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Tweak says, "Danny Williams is Meaty Pizza"

winchester, sam. (ex_demonbloo908) wrote in wariscoming,
@ 2010-06-02 19:25:00

Entry tags:

chuck shurley, dean winchester, sam winchester

WHO: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, and ~~THE PROPHET~~ Chuck Shurley.
WHAT: Sam and Dean find out that there's someone writing stories about their lives and publishing them for all the world to see. It's weird and they don't like it. So they're going to try and stop it! Or something.
WHEN: Late afternoon.
WHERE: Chuck's place!
RATING: PG-13.

Sam and Dean were an experienced pair of hunters. They had been doing the job practically their whole lives; raised up to be the picture of a modern day, monster-hunting team of soldiers. They weren't a perfect picture because of how screwed up they both were in one way or another, but they knew how to do their job and they knew how to do it right. Yet even though they were talented on the hunting field, every now and again something strange (stranger than usual, that is) came along and stumped them both good. The hunt seemed like any other that they had gone on. Talk of cold spots, flickering lights, scuttling noises carrying on through walls - everything that the Winchester brothers needed to identify the case as a standard haunting. Loaded up on rock salt, fake ID's, and their decided routine for the investigation to boot, Sam and Dean followed the leads that they'd picked up out to a small, quiet sort of comic book shop. It was there that they discovered the dusty row of used books tucked away on sale, the premise printed across the back of the paperback novels presenting the story of their lives straight back out at them. Baffled and confused, the Winchesters decided to hunt down the author of the series - Carver Edlund was his name - to demand and explanation. How did he know who they were? How did he know what they did? How did he know so many details about their lives to such an extreme? Things that Sam himself had never said to much of anyone, yet were happily presented to him through the text of the books all the same. There were things that Sam honestly didn't want for the world to know about; there were things that the world didn't need to know about. Yet there they were. Right out in the open for the whole world to see.

It took some serious digging to find out where Carver Edlund lived. According to his publisher (a woman who turned out to be a crazy fangirl who enthusiastically showed Sam and Dean the Devil's Trap tattoo on her ass), Carver Edlund was merely the author's pen name. His real name was Chuck Shurley and he seemed to be a private sort of man. Private or not, they had the right to find out why this man was selling their lives out for money. At the thought, Sam winced. He felt like an unwilling prostitute. After some persuading, Sera revealed the location of Shurley's home to the brothers, and they immediately took off in search of the man.

Sam didn't like this. Not even a little. Was this really how all those people felt all the time when they showed up here and found out that their lives were constantly being exposed to the media? All those people who had broken through that seal; the comic book people, the Harry Potter people, the video game people...no, this couldn't have been the same. This was a mistake. A tiny, fixable mistake. There weren't people out there who believed that they were fictional, nor had the truth of monsters, demons, and spirits actually been revealed to the world. This was all just a big mistake. One that, if they got on quickly enough, they could fix. They'd wipe the books off the face of the earth, force this Chuck guy to get rid of them - that was, if he was even human. If he wasn't human, they could always kill him. What human would be able to dig up information about their lives like this? He had to be something else. Something with knowledge of their lives; with the ability to dig around inside their heads, finding their every thought and emotion so that it could write about it all and thoroughly expose them to the world. But what would that accomplish? And what creature would actually put in the time?

"Remember to be careful. We don't know what we're dealing with," Sam warned Dean, peering out past the collar of his jacket as he checked the waist of his jeans for the gun he had tucked away there. It was there, safe and secure. Ready to be used if necessary. Sam slammed the door on his side of the Impala shut, released a heavy breath, and began walking for the front porch of the house that loomed ahead.

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sonovabitch
2010-06-03 02:28 am UTC (link)

Dean would have rather been anywhere but on the hunt. Anywhere being with Buffy as he was still worried and concerned about the health (mental and otherwise ... hey, and rightfully so) of his ... girlfriend. Man, that word was still taking some getting used to. Though there was no denying that was what they were, even though he and Buffy never officially said the words - oh, God. What was he? In high school? - he had admitted it to her friend. For the rest of the world to see.

Yet here he was. Because while he didn't want to leave Buffy, she did have people to watch her back. Sam wouldn't have. And he had been in the need to burn and salt something. Send something back to wherever the hell it belonged. In fact a part of him had been pumped for that. What Dean had not been expecting never in a million years was what he and his brother had found. And while the woman with the tattoo on her ass had been pretty awesome in a creepy sort of way - not that he had looked, he had had images of a tiny blonde glaring at him - the rest of it was both frustrating and freaky in equal measures. He was not liking it at all.

