A/Ns: We're posting early! That's right, bitches, it's a holiday weekend, I had plenty of time to get this chapter edited, and I am too excited about it to wait until Sunday. Happy Easter Present to us!
Reviews: your comments last chapter were AWESOME. Someone got awfully close to guessing what our mystery lady might be, for starters :D Btw, about that; I'm really happy you guys are taking stabs and guesses (and no stress if you aren't/don't have one). It helps me gauge how I'm doing with the hints and the like. Also, I should tell you that you're not actually *supposed* to be able to guess what she is. I am doing that on purpose, in case any of you are getting frustrated or thinking you all should be able to come up with this answer. It is definitely meant to be a dangled-on-a-string type of mystery. Second, someone straight up asked why the bitch hadn't been smote by an archangel yet, showing up on Chuck's door like that (okay, so, I'm paraphrasing, but that's totally the tone I heard in my head). To which I say, yessssssss. The answer to that incredibly legitimate and relevant question is in this chapter, it just so happens ;)
Speaking Of: Welcome to the second of two-plot-twists-that-makes-this-author-incredibly-nervous! The first was Fem!Cas, but it's this one I spent more time debating. I knew I was turning Cas female as soon as I realized I couldn't keep Jimmy as a vessel; it just sucked knowing I'd lose some people to that choice. But this one I could have avoided and deliberately chose not to. See, I usually don't do OCs of any kind, good or evil. (Angela was actually an accident. I never planned for her to be a character, she just sort of…kept happening.) I think my dislike stems from so many being poorly written or unnecessary to the story, and I project my dislike of them onto all readers, convincing myself no one wants or likes to read OCs. Now, I know that's not actually true, and additionally, I am 90% positive I can write a good character who's properly integrated into a story, but… I don't know, the stigma just remained. It took months of debating before I decided, fuck it, I think I've got a cool character on my hands and I want to share that with you. Plus, you know, it's Supernatural, so… I can always just kill off a female character unexpectedly and on absolutely no one's request!
(Looking at you, there, Charlie. And Jo. And Ellen. Eileen. Kaia. God damn. Okay, forget my nervousness, this show needs more women who don't die on us, damnit!)
((You stay *the hell* away from Jody Mills, Supernatural Writers, or I will *knife* you!))
(((Disclaimer: All death threats made by the entity known as "the author" or while under the alias "Silence" or "no good dirty rotten" are entirely works of fiction, arguably intended as 'jokes' made by an unfortunate fangirl suffering delusions of comedic genius)))
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The Road So Far (This Time Around)
Season 2: Chapter 29
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Tom swung his legs back and forth like an unattended child, reading off the information they'd gathered so far. "Carver Edlund's real name is Chuck Shurley. Here's his address and number, as well as the info we have on his Publisher. She's a waste of time though; you're going to have to weasel your way in on your own."
The woman looked up with a frown, even as she accepted several notecards the demon handed her. "This would be far easier if we put someone else in her place. Can one of you hell spawn not simply possess her?"
"Gee, thanks, Sherlock. We hadn't thought of that," Tom deadpanned before rolling his eyes. "Not only is Ms. Siege warded, her entire office is as well. Turns out-" he picked up one of the Supernatural books and tossed it her way, voice dripping with derision- "she's a fan. A paranoid fan. Sending in a human agent got us nowhere. Apparently Mr. Edlund is 'very private,' so you're on your own."
She set the book aside and finished pulling on the blazer he had brought her that morning. Tom regarded her with something between skepticism and disdain. Heavily leaning more towards the latter.
"You can lie, right?"
The look she leveled his way was an insulted one, and he showed off his pearly whites in response.
"To Chuck Shurley?" She grabbed the small silver charm off the motel dresser and slipped it around her neck. Black hair became blonde, green became blue, and suddenly standing in the room was a fairly professional looking, Caucasian woman. "Surely, I can."
The demon groaned. "Don't do that. Ever again."
She rolled her shoulder and fingered the charm around her neck, glancing at it in the mirror attached to the dresser. "Do you know which of the Archangels guards the prophet?"
Tom raised an eyebrow at her in the reflection. "Does it matter?"
"If it is Gabriel or Raphael, this warding may be enough. They were never particularly observant."
"And if it's Michael?"
She settled the necklace back against her skin. "My chances of getting through the day not smote by lightning significantly decrease."
Tom regarded her with a curious look on his face. "Could he do it?"
