This story would be nothing without Jenjoremy's fabulous beta skills. She makes little changes that make all the difference. SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 help me hammer out the details of each chapter's outline and they give it the seal of approval when it's finished.

Chapter Nine

Chuck plodded down the stairs and into his living room. It was ten in the morning, and his head was pounding. It had been yet another night of twisted, disturbing dreams, and he felt as rested as if he hadn't bothered going to bed at all. This dream had possibly been harder to get through than the others combined, as it had made him realize there was worse to come for him that day, he just wasn't sure why. He flopped down into the chair at his desk and rubbed his sore eyes.

He grabbed the bottle of whiskey he kept beside the monitor and unscrewed the cap. Just a small one wouldn't hurt. It would maybe take the edge off of his headache even. He reached for a glass, knocking a sheaf of paper onto the floor in the process. The first line caught his eye as he bent to pick it up: The morning after Sam came back to life, Dean found him in the bar, nursing a mug of coffee and gazing into its depths…

Chuck sighed and poured himself a drink. He took a quick sip and started to read.

The morning after Sam came back to life, Dean found him in the bar, nursing a mug of coffee and gazing into its depths. It wasn't until Dean dropped into the chair beside his that he looked up and said, "Hey."

Dean definitely still felt a degree of anxiety regarding Sam's state of mind. He'd said he hadn't shot himself for any reason other than to stop Lucifer, and Dean believed that, but there was no denying he was still fragile.

Dean guessed Sam would have preferred to be left alone, but he needed to talk to him, and he thought that Sam trying to make up for what he had done would keep him there long enough for Dean to finish.

"Sam, we need to talk."

Sam closed his eyes and seemed to brace himself, and then he nodded and looked at Dean. "Sure, okay."

"Yesterday, when Zachariah shoved me ahead to 2014, I saw some things."

"Yeah," Sam said slowly, then frowned. "You mean there's more than you said?"

Dean could tell he was trying to work out what could be worse than what he'd been told already—him as Lucifer, Bobby dead.

"There was a man called Chuck, he…" Dean hesitated, unsure of how to explain Chuck. "He saw us."

Sam frowned. "Saw us what?"

"Living. He was a prophet, and his dreams were tuned into us. Apparently, it started around the time of Miner's Delight, and just snowballed. He sees everything, Sam. He knows what we're thinking."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "He can read our minds?"

"I guess. When I spoke to him he knew what I was thinking and what I was going to say before I did. We basically had a conversation with him responding to my thoughts because he'd already dreamed it." Dean took a breath, bracing himself for the real kicker. "Sam, he writes books about it. They, some of them at least, were published. I saw one. It was about Lilith, and my deal coming due."

"You're telling me he writes about our lives and people actually read it?" Sam asked incredulously.

"I guess some people must. He had a publisher. But then again, the publisher went bust, so it maybe not."

Sam shook his head, a smile dancing on his lips. "Wow, Zach is a bigger dumbass than I thought."

"Huh?"

"Showing Lucifer in me—okay, that's not impossible, but showing you a prophet that's tuned into our lives and writes books about it? That's an even bigger pile of crap than anything I could come up with. I'm surprised you didn't realize it was all made up there and then."

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Sam, I had a look on the internet. These books exist. He published them under a penname—Carver Edlund—but they're real."

Sam shrugged. "So the angels did their homework. They created a couple fake webpages. Would have thought that was beyond their tech skills, but I guess humans can be made to do anything."

"I don't think so," Dean said doubtfully.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder. "It's all crap, Dean. There's no books, no writer, and sure as hell no readers. This is just more of Zachariah's manipulation. Don't worry about it, okay?" He stood and made for the door, laughing softly to himself as he muttered. "What the hell kinda writer is called Chuck."

Chuck dropped the pages down onto the desk and groaned.

He was right there with Sam in the denial stakes. Sam and Dean weren't real. They were creations of his mind that manifested in the form of dreams. That was it. No more. And the fact that he could sometimes find signs of them in the real world meant nothing. Except… something had happened in Maryland. And in Fort Wilcox.

Chuck rarely watched the news. He got enough Real World depression from his dreams, thanks. But after he dreamed of Lucifer rising, that bright, white light pouring out of the floor, he had switched it on. The Governor of Maryland was on screen, trying to reassure people that a small Ilchester convent was unlikely to be a target for terrorism. It was the convent Sam and Ruby had been in.

That had been a coincidence. It had to be, because there was no way Chuck Shurley was a prophet of the Lord. God didn't make washed up, alcoholic writers prophets.

