"I don't remember yesterday at all," Chuck called, pounding downstairs at 11AM.
"What?" Sam mumbled, mouth full of ham sandwich.
Dean was sipping water, reviving himself from his own mild hangover. They had all gotten somewhat drunk the night before, but Chuck specifically hadn't had more than a drink or two.
"I don't remember yesterday," Chuck groaned, holding his head. "I didn't really realize it, until I looked at my phone and saw it skipped a day. When I try to recall what happened, it's like…" Chuck shook his head. "I know time passed, but it's all very black."
Chuck groaned, and grabbed his head again. "I woke up to an empty whiskey bottle and a horrible hangover, too, which is pretty normal for this. Should we figure out what I did yesterday?"
"Well, I didn't see you," Dean mumbled tiredly. "I assumed you'd gone into town or were in your room writing or something."
"I was out there, working on cars for Bobby all day, didn't see you," Sam shrugged. They had to pay off the cost of being at Bobby's somehow, and Sam always tried to do honest work when he could.
"I turned on the GPS for your phone, it should tell us," Dean said, standing and swiping the phone from Chuck's pocket.
"You turned on my GPS?" Chuck complained, a little indignantly.
Dean was already clicking through the phone. "It says you were…. Nowhere. No location found." Dean looked up. "Do you know how to turn off a phone GPS, Chuck?"
"I didn't even know how to turn one on until now," He griped, swiping the phone back from Dean's hands.
Dean waved his hand in Chuck's face. "Don't turn it off, it could come in handy,"
"You must have turned it off, unless you weren't on earth, which I doubt," Sam said. "There's got to be some way to find out if you turned it off…" Sam trailed off, opening his laptop.
"You doubt I wasn't on earth," Chuck repeated. "Not 'there's no way you weren't on earth,' but you doubt I wasn't on earth."
"Well, geekboy is on the problem," Dean waved his hand, sitting back down and summarily ignoring Chuck's comment. "No need to be in some unholy rush. Just keep your phone on you until we know what's going on."
Chuck looked around, exasperated. "Fine, I guess." His gaze settled on Dean. "You've taught me how to defend myself, wanna teach me about cars? I don't want to be stranded because of a stupid car problem I can't fix someday."
Dean's eyebrows raised. "You know, Chuck, most people don't take to well to the notion of never going home again."
"I'm a foster kid, Dean, I never had a home."
Dean shrugged. "I keep forgetting, dark past, tortured soul, whatever. Come on." He got up, enthusiastic about the notion of someone listening to him ramble about cars.
Sam's eyes didn't follow him as he tapped away at his laptop.
"His phone's GPS wasn't turned off," Sam announced as he walked into the garage. "It was on, but had no cell towers available to triangulate his location."
"Well, that doesn't mean I wasn't on earth, yeah?" Chuck's voice came, almost hopefully. "There are plenty of places cell towers don't reach."
Sam frowned. "Yeah, but none of those places are within one day's travel round trip."
"Maybe an angel zapped me," Chuck suggested.
"The only angel who should know where you are is Cas, and he hasn't been around to do any zapping," Dean said.
"Have we spoken to Cas in a while?" Sam asked placidly. What he was really asking was if Castiel had dropped in to talk to Dean, alone.
"No," Dean said, ignoring the implication. "He said he'd hit us up if the battle went earthside. It hasn't, so here we are."
"Crowley hasn't turned up with anything, either," Sam continued, "Assuming since he hasn't stopped by again." Sam put his hands on his hips. "Well, I am feeling pretty useless right now."
"We could use that," Dean said mildly. "There is too much of that 'destiny' crap hanging around. I'd like to spent a minute being normal hunters again, you know?"
Sam nodded in agreement.
Chuck was hoping the conversation would get off topic, and they would forget his whole amnesia thing. He was regretting ever mentioning it, he didn't even want to think about it. He'd lived his whole life so far not knowing, what did it matter if he never did? Whose to say it wasn't just him getting drunk and breaking his phone?
But no such luck.
"But, Castiel didn't zap you anywhere. Where can we dig for more information?" Sam was still talking.
"Castiel might be able to use his angel mojo to dig something up," Dean said easily. "Castiel, Angel of the absent Lord, we would like your help -"
Castiel was there, instantly.
"That was fast," Dean commented.
"You are my earth liasons in the battle to save the earth," Castiel said. "You are important allies. You are also my closest friends."
Dean raised his eyebrows. "Chuck went missing for all of yesterday, and his phone GPS says he was out of cell tower range. We were wondering if there was some sort of angel thing you could work, you know, sense bad mojo on him or whatever." His tone was brusque.
Sam noted that Dean whined about Castiel's attitude toward him, but sometimes he was just as bad.
"There is nothing I can see on him immediately, and so can't think of a place to start," Castiel offered. "There is a procedure, but…"
"What?" Chuck asked with trepidation. More and more these days, he got a bad feeling whenever they turned up with new information.
"I could examine the state of his soul," Castiel said. "He shows no signs of psychic ability? Such things are written on the spirit. On his spirit I could read the truth of his existence."
"Great, do it!" Dean exclaimed. "That was easy. Why didn't you say that before?"
"It is excruciating," Castiel intoned, turning to Chuck. "Painful in the extreme."