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam's warning, "Yes, mom." He was testy. Sam was spooked. They both were. Not the best combination. But at least Dean didn't say anything about how he mishandled his baby. He just wanted to figure things out. And settle things to get them over with.

Though Dean had a sneaking suspicion, what with how their lives had been in the past year? It would be far from that simple.

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capriciousgod
2010-06-04 01:14 am UTC (link)

[OOC: I wasn't 100% sure if I was up next or not, so this is in a new comment-thread so as to avoid screwing up if you guys meant to post again before this post. Yes. <3]

Writing is hard.

Chuck pulls his glasses off and rubs at his eyes. He can feel a headache coming on, but thankfully it’s not one of the brain-melting migraine types, just the kind that comes from staring at a computer screen for too long, glare on his glasses and the tiny little letters making his eyes and his temples throb a little, making the room look dimmer when he glances around. He’s got a half-finished page in front of him, and this book? It’s a little weirder than the rest - which, um, is sort of saying something, considering the sort of things he’s been writing lately - but it’s not like anyone wants to publish it anyway, so who’s going to care?

He’s totally not bitter about that, by the way. Not even a little, nope. Although if those douchebag suits calling themselves a big publishing company that enjoyed swallowing up smaller ones that publish quality fiction instead of mindless crap somehow got themselves lit on fire, well, he wouldn’t complain, or anything.

A few key-presses and he’s got the document saved, backed up, and printing, and he goes off to get a drink, because it’s well past noon and, well, that’s late enough, right? It’s five o’clock somewhere, or something like that. By the time he gets back the pages are there waiting for him, crisp and warm from the printer, and he reads through, mouthing along with the words softly to himself.

With trepidation, Dean and Sam approached the ramshackle house, stepping up onto the porch. Neither one of them were really sure what to expect, or what was going to be thrown at them next, but they were both more than a little unhappy with discovering their life’s story in books written and published for the sick and twisted enjoyment of others. It had to be stopped.

He tossed down the pages and leaned back in his chair, setting his glass down (sometimes he isn’t even sure why he bothers getting a glass dirty) and rubbing both hands across his face. Yeah, this book is crazier than the last, and that’s saying something. He’s not really sure what’s happened to this story, why it ran away from him like it did, but the writer is a slave to the muse, so he writes what it gives him, even if it has to do it with headaches and dreams.

There’s a knock at the door, and he gets up, glancing down at himself (wondering absently if he should have gotten dressed today, instead of wandering around in a t-shirt and boxers with a bathrobe thrown overtop, slippers on his feet; he sort of looks like a crazy shut-in) and shuffling off towards the door to see who’s come to bother him.

There are two guys standing there when he gets the door open, and neither of them look all too happy right now. Great.

”Um, can I help you?”

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ex_demonbloo908
2010-06-04 01:37 am UTC (link)

Sam stood impatiently at the other side of the door. This was the most ridiculous hunt that he and Dean had been on by far. That included all their past encounters with The Trickster who, as far as Sam was concerned, was probably the biggest jackass in all the universe. Multiple universes, even. Whatever the case, Sam was ready to take this Chuck guy on. He was expecting a cocky, overconfident sort of man to answer the door. Someone that would have proudly declared that the books were part of some major plan to sabotage the Winchesters and, in association, the world. That was how it usually went, wasn't it? Sam didn't have the ability to expect much else when he generally felt so damned pessimistic about things. Lately, at least. What with Lilith being at the top of his to-do list, he couldn't help but feel irritated by this case. Like they needed more crap to deal with. Arms folding over his chest, Sam shot Dean and annoyed sort of look. He knew that Dean was just as exasperated by the situation as he was - after all, what part of being written into a book would either of them find appealing? It was stupid. This was all very stupid.

On the verge of stating as such to his brother, Sam turned and opened his mouth...only to clamp it shut immediately afterward, the sight of Chuck Shurley's front door swinging open being the one thing that prevented him from speaking. Mouth twisting into an unpleasant frown, Sam bit back a stern glare and gave him a once-over. He was a tiny man. Very tiny, in that he was much smaller than Sam was himself. He had a beard, a bathrobe, and hardly appeared to fit the role of the devious creature that had been looking to destroy the world. Brow furrowing in slight confusion, Sam stared at the man uncertainly for a long moment before he drew in a short breath, released it, and said, "Are you Chuck Shurley?"