"Smite me? He's an archangel."
"Kill you."
The woman paused, meeting the demon's gaze in the mirror, the narrow slant of her eyes clearly wondering why he asked. The silence passed between them, heavy and challenging and unbroken, before she turned away from the mirror, the question going unanswered. She crossed back to the bed where she sat and reached down to put on the sneakers she had worn to the bar.
"Ah-ah-ah! Making you look presentable was a pain in the ass; you are not ruining my hard work." Tom jumped down from the kitchenette table, reaching beneath it for a shoebox that he tossed her way. The glare she threw right back once she opened the lid was nothing short of what he'd already prepared for. "You're wearing them."
She pulled out the pair of high heels. "I already told you, I can't walk in them."
"They're pumps. Anyone could walk in them," Tom argued back, having absolutely no clue why his father had wasted breath warning him not to underestimate her. Or why they needed her at all, actually. Up until and including this very moment, she had been nothing but a useless thorn in their sides.
As she violently threw the box onto the bed and started tearing the rolled up balls of paper out of the toes, Tom dug into his jacket pocket. "Last thing: ID and business cards. Sam already thinks your name is Stephanie, so we went with that. Can't exactly use your real one; it's a bit dated, even for the 'Apple' and 'Chandelier' freaks today."
The woman didn't understand half of what came out of his mouth but, then again, this demon did delight in reminding her that everything she knew came from a television set or the internet. She hobbled over to him, one foot already strapped into the 'pump',and ripped the small, plastic identification card out of his hand. It had a photo of her – or the version the warded necklace provided – and the surname the demon had chosen.
The one he'd said would be a perfect fit.
Once she read it, she immediately chucked the thing back at his forehead and hobbled off to put her other ridiculous shoe on.
-o-o-o-
When Chuck opened his front door that morning, clad in not much but a coffee-stained t-shirt, a robe, and a pair of boxers two days old, he was expecting his harried mailwoman with another batch of mis-delivered packages or letters lacking the correct stampage. He and his mail lady didn't get on very well. Their feud was one of suburban legend, to go down in the songs of fishwives everywhere. Or so Chuck let himself believe every time he had to face the tired, overpowering woman who reminded him more of a large toad preparing to swallow him whole than a human being with a sucky job and three difficult children at home.
He was not expecting to open the door to a woman that was most definitely not his mail lady, although she appeared to be equally unimpressed with him. She stood in a stiff suit and heels that brought her maybe to Chuck's nose, bun of crisp blonde hair on the top of her head as strict as the blue-eyed glare she leveled at him. She might have been stunning in a natural sort of way – completely out of his league, he admitted easily – if it wasn't for the blatant expression of distaste plastered on her face and the way she looked like she wanted to climb out of that blazer and blouse combo, possibly to set it on fire to the soundtrack of something Hans Zimmer would write.
Basically, there was not an inch of this woman that did not intimidate the hell out of the poor man whose stoop she chose to grace that morning.
But there was a moment – a single solitary second amid Chuck's initial surprise, then panic, followed by the flush of heat that slickened his palms and the edges of his hairline, wrapping up with potentially epileptic nervousness, before ending, damn near anti-climatically, with well-learned resignation – when Chuck Shurley was not Chuck Shurley anymore. For just that moment, something far older stood in the doorway and stared at the thing on his front step, introducing herself. This ancient being had a penetrating gaze older than time itself, and his face, which looked shockingly similar to Chuck Shurley's, was caught between genuine surprise and terrible anger.
Then the moment was gone, and it was just a human writer, lonely alcoholic, and despondent prophet once more standing in his open door, staring at the woman as he tried not to confuse his tongue with his brain and his brain with his tongue. The source of his tongue-tied brain saw none of this, busy digging into her black and silver embossed purse that seemed about as ill-fitting to her as the outfit. She pulled out a business card.
"Good morning, Mr. Shurley. My name is Stephanie." She held out the card with the brusque efficiency of someone serving a subpoena. Chuck swallowed heavily. He took the card after almost fumbling it twice. "I'm an editorial assistant, here to help you with your newest 'Supernatural' novel. Your publisher sent me."
He stared at the paper in his hand, having not heard much past 'good morning,' since his focus was primary on untangling the jumbled communication line between his neurons and his lips. Chuck blinked at the embossed words running neatly across the card, and his mouth finally took over where his brain was failing him.
