One of the weirder things about the prophetic visions is knowing people's secrets. Sure, that sounds kind of fun, kind of like gossip, but gossip is fun because you gossip with other people. If you're getting your gossip from God, it's kind of awkward. It's like God leaning over the hedge and yelling, "Hey Chuck, did you hear that Sam still has the thirst for demon blood, and that Dean sometimes wonders if he should've let his brother stay dead?"
No, God, I didn't, but thanks for the heads-up!
It's not that I know everything, but I know enough to see a bunch of elephants in the room, and I'm the only one who knows the elephants are there. Everyone else continues pretending they're just pieces of furniture. Maybe eventually someone will say, "Chuck, stop feeding the armchair peanuts," because I'm not good at ignoring things, not really. Alcohol helps for that though, and so does writing.
What I love (and used to hate) about Becky is that she has a sense of purpose and a lot of drive, and these things are hardwired into her instead of copy-pasted in by God's divine ineffability. You'd think that being a Prophet of the Lord would give someone a lot of purpose and drive, but all it's given me is headaches and a slippery slope to alcoholism. Also the destruction of my house, and my fourth wall. I was using that, guys.
I think our side can really use someone like Becky though. We can use someone who believes so hard and is so joyous in her faith, even if her equivalent of singing hymns is writing gay incest porn. Becky's faith is not gossip from God, but a gift she gives openly to anyone who would take it. There have been hundreds of religions that have died out for want of believers, but Becky? She mods nine Livejournal communities and five exchanges, and has a novel-length Wincest pirate AU WIP that she's writing the eleventh chapter of. ("It has over three hundred saves on delicious!" she says giddily.) She's too busy to not believe.
I used to ask her why she doesn't just write her own stories, but she says these are her own stories, of my stories, which aren't even mine anyway, but are handed down from God. "Every story is just a fic of another story," she says with her typical conviction.
Becky is content because her dreams are real. Not only have they come true, they've always been true.
It's like that guy Matt said one time in some testament somewhere: "You are Becky, and on Livejournal I will build my Church, and flame wars will not prevail against it."
She also makes awesome marzipan bars.
Hey Chuck! Did you know that Castiel is becoming increasingly human, and that it takes more and more out of him to use his angel superpowers?
I have a couple of pages about Cas going to Parangtritis so he can ask Nyi Roro Kidul if she knows where God is. The first few paragraphs are all about how sick he felt as soon as he set foot on the beach. He just fell over, and for a while he was lying there with the waves lapping at him, waiting to stop shaking, waiting to not be breathless, hating Dean but loving him too. Missing God and hating Him, and hoping the Sea Queen was in a good mood that day.
In the middle of writing about Castiel crossing the bridge of human bodies to get to Nyi Roro Kidul's palace, Dean calls me to ask if I've had any useful visions lately and I say no not really, just Cas looking for God.
"Does he still have my necklace?" Dean asks, because he has priorities, I guess.
"Probably. I haven't prophesied him dropping it or anything."
"Okay, call me if something comes up."
Here's what I wrote about Dean recently:
Insomnia comes with the territory, and this is what Dean tells himself when he nurses beers long into the night and thinks about things he no longer has any control over. Jo and Ellen, Lucifer, Sam, and Cas's crazy search for God like he's just gonna find Him near the bottom of the page in a red and white striped shirt and matching beanie.
Maybe Dean never had any control over any of them in the first place. After all, it was all about destiny, right? Destiny is just winning by losing. It's gaining control by giving control up, in this case to Michael, and it is fucking bullshit.
He hopes Cas finds God. He hopes Cas finds God so Dean can kick the Almighty in the nuts and demand just what in the goddamn hell He was thinking.
He hopes Cas finds God and comes back soon, because these days when Dean hears leaves rustling or birds taking flight, he would look toward the sound, expectant, but there wouldn't be anyone there.
So the next time Dean calls, that's when I tell him he's right about destiny.
Dean says, "What?"
"You know. Killing the devil. You shouldn't just give over control."
"Wow, really? I was actually gonna roll right over and lick his boots, but I'll take your suggestion into consideration."