The man looked more like a genuine writer than an actual threat. Sam wanted to believe that he was, but the twinge of hesitance burning away inside him kept Sam from putting himself in a relaxed state of mind yet. He had to be careful. They still didn't know what they were dealing with here. "If so," Sam glanced over at Dean, that stern look returning in a flash, "we need to talk." They'd talk all right, whether he wanted to or not. Sam didn't care if they had to drag this guy back into his house by the scruff of his beard, tie him down to a chair, and spent the next day and a half interrogating him. They were going to get some answers. There was just no way that they could turn their backs and walk away when there was someone out there who knew so much about their lives.

[ooc: The sooner we get Chuck in, the better! We'll finish our little Sam n' Dean chat/entrance up there, but starting this bit right off was a good plan. ;)]

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capriciousgod
2010-06-06 02:20 am UTC (link)

The taller of the two standing on his porch is the one who speaks, although not before he sort of stares at Chuck like Chuck’s something weird and strange, like he doesn’t know what he’s seeing, like he thinks there’s something else there, and it’s honestly a little bit friggin’ creepy.

>"Are you Chuck Shurley? If so,” - the guy glances over at his companion for a second, and when he looks back in Chuck’s direction he looks decidedly less uncertain, more like he’s some sort of authority figure, and Chuck’s knee-jerk reaction is to protest that he didn’t do whatever it is they think he’s done - "we need to talk."

“Uh, yeah, that’s me. What, uh... what seems to be the problem?” He makes no move to let them into the house (if he can, he’d like to avoid doing that at all, honestly - the place is a disaster, empty pizza boxes and empty bottles and empty cans thrown all over like the aftermath of a crazy high-school party thrown when parents are out of town, but it’s all just his own mess, there was no wild party and there’s no one to blame the mess on but himself), leaning against the door-frame a little, an unspoken settling-in in case this gets lengthy, unless they indicate they want to come in. Chuck’s home is not open to the public, as a general rule - it’s his safe place, his retreat, and letting these random guys inside to screw that up for him is totally not on the cards.

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sonovabitch
2010-06-14 03:50 pm UTC (link)

Dean was unconsciously thinking the same thing as Sam. Grab Chuck by the scruff of his bathroom, drag him into his house, demand answers, burn some books, and get out. He hadn't been expecting this man to be Chuck. Dean wasn't exactly sure what he had been expecting but he was damn sure that Chuck wasn't it.

"Problem?" Dean repeated, brow quirking slightly. Yeah, there's a fucking problem! He wanted to shout. My whole life is in a fucking book! That's your damn problem.. Instead, he pasted a smile on and said. "Sorta. We came here because we wanted to talk about your books. About the Winchesters." Because who knew. Maybe Chuck wrote books about a group of sisters that fought demons and -- Wait. No. Dean shook the thought out of his head. He was tired. Focusing he continued, trying for a little less stern than Sam. Even though he still was contemplating the pulling by the scruff of the neck.

"Could we come in?" Pause. "Please?" See. He could be polite and have manners.

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ex_demonbloo908
2010-06-14 06:40 pm UTC (link)

"We've got a couple questions about the series, actually," Sam clarified, trying to look less irritated about the situation than he actually was. "If we could take a couple seconds of your time, we'd really appreciate it." Sam honestly thought that this was going to take longer than that, but still. He had to be polite. Even if, like Dean, he wanted to drag this guy back into his house and start demanding answers the old-fashioned way. Tie him to a chair, threaten him with a gun, go all crazy-eyed on him; that might not have seemed all too practical to some people, but Sam found it worked out pretty well when one was in a rush. Lately, he felt like he was rushing all the time. He had to find Lilith. Knowing that there were things like this getting in the way of that repeatedly pissed him off, but there wasn't really anything he could do about it. It wasn't like he could just ignore the fact that there was some total stranger out there publishing their lives to people who didn't have any business knowing about it. It was risky. The cops thought that they were dead, the public didn't need to know about this stuff, and what if someone they had known read it? What if someone he'd met back in college found out that Sam Winchester was a monster hunting weirdo?

Sam didn't want to think about it. So instead he straightened his shoulders and looked down at the smaller man, hoping that he would be as cooperative as possible. Because while he was willing to play nicely now, Sam really couldn't guarantee that he was going to later. "We're just - we're, uh, big fans of your books." Right. "We'd love to sit down and talk with you, even for a couple seconds."

More like they were going to interrogate the hell out of him. But hey, what was the difference? Really?

