It's another day, another motel room, and the Winchesters are bent over the motel table with their noses in papers. The apocalypse may have been averted, but Raphael is fighting his hardest to wind it back up again, with Castiel and his angels only barely beating him back. Bobby was hitting the books, and Dean and Sam were waiting for a lead.

Suddenly, Castiel appeared in the room, trenchcoat billowing.

"Something is wrong with the prophet," Castiel rumbled with no preamble."I have been searching for the prophet Chuck. A Prophet would be a great asset in the fight against Raphael. But he was not in his home, nor was he anywhere I looked on earth."

"So he's just not on earth, right?" Dean asked. "We figured he was dead."

"That's what I thought," Castiel said, cocking his head. "I went to heaven to search. But he's not there. Heaven had no place for him."

"So, he's not on earth and he's not in heaven," Dean said. "That only leaves one place. Can prophets even go there?"

Castiel looked gravely at him. "No, they cannot."

Dean and Sam looked at Castiel.

"Like I said, something is wrong."

Sam spoke up. "What are you saying? Is he not dead? Or maybe Raphael already got to him?"

Castiel sighed tiredly. "Heaven has a record for every human. They're either admitted or not. Those who go to hell are never recorded as admitted. But Charles Shurley has no record at all."

Sam nodded. "So Chuck doesn't exist, according to heaven."

"Is there a way someone could tamper with those records?" Dean asked. "Maybe Raphael is hiding him."

"No. I mean," Castiel sighed. "Not that I know of. Those records are not modified by any angels."

"Are there… are monsters on those records?" Dean asked, standing. "Like, are we sure he's human?"

"I hate that we have to ask that," Sam said from his position over his laptop.

"Abominations that were once human have a record, but things that were never human do not."

Dean leaned back. "So Chuck's not human. Great."

"Well, whatever he is, he's got a line to God. We can't let Raphael get to him," Sam said.

"That we cannot allow," Castiel said. "We don't know his power. It could be immense, and Raphael would turn that against us."

Dean looked at Castiel. "How was this missed? You're the one who told me he was a prophet."

Castiel looked at the wall. "His name is recorded as a prophet, yet he is not on the records of heaven. Perhaps his name was falsely recorded as a prophet."

"Can that even be done?" Sam asked.

"I do not know."

Dean huffed, frustrated. "We'll ask when we find him, whatever he is."

Sam turned to Dean, shoulders set. "I know that he's not human, probably, but it's not like he's dropping bodies. We're not going to do anything to him."

"He wrote me full frontal, I'm not feeling charitable."

"Castiel," Sam asked. "If he's not human, what do you think he is?"

Castiel turned, considering the peeling wallpaper of the motel room.

"Something always… bothered me, about Chuck. I have known many prophets, but his process was always unusual. Other prophets… they knew what they knew because God spoke to them bodily, or because they read the stone tablets. Sometimes God spoke through visions, but never so directly. God favored lacing his communication with metaphor and symbolism. It was often not even the Prophets themselves who wrote the texts, but close acolytes."

"So, what?" Dean asked.

Castiel frowned. "Chuck Shurley is not what he seems."

"I mean, we thought that right from the get go," Sam recalled, standing up from the motel table. "But you angels seemed satisfied with Prophet of the Lord,' and we had bigger problems."

"Okay, so we'll find Chuck then," Dean said, exasperated. "Did you pop in just to tell us this?"

"You always tell me to 'pop in' and 'say hi,'" Castiel said. "Here I am, doing so."

Something inside Dean loosened a little at the thought that Castiel finally learned how to pop in.

"Well, it doesn't hurt to ask around," Sam was saying. "Besides, we can always use someone like Chuck in our pockets, whatever his story is."

"Don't you think we've got a lot on our plates right now?"

"Honestly… not really, Dean," Sam argued. "I'm out of hell, and Raphael's kept the fight to heaven for now. We're hunting, sure, but the apocalypse made more hunters than ever before. Notice how we haven't had a whiff of a real case?" Sam gestured toward Dean. "Hell, aren't you getting calls from hunters that are bored out of their minds looking for work?"

Dean threw his arms out. "Fine, fine, we'll let the new hunters do their thing."

"You boys are the Winchesters," Castiel added, tone a little hard. "You have much bigger concerns than semiannual ghost hauntings."

At that, he vanished.

