TWO

Desperate Housewives

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Sam and Castiel hurried after the eldest Winchester as he made definite tracks toward Chuck and his small party. The quarry managed to get inside the main doors before Sam grabbed his brother's arm, pulling him to a stop.

"What are you doing?" Sam hissed.

"I'm gonna stop him! You know what he's doing, right?" Dean hissed back.

Castiel caught them up. "I do not," he pointed out.

Dean turned on the angel angrily. "Either he's here to get Becky a guest spot on America's Most Wanted Stalkers or he's about to pimp his books to the network!"

"The Winchester gospel?"

"Whatever you want to call it, he's here to sell it so it can be pulped, made even worse - if that's even possible - and shown to the masses in between commercials for Caterpillar boots, Chevy dealerships and--"

"--and man-size tissues?" Castiel interrupted.

Sam and Dean scoured his face, but all they found was immaculate innocence.

"Whatever," Dean grumped, turning to go. "We have to stop him before--"

"No," Castiel argued swiftly, and this time his hand came up and grasped Dean's sleeve. The Winchester turned as if the angel had slapped him in the face and called him 'chicken'.

"What?" he asked, dangerously clearly.

Castiel let his hand drop. "If this means that the Winchester gospel is saved in another format for future generations, then it must go ahead," he said. He weathered the furious look of disbelief from Dean and turned his attention to Sam. "If something should happen to the copies of the books Chuck Shurley has already published, to the manuscripts, the back-ups, the publisher's stores - then something else must remain in its place to tell the Word."

"This ain't it!" Dean spluttered. "Dude, did you see what they did to The Day The Earth Stood Still? Sacrilege!"

Castiel's eyebrows went up as if they existed only in rubber band form and his fingers had fired them at the sky.

"I mean - uhm - it was - like, crap," Dean recovered quickly. "Real bad. Terrible."

"It changed the message?" Castiel asked, his head tilting in curiosity.

"It lied about all the details!"

"And God is in the detail," Sam supplied neatly. Dean looked at him with a blinding supernova of gratitude, and Sam stood a little taller.

Dean centred his attention back on the angel. "Sam's right, man, and you know it," he pressed. "What if the network don't like the idea of angels? What if they have them write them out, make them into… I don't know--"

"Cult followers," Sam said desperately.

"Or worse - angels that fall off the holy wagon and side with Lucifer. What's that going to do to your gospel?" Dean nodded.

"You have a point," Castiel allowed. "Done wrongly, this could cause more damage than the gospel being lost."

"Exactly," Sam said. "So we're agreed?"

"Yes. How do we proceed?" the angel asked.

"We find Chuck and kill him," Dean snorted, turning to the main doors.

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Katie waved at the empty chairs, plonking herself down and snatching up her Blackberry. Noticing no new messages or mails she slid it back to the glass table top.

"Well sit down then, Mr Shurley, I don't have all day," she said in her most irritated voice.

The shuffling, bumbling man managed to get himself into the chair nearest the door. The expensive leather chair swung unexpectedly, nearly pitching him to the floor. A slim hand clamped on the back, holding it steady with the strength of ten men and possible one or two ladies who knew how to keep masterful control of a Starbucks' cup in a crowded train carriage.

Katie looked up at the owner. "And you are?"

"Becky Rosen," said the pale faced, long haired girl. She steadied Chuck's chair before finding the one next to it and sitting carefully. "I'm with Chuck."

"I see," Katie managed, frost nipping at her tone. "And these two gentlemen?"

The two men by the door looked up from their briefcases.

"Oh, I hope you don't mind," Becky said with a smile a snake may well have used on a small, defenceless hamster. "They're our lawyers."

"Lawyers? Miss Rosen, we're not here to sue anyone," Katie smiled. It spoke of ice, pain, and eventually, when the nerve centres of her enemies had burnt out, death.

"Oh, I know," she said breezily, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "But I just don't want poor Chuck here to lose the rights to his books. He's soooo good at writing them!" She looked at the two men. "Come in then, Miss Frye doesn't have all day."

The two black-suited men strode in and sat down, watching the four other people in the room with suspicion and adherence.

