[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.