Chuck shook his head fervently. "No, no way. It's not about the pain - I mean," he laughed, "it's about the pain. But also I'm having just a terrible feeling about this." He sighed. "I don't care if this is cowardly, but I don't want to know any more. And if I don't want to know any more, I definitely don't want excruciating pain."
Sam gave Chuck a withering look.
"Don't look at me like that," Chuck bit out, angry. "Don't you wish you could have gone back to a time before knowing about the demon blood?"
"Yeah, it was bad for a while, but I got used to it!" He exclaimed. "Now I'm glad I know."
Chuck saw the whole thing happen, had slaved over the words as he edited them again and again. He knew damn well that wasn't true.
"I can't believe humans," Chuck said, rubbing his face.
"You are a human," Castiel said, tilting his head.
"I know," Chuck replied despairingly. He shook his head. "No more digging around my repressed secrets, that's final." He stalked out of the garage.
Sam threw his hands up. "Fine. The truth will come out anyways, it always does," his frustrated voice called after him.
"Cas, while you're here, we spoke to Crowley," Dean began.
"And he has found no way to trap Raphael," Castiel completed the sentence. "He started reporting directly to me. And after he has outlived his usefulness, I will smite him into nothingness."
"Me too," Dean growled. "Well, thanks anyways Cas. Anything we can do?"
"I'll let you know," he said, vanishing again.
"No word on Balthazaar, or new leads for Raphael?" Sam asked the empty space where Cas was.
"Evidently not on earth," Dean snarked. "That's it, we gotta go on a hunt."
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Chuck is gonna bitch about it."
As it was, Chuck did not bitch about it. He didn't say much as they all grabbed their bags and left Bobby, the grumpy old man sending them off with gruff remonstrances that they all knew he didn't mean.
The whole time at Bobby's, Chuck was feeling inferior because of his shorter stature, his weaker muscles that didn't grow up in training. He never thought of himself as unmanly; he never thought of himself as manly, either, but he felt unmanly after two months of watching the Winchesters rip open packages with their teeth and compete as to who could crush a giant beer can the smallest with their trash-can-lid sized hands.
But now Chuck was thanking his shorter than average height as he stretched out in the Impala backseat. It had surprisingly easy suspension, and he was able to get some quality napping done during the drive, watching the scenery pass them by.
"That guy likes the simple pleasures, doesn't he?" Dean remarked as he observed dead-to-the-world Chuck in the backseat.
Sam frowned. "He's worrying me, Dean," he said, tone imploring. "It's like he already knew how to fight, and we just reminded him. When we met him, he was a coward, almost pathetic - and yet every day he seems more resolved and brave. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad he's not an obnoxious coward anymore - but it's weird."
"I don't know, Sam; you're a tortured soul or whatever." Dean shrugged. "You spent your teen years neck deep in drugs and morbid books, but you came out of it."
"When I was 22," Sam said, grimacing. "He's not 22."
"Yeah, well…" Dean paused. "He never had Jess."
Sam turned to look out the window. Dean was right; without Jess, there's no guarantee he wouldn't be his own little depressed philosopher.
"It's not like I don't trust the guy," Sam said, more quietly. "Something about him is so trustable. I'm just saying, there's something big we don't know."
"It puts me off too," Dean admitted. "Random memory lapses, disappearing and not telling us, the…" He waved his hands, presumably gesturing to the way a 5'7" man flattened 6'1" Dean. "And sometimes he just has this look on his face…"
"…like he's a million years old," Sam finished. "Says something mysterious, and walks away."
Dean shook his head. "Do you think he's putting on an act?" he said, voice uncertain.
They had come to call Chuck a friend in the past few weeks, and Dean didn't like that. He didn't want to add someone else to the motley crew if they were just going to betray them, too.
"No," Sam whispered, feeling the same thing. "I don't know, Dean, but I really don't think so."
"We're here!" Dean pounded the head unit, the metallic noise startling Chuck awake.
"Jesus Christ!" Chuck yelled, sitting up wildly.
Sam laughed at him. "Hunters need to wake up silently, Chuck, learn it," he quipped, getting out of the car and heavily slamming the door.
"How do you teach yourself to wake up silently?" Chuck grumbled, rolling over and out of the car himself. He looked up at their shitty motel room door, complete with peeling paint. He'd written the scene a thousand times, but his words didn't do the reality justice.
"Sleep lightly," Dean said, pulling his duffel from the trunk. "Sleep on the couch," he amended, crossing the cement stoop into the shitty hotel room. In one movement, Dean was asleep on the bed closest to the door.
To protect Sammy, supplied Chuck's mind.
He supposed it was invasive, the way he knew everything about them, but he never really felt bad about it. He almost felt like he was supposed to know it.
That was something he placed firmly in the category of Do Not Tell Sam And Dean.
"I sort of understand why you guys were mad I wrote those books about you," Chuck said as Sam carried his stuff in. "No words really do the reality of how shitty this motel room is justice.
Sam laughed. He slept on the car ride over, and so instead sat at the table and opened the laptop. "Gotta cook up a quick cover story, right?"
Chuck nodded. They were going to pretend to be federal agents, or park rangers, or something equally ludicrously illegal. In another day, he would have balked at both the risk involved, and the immorality of it all.