Then the news had come through about the attacks in Texas. A reenactment group's water supply had been spiked with some kind of hallucinogenic drug that made some of them go crazy and kill.

That was a tragedy. Nothing to do with Chuck, though. Nope. Nothing.

At least that was what he told himself. The problem was his mind didn't seem to want to listen to him anymore. He had read the pages of Sam and Dean discussing his existence a few times, and though his goal was to comfort himself with Sam's absolute faith that he wasn't real, Chuck couldn't deny that he himselfwas real.

The debate would have been null and void if not for the colt. He would have gone on with his life, writing, drinking, and dreaming, if not for the fact that his dreams were occupied with the Winchesters trying to find the colt. The colt he knew the location of. The colt that could—if his dreams were in fact not the result of whiskey and bad living—save the world maybe.

And that, he guessed, was why he had dreamed of himself going to see Sam and Dean.

There were many layers to his brother, Dean knew, and some of them were darker than he would like. It wasn't Sam's fault. The life he'd led made him that way. Still, there was a certain level of discomfort to be felt when watching Sam questioning a demon for clues of the colt's location; though questioning wasn't really the word, it was torture that was happening in Bobby's basement.

Dean knew he had gone down that path before, when he had been in Hell and Sam had been attempting to make himself the Boy King to free him. Sam hadn't pulled any punches when he'd told him about it, but seeing it was something different. Sam was cold, dark, and determined. Dean told himself it was one demon's pain against the world, but it still worried him. Not the least of his worries was the fact that Sam wasn't torturing with weapons. He was using his powers. When he explained it to Dean, it sounded so reasonable—"If I use the knife, I'm hurting the meat suit, too. I can do this and save the human at the same time." That was true, sensible even, but when Sam started to lag and Dean had to beg him to stop and rest, to wipe away the blood and take something for the headache—he rarely won that argument—Dean wished there was another way.

And they were getting nowhere. The demons either didn't know anything or they just weren't talking. The seemingly endless parade of black eyes that Castiel delivered to them and Sam exorcised was useless. Sam didn't stop though. He was sure there would be one eventually that knew.

"Tell me what she did with the colt," Sam asked in a cold voice, void of any emotion.

"I don't know!" the demon shouted. "I never even met her. She was the boss. I'm strictly low-level."

Sam shook his head, looking disappointed. "I hate when people lie to me. Not that you pass for people, I guess. You're all demon."

"I'm not lying!"

Sam clenched a fist and the demon cried out in pain.

"Please stop!" it begged.

When he began to cry, Dean found it harder to see past the blond hair and tan skin to the demon that was possessing the kid. He looked like he had been a surfer type before his possession. Probably had a girl, a family that was looking for him. They would get him back soon, probably traumatized beyond belief, but they would get him back. If he lived.

Sam unclenched his fingers and said again, "What did she do with the colt?"

"I don't know!"

Sam sighed. "Here we go again."

A moment later, the demon was howling with pain again and bile was rising in Dean's throat.

"Dean," Sam said conversationally, not lessening the pressure on the demon. "You mind getting me a coffee?"

"Sure," Dean said, glad of an excuse to get out of the panic room and away from the noise. "Be right back."

He left the room and made his way up the stairs out of the basement. He felt the weight easing from his shoulders as he did. Just being away from the demon was a relief. When he got upstairs, he walked into the library and nodded to Bobby who was standing at the counter and filling the coffee pot with water.

"How's it going?" he asked.

"Nothing doing," Dean said. "It either doesn't know anything or is a damn good liar."

"Maybe both."

"Yeah," Dean sighed, "maybe."

"And how's Sam doing?"

Dean shrugged. "He doesn't seem to be hurting too bad, but it's still early." He hated that what they were doing hurt Sam. Castiel reassured them that he wasn't damaging himself the way he had before when he'd taken on Samhain. His powers were developed enough to work without that kind of strain on his mind, but there was nothing reassuring about nosebleeds and the frown lines etched in Sam's brow when the pain started.

Bobby opened a drawer and pulled out a yellow medicine bottle. He tossed it to Dean who caught it and read the label. "These are hardcore, Bobby," he said.

Bobby nodded. "They are. They're effective, too. If he needs them…"

"He'll stop before he needs these," Dean said, though there wasn't confidence in his voice.

"Course he will. Just in case. We don't want him hurting unnecessarily."