"'Cos you have control. You have control over yourself, and, um, that's the important thing, 'cos you can't really control other people anyway. You wouldn't want to. Believe me, I know."
"...O-kay. Thanks, Mr. Rogers."
"And get more sleep."
Becky has all these anxieties about the end of the Apocalypse and what it will mean for Supernatural fandom. Will there still be demons and monsters and ghosts? Will Sam and Dean continue to road trip across the country ganking all sorts of evil? Or will they end up buying a farm somewhere in the Midwest, get a dog, bicker over beers and yell at kids to get off their property?
I tell her I don't know, I haven't gotten that far yet.
Becky says, "What will you do after Good triumphs, Chuck?"
"But you're writing now."
"I guess. I wanna write stories again. Real stories. Real fiction, not, like, accidental biographies."
"Hey, every story is just a fic of--"
"Yeah yeah yeah."
"Maybe you can post your new canon on LJ as fanfic," Becky muses. "We'll get you a pen name."
I will never do that, but Becky only has good intentions at heart, just like how she only has good intentions when she salts my doors and windows 'for my own good'. I try to tell her that the salt is kind of moot when I got archangels watching over me, but she's so happy to be emulating something from the books that eventually I give up. Archangels can always use a little salt backup, right? Besides, when Becky smiles like that, I have a hard time saying no to her.
Dean is saying over the phone, "So we think the devil is either in Norwalk, Indiana or Norwalk, Ohio. Sam did some kind of tracking spell, but we don't know how accurate it is for something as powerful as Lucifer. Any of this come up in your gospel, Shurley?"
A gruff sigh. "Of course it didn't."
"Writing is hard, man."
"Dude, stop saying that. Do you have anything at all?"
"Kind of, but it's not--"
"Well... Uh, only that you should cut yourself some slack, I guess."
"You know, with Sam. He's... You're not the only one who's made mistakes. You were both doing the best you could have done, and he's doing his best now, so--"
"What?" Dean cuts in. "Is this what your visions are about now? No demons or the devil, or anything that might help us stop the Apocalypse -- just me and Sam stuck in an episode of Dawson's Creek?"
"You are the worst prophet ever."
"I thought Castiel said Luke was the worst."
"Cas also thinks key lime pie is better than pumpkin pie, so what the hell does he know." Then his tone changes, less harsh. "Has Cas found anything?"
"No. He's, y'know, flying around, trying to find God. He's running into a little trouble."
"Is he okay?"
"Umm, yes for the most part."
"'For the most part'? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"I don't know, it might have something to do with how he's a renegade angel now, cut off from the Host? He doesn't have the juice he once did."
Dean doesn't say anything for a few seconds, so I add, "Just a hunch."
I've already sketched out this conversation in my notebook so I know what Dean is thinking, and I know the questions he's too afraid to ask and the answers he doesn't want to hear. Maybe it's kind of cruel to distract the man from worries with other worries, but I figure Dean is used to that by now. Anyway, it's not about being distracted: it's about being aware.
"Who was that?" Becky asks when I hang up. "Was that Sam?"
It was just some elephants, dear. "It was Dean."
"Oh. How is the Apocalypse going?"
"Meh. But they're... um, we're working on it."
Becky nods with the vigor of a bobblehead and the beatific smile of a saint. "We'll stop it, Chuck. You and me and Sam and Dean and Castiel and Bobby and..." She pauses. "Is that it? Did everyone else die?"
"Yeah well," I sigh. "We'll do what we can."
Becky says, "That's all we can do," and beams proudly.
I just want everyone to be okay and for God to shut up once in a while. If in the end, the Winchesters don't buy that farm to bicker over beers in, maybe I can buy that farm, and maybe Becky can come with me. It's a hard business hunting the devil, so yeah, sometimes I feed the armchair peanuts. Maybe it looks a little crazy, but I think God'll forgive me.
"Hey, you want to help me salt your kitchen windows again?" Becky asks.
I say, "Sure."
So she hands me a can of Morton salt and we get to work.