After being zapped here and there and everywhere by Castiel, the notion of illegality just didn't really bother him.
"Should I practice, or…?" Chuck asked the empty air.
"No, we find that acting practice doesn't help." Sam said passively from his position hunched over his laptop. "You just get all up in your own head about it. You'll do better if you just go with it."
"Right, okay," Chuck said uncertainly. He looked around, and patted his hands on his jeans. "Anyone want food?"
"Burger," Dean grunted from the bed.
"You wrote fifteen books about us, Chuck, you know what our favorite foods are," came Sam's dry voice.
"I never knew as much as the fans did," he mumbled. "I forget half the shit I write."
Sam sighed. "That's oddly comforting. Burger, smaller than Dean's though. Make it sort of healthy."
"Burger, pie and sort of healthy burger," Chuck repeated. "Got it," he said as he walked out the door.
The air was brisk as he walked to the nearby Biggersons. He'd slept most of the car ride there, and was now bristling with anxious energy. It wasn't just at the prospect of a hunt, though; no, Chuck felt oddly assured about the hunt they were about to go on. His instincts were telling him something else was around the corner.
And what was with that, by the way? His instincts had always been stronger than normal, but all they did was keep him away from the worst of the abuse his harsh foster parents sometimes doled out.
During the apocalypse, his instincts were louder; mostly they said to stay away from Sam and Dean, or angels, or anything bad. Sometimes he considered sending them manuscripts, to help them in their hunts, but he never ended up doing it. He just wanted to stay the hell away.
And now he had some sort of secret repressed past, and his instincts were telling him to stay away from that too. Did this hidden part of himself know that getting involved with them would be the end of his ignorance? Was that where his instincts came from?
The small town cashier was baked at his post, and lazily exchanged the cash in exchange for the food.
Carrying the plastic bag back, Chuck wondered for the first time if he might actually like to know what he didn't know.
What he didn't know gave him pretty kickass fighting skills. The self-loathing that followed him around, that drove him to a drunken stupor every night, faded more than it ever had. He felt like he was worth something now. Whose to say that this hidden knowledge wouldn't make him feel better?
You might hate yourself because of what you don't know, the rational part of him added.
Sure, most of the self-loathing came from parents who never told him he was worth it, and then growing up to live barely above the poverty line. But he was a published writer, wasn't he? He escaped out of fast food, that was worth something. Worth more than utter self-hate. There were three times as many people who never got published.
Chuck shook his head. He'd never been introspective, always shied away from his 'inner self' or whatever.
Perhaps there's a reason why.
Chuck shook his head again as he entered the motel room, food in hand.
Yeah, the reason was that it sucked, the end.
Dean got up to grab the food, and returned to the bed. Within minutes, the food was in his stomach and he was asleep again, truly out this time. Sam mildly ate his food at a normal pace, used to his brother's 'antics.'
"I spoke to Dean, he's okay with us doing some due diligence while he sleeps," Sam informed. "So suit up, we're gonna be feds." He stood up, stretching. "I'll be changed in a minute."
"I didn't think to pack a suit," Chuck supplied rather uselessly.
Sam rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Then, he looked at Chuck apologetically. "Sorry, I just find new hunters to be a pain. You're the best one we've ever trained, but it's still annoying. You haven't had a moral crisis yet about pretending to be anyone." He huffed. "Hold on, let me come to the store with you, make sure you don't pick out a crap suit. Got any money?"
"All my money is in that house," Chuck mumbled. "Spent it all when I thought the world was gonna end."
Sam barely didn't roll his eyes this time. "We'll sell the house if it's still there after this is all over, it would be unethical to sell it to someone else when Raphael might come smiting." He shut the door, and proceeded to change. "I have money!" he yelled through the door.
Dean mumbled, something like "shut the fuck up Sam," and rolled over.
Money you stole, Chuck said. He thought it was wrong, but he couldn't find it within himself to care too much. Someone could let go of a few hundred dollars and their credit score if it saved a life.
Normal story, ghost of a dead wife, murdered and or maybe raped, left in the house to rot, and now she was killing for revenge.
They were digging around the house because the lovely wedded looked to be stuck in a wall, or a floor, or somewhere inconvenient. Her body was never found.
"Amelia Beghar," Sam read from the page. "She and her son disappeared one day and were never found. Husband turned up dead soon after, drowned himself in the lake. Not long after, the son was found in the lake, too. But Amelia never was."
"Think Amelia snapped and murdered the others?" Dean asked.
Sam made a face. "Probably. Husband and son were cremated, but she was never seen again."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Great, she's probably dead in that house in the walls or some weird shit."
Chuck was wearing a starchy, cheap but well fit suit. He dipped his head, and hated that he looked like a munchkin next to the tree trunk that was Sam Winchester.
They were in a police department, literally in the police building, breaking the law, pretending to be feds. Chuck wrung his hands.
It didn't escape Chuck's notice that most of his characteristic anxiety was gone. He hated anxiety; hated the panic attacks, the shaking and the shame.
In this new life, he didn't suffer from it. His hands were oddly stable holding a shotgun, and he didn't run to the bottle anymore to get the crushing feeling to go away.
"I'm Agent Jagger, this is my trainee agent Smith," Sam said smoothly, introducing Chuck with a nice generic name. "He'll be mostly observing, but he's an active member of the team."