Dean pocketed the pills and rubbed a hand over his face, turning his attention to the slow drip of the coffee pot. He heard Bobby moving restlessly beside him, and he guessed there was something the older hunter wanted to talk about. He lasted all of a minute before turning to look at him again. There was a question in Bobby's eyes. "Dean, Sam's burning through these demons in a hurry and he's not using the knife at all, is he?"

"No. It's all on his powers."

"You don't think maybe he's having a little help?"

Dean frowned. "Help like what?"

"Blood."

Dean's eyes widened. "How….?"

"How do I know? Sam told me a while ago."

"Oh," Dean said lamely. He was shocked Sam had opened up to Bobby of all people about it, and he was even more surprised that Bobby sounded calm as he asked instead of furious as Dean would have expected. "You're not mad?" he asked.

Bobby smiled wryly. "No. I hate that he did it, the consequences were devastating, but I understand. He was trying to save you and then the world."

"I didn't want him to," Dean said. "I tried to stop him even. I couldn't."

"Course you couldn't. He's John Winchester's boy. No one could ever stop either of them doing what they thought was right." He shook his head looking a little sad. "You know, I said goodbye to your daddy in the worst way a long time ago, but these days I wish he was here. Sam needs him."

"Yeah," Dean said tiredly. "He really does. I do what I can, but I think Dad knew him better than I ever will. The years apart made me miss so much; I didn't see him become the man he is."

"That doesn't mean you don't know him," Bobby argued. "Just means there's some history missing. What I mean is that John would give Sam what he needs."

"What does he need?" Dean asked, wondering why he didn't already know and how he could deliver.

"Blame," Bobby said, "and forgiveness."

Dean opened his mouth to ask what Bobby was talking about when there was a knock on the door and Bobby turned away to answer it. Dean stared after him, wondering what Bobby meant when he said Sam needed blame, and then his mouth dropped open as he recognized the voice answering Bobby's gruff question of, "What do you want?"

"Uh, hi, I'm looking for Sam and Dean Winchester."

Dean peered around Bobby's shoulder and gaped at the man he had last seen in a post-apocalyptic vision of a messed up future. "Chuck?"

Chuck smiled grimly. "Hey."

Sam shook his head and swiped at the blood on his lip. His head was pounding and he wanted to sit down in silence for maybe a few days but he couldn't. This demon either knew nothing or wouldn't break, which meant they needed a new one for him to work on.

He closed his eyes, relishing the absence of searing light making his eyeballs feel like they were on fire for a moment, and spoke aloud. "Cas, if you're not busy on the God hunt, I've got a demon to send on home and a meat suit that's going to need to be dealt with."

"Send me on home?" the demon rasped. "You realize that doing that kills the meat suit, right?"

Sam ignored it. It was true that the human might die. It would not happen because of Sam though. The time in which he had strained them too hard exorcising them was long past. If the human died now it was because the demon had ridden him too hard.

"Better dead than stuck with you," Sam said tiredly.

There was a rustle and Castiel's dry voice greeted him. "Hello, Sam."

Sam nodded to him and turned to the demon. He looked into the hated black eyes and reached for its core. He gripped it tight and dragged it up and out of the kid. When he released it, the smoke sank down through the floor and the meat suit's chin dropped to his chest.

"He's alive," Castiel said.

"Good," Sam said, satisfied. "Can you take him to a hospital and drop him outside? Doesn't matter where as long as it's not in this state."

Castiel nodded and then hesitated with his hand reached out. "Who else is here?"

"Bobby and Dean."

"No," Castiel said. "There is power here, too." He disappeared with the young man, leaving Sam alone and scared.

Sam made for the steps without thought. Dean and Bobby were up there with whoever or whatever this power was. He burst into the living room and took in the man sitting on the edge of the couch. He had a scruffy beard and was dressed in creased jeans and shirt. His eyes were bloodshot and they watched Sam warily as he entered the room. Dean and Bobby were standing opposite him. Bobby looked mildly curious, but Dean looked almost afraid. Sam didn't think the fear was stemming from the unimpressive man so he wondered what had happened.

"Who's this?" he asked.

The man swallowed hard as Dean said, almost apologetically, "Sam, this is Chuck."

Sam frowned. The name meant something to him, but he couldn't think what. He was evidently supposed to know it though, so he searched his memories and came up with a conversation from weeks ago, when Dean had been telling him about his trip to the screwed up (and false) future. His eyes widened. "You're…"

"The prophet," Chuck supplied quietly. "Yeah."