"You ever think he'll learn to say when he's leaving?" Dean said, without purpose.

"No," Sam answered shortly. "He's right; if Chuck's missing from heaven, and Raphael, or Crowley, doesn't have him, we need to find him."

"Where would we even start?" Dean said.

Then, he groaned loudly, rubbing his face.

"Ugh, I hate magic."

It wasn't a day later that the brothers were spilling through Bobby's front door.

"Hey boys," Bobby said, but the words weren't out of his mouth before they shoved past him and went for the fridge.

"Don't mind me," Bobby snarked as they walked in. "I can't remember, why'd I let you two come over?"

"Because the apocalypse is over, but the world isn't safe yet," Dean said, already digging in the kitchen for food.

"There's lunchmeat in the drawer," Bobby offered lamely, sitting back down. "So, you need a spell."

Sam's mouth was already full of lunchmeat sandwich. "Yep. A spell to find anything, human or not."

"Because Chuck, the hentai-watching prophet, may not be human after all," Bobby said, repeating what he'd heard over the phone.

Dean nodded. "Yep."

Bobby groaned, sitting back down at the desk. "I'll get looking."

It didn't take them long to find a standard locating spell, and within 24 ingredients Castiel had brought the ingredients for Bobby to mash in a bowl.

Much like when they tried to find Lillith, they gathered around a map and a pendulum, as Bobby chanted latin over it.

The pendulum landed on Chuck's run-down ranch.

"You didn't check his house first?" Bobby asked, incredulous, turning to Castiel.

"I sensed no presence at the hovel," Castiel said, ever so slightly defensive.

Dean stepped in. "Honestly, it was far away and we doubted he'd be there if he was mixed up in all this crap. Besides, Castiel said he checked."

"I can take us there instantly," Castiel said, reaching for Sam and Dean.

"Hey!" Dean yelled. "No! We're driving."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, that is going to take way too long -"

"Sam and I are taking angel air, Dean, come with us or get left out," Bobby said shortly as he stalked out of the room. "I'm grabbing the guns."

Dean looked on at Bobby leaving the room.

"He's never flown with Cas before," Sam said shortly. "Don't begrudge him this."

Dean thrust his hands up. "He's not missing anything! It just makes you nauseous."

"It is faster," Castiel said dryly. "I don't want to wait for you to arrive."

Bobby returned, shotgun on his left shoulder. "Lets go."

Castiel only put his hands on Sam and Dean, but the three of them disappeared in an instant.

They appeared in the living room, and were a little shocked to find Chuck again clad in his boxers and shitty bathrobe, passed out on the couch with a bottle of bourbon.

"Holy shit!" he yelled, sitting up. "Guys! What's going on?"

"Next time we fly to a house, stop outside the door," Dean said to Cas. Dean turned to the drunk prophet. "We were looking for you."

Considering Chuck's tired and drunk form, suspicion drained out of him. Whatever was going on, this somewhat pathetic man didn't know anything about it. Dean doubted he knew about anything in the world except late night porn and bourbon.

"Raphael is trying to restart the apocalypse, and you've got a direct line to God." Dean eased off. "We figured someone might come abducting you here soon."

"Well I'm not abducted," Chuck defended, tying his robe and standing up.

"You need to come with us," Sam pressed. "Raphael is trying to start the apocalypse again. You're not safe here."

"So now you're abducting me," Chuck said dryly.

Sam furrowed his brows. "It's not like that. We're trying to get you to safety. There's no telling what Raphael will do to you."

"There's no telling that Raphael will even do anything to me at all!" Chuck exclaimed. "Ever since the not-apocalypse I've just been in this house! I only was able to keep the house because it was paid off -"

"Raphael has not come for you yet because he does not know you're alive," Castiel said shortly. "Prophets lose their powers upon death, so Raphael thinks he has no use for you."

Chuck's voice was whining. "Even if I had my 'powers,' what use would that be to him?"

Castiel turned his head threateningly towards the prophet. "Spellwork. Blood magic. Are you aware of the great power the prophets of old wielded?"

Bobby sighed. "If we found you, the bad guys are gonna find you," Bobby explained, less harshly. "Just… come with us, boy."

Chuck swallowed, adams apple bobbing. "But I thought the apocalypse was over?"

"I guess not," Sam said, a touch of remorse in his tone. "It's never over for us."