"Wait, you're serious?" He glanced back up at the woman with an incredulous look. "Your name is really Stephanie Meyer?"
The tight lip smile she sent him was anything but friendly. "I didn't pick it."
"Uh…" Chuck chuckled weakly, before realizing that she was not laughing along. "Yeah, that's…that's unfortunate. Especially in this industry."
"I'm aware. Someone out there thinks they're very funny."
"Um…" The writer blinked, feeling entirely left out of a joke that he was also pretty sure he didn't want in on. "Right…uh, well, come on in. My- my publisher sent you?"
He stepped to the side so she could enter his house, closing the front door behind her. Chuck gestured nervously for her to follow as he led the way into his living room. She only tripped once on her way, glaring down at her shoes in a manner that made Chuck infinitely grateful he was not them. Once in the room, he had to quickly toss several articles of dirty laundry off the couch, belatedly noticing the numerous half-drunk liquor bottles and takeout boxes scattered on just about every other surface in the room.
God, he really needed to get a life. Preferably a better, less embarrassing one.
Luckily for him, Ms. Meyer didn't seem to care. She set aside a dirty sock that he'd missed and settled herself onto the couch easily enough. "She didn't tell you? Hold on, I have her number here. We can give her a call."
The woman was back to digging through that awful purse and Chuck waved her off, not wanting to be a nuisance by not believing her. It's not like there was any other reason a beautiful woman would sit in his ramshackle house and put up with him at eight in the morning.
"Oh, no, that's okay. I know I'm a bit behind schedule." He looked around awkwardly for a second chair, but entertaining company wasn't exactly a common occurrence for him. "The, uh, the new book just isn't…er, writing itself like the others."
Clumsily, Chuck started to clear a space on the coffee table, scattering empty Red Bull cans and liquor bottles and hastily stacking dishes to the side until he had room enough to perch awkwardly on the edge. He tucked his hands in his lap, then beneath his thighs, then back in his lap, twiddled his thumbs together and hoped he wasn't making a complete fool of himself. He was fairly certain that, too, was a fool's hope.
"Well, that's what I'm here for." The woman attempted a smile, her tone not unkind, but somehow neither seemed right on her. "Keep you on track, read your rough drafts and provide feedback, motivation: whatever you need."
"Right, that, uh… that sounds… good." Chuck rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "So, um, you've read them, then?"
"The books?" The woman seemed thrown by the question. "Oh, I've read a couple. They're…good."
She barely got the word out without chocking on it and any semblance of patience God had left, hiding behind Chuck's nervousness, was gone. He rolled His eyes and Chuck was no longer Chuck.
"Okay, that's enough." God snapped His fingers and the woman went limp against the back of the couch. He scooted forward on the coffee table, His knees bumping hers, but His expression remained deadly serious. "What are you doing here?"
Her fingers curled slowly against the cushions and the woman blinked heavily. She was fighting it; He could feel her struggle not to answer. God sighed heavily, stood, and crossed the small space between them.
"You really are his child, aren't you?" He sat down beside her, one hand settling on her forearm, the other waving over her head and body. She went completely boneless against the couch, held upright only by his presence beside her. Blue eyes flickered green despite the spell cleverly wrapped in her necklace, both so blank they seemed nearly lifeless.
"Who raised you from the pit?"
Her mouth moved reflexively. "The demon Azazel."
"And how did he find you?"
"The demon Lilith."
God almost rolled His eyes, a bit of Chuck unintentionally bleeding through. "And how did she find you?"
"I don't know."
He was hardly satisfied by that answer, but the current line of questioning sure didn't seem to be getting them anywhere. So God switched tactics. "Why are you here?"
Hell wasn't supposed to know of the existence of the Prophet yet, at least not as a writer. Certainly not as someone they were bold enough to approach, considering the archangel guarding him twenty-four-seven. The multiple break-ins over the past several months had not gone unnoticed by God, even if they had by Chuck. Lucky for both of them, Chuck had accidentally misfiled the first drafts of the story, still suffering from his first-ever brainstorming migraine. Hell's house invader – a clever human thief one of the crossroads demons likely had on a string – walked away with a USB full of an impressive, if not pitiable, porn collection labeled 'Supernatural Stories'.
The Winchester Gospels, meanwhile, sat pretty and safe in the untouched 'porn' folder on Chuck's desktop. Given Dean was one of the main characters, Chuck had found his initial misfiling amusing and hadn't bothered correcting it.