"And if you don't mind me asking, who's your friend?" Becky asked with a sunny smile.

Katie turned in her chair, gesturing to her left. "This is Martin Fox - no relation to the network - my best man. Anything anyone needs, he can get. Usually before you ask."

"Oh. In that case, can I have a cup of--"

"Behind you, Miss Rosen," Martin said politely. She turned slowly, the chair swinging, to find a fresh pot of coffee on the hot plate.

"Maybe later," she allowed. "So how do we start? What do you want to know?"

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"Don't be looking at me - you're the ones who stopped me when we still had eyes on him! Who knows where he is now!" Dean accused, trying to keep his voice down. Wandering the halls of the office complex was beginning to daunt even he, as they tried to find some way of working out where Chuck might have gone.

"Where is he?" Castiel asked impatiently.

Dean turned a stare on him that could have been broken up and served in Johnnie Walker's most expensive line. "Am I speaking Erdu?"

Sam tapped his shoulder and then pointed to the help desk. "Maybe we should be looking for whomever's in charge of new programming?" he hazarded.

"Good idea," Dean groused, glaring at Castiel before turning toward it. The three of them tramped over and stopped in front of a pair of young girls.

"Afternoon," Sam said cheerfully, and the two girls looked up. They looked at Sam, then Dean to their right, then Castiel. Then they looked at each other and exchanged a small smile before turning back to the three men, making sure their names badges were straight.

"How can we help you?" the younger one, apparently called Raelle, asked politely. Her elbow may have slipped slightly, perhaps jolting that of her colleague. Just a little.

"We're looking for our boss who just came in here," Dean said suavely, putting an elbow to the high counter and leaning with more nonchalance than Humphrey Bogart waiting for someone to light his cigarette. "Trouble is, he kinda got away from us. We're going to look pretty stupid if we can't catch up with him."

"Oh dear," the other girl - whose name tag bore the name of Cathryn - oozed, putting her chin in her hand and resting her elbow on the desk. "You really are having a bad day. Is there anything we can do to help you with that?"

"I'll say," Dean grinned, before Sam nudged him. Dean cleared his throat. "Uhm, yeah. See, he's here to pitch some idea for this crazy new TV show, so we guess he's talking to whichever hotshot you got working--"

The girl on his right gasped. "No!" Raelle added. "Not Mr Edlund! Your boss is Carver Edlund!" The girls turned to each other and jiggled, making small kettle-whistling noises.

Castiel drew in a breath. "No, his name is--"

"Yeah, that's him," Sam said quickly. "Carver Edlund. Do you know which way he went?"

"Of course!" Cathryn whispered hoarsely. "It's supposed to be a secret, but we're huge fans, so--"

"When you say 'huge'," Dean said with a suave tilt to the head that made both girls' eyes widen in adoration, "do you mean you got tatts?"

"Oh, do we," Cathryn giggled. "I can't show you mine, it's not--"

"I can! It's here!" Raelle breathed excitedly, undoing the top button on her blouse. Dean leaned over but Sam grabbed his shoulder.

"Maybe this is the wrong time and place," he judged loudly.

"Oh, uhm, yeah," Dean nodded quickly. "Yeah, girls, ah - not here, huh?"

They giggled and nodded. "Later?"

"Oh yeah," Dean winked.

"Where is Carver Edlund?" Sam asked, his voice hard with judgement. Dean glanced at him and did a double-take, sobering his wry grin quickly.

"He's on the twelfth floor - he's with Miss Katie Frye," Cathryn said. "Be careful - she can be a real bitch."

"Yeah. She hasn't even read the books," Raelle snorted.

"I have. Like five times," Cathryn scoffed.

"Oh, for sure," Raelle nodded.

"Don't tell me, 'the best bits are when they cry'," Sam sighed.

"Yeah," Raelle breathed wistfully.

"You've read them too?" Cathryn gasped gleefully at Sam. He simply shrugged.

Raelle leaned forward slightly. "I just hope they do the books justice. Honestly, if they screw up the storylines--"

"Or the brothers!" Cathryn asserted.