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capriciousgod
2010-06-16 11:49 pm UTC (link)

>>"Problem?” - this guy’s smile looks fake, and Chuck knows this because he’s a master at fake smiles, one of which is one his face now, in return, though his is still clearly confused - "Sorta. We came here because we wanted to talk about your books.”

Oh, okay. So it’s probably just some guys from a publishing company, or something, probably, telling him in person how horrible they think his writing is and how they wouldn’t publish anything he wrote if he were the last author on the planet, blah blah blah, he’s heard it all before. They don’t usually show up at his door, though, usually it’s phone calls and rejection letters or just silence... and the few fans he has left don’t usually show up looking like this, one like he’s going to lecture Chuck or serve him a lawsuit, and the other’s smile so fake it’s practically transparent.

>>“...About the Winchesters."

...wait, what?

Chuck is pretty sure he never wrote those last names in, he’s pretty sure he kept that out of it, it was meant to be a revelation in the end of the series, and, but, so how do they know? They shouldn’t know that. He’s only told like two people about that and they’d sworn never to mention it and really they had no reason to, now that the books weren’t being published anymore...

>>"Could we come in? Please?”

>"We've got a couple questions about the series, actually,” the taller one comes back in with, “If we could take a couple seconds of your time, we'd really appreciate it... We're just - we're, uh, big fans of your books." - yeah, right, that was real convincing - "We'd love to sit down and talk with you, even for a couple seconds."

“No,” his tone is defensive, this time, and his expression is locked in a confused, suspicious frown. “No, I’d ...I’d really rather if you leave, actually.” There’s no way these guys want to talk about the books, not in any good way, anyway, and he really, really is not in the mood for more criticism right now, thanks.

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sonovabitch
2010-06-20 05:26 am UTC (link)

So. What? It was his turn now? He had to just barrel inside the guys place, guns blaizing, and demanding answers? Hey. He was the good cop here.

Yeah. Right. Dean just sort of wanted to shake this guy until he gave them some fucking satisfactory answers and they could go on their merry way. He glanced at Sam and his gaze clearly said that he didn't have time for this. When a thought clicked into his brain.

And people said that Sam was the smart brother.

Clearly they hadn't been around ~~the past year~~ all of their lives. He had lucked out with the looks, the brains, and the style. Sam just had the height. Which in Dean's opinion he could keep to his Sasquatchy self.

A sort of smug smile curved on Dean's face and he said, "I think you're going to let us come in. You wanna know why?" Dean didn't wait for him to answer. "Because I'd bet ..." Well he had nothing to bet. "that you already wrote some where that you were going to let us in." Okay. He didn't know that. But it was a guess. Hell the guy had down his SEX life and all that other stuff. His eating habits. When he took a shuffle to the left. He had to have somewhere the fact that two of his characters were going to be banging on his door.

Right?

Right?

Okay. Maybe not the smartest of plans but short of shoving the guy out the way and Sam looking like he was about to give the guy frickin' detention or a notice on his house or something, it was all Dean had at the moment.

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ex_demonbloo908
2010-06-22 10:03 pm UTC (link)

He wanted them to leave? Sam's jaw tightened in annoyance, large hands clenching sternly at his sides. Oh, they'd leave, all right. If not for Dean speaking up at his side, Sam probably would have grabbed this Chuck guy by the shoulders and shoved him right back into his house. Then, of course, he'd follow through with the whole tying him down to a chair and giving him one hell of an interrogation. Sam wasn't above doing that at the moment. Not when he was in such a big rush to get other things - far more important things - done at the moment. Stupid book series. Why did there have to be a book series? Thankfully (for Chuck), Dean seemed to have a better plan than the violent approach. Except...Sam looked over at him, brows rising in disbelief. His 'better plan' really didn't seem all that great to begin with. What was he talking about?

"Yeah." Sam said, gaze snapping back to the shorter, scruffier man before them. "You probably did, didn't you? You wrote about the Winchesters coming to your door." He had to know that they'd have shown up eventually. The avoidance, the slight suspicion in his eyes - Chuck knew. He had to know. Why else wouldn't he want to speak with them right now? "And if you wrote about us coming to your door, then you know that you're probably gonna let us come inside too. Because if you don't -" Sam didn't finish that sentence. He had a pretty good idea that the look on his face spoke far more clearly than anything he could put out by word of mouth would. It was different for them. Sam was usually the calm and composed one. Dean was usually the one ready to kick doors in. A lot had changed over the past year though - Sam included. He had a lot to do, little time to do it, and only but so much patience to spare for the genius who had decided that publishing the story of their lives had been a wise decision.

For the record? It really hadn't been.

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