"Can I call your director?" the policewoman asked smoothly in return. Her hair was tied into a straight and tight ponytail, her southern accent laced with professionalism and suspicion. A small-town cop who was once big time.
Sam smiled. A critical agent would make for excellent practice for Chuck. "Of course," he responded just, pulling a card from his jacket. "If you would like, we can wait here."
She gave them an eye, and dialed the phone.
After a quick and growled conversation with Director Singer, she was on board.
"Sorry about that, but we're taught to be suspicious of trainees," She explained in a much nicer tone of voice. "It's very unusual for trainees to be introduced as such."
Sam nodded, playing along smoothly. "Of course. Special circumstances at the regional office called for his training to be expedited, and this is a small case."
"Yeah, small enough that they wouldn't normally send agents," the blonde woman said, loosening up. "Missing teens."
"After this long they are probably dead," Sam said brusquely, looking through the files. He sat down in the metal chair opposite her desk.
Chuck lingered behind, standing awkwardly. He tried to look more like he belonged, straightening his back.
"That might be true in cities, but not here," she replied, a little hurt. "After their booze fest they'll turn up."
Sam frowned. He wanted to say 'they didn't 23 years ago,' but that was too much time for him to say there's a pattern. No serial killer or earthly explanation made sense.
"Nevertheless, we'll find them," he sighed. "Thanks for your time, Sheriff."
"If you need anything, don't hesitate," she replied, waving them off. They were out of the building quickly.
"So what now?" Chuck asked when they were in the car again.
"You don't need to ask that every thirty seconds," He huffed in frustration, turning the keys in the engine. The Impala roared to life beneath them.
Sam sighed, about to make an apology, but Chuck beat him to it. "No, you're right. I should think more. Next, we would go interview their friends, to ask why they decided to go camping in an abandoned house?"
Sam smiled a little. "Yeah, that's right."
The friends gave a very standard response; to literally go fuck around and drink alcohol where no parents would catch them.
Armored up, Dean, Sam and Chuck pull up to the house, in the cover of dark.
"Great, home construction," Dean griped as they stalked towards the house. "I hate it when they hide the bodies. Makes a salt and burn so much more tedious."
"You like the fun of it, don't lie," Sam quipped quietly. He kicked the dilapidated door open, one swift and quiet motion.
A well oiled machine, Chuck thought, watching the way they moved around one another.
He followed them into the building, and was hit with the scent of mold and rot.
Immediately, Chuck felt something standing in the house. It wasn't a supernatural spidy-sense. No, he felt the sadness and tragedy that permeated the home. He felt like he knew the family that once lived here… a bright eyed boy, a father and wife, once so happy. He felt sad, so sad for them, it reached down into his gut, into his legs and into the floor.
"Chuck?" Sam queried, stalling in the living room.
Chuck started; he could have sworn he was standing on a rich new rug and hardwood floor, but there was no new hardwood floor anymore. The floor beneath their feet was rotting and old.
"They were so happy once," Chuck supplied quietly.
Dean started. "What the fuck, Chuck?" he asked. "Anyone tell you you're a weird guy, Chuck?" He pointed forward, and they crept through the house, quietly taking stock.
They didn't have to continue long. The once-happy wife appeared before them, hair matted with blood and teeth pulled back in a snarl. Chuck was struck by her eyes, faded from blue and narrowed in incomprehensible anger.
Sam and Dean's instincts were to raise the gun and fire; but she dodged the salt. Instead of appearing before either of the brothers, she appeared in front of Chuck.
Chuck knew his first instinct should be to raise the salt gun he was holding, but he didn't.
He didn't even feel panicked. For some reason, he was sure she wouldn't hurt him.
She was blown away from in front of him, and suddenly Dean was front and center. "Chuck! When the angry spirit appears in front of you, you shoot!"
He turned to Dean, "I know! I know. Just…" he trailed off. "I felt so sure, for some reason, that she wouldn't hurt me."
Sam tilted his head to look at Chuck. "Weird feeling or not, shoot the ghost next time, all right?"
He flushed, and nodded, face burning with shame. What a stupid response to something that was definitely going to try and kill him.
Sam and Dean, unbeknownst to Chuck, looked at each other. Most people shit their pants when confronted by a murderous ghost, and Chuck's response was to feel pity for her and not defend himself.
"I'm not eager to die, I'll shoot her next time," Chuck assured them, rubbing his hair. "Really."
Dean rolled his eyes for what felt like the fiftieth time, and led them into the basement. "Look alive."
Sam picked up a nearby tire iron (abandoned houses always seemed to have tire irons laying around), and immediately started putting holes through the walls. Dean looked for hidden passageways, or rooms, and Chuck busied himself with standing guard while the experts worked.
It didn't take long for Amelia to appear in the middle of the room, hissing at Dean.
"Amelia!" Chuck called, to get her attention. She turned and made eye contact with him, and he knew.
Amelia Beghar moved in with John Beghar because they were in love. But he wasn't such a good father, anger got the best of him, and in one fight they were both shouting. He was accusing her of sleeping around, and their fight got physical. In the struggle, he banged her head against a counter. In an instant, she was dead.
Chuck saw it with horrifying clarity, saw the fresh blood seeping into the kitchen tiles.