"Answer the question," God nudged her arm. "Why are you here?"
"To follow Sam Winchester."
Chuck's eyebrows went up, and for a moment He forgot to be God. He was genuinely surprised for a second time that morning, which simply didn't happen to all-knowing beings very often, you know. "Wait, this is Hell's backup plan? Dean's changing things left and right, and you are their answer?"
He laughed and looked away in amazement, before He really started to think over it. The woman didn't respond, either not having an answer or His spell giving her a pass since He wasn't actually expecting one. Chuck leaned back, putting His arm across the back of the couch. "Well, that could backfire spectacularly. For either party."
They sat in silence, the woman slumped beside Him while God stared off at nothing in particular, chewing on His lip (a pure Chuck thing that He'd accidentally picked up over the last thirty years or so). His eyes slid sideways to the plot twist currently sitting on his couch.
"I do kind of want to see that…"
But He didn't want the scales to tip from where they sat now, either. Despite Dean Winchester's misgivings, He was doing what He could to help. God sat up and turned back towards Hell's little home wrecker, contemplating what to do. He could send her back to that hole Azazel dug her out of, add a couple extra layers of warding to make sure no one ever freed her again, and be done with it. Or He could wait it out, see how Time decided to deal with the new player on their board.
His gaze slid down to her hands, where her fingers started curling again. A futile but stubborn-headed fight against His will. Truly, she was her father's creation.
God knew what He probably should do, but He hadn't yet decided what He was going to do. So He settled a hand over those twitching fingers, stilling the movement, and asked a question He did not anticipate liking the answer to.
"Tell me; what are you going to do, Persephone?"
He could feel the struggle in her voice, the ache in every not-muscle she didn't actually possess. All just clever spell work and artistic talent. The woman – Persephone – turned her head, barely visible panic in those heavily glazed eyes that met His own.
"Who…are….you?"
-o-o-o-
"-and then I was thinking maybe not a witch, but a demon. Ultimately I decided, why not both! And I'll name her Ruby. Get it?"
Persephone blinked, taking a deep breath as if she hadn't in quite some time. She'd been… she'd been thinking… of what?
"Ms. Meyer?"
She blinked again and looked up to the face of Chuck Shurley, seated on the coffee table across from her, fidgeting nervously.
"Sorry, I'm probably boring you to death."
"No." Persephone sat up straighter, clearing her throat and hoping it cleared the cobwebs from her mind as well. She'd been thinking something, only moments ago… angry about something, maybe? She cleared her throat again and shook her head. "Not at all, Mr. Shurley. I assure you, it takes much more than boredom to kill me."
"Chuck."
"I'm sorry?"
The author cleared his own throat a little nervously. "You can call me Chuck."
"Steph," she conceded as well with a smile that was definitely the least intimidating thing she'd done so far. "Now, Chuck, what were you saying?"
"I was just…talking about Sam?"
"Oh." A smile lit her face again and the tension she hadn't even known was in the room bled out of it. She folded her hands in her lap. "Then please, continue."
Chuck smiled shyly back, and if there was something a little older in his eye – a little dangerous and a little mischievous – the woman didn't seem to notice.
-o-o-o-
The following morning when 'Stephanie' showed up at his door again (still way too early, even for a god), the blazer-blouse combo remained but she was wearing a far more comfortable-looking pair of jeans. The third time, her hair was down and there were sneakers on her feet. By the fourth, Chuck was starting to feel a lot less intimidated around the intimidating woman.
-o-o-o-
"Son of a bitch." Dean let out a low growl as he all but fell on his ass getting the tracker loose from Baby's under carriage. He glared at the small device, little green light blinking cheerfully from the small square of technology and just pissing himself off all the more. He tossed the thing up to his brother. "You were right."
Sam looked down at the small thing as he caught it, honestly surprised that it was nothing more than your average, human tracking device. He didn't know what he'd been expecting (something supernatural, or a maybe normal device adapted using something supernatural?) but it was mundane after all.
"Coming here was a good call," he said, offering Dean a hand up off the dusty ground. Bobby, standing next to them, had his arms crossed over his chest and an unhappy look on his face. The younger Winchester gave him a grateful look for the home base he seemed always willing to provide, however grumpily. "Demons already know how often we stop here. Good a place as any to 'lose' a tracking device."
Bobby just harrumphed, but it wasn't like he was unused to Winchesters bringing crap down on his house.