Chuck frowned at them, and for a moment it looked like he would argue.

But in a moment, his gaze softened, and he looked around the ramshackle house as if it were the last time he would ever see it. His face was eased in a second, as if something else had taken him over.

Dean didn't miss the way Castiel narrowed his eyes at the behavior.

But in a moment Chuck was back to normal, scrambling up the stairs, yelling "Let me pack!"

Bobby rolled his eyes, setting the shotgun down.

"That was surprisingly easy," Dean hummed, looking around. "I expected more protest."

"His attitude will change," Sam assured. "Last time, the angels were protecting him, letting him live a normal life as long as he kept writing. He doesn't know how it is."

"He will soon," Bobby said dryly, looking around the destroyed house.

"Are we gonna do anything with him?" Dean asked, a little confused. "I mean, I get bringing him to Bobby's for now. Keep him away from Raphael. But is he actually gonna be useful?"

Castiel raised his eyebrows, listening to the banging upstairs as Chuck packed. "Probably not."

"We'll make him useful," Bobby assured, voice both comfort and threat.

Chuck ran downstairs, carrying a duffel bag. "I wanted to pack more stuff," he was saying, "But I know there's a lot of moving around and it's not like I'm never going to see this place again, right?" He looked up eagerly, hopefully.

The Winchesters gave him an uncertain look.

Chuck frowned, and looked away. "I know, I know, just…" he heaved a sigh. "Okay."

He solidified his stance, and for a quick moment the group was impressed with how quickly the prophet pulled it together.

"Lets go," Castiel said, sweeping them away.

They were deposited in Bobby's living room, disheveled but unharmed.

"So," Chuck said, after a moment's silence, "What now?"

Bobby shrugged. "See how you can make yourself useful. Still getting Winchester-vision?"

"Not since the not-apocalypse," Chuck said. "It's like when you two went off script, the whole thing fell apart."

"Maybe that's why Raphael hasn't come for him." Dean said. "Since we ruined Chuck's prophecies, he's not a prophet anymore?"

Castiel gave Chuck a beady eye. "It's best to be sure. Chuck Shurley stays with us."

Chuck laughed nervously. "I'd like that, too, if you think a pissed off archangel is going to come after me."

"Plus, a few tests never hurt anyone," Bobby said lightly.

"Your tests did," Dean said with a surly tone.

Chuck's eyebrows drew together, concerned. "Tests?

"Testing you for humanity!" Bobby said with fake excitement. "But don't worry, it's not like we'll shiv you if you're not human. Hell, Sam hasn't fully been human this whole time."

"Hey!"

"Sam's still sensitive," Dean said.

Sam rolled his eyes, saying nothing.

"Wait here," Bobby instructed, as he made to grab his testing box from the closet.

They all watched uncertainly as Bobby grabbed Chuck's arm and cut him with silver, made him drink salt water, made him hold iron, made him hold a cross. They didn't expect anything from the monster tests, really, just going through the motions.

Bobby started the more obscure tests, with herbs and spices and chants for psychic power. Chuck continued to test negative, and Bobby began to throw the boys furtive glances.

Eventually, Chuck noticed the way they were all looking at each other.

"What?" Chuck queried, confusion turning to annoyance. "What's going on?"

Dean assessed Chuck, and decided to stretch the truth. "Just normal testing Chuck, we've all been through it once or twice. I know it's annoying, but if you're secretly a shape shifting monster or something it'll save everyone's life."

Chuck rolled his eyes, and let Bobby keep poking and prodding him.

Halfway into the tests for spiritual power, which were mostly Bobby just waving crystals around like a lunatic, something strange began to emerge.

"Chuck, you're testing negative for psychic power," he said, shaking his head. "As a prophet, or vision-seeing person, or whatever, that just don't make sense."

Chuck groaned. "What are you saying?"

"Nothing, right now," Bobby said, humming. "Just that Cas is right; this ain't adding up."

"'Cas is right?'" Chuck asked, suspicious.

Dean sighed. "Cas said he's known a few prophets in his day, but that you weren't quite like any of them. That you were, uh, kind of weird."

Chuck looked a little startled. "I don't know anything, all right?" He dropped his hands. "Great. I thought being a prophet with angels constantly watching me was bad enough. But no, now they're trying to kill me and apparently I'm not even a prophet, I'm something weird and no one knows what."