John cried, how he cried. He cried while he was cleaning up the blood. He buried her in the backyard and snapped, taking his son and himself to go drown in the lake. They fought, they weren't the best parents, but it was never meant to end like this.
"It's okay, Amelia," he said, raising his arms. "It's over, Amelia, he can't hurt you."
Amelia's expression changed, softened in an instant.
There were many people whose time was not yet here, but Amelia's had come.
"It's time for you to rest."
His hand touched down on her shoulder, and she vanished in golden light.
"Her remains are in the backyard," he finally said.
"Chuck?" Sam asked, eyebrows raised.
Chuck blinked.
Blinked again.
Blinked a third time.
Suddenly, he was hit with a splitting, agonizing headache.
"What the hell just happened?" He groaned. "Did one of you shoot her?"
"Don't you remember, Chuck?" Dean asked uncertainly.
He nursed his head. "No, why? Did I just do something weird?"
Dean opened his mouth, but Chuck raised his hand. "Forget it, I don't want to know. All I want is Vicodin. Is she gone?"
"Yeah, pretty sure," Sam said slowly, "But they're buried in the back."
"Well, at least we can dig without risking attack," Dean said lightly.
Chuck laughed. "I've got Vicodin in the car," Sam offered, and Chuck followed him to go get it.
They went into the backyard. "I'll bet she's planted here," Dean gestured to a tree that was oddly centered in the side yard. "Trees are old grave markers."
Chuck nodded tiredly. "So we have to dig through all those roots?"
"You have to dig through all those roots," Dean emphasized, as Sam handed him one of the shovels they got from the trunk.
"Are you hazing me?" Chuck held the shovel out in front of him. "Is that what this is?"
"No, but now that you mention it, we totally should."
Chuck, for his part, just rolled his eyes and started digging.
An angel sensed the unnatural power, and flew swiftly to the house. He watched as Chuck sent the spirit to rest, and relayed a message to Raphael.
"We have found the Winchesters and their Prophet."
"Good," was Raphael's smooth reply. "Stay with them. I am coming."
"This is horrible work," Chuck whined as he dug. "I mean, I wrote a lot of these scenes, and man were they boring to write, but they're even more boring to live."
"I don't know," Sam replied easily, digging with much more stamina. "After a while, they become relaxing."
"Hard work is good for a man," Dean agreed lazily, drinking a beer he took from the car and sitting on a tree stump.
"Ha ha," Chuck laughed dryly. "I don't know, I don't think hunting is for me. Weird amnesia? Hard work that feels pointless?"
"Maybe not," Sam admitted, "But you're in the life. Weird visions and magic powers are a permanent entry card." Sam took a breath to pause, still digging. "You'll find your place."
"I even had a weird vision once," Dean joked. "Although, some other psychic planted it there, so…"
Chuck gave a half-smile. "I feel more at home in a book. Maybe I could help with research instead, I am more of a writer and sad philosopher than I am some action hero."
"Our Samamntha here is a sad philosopher, and yet he's the second best hunter in the country," Dean jeered.
"You always make fun of me for that, Dean, but I'm not that much of a tortured soul," Sam huffed. "Chuck actually is."
"Not gonna lie, Chuck, I looked down on that sort of whiny shit until we got to know you," Dean said amicably. "I always thought it was people wallowing, but some people are just born fucked up, huh?"
Chuck huffed, removing the dirt from the graves. Sweat was plastered to his forehead, and he fought to catch his breath. "As you're so fond of saying, 'welcome to the party.'"
"Good one," Dean quipped. "You're dying, I'll dig," he said, hopping into the hole and taking Chuck's shovel.
Chuck was more than glad to clamber out of the grave and lay on the grass, panting hard. "Maybe I'll write one of those creepy books Bobby has in his library. Maybe that's my thing."
"We rely on those creepy books to kill the creepy monsters," came Sam's voice from the hole. "It would be worthwhile work."
"That's what I'm gonna do," Chuck decided, sitting right there. "Sit at home, write a creepy book. That's pretty much what I do now, except it'll actually help someone."
Sam nodded. "Probably a better format than a hunter's journal, too." His shovel knocked a bone. "Wow, John didn't even bury her proper, just threw her in a hole."
"I thought Amelia killed John?" Chuck panted.
"We were wrong, how else would she get in this hole?" Dean covered quickly.
"Whatever, just burn her and drop me off at Bobby's," he wheezed back.
Dean quickly gathered the bones and burnt them in the hole, and they watched as the gasoline and rot-smelling fire burned. "We learned a lot more about angels in the last year or two then in the three thousand years previous. You could write an angel book; put that angel banishing sigil in it and everything."
Chuck stood up, and walked over to the fire. Dawn was breaking, and they could see it clearly over the flat western horizon. "I think I'll do that. I won't even have to interview anyone, because I watched your entire lives while you learned all that stuff."
Sam shook his head 'no.' "Still creepy, Chuck."
Chuck rolled his eyes. "Get over it."
"Lets crash at the motel," Sam sighed as they slammed the trunk shut on dawn. "I want to do a little research before heading out again."