"Bullshit." He didn't know what the angels hoped to gain by setting this whole thing up, but it was crap. Sam wasn't going to believe. Angels existed, sure, they were real. But prophets who could follow his and Dean's lives like a telenovela didn't exist. It was all…

"All crap," Chuck finished for him. "I'd like to think so too, but I'm here and real, and apparently so are you."

Sam glared at him. Had this jerk just read his mind?

"Not technically," Chuck said, as if Sam had asked the question aloud. "It's more that I remember key points of this conversation and what you were thinking from my dream. It's not mindreading exactly."

Sam started forward, fists clenched, but Dean stepped in front of him, hands upraised. "Sam, just take a breath, okay? It's not his fault he's an idiot. He's just trying to show you what he can do."

"Sure, I'm the idiot," Chuck muttered.

Sam surged forward, but Dean caught him around the chest and someone grabbed him from behind and Castiel spoke in his ear. "Sam, calm down. You cannot attack him."

"Watch me!" Sam said through gritted teeth. He struggled harder, hearing Castiel's impatient sigh just before his fingers reached for Sam's temple.

"Don't you dare!" Sam snarled.

It was too late. Castiel's fingers were against his temple and he was asleep.

Sam sagged forward in Castiel's grip, his chin hitting his chest and his eyes closing. His breaths, which had been rough as he struggled to free himself, were calm now. He was out. Castiel manhandled him over to the couch which Chuck had just vacated and laid him down. Dean set a cushion under his head and then turned to Castiel. "He's not going to be happy when he wakes up," he stated.

"I don't imagine he will be," Castiel said seriously.

Chuck watched it all from his spot in the corner, as far as he could get from Sam while remaining in the same room. It wasn't that he was scared of a punch exactly—he'd been through high school with glasses and a D&D obsession, he was familiar with ass kickings—it was that he was scared of a Sam punch. The guy was huge and more than a little terrifying. Chuck had something no one else in this room had: insight. Sam had told them all parts of the story of his recent life and the rest they had been there for, but Chuck was the only one who had seen it all. He knew what Sam had done and what he had felt and thought while he had done it. He scared the hell out of Chuck. The other problem was that this was as far ahead as he'd seen—Sam being knocked out by Castiel. That was where he'd woken up and when Sam did the same, it would all be brand new for them all. Chuck might get punched after all.

"Come sit," Bobby said, gesturing Chuck to the kitchen table.

Casting Sam a quick glance, Chuck skirted the room and went to sit down.

"You want a drink?" Bobby asked. "I've got coffee, beer and rotgut whiskey."

"Rotgut, please," Chuck said gratefully.

Dean laughed softly and poured him a glass then set it down on the table. Chuck murmured thanks and sipped at it. It was possibly even more raw than the stuff he stocked at home, but it was also strong and alcoholic and exactly what he needed.

"So…" Bobby said expansively, "you're a prophet."

Chuck's eyes flicked to Castiel who nodded somberly. "He is. It is a pleasure to meet you Chuck. I admire your work."

"Uh, thanks," Chuck said awkwardly. He didn't often get acclaim for his books. There were forums and fan groups, but they seemed to spend more time complaining about what he wrote than praising it.

"You really write books about the boys' lives?" Bobby asked.

"Yes," Chuck admitted. "I stopped publishing them though," he quickly added, as though that lessened the incredulity and invasion of privacy that his writing was. "I brought one with me."

"This'll be a treat," Bobby said sarcastically as Chuck passed him the first book of the series—Supernatural—from the paper sack he'd bought with him. Bobby skimmed the back cover and then flipped open a random page and read aloud. "Sam's vision was blurring and he knew he was moments from losing consciousness. The cut couldn't be that deep, he'd be dead already if it was, but the blood loss was fast draining him. John raised the gun and Sam saw his finger easing down on the trigger. He wasn't scared, John would make the shot, but before the gun could fire, the hands holding him were gone and he was face down on the ground, his blood spilling onto the dirt."

"That's enough!" an angry voice said behind them. Chuck craned his neck and saw Sam pushing himself upright on the couch. His expression was dark with anger and Chuck swallowed hard.

"Sorry," Bobby said, dropping the book down onto the table.

Sam got to his feet and stalked toward them. Chuck cringed back and Dean half rose but Sam shook his head and Dean sat again as some unspoken message passed between them. Was it 'I won't hurt him' or 'Don't interfere'? Chuck didn't know and wasn't that comforted by Dean's apparent ease.