Chuck's tone was turning a little hysterical, strung out from the turn his day had taken.

"Wind down, Chuck," Dean barked. "For all we know, you're just a different kind of prophet God special-ordered for the apocalypse that never came. We're keeping you here so that Raphael doesn't paint a Key of Solomon with your insides, not because we have a secret plot to kill you."

Chuck looked down at the floor, sighing tiredly. "All right, all right. So is that the plan? Just hold me here until Raphael's taken care of?"

"I hope not," Bobby grumbled. "I do not want some drunk hack writer wandering around my house."

Sam jumped in, tone understanding. "We'll probably move you somewhere safe after a little while. You'll stay there until this is all over."

Chuck looked up at them. "I know war doesn't have a schedule or anything, but how long do you think that will be."

Bobby was still walking around him with" crystals, stopping every so often to stare at one like it was faulty.

Dean shrugged, mock unconcerned. "Well probably two years or less. By then, either Raphael will be dead or we'll all be dead."

Chuck blanched.

Just then, Bobby stopped waving rocks and religious symbols around, clunking his crucifix on the desk and shaking his head.

"I gotta hand it to you, Chuck," Bobby said. "You are the most normal, non-magical, non-monster human I've ever met. Most people usually fail at least one or two tests, for something. Do you know anything you're not telling us?" He said, cocking an eye towards him.

"What do you mean?" Chuck asked, again, tiredly. He was beginning to feel like he was asking more questions than receiving answers.

"Just…" Sam guided, ever the understanding one. "Any weird feelings? Magic-ey inclinations? Weird happenings?"

"Besides visions from God?" Chuck scoffed. "Well, I have no parents. Born to a woman who died in childbirth, passed around the foster system growing up. Normal kid, for a foster kid, I guess," Chuck said, shrugging. "Didn't make a lot of friends, kind of felt like a weird loner. Grew up into an alcoholic writer. Never any…" he waved his hands for effect. "Supernatural stuff going on."

"Moving schools will do that to you," Sam sympathized. "Got any foster records or anything?"

"Not really," Chuck said. "I mean, I do, but they don't say anything abnormal - anything abnormal for a kid in the foster system. Abuse runs rampant with foster parents," he said sadly.

"No weird 'he moved things without touching them,' or 'he said something weird to a teacher?'"

"Not that I know of," Chuck said, shrugging. "I'm telling you, I was just a normal loser until I started having weird visions." Chuck sighed. "I was even gonna kill myself, but…" He shrugged. "Something in me just told me I shouldn't."

"Thanks for that, I guess," Dean said dryly. "You could live on to write me full frontal."

Sam looked at Dean, full of offense. You don't joke about suicide, Dean.

Dean rolled his eyes in response.

"Lets have a look anyway," Bobby said. "Do you have any records?"

"Hell if I know," Chuck shared, shrugging. "I requested to look at them in high school, but never kept a copy. Meaninglessly morbid, you know?"

"Yeah," Sam said, shaking his head. Also a troubled teen, he managed to 'lose' all his records at Stanford.

"Well, give us some leads, then," Bobby dug, a little annoyed. "Graduating school, last foster parents, e.t.c."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Do we have to? Is digging up my angsty childhood really going to help here? Also, I have a bad feeling about it."

"Follow these feelings a lot, do you?" Bobby pressed.

Chuck rolled his eyes, a little frustrated. "Yes, I do. And it's not because I'm some magical monster. Everyone has instincts!"

Dean raised his eyes at Bobby, shrugging. Bobby sighed, and said "yeah, all right. But if you ever think that these feelings aren't normal instincts, let us know."

"Well, there is…" Chuck said, and sighed. "Sometimes I get a bad feeling, and then I lose the next few hours of memory. Doctors always said it was just the alcohol, but I know what blacking out feels like and that isn't it."

"We're already keeping an eye on you here," Dean shared, "So if you forget the next few hours at any point, let us know. It's probably nothing."

Chuck nodded, eyes flaring with frustration. "So are we done? Can I eat now?"

"Yeah, go," Dean said, waving his hand, and Chuck practically threw himself out of the living room.

"There's lunchmeat in the drawer," Bobby said, watching Chuck dig unceremoniously through his fridge. "Sam, you're paying for the next round of groceries," he rumbled.