"Geek boy, you're killing me," Dean mocked as he rounded the car. "If he wants to do his research - "
"Winchesters, Chuck," Castiel commanded, appearing suddenly before them. His voice was stern, and if Dean didn't know better, a tiny bit panicked. "Raphael has come down to earth," he boomed. "You must -"
"Watch out for him," Raphael finished smoothly, landing with two angels flanking her. They were clad head to toe in impeccable suits, perfectly poised.
"Jesus," Chuck's heart was beating out of his chest. Of course, just when he decided he was going to take a bench seat.
Immediately, more angels appeared on Castiel's side, behind Team Free Will. They were clad in grey and light suits, contrasting against the black of Raphael's, and Dean considered making a quip about the symbolism.
"Don't make this a pissing match, Castiel," Raphael replied smoothly. "There is no use fighting."
"What, I should just let you take the Winchesters?" Castiel said sarcastically. Dean felt a moment of pride that Cas had learned how to use sarcasm.
Chuck looked at Raphael, and something inside him changed.
He felt huge emotions overcome him, regret, mourning, they filled him up and swept him away.
"Raphael," Chuck called, voice grave.
Dean, Sam, Castiel, and all the angels present looked at Chuck with confusion.
"Do you see what you've become?" He pleaded, walking forward.
His back was straight and tall, and for one crazy moment they all felt it was Chuck they should be afraid of.
"Who are you to chide me, little prophet?" Raphael mocked, almost laughing. "You see only what we allow you to see."
"You see only what you want to see," Chuck corrected, coming to a standstill.
I never wanted this.
"Stop what you're doing, Raphael, please," He implored the archangel. His tone was sorrowful, and very old.
Who was Chuck Shurley?
Raphael openly laughed in his face. "Why? So that we can endlessly watch guard over the mud monkeys? Our time watching your sin has come to an end."
"That's the same way Lucifer thought, remember?" He continued to plead, hands out. "He, too, thought the mud monkeys were beneath him. How can you all criticize him when you now think the same way?"
"I think I will smite you where you stand for that comment," Raphael said dangerously, raising her hand to snap.
Before she could complete the action, they (and the car) were now standing in the parking lot of Bobby Singer, furious wingbeats of three angels dropping them home and flying off.
"Bobby has excellent warding, you will be safe here," Castiel said, staring at Chuck unblinkingly. "Raphael does not know of it's location."
For a moment, everyone stood silently in the yard.
"Chuck," Sam asked uncertainly, "Are you an angel?"
Chuck was already blinking again, hard, face confused like before.
"Oh great, he's forgetting," Dean said, hands up. "Cas, you mentioned a while ago about 'examining his soul' or whatever. I no longer care about his consent, I'm worried about him being a loose nuke."
Castiel, instead, did nothing. "I get the impression acting without his consent would not be wise," he rumbled, "if he is willing to speak that way to an archangel."
Chuck looked up, rubbing his head. "What?"
"We don't know that," Dean pressed, tone uncertain. "He didn't actually do anything except send a ghost home; any old angel could do that.
"I get the feeling he's not any old angel from the way he spoke to Raphael," Sam continued, examining Chuck like a specimen.
"Hello, I'm here," Chuck said, waving his arms in front of the three tall men. "And I don't want an angel cavity search."
"Real people are dying, Chuck!" Dean snapped, throwing his arms out. "If you're an archangel, you could save them."
"There aren't any more archangels. Lucifer, Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel were the only ones," Castiel clarified. "Although there are many powerful Seraphs unaccounted for," he said, turning his eye back to Chuck.
"People are going to die anyways!" Chuck yelled back, angry. "Die today, die tomorrow, what does it matter?"
"I'm sick of this nihilist author crap," Dean snarled. "Yeah, boo hoo, the hunting life is taking something from you too now. Man up and deal with it."
"Dean," Sam murmured in warning, but Dean brushed him off.
"I've yelled at Lucifer, I think whoever Chuck turns out to be, I can stand yelling at him too," Dean barked at Sam.
Sam shrugged, and let Dean continue.
Privately, he agreed with Dean.
Chuck felt an old anger stir in him.
"I have 'dealt with it' for a very long time, Dean Winchester," Chuck said darkly. His voice dropped to a threatening pitch. "But you know well the feeling, the feeling when no matter what you do, humanity still insists on dying." Chuck's head was tilted at Dean. "What would you have me do?
Dean was technically looking down at Chuck, 5'7" and 130lbs., but suddenly Dean got the sense that he was the one being looked down on. The question hit home.
"I don't know, Chuck, I really don't," he grasped, voice rough. "But you can't just give up. We didn't give up, did we? And we stopped the apocalypse!"
"A very long time?" Sam had the presence of mind to question. Chuck wouldn't remember whatever it is he'd remembered long, so Sam thought it best not to waste the time.
Castiel said nothing, still peering at Chuck.
Chuck looked into Dean's eyes, anger rooting him to the ground. "Longer than you can comprehend."
"The amnesia?" Sam questioned, a little aggressively.
Dean admired Sam's determination, but didn't really care. He figured they would just have Cas angel cavity search him later.
"I don't want to remember it," he mumbled, now fully looking away from them, at the blue sky behind them. "I never wanted this." Suddenly Chuck wheeled back around, looked Dean square in the eye. "I have not given up," he bit, and then vanished instantly.
Nobody noticed that there weren't wingbeats.
"Uh," Dean said. "What?"
