>“I doubt that making sense is the point of the exercise.”
“Then what is the point? I mean, it’s obviously not to stop the bad stuff from happening. Or, if it is, I don’t have the first idea how, since I can’t see what the hell leads up to...” Chuck waved a hand a little,then ran it up through his hair, not entirely sure where to go from there, “...to the bits and pieces that do fall through.”
>“You are still writing them down, correct? Even the ones which seem to have little relevance to the Winchester chronicle?”
“I’m not getting enough to write it down,” he responded, “It’s all, like, really random stuff. White eyes, blood, demons, light - there’s no story in that. And even if there were... no one wants me to write about them anymore.” If he were being honest, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to write about real people, either - it felt kind of ...creepy, and he really, really didn’t want to be a creeper, or a stalker, or anything else of that nature. Seriously.
>“I see. If I can be of any assistance…”
“Well, you could tell me what the hell’s going on? ‘Cause you... I’m pretty sure you know something. That you’re not telling me.” He had gotten broken pieces of a conversation between himself and the angel, but none of it really made much sense to him, but it had left him with the impression that Castiel knew what was going on with his whole future-seeing crap. Whether he’d tell him what was going on or not was up in the air, but ...it couldn’t hurt to try, right?
Unless Castiel smote him, or something. That would probably hurt, yeah.