"Or the brothers, then the fans will go effing nuts," Raelle nodded seriously. "We fans are very protective of The Boys."

"Is that right?" Dean blinked. "Well, thanks for your help, girls."

"You make sure you come back later," Cathryn winked.

"Definitely," Dean grinned, before Sam yanked at the jacket over his shoulder. He was pulled away and round, and the three of them made for the lifts on the opposite side of the lobby.

The girls stood and leaned on the counter, watching. As the doors opened and the three men stepped in, they let themselves sigh wistfully.

"They were soooo fit," Raelle said faintly.

"Yeah. He'd better come back," said Cathryn.

"You think he will?"

"Mmm… Nah. The good ones never do."

"Hya! Totally," she grumped.

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Katie grinned, leaning forward and pushing the papers toward the seated pair. "This has gone so very smoothly. Are you sure you don't want anything else?" she asked.

Becky picked up the paper and slid it across the table to the two men in suits. "There you go, boys. Earn your retainer," she instructed. She turned back and looked at Chuck. "Seems everything's in order for now, right, Chuck?"

"What? Oh, yeah," he managed nervously, looking around the room.

"Mr Shurley, what is the matter?" Martin asked politely. He watched Chuck check his watch. "Are you late for something?"

"What? No, not late at all," Chuck muttered. "It's just that I get very nervous when people look at my work."

"I've read the first three books today," Martin said frankly. "They're really quite good."

"Really?" Chuck demanded in surprise, his eyes bulging. "You think they're quite good?"

"Absolutely," Martin said. "The stories themselves are wonderful. Very… moral, very… worthy," he nodded. "I'm not a huge fan of your writing style - sorry, Mr Shurley - but I do appreciate the story-telling."

Becky's face reddened slightly. "If you don't like them, don't read them," she managed.

"Oh, I must read them - all of them," Martin said eagerly. "I have to know if the boys find their father."

Chuck swallowed and then wiped a hand over his face. "Yes, well… Are we nearly done here?"

Becky looked back at the two lawyers. "Well… I think we'll have to take this contract with us and study it. We'll call you," she said with a wink, getting to her feet.

"Any time," Katie said, following the four of them to the doors of the conference room. "Any time you want to call and accept, you let me know. I have a team on standby reading the books right now, thinking about casting. If you can let us have a green light, we can be all over this before you can say 'royalties and revenues'," she smiled.

"We might just do that," Becky said, putting her hands through Chuck's arm. "Come on then, time for coffee and careful reading."

She sailed out of the door, Chuck faithfully at her side, the two silent lawyers following. Once they were gone, Katie closed the doors slowly, turning back to the glass table. She walked up to it and placed her hands on the surface, studying her grim face in the reflection.

"Problem?" Martin asked, already whisking out his file and his ball-pen.

"Let me think," Katie said quietly, closing her eyes. Martin waited, his pen poised, trying not to stare at his boss with quite so much adoration. Eventually Katie raised her head, looking at the far window. "Martin," she said grandly, pushing herself up and heading for the window, "I think we have a tremendous opportunity here."

"For what, Miss Frye?"

"We could be on the brink of making the world's best sub-genre television show," she muttered, putting her hands on her hips as she looked out at the street far below. "We could be about to make history, as the only network capable of producing this epic, this moral story, this entertaining, painful, angsty, good old fashioned kick-ass fun story, with horror and monsters and creepy guys and heart-warming humour… It could be… so very, very good."

"Oh yes, Miss Frye," he nodded excitedly. Then he stopped and thought about it. "So what's stopping us?"

"Chuck's crappy writing," she snorted. "We need a script-writing team. People with drive, people with passion - people with no money and no job," she added thoughtfully.

"Right. I have a list," Martin nodded. "Shall I call them in? Or wait for the official say-so?"

Katie turned to look at him, folding her arms slowly. "Take a wild guess, Martin," she smiled.

He fished in his pocket for his Blackberry, tossed his messy brown hair from his eyes, and dashed off with his file under his arm.

Katie smiled, turning back to the window.

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Thanks for waiting, people! More to come, too. :)