"He is in his bedroom," Castiel said, looking to the house.
"Did he jog your memory?" Sam queried Castiel. "Remind you of any angels you used to know?"
Castiel shook his head. "Unfortunately not. I have only what both of you have. That he seems very old, and very sad. Sadder than any of my brethren."
"Your brethren tend to be dicks with wings," Dean growled. Castiel looked hurt, just barely, so Dean said "I'm sorry. You're not a dick."
Sam didn't miss the way Castiel's gaze turned to Dean, surprised.
"Lets go do that soul examination," Sam changed the topic. "He's probably forgotten what the hell happened by now, that seems to be the pattern."
Sure enough, at that moment, Chuck burst through the door. "It happened again! One moment Raphael was about to tear us apart, and the next I'm back here, and you all are too? I can see that Castiel probably brought us here, but…" he trailed off.
"Cas's going to do the angel cavity search, no longer optional," Dean commanded, almost regretfully.
"I feel bad about this, Dean," Sam said remorsefully. "He's been -"
"Happy," Chuck filled in quietly. "I've been happy here."
He straightened up, and something seemed to settle in him. "There's no need for the cavity search," his voice strengthened. "I've been running away from whatever is 'inside me,' or whatever, but it's time to stop running."
The crowd looked confused. "So?"
"Some good old fashioned hypnosis," Bobby said, walking into the yard with them, finally realizing they were there. "Like we were gonna do in the first place. I overheard the conversation, felt the wards shift when Castiel and his friends flew you all in here. I'll call someone."
"Don't you have a bad reputation after burning Pamela's eyes out?" Dean quipped, tone way too casual for the subject matter.
Bobby shrugged. "If no one bites, I can ghetto up some hypnosis on my own. I just don't like to do it, since people don't find me relaxing, and I don't find them appealing."
"I would rather you did," Chuck offered. Something inspired him to say "You're a good man, Bobby Singer."
Bobby looked at him strangely, and just nodded. "Easier then, I guess."
"All right, just like with Pamela," Bobby repeated for the boys' benefit. "We're all going to stand here and watch the very exciting business of me putting Chuck to sleep, and asking you questions. You have to work with me, or this will be unpleasant for everyone."
Chuck was sitting on the bed of the panic room, with three dozen types of wards painted around him. It didn't make him feel any better.
"Lay down," Bobby instructed.
Suddenly, Chuck had a sense of everything coming to an end.
"I'm a little scared," he admitted, hands shaking against the bed. "I buried this all for a reason. What if we're doing the wrong thing?"
"We can always magic up some amnesia again," Dean assured him. "Or Bobby can just tell you not to remember it, or something."
Chuck sighed. "Well, Thank you for showing me more there's something more than alcoholism and self-loathing," he found himself saying. "My whole life has been marked by my own general failure to do good in this world. But Sam and Dean, you showed me how to stand up and do the right thing."
He sighed, stretching his neck. "And that's why I'm doing this," he said, laying down. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw their affected expressions.
"You're family, Chuck," Dean found himself saying. "I don't know what comes next, but you've stood up against both archangels and demons for us, then let us rip you out of your home and make you a hunter. And now here you are, doing something that might kill you because it might help people you've never met." He summoned a sideways grin. "Ain't nothing more Winchester than that."
"Family," Sam repeated.
"Family, Bobby repeated.
Castiel looked around, and they looked to him.
"You have to accept him too, Cas," Dean prompted
Castiel smiled back "Family."
Chuck sighed, and the tremors in his hands stopped.
"I'm going to count down from ten, and as I count, let go," Bobby murmured, voice lower than before.
They felt it too, the weight of innocence leaving. The weight of something coming.
Chuck felt himself dissolving as the numbers counted back, and he let himself drift away.
"3, 2, 1," Bobby's voice finished.
Chuck was as still as death on the bed, and Bobby lit his incense and candles around them.
"Who are you?" Bobby's voice said, unusually gentle.
Dean could never quite picture it before, but suddenly he saw Bobby and a wife, loving and happy together once before. Bobby hated to take anyone's innocence the way a demon took his.
"Chuck Shurley," was his plain reply.
"Who were you before that?"
Chuck's face pinched. "It doesn't matter."
"Who were you before you were Chuck Shurley?"
"So old," he replied again. Something distinctly upset etched it's way onto his facial expression.
"How old were you?"
"As old as time itself."
Sam leaned over to Castiel, and whispered "Cas… are you as old as time itself?"
Castiel whispered "Not so nearly. I approach my four millionth year."
That alone would have been enough to send them reeling. Sometimes it slipped their mind that Castiel was an ancient being. But something more ancient laid on the bed, being hypnotized by Bobby.
"Are you human?" Bobby asked, pulling himself together.
"Yes," he replied, "Fully human." Given that he just said he was as old as time itself, that answer was less than illuminating.
"What is your name? Not Chuck Shurley, your real name." Bobby leaned forward in his chair, and everyone else unconsciously gathered around.
"I left my post," the reply was whispered, laced with remorse. "To take my name would be to take it up again."
"Remember what you said," Dean interjected heavily. "That it was the right thing to do?" His voice was hopeful, uncertain.
"I have often thought the right thing to do would be to wipe the slate clean and try again," came his reply.
What the fuck, Dean mouthed at Sam.