"I don't know, man," Dean countered, taking the blinking thing back from the younger Winchester, tossing it in his palm. "This is getting out of hand. Tracing our phones, breaking into the motel room, tagging my car? They're getting too aggressive. I don't like it."
Bobby snorted, calling both brothers' attention. He uncrossed his arms. "What did you expect? It ain't like demons woke up one morning and thought, let's mess with the Winchesters today. This is the apocalypse we're talking about, ya idjits! That takes planning, years of it. And here you come along, a kink in the blueprints they probably ironed every wrinkle out of a century ago, and now they can't find you boys on top of it all? Of course they're getting aggressive."
Dean bristled under the accusations, although he knew Bobby didn't mean a single one of them like that. "Well, what are we supposed to do about it? Let them find us? Find Sam? We can't, Bobby. So how do we stop them? How do we fix this?"
The older hunter shrugged, eyes wide in that apologetic way they took on whenever his boys asked questions he didn't have the answers to. "I don't think you can. Other than-"
"-sticking to the damn timeline." Dean clenched his fist around the stupid tracker, tilting his head back to stare at the sky and curse out God one more time. It was practically a habit by now. "I know."
"So…" Sam glanced between the two of them. "A case, then?"
His brother sighed, dropping his head back down. "Yeah, a case." At least until they figured out what the hell to do about Hell. "Whatdya got?"
Bobby shrugged one shoulder. "There's been a couple suicides in Guthrie. Weird-ass stuff. Was in the paper this morning."
"Guthrie it is," Dean said with about as much enthusiasm as a heart attack. He dropped the small tracker into the dust, lifting his boot to crush it when Sam took an aborted step forward, arm raised hastily to stop his brother.
"Wait," he said and Dean did. "I have a better idea."
-o-o-o-
Sam darted between trucks, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible (which meant it was really more a stroll among the trucks but, whatever). The boys had stopped at the first gas station outside of Souix Falls that was large enough to fit their needs. Namely, filled with truckers on the long haul across country.
The young Winchester pulled up short, stepping out of the way of a passing trucker. He nodded to the man, going for his innocent-civilian-out-for-a-stroll-in-the-parking-lot smile. The man gave him a weird look, but dipped his ball-capped head in return before disappearing into the general store attached to the pumps.
Sam pushed on until he spotted an eighteen wheeler with North Carolina plates and a logo for 'Transcontinental Shipments' printed on the side. Perfect. It was probably headed for the coast, and still had a ways to go yet. With any luck, the driver was on his way out for delivery, which meant he would not only continue on for another half of the country, but turn around and drive back, as well.
Casting a furtive look around the truck stop, Sam leaned over and slapped the tracker on the inside of the cab's front wheel well. The little green light blinked away in the dark arch, unnoticeable once he straightened back up. Task complete, the hunter glanced around again, making sure he hadn't been noticed, before hustling it back to where the Impala was parked.
-o-o-o-
"Alright, tell me about this hunt we're walking into," Dean said from the driver's seat, hand digging around in a bag of Doritos placed between the two. No reason not to pick up some road-tripping supplies when stopping to plant a tracker on some poor, unsuspecting trucker. They were on their way to Guthrie now, hopefully without a demonic tail, where a line-up of apparent suicides had the local newspapers speculating the crap out of conspiracy theories.
"There've been three deaths so far, two of them suicides, one homicide. Bobby was right, though, they are weird." Sam shuffled papers in the passenger seat, having forgone his laptop since they would be on the road for a while and even his hackery wasn't up to task for creating magical wi-fi signals out of thin air. "The first was a Dr. Jennings. Walked into a gun shop, shot the owner with a turkey rifle and then turned it himself."
"A real life Private Pyle. Great."
"Yeah, well, this wasn't some tormented war vet," Sam countered. "The doc has no priors, no history of violence or suicidal tendencies, and the town seems genuinely rattled. By all accounts, he was a 'nice guy.'"
"Yeah, a 'nice guy' who walked into a gun shop and shot up the customers. Next."
Sam spared his brother a reproachful look, but continued on regardless. "Holly Beckett, also ruled a suicide. The second one in a ten block radius, which is probably what made the local newspaper decide it was a story. No criminal record, no known symptoms of depression, same as the doctor. She was single, forty-one, and two days ago pulled up to a gas station and… set herself on fire."
