out of hand, a few rising problems for the angel Castiel, and the brothers continually lying to one another and being deceptive when they should have been focusing on working together to prevent the upcoming Apocalypse. The prophet desperately wished that he didn't have to keep writing, he often found himself practically praying for the angels to choose another person to be a prophet, anyone but him. But apparently, 'destiny', whatever the hell that meant (however it couldn't be denied, since the angels seemed to irrevocably believe in and stay faithful to it), simply wouldn't allow it. He'd considered trying to help the brothers, since he knew what was going to happen, but all the events that occurred in his visions couldn't be stopped. Besides, what could a measly, socially-awkward writer in his mid-to-late-30s do to help? Not much.
Chuck maintained his already out of control drinking habits in order to even slightly numb the pain and mental torture which he was barely enduring, but even the alcohol couldn't erase his duties as a prophet of the Lord. Then he turned to more, shall we say… intimate forms of forgetting. He ended up blowing all his limited cash on women, hoping to build his confidence at least a little, but just as he thought he might be getting somewhere, a phone call with a certain escort service was unexpectedly interrupted. Chuck had just recently been writing the dramatic final book (well it was unlikely to be the last one, if his prophecy continued) about all the sixty-six seals being broken and the Apocalypse inevitably spewing its unwanted consequences across the Earth, but he just wanted a break. However, his irritatingly rubbish life couldn't let that happen, could it?
Two characters that the prophet hadn't really held any desire to see again, like ever, appeared in his living room. It was the oldest Winchester brother and the seraph he shared a 'profound bond' with. In other words, Dean and Cas.
"Wait. T-t-this isn't supposed to happen." Was all Chuck managed to say. He gazed up at his (still extremely tangible, unfortunately for everyone) characters in utter shock. Very briefly, the thought that maybe he was no longer a prophet occurred to Chuck, but somehow, deep down, he knew he was only kidding himself and grasping at straws to think such things. Awkwardly hanging up the phone, promising the lady he would ring back, the prophet blinked and – yes, they were still there. Damnit, why did his life have to be so complicated?
"I…" Chuck trailed off, having no idea what to say next. He figured Dean and his angel would probably want something from him, or at least want to know what was supposed to happen next. Sure enough, a few minutes later the prophet found himself showing the Winchester his first draft of the upcoming events.
"St. Mary's? What is that, a convent?" Dean inquired, glancing at Castiel and then back to Chuck.
"Yeah, but you guys aren't supposed to be there. You're not in this story." The prophet, despite hating his job with a passion, couldn't help feeling at least slightly concerned for his life. I mean, if a prophet had already written what is meant to happen, and that changes, does that mean he becomes obsolete? Or would he die? Oh dear, he might explode or something…
"Yeah, well… We're making it up as we go." Chuck's thought process was cut short by Cas explaining things. At his rather out of character words, the prophet knew some serious character development was going on with the angel. But Chuck hastily quit thinking about that – none of them were characters, they were real. And stuff was happening, right there and then. So the prophet knew that, despite not being in that section of his story, he had to do his best to help Dean and Cas, even if (for once) he doubted his knowledge of what was going on.
However, before any drastic decisions or dramatic motivational speeches could be instigated, a blinding white light erupted from outside Chuck's house, accompanied by the very foundations of the building rumbling and shaking as if it was terrified of being about to be demolished. Which it probably was, to be fair.
"Aw, man! Not again! No!" Yelling in despair, the prophet was actually more annoyed than in fear for his life. Likely, that was because he knew that whatever it was outside, it was definitely coming for someone else other than him in the room. Namely, whoever was the largest threat to him.
"It's the archangel!" Castiel shouted back, the gravelly tone to his voice cutting through any other insufferably loud noise like an axe and his words clarifying their situation. The angel turned to Dean, who looked more than vaguely terrified. "I'll hold him off! I'll hold them all off! Just stop Sam!" At that, Cas placed a hand on the older Winchester's forehead, and Dean was gone in the blink of an eye. Chuck instantly realised that the man had been transported to his brother using Castiel's angelic powers. Well, if he could save Sam, then maybe something good would come of their unanticipated visit after all.
With only the seraph and the prophet left alone to face whatever fate would rein down upon them, and the unbearable light now encompassing everything in sight, Chuck figured that a little comfort and reassurance wouldn't go amiss. Gently placing a hand on the angel's shoulder, the prophet glanced up at Castiel and gave him a small smile; in that one look, he conveyed all his feelings of appreciation for what he had done to help not just him, but Dean and Sam too, and also the underlying emotion of apology, saying sorry for the fact that it was his fault that the righteous celestial being would perish for simply being in his presence. However, since Cas was so blissfully nescient of human gestures, the angel turned his head and his gaze seemed to bore into the prophet's head, expressing the ultimate sense of confusion and maybe even discomfort. In reply, Chuck gauchely lowered his hand and the smile slipped from his face as they both turned to meet the concentrated burst of celestial intent. The only difference was that Castiel stood staring into the light as if it didn't affect him in the slightest, whereas Chuck squeezed his eyes tightly shut. However, a couple of seconds later the light receded, the high-pitched squeal quit busting their eardrums, and the building ceased its petrified reverberations. Hesitantly opening one eye a tiny crack, the prophet noticed that the angel was still stood beside him in one piece, and that his house was still in its ever-scruffy yet unharmed condition.
"Um… Castiel? What-what just happened? I though the archangel would-"
"Yes… It seems he has retreated and decided I wasn't a threat to your existence. I must check on Dean and Sam." A flutter of invisible wings sounded, and Cas was gone. Chuck was once again alone in his house after narrowly escaping being at the epicentre of an angelically-induced explosion. Not knowing how to respond, the prophet simply grappled for a chair and collapsed into it, closing his eyes and taking a swig of the bottle of alcohol that was closest to him – an almost-empty bottle of whiskey. It was the only way he knew of coping with the never-ending problems life seemed to persist in throwing at him.