Sam looked back, eyes extremely wide, shaking his head.
Bobby's own eyes widened, and he swallowed.
"If the right thing to do is to end our suffering, then let it be so," said Castiel firmly. The three looked at him, but he stood unashamed of his words.
Is he God? Dean mouthed at Castiel, pointing frantically.
Castiel said nothing as he peered back at Dean.
"Do you want to wake up and remember?" Bobby asked, carefully.
His voice was low and sure. "No."
"When will you return?" Castiel asked again.
He pulled in a heaving sigh. "When I am ready."
Castiel didn't look like that was a helpful answer, but he stood all the same.
"Are you Chuck?" Dean asked as well, interrupting Bobby. "Is Chuck a lie?"
Chuck didn't say anything, and laid there silently on the cot.
Bobby shook his head, throwing Dean a withering look. "Is your appearance as Chuck Shurley an act?"
His answer was weirdly prompt and emphatic. "No, no, no. I am Chuck Shurley."
Sam put his head in his hands.
Chuck was God, and God was a self-hating writer.
Bobby's voice wavered a little.
"I will count forwards. When you reach ten, you will wake up and remember nothing of this conversation. 1, 2, 3…"
As Bobby counted, Chuck got more and more agitated. "…8, 9, 10."
Chuck sat up, looking around wildly. "What happened?" Were the first words out of his mouth.
The second was a groan, as he brought his hand up to his head. "Did someone hit me with a lead pipe?"
"Get out," Bobby said, a little shakily. "We'll fill you in, just get out."
Chuck looked at them all strangely, then flinched suddenly from a wave of pain. "I'm going to go take opiates," he said as he stumbled up the stairs. The door clicked shut, and Castiel shut the panic door for good measure.
The moment the door closed, Dean rounded on the group. "Is Chuck God?" he hissed.
"I am certain of it," Castiel said, shaken.
"What, did he fall?" Sam exclaimed, hissing quietly, incredulous.
"And become a train wreck alcoholic writer?" Dean threw his hands up. "The guy must have some real problems."
"I just hypnotized God and asked him a bunch of invasive questions," Bobby whispered, hands shaking. "He could have smote me for asking his name."
"Anyone who falls has some real problems," Castiel chose to answer Dean. "But I admit, this is not what I expected."
Dean kept making confused movements. "I'm a little happy, though, in a fucked up way. This means God isn't captain of the dick-angel army."
"Small comfort, because abandoning us and falling doesn't make me think too highly of his character," Bobby said quietly, still shaken up.
"But think about what he fell to," Sam defended. "To horribly abusive guardians, to literally no parents? His whole life spent trying to save everyone else in the same shitty situation? What does that say about him?"
The group was silent for a moment.
"As Dean would say, this is above my pay grade," Castiel intoned.
"So, fine, God wants to be a weird supernatural researcher." A groan escaped Dean's lips. "This can't be happening."
"He's secretly the creator of everything, so I bet he'll be a surprisingly good researcher. Just gotta jog his memory the right way and we'll know how to kill anything," Sam started rambling with just a touch of desperation.
Dean glared at Bobby. "Don't you think he like, owes the world? Owes the world more than a research job?"
Castiel then rounded on Dean. "What do you propose? That we go lecture him?"
"I don't know. This is fucked," Dean emphasized. "Okay, look, we don't even know if he's God, we just know he thinks he's God."
"Loathe as I am to admit it, Dean, it makes sense," Castiel said. "Knowledge of anything he chooses, memory loss, strange powers, yet completely and utterly human. This was how Jesus appeared to humans some two thousand years ago, with memory intact."
"Chuck is Jesus," Dean said, again.
"There's gotta be some sort of biblical test," Sam said. "He left instructions."
Bobby shrugged. "Nothing we can use."
The four of them stood in silence.
"So… we're just gonna keep God-Chuck on research duty until he 'decides it's time?'" Dean said derisively.
Castiel cocked his head. "This whole experience for Chuck has been… constructive. Who is to say he is not seeking some sort of growth, or healing?"
"The guy's been gone since time began, and you're trying to help him?" Dean snapped. "You, of all people, should be looking for answers!"
Sam cut in. "Okay, you know what? Ten minutes ago we were saying Chuck is family. And you heard him, he's still Chuck. Clearly he's having some issue, or has some awful memory or I don't know what. But he's family, and you don't kick family out because they have some sort of awful past."
"Not even if that awful past involves fucking you?" Dean almost spat.
"You've met Chuck!" Sam defended. "Do you think he would want to hurt anyone? He was a vegan, for God's sake. We're just humans, Dean, there's probably something we don't know at play here."
Bobby rumbled "I hate to say it, Dean, but Sam's right. At least," he condescended, "don't shout at him the moment we go upstairs."
Dean sighed, anger seeping away. "Remember that awful convention Becky lured us to? And those two guys?"
Sam grimaced. "If only I could forget."
"They said the supernatural story was about family and love, and in their words, "who wouldn't want to live that?" So," He heaved a sigh, "It's Chuck, he's family, he says he needs some magic amnesia and to be shown the good in the world or whatever, fine. Hunting is a crap place to find the good in the world, but here we are."
With that, Dean threw the door to the panic room open and stalked out. "He better have some fucking answers when this is all over."