Sam snatched the book from the table and carried it over to the fireplace, throwing it in. There were no flames burning in the grate, but the message behind the action was clear—get rid of it. That done, he came back into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, glaring balefully at Chuck. "Well," he snapped, "why are you here? Vanity or curiosity?"

Chuck squirmed in his seat. "Neither really. Definitely not vanity. No. I didn't even know you were real for sure until I arrived. I had no idea I was really special."

"You're not," Sam said brutally.

"No. Sure. Absolutely. You're right. Nothing special at all," Chuck agreed quickly. "I just meant I didn't know I was a prophet for real until I saw you both. I thought it was all just my crazy dreams."

"I don't know…" Bobby said, "Seems to me a prophet is kinda special."

Castiel nodded his agreement and Chuck wondered if they wanted Sam to slug him. "It's really not," he said quickly.

"Agreed," Sam said. "Anyway, now you've seen us, proved we're real and that you're God's bitch. You can go now."

"If only I could," Chuck murmured then raised his voice. "I didn't come to prove you were real. I mean I did, but that's not the only reason I am here. I came about the colt."

Sam pushed away from the counter and loomed over him. Castiel was on his feet in an instant, reaching for Sam, but Sam brushed his hand away and shook his head. "I'm not attacking him, Cas. I just want to talk to him."

"Technically, you don't need to be sitting on his lap while you do," Bobby said and Chuck laughed nervously.

Sam huffed out an irritated breath and moved to stand by the counter again. "Better?" he asked.

"Much," Castiel said. Chuck nodded his agreement.

"What do you know about the colt?" Sam asked intensely.

"I know who has it."

There was an explosion of noise and Chuck hunched his shoulders against it. People were shouting questions and it sounded as though Sam and Castiel were in a heated debate about whether or not Sam should be allowed to shake the information out of Chuck. Eventually, Castiel threw his arms up and said, "It is as though you want to die!"

The room fell silent.

"Sam?" Dean said. Chuck saw the strain in his eyes. It was not surprising. Sam had died more than once and come close even more. Dean lived in constant fear that it would happen again.

Sam laughed. "Cas, I get that he's a prophet and all, but I don't think he's that much of a threat. Look at him. He's a marshmallow."

Castiel rolled his eyes. "He might be a…marshmallow… but the archangel that is destined to protect him is not." He looked from Sam's doubt to Dean's fear and went on. "Chuck is a messenger of God. The archangel Raphael is his protector."

Sam's laughter trailed off. "You telling me he's got an archangel tethered to him and you let him stay?"

Castiel nodded. "Raphael isn't tethered to him the way you would think. He would sense real danger to him and if Chuck was injured, he would come, but he is distracted by the apocalypse right now so won't be with him at all times."

"But this is the archangel that killed you?" Dean asked.

Castiel nodded. "The same."

"Why aren't you a thousand miles from here right now?" Sam asked. "I saw him, Cas. He wouldn't hesitate before killing you again."

Chuck was wondering the same thing. Through Sam's eyes he had seen Castiel's death, and he knew how horrific it had been and how Raphael hadn't hesitated.

"I am not afraid," Castiel said simply.

"Awesome," Bobby said. "Now let's get back to this colt business. You know where it is?"

"Do you remember the demon Crowley?" Chuck asked.

Dean nodded. "King of the Crossroads, right?"

"Yes. He has the colt. Lilith gave it to him before she went to Maryland and, unless something has vastly changed, he still has it."

Sam sagged back and ran a hand over his face, looking stunned. "Crowley?"

Dean stood and clapped him on the shoulder, a fanatical light gleaming in his eyes. "Crowley!"

Chuck understood their excitement better than perhaps anyone in the room, because he knew just how scared they were of Lucifer and what could happen, and how guilty they felt for what had happened—Sam especially.

"Okay," Sam said, businesslike, turning to Chuck. "Do you know where we'll find him?"

Chuck shook his head. "Afraid not. I only ever saw him and Lilith once and that was when the gun was handed over."

"Not a problem," Sam said calmly. "I just ended the demon we had locked down in the basement, but there are plenty others out there for me to talk to. We'll find him. We can do this. Thank you, Chuck. Seriously. Special or not, you might have just saved the world."

Chuck ducked his head, overwhelmed and embarrassed. The air in the room seemed a hundred times lighter than it had been since his arrival. Saved the world.

So… Chuck came calling. Originally, Chuck was supposed to come into Bound By Blood but the story took a different direction and he was missed. Better late than never though, right?

Thank you all for the reviews and PMs. I really appreciate the support for the story.

Until next time…

Clowns or Midgets xxx