"What the heck? The Gospel of us?" Sam asked, staring at the angel in disbelief.
"Yes. They are the future gospels of your deeds, written by a Prophet of the Lord," Castiel stated, deadpan.
Sam and Dean slowly turned to look at Chuck, still plastered flat against his refrigerator, clutching a toilet plunger to his chest. Neither Winchester saw a single ounce of holy majesty coming off the guy.
"Okay, let's forget the Gospel crap for a second," Dean said, rubbing his face. "Can we please focus on the fiery demonic passion between Sam and Lilith? Because just imagining it is eating away at my sanity."
"The words written by the prophet are destined to come true," Castiel said. "No one can avoid it."
"So you're just going to sit back and let Sam have an all-night passion session with Lilith?" Dean threw his hands up. "You know how messed up that sounds, right?!"
"I cannot do anything, Dean. I came here to inform you that Chuck is a Prophet of the Lord. He is protected by an Archangel. No demon can come near him without risking total destruction from Heaven."
Dean stared at the angel for a long moment. "Okay, great. Thanks for nothing, dick."
He marched straight up to Chuck, snatched the plunger out of his hands, tossed it across the room, and grabbed him by the lapels of his bathrobe.
"Alright, Chuck." He steered the terrified man back into his desk chair.
"Sit down and write out exactly what you saw. Every disgusting detail about this 'fiery passion.' If we're going to stop it, we need to know when and where that bitch is showing up so we can gank her before she gets within ten feet of my brother."
Chuck swallowed hard, fingers flying across the keyboard, typing for ten straight minutes while Dean stood over his shoulder radiating impatience. The only sound was clacking keys and Castiel's unblinking silence in the corner.
The printer whirred to life and spat out a few warm pages.
Dean snatched them before Chuck could even staple them together. "Don't go anywhere," he warned, pointing two fingers at his own eyes and then at Chuck.
Without another word to either of them, the brothers marched out and climbed into the Impala. The moment the doors slammed, Dean tossed the pages into Sam's lap.
"Read it. Spare me the graphic details. I don't want to hear about your demonic fifty shades of gray."
Sam picked it up like it was coated in acid, skimming through with his face scrunching in visceral discomfort.
"Okay... it says she corners me after you leave to get food. Locks the door, and then—ugh, God. This is awful." He shuddered, skipping ahead. "Here's the important part. Room 32 of the Starlight Motel."
Dean hit the brakes, the Impala idling at the end of the street. He turned to look at his brother. "That's the exact motel we're checked into right now."
"Right," Sam said, tapping the paper. "So shouldn't we just pack up and move to a different motel?"
Dean slammed his foot on the gas, peeling out onto the main road.
"Yes. Cas said the word of a prophet can't be changed, but who says we can't try? If Chuck just writes what he sees, we make sure he sees something else. Grab our stuff, drive to a different town, keep your ass far away from room 32."
***
Henry stood in the center of a massive mound of rotting, dismembered corpses, absolutely haggard. His jacket was shredded, his face coated in dried black blood and gray ash, gasping for air.
As the last demon collapsed at his feet with a crushed skull, the counter on his system interface ticked over to four digits.
He didn't hesitate. He brought up the store menu and slammed his bloodied finger against the purchase prompt.
[Void Blade bought successfully.]
A heavy wave of dark energy rippled through the dead air. A solid object materialized out of the shadows, dropping with a dull thud in the ash at his feet.
Henry dropped his empty rocket launcher and eagerly grabbed it, expecting a legendary, reality-tearing weapon that would slice a doorway straight back to Earth.
His expression flatlined.
It was just a hilt.
He stared at the blackened, carved metallic grip in his palm. No glowing edge, no steel, nothing attached to the crossguard. Just a heavy, useless handle.
"What the fuck? All 1000 SP for this bullshit?!" His voice cracked. He shook the handle at the empty gray sky. "I ate raw noodles for a day and a half to buy a paperweight?!"
In a fit of exhaustion and rage, he aggressively swung it at the empty air beside him, ready to chuck it into the ash.
Vzzt-SCCCKKK.
Like canvas being violently ripped in half.
Henry froze. The momentum had dragged the invisible edge of the blade straight through the air. Where the empty space above the hilt had passed, reality was sliced completely open.
A jagged, glowing rift hung suspended, crackling with dark purple energy, edges bleeding and sparking. Through the gash, Henry didn't see the gray wasteland — he saw a brief glimpse of a neon sign and wet asphalt.
He stumbled backward, nearly tripping over a corpse. The hilt pulsed in his hand, humming with a low vibration that made the hair on his arms stand up.
He looked from the empty grip to the crackling tear in front of him, anger evaporating into stunned disbelief.
"Well." He wiped a streak of black demon blood off his chin, a genuine smile finally cracking his exhausted face. "Seems this is genuine."
*****
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