Dean's eyebrows rose and he glanced Sam's way in surprise. The younger brother's first thought was, 'yeah, Bobby warned us they were weird,' but as that same brow plummeted into a frown Sam recognized, he paused, brain stuttering for a second.
"Wait, does that- is this a case we worked?"
The frown deepened, and Dean rubbed at his chest absently. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" Sam didn't see how a woman covering herself in gasoline and using the cigarette lighter from her own car as an incendiary could possibly come with any maybes. When Dean's frown persisted but no explanation was forthcoming, Sam hesitated, and then asked, "…Timey Senses acting up?"
Dean actually laughed and dropped his arm from his chest, never having noticed he was rubbing at it in the first place. "Ha! I knew I'd get you to call it that. Admit it. It's a cool name."
"It is absolutely not a cool name." Sam shook his head, but leveled his brother with a more solemn follow-up look. "Seriously, man, what's going on?"
The frown came back, but Dean at least answered this time. "I, uh… it sounds familiar. Real familiar. As in, I remember being at the gas station."
Sam pursed his lips, but didn't find that particularly troubling. At least, not their normal level of troubling. He looked down at the picture of Holly Beckett staring up at him and caught a glimpse of the passing interstate signage out of his periphery. They wouldn't get into Guthrie until the early hours of the morning, but they weren't that far out, either. "Uh, well, we're on our way, and it's only a couple hours out-"
"No, I mean, I was there right after she went up; whole place still smelled like burnt flesh." Dean wrinkled his nose, wringing one hand on the steering wheel. "That article's from yesterday, which means last time we were there already. I mean, maybe it was a different case and I'm just confusing the two, but…"
He couldn't actually recall the events surrounding him being at the gas station. He remembered phoning Sam, though, and asking why the hell his vision hadn't given them more heads up. Sammy hadn't had a vision about any of this, though. They were just following some newspaper leads, this time around.
"But," Sam picked up where he'd left off, "how many people set themselves on fire at a gas station."
"Exactly." Dean rubbed at his chest again, the familiar tightness stretching across his pecs a fairly common occurrence these days. Usually when a demon was about or things weren't going their way. And there certainly wasn't a demon anywhere near them right now. "I don't know, man. If I was there first time around, then our timing's off. And that's never a good thing."
It didn't take a genius, or a psychic, or even a man from the future, to know where both their minds immediately went. Straight to Max Miller and the mess they'd gotten into – and everything it had cost them – right after they showed up on a hunt where things hadn't been lining up.
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A/Ns: So. Friggin'. Excited! Like, excited enough I'm having trouble waiting a full week to post chapters :D From here on out, no one in this little tale is getting a break anytime soon. Our poor Season 2.1 has to make up in action and plot-forwarding what 2.0 had in chatter and development. So. Friggin'. Excited.
Stephanie Meyer: I honestly couldn't help myself. Her name was always going to be 'Stephanie' because what else would you hear if you misheard "Persephone" said in a crowded bar? And her going to Chuck as someone in the publishing industry? Ha! Yeah, her last name was a given from the start. Tom's an asshole XD
God before Chuck: So, the scarily observant of you might be wondering "why did she bother capitalizing all of those He's and His's when she didn't do that for the conversation between Dean and God?" Okay, honestly if you actually picked up on that, you're really freaky and I'm definitely looking at you funny, but also I appreciate you :D Anyhoo, head-cannon here is that God can slip back into his Old Testament self/habits. And when He's back to being that Old Testament dick, before He took a sabbatical and learned to play the guitar, He gets capitalized pronouns :P
Persephone: Bring on the slew of "huh, wasn't really expecting that" peppered among the "…who?" and some spattering of "Uh, wait a sec, Silence, that's not- I mean it doesn't quite…well, *some* liberties, I suppose, but still mostly…no?" Of which, to all, I reply: "hehehe };-] " Would I be a no good dirty rotten author any other way? I think not.
Fun Fact #82: The human thief Hell sent in to Chuck's Publisher's office and into his house to steal his files? Totally Bella.
Up Next: As you might have guessed right along with the boys, things are not going down as they should in Guthrie, Oklahoma. Baby's getting driven off the road, Weber's an insane asshole (okay, no change there), Andy's in some major trouble, Dean's remembering just why they call him a Jedi but lamenting the fact he's a piss-poor communicator, Sam's all sorts of confused and freaked out (okay, so no real change to any of these things, actually...), and Yellow Eyes is all up in a different pair of brothers, for once.