This story has strong adult content which isn't suitable for anyone under the age of 18. It also isn't my best work since this story is years old and hasn't been updated to my current standards. It's unbeta'd and probably riddled with spelling and grammar mistakes but I hope you try and enjoy anyway!
The Winchester brothers were taking one of their very rare breaks from hunting and for once, it wasn't at their fellow friend and hunter, Bobby Singer's house. No, instead it was at a prophets house. A Prophet called Chuck, to be precise.
The younger Winchester had suggested that it could be a good idea to stay with Chuck for awhile. Hoping that maybe, one of Chuck's visions could guide them as to what to do next. Dean had argued, telling his younger sibling that they could still hunt and wait for Chuck's vision to let them know their next move but Sam was persistent, telling him that they could do with a break and since the prophet knew so much about them, maybe they should stick around and try to figure out if the information he knew could be a threat to them. In short, Sam wanted to know if he could trust Chuck.
They had been there for two days when Dean, who was sitting on Chuck's sofa with a beer in his hand, noticed a large, white, script-like pile of papers laying neatly on the prophets desk.
"Hey, Chuck?" Dean called to the man who was sitting at his desk. Without waiting for a reply, he continued. "What's that, man?" He asked, eyeing the object that had caught his interest.
Chuck looked up at him from his computer, his fingers stopping their movement on the keys and he followed Deans gaze. "Oh, uh, this?" He questioned, reaching over and picking up the papers.
"Yeah." Dean nodded and noticed that the cover had 'Delilah' written on the front. In front and at the end of the word was a artistic scribble.
"That's, uh, my..." Chuck stumbled over his words, something Dean noticed that he did a lot. "A, uh, book I'm in the process of writing," He told him nervously as he laid the book back down on the desk.
"Yeah?" Dean eyed the 'book'. "Is it like a normal 'I saw a flower and it inspired me' type of book or it is a prophet of the lord type of book?" He asked, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
"I guess it's a 'prophet of the lord' type of book," He answered and Dean made a 'carry on' motion with his hand. "Um, I get the 'visions' the same way I get the 'Supernatural' ones."
"Hm," Dean hummed, taking a sip of his beer before he licked his lower lip. "Explain." He demanded.
"Oh, uh, right." Chuck cleared his throat. "Uh, I've had them for about Nine years; since the girl was Thirteen." He explained. "I started getting them when I was 'bout Twenty One. I'd get them every once in a while, sometimes every day, sometimes once every few months."
"Oh." Dean nodded, taking another gulp of his beer. "Why her? What makes her so special?" He asked, curiously. "She run around in tights an' shoot rainbows from her ass?"
"Uh, no. She's not a superhero." Chuck chuckled at him. "She's just a girl." He shrugged. "It's just the events of her life; good an' bad ones." He continued. "It's just a bunch of one-shots, snapshots, I guess."
"Sounds..." He paused, his expression thoughtful as he brought his beer up to his mouth. "Very boring." The left side of his mouth lifted up in a barely-there smirk before he took a swing of his beer.
Chuck laughed and scratched the back of his head. "It is, I guess."
Dean clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "So how old is the girl now?"
"Uh," Chuck's eyes rolled up to the ceiling as he thought. "Twenty Three." He answered, his gaze returning to his computer.
"Right," Dean nodded, a dirty look on his face. "She hot?" He asked, raising a eyebrow.
"Oh, yeah," Chuck nodded quickly. "When ever I get 'visions' of her, I start sweatin'." He confessed, a tremor in his voice.
"Yeah?" Dean grinned. "Any, uh, good stuff?" He waved the hand that didn't hold his beer out in front of him, hoping that it would help Chuck understand what he meant.
"Yeah," Chuck sighed almost wishfully. "She does this thing with her hips that drive the guys-"
"Uh, dudes." Sam's voice interrupted them as he walked into the room, car keys in his hand.
"Lighten up, Sammy!" Dean told him cheerfully as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the top of his thighs. "Chuck, here, was just tellin' me 'bout-"
Sam held up his hands and once again, cut him off. "I don't wanna' know." He said firmly. "You two can have your...Your male bonding time later but right now, I'm starved an' am gonna' head to the closest diner. You two want anything?" He offered, his eyes shifting between them.
Dean frowned. Male bond time? Makes me sound freakin' gay. Dean grumbled to himself before nodding at Sam. "Burger, fries and pie, Sammy. You should know this by now, little brother."
Sam sighed at the nickname and nodded. "Chuck?" He questioned, turning towards him.
"Oh, u-uh," Chuck seemed startled and Sam figured that he wasn't used to people offering to do things him. "Same as Dean."
Sam nodded and gave him a small smile. "Alright." He replied as he turned to leave.
"Thanks, Sammy!" Chuck called out to him as he once again, turned back to his computer.
"Don't call me that." Sam replied, his voice slightly raised so the prophet could hear him from the front door.
Chuck swallowed nervously. "Oh, uh, s-sure."
That night, Dean found himself unable to sleep.
He threw the covers off of himself and climbed out of bed. He stretched before pulling his jeans on and heading downstairs. He went strait to the kitchen and to the fridge. He opened it, the light illuminating the dark room. He blinked against it, his pupils adjusting themselves to the light. "Gross." He muttered, looking disgusted at something that he suspected was once bacon.
He sighed, not seeing anything edible and grabbed a beer, closing the door behind him.
After a few minutes, Dean managed to find a bottle opener and opened his beer before flicking the metal cap in the bin. He walked into the living room, banging into a table. "Son of a-" He bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. Once the pain eased away, he opened them and growled, "Where the hell is the light?" as he slid his hand up the wall, trying to find the switch.
Finally, he located it, his eyes squinting once again as they adjusted to the new light.
He walked over to the couch and threw himself down on it before grabbing the remote that laid beside him. He switched the TV on, wincing when loud static filled his ears. "Shh," He hissed, turning the volume down.
He took a swig of his beer as he pressed a up facing arrow on the remote, trying to find a channel that wasn't full of grey, wriggly lines, but failing. Giving up, he turned the TV off in a huff, throwing the remote down beside him.
He took another sip of beer, looking around the room for something to amuse himself with. His eyes fell on Chuck's script and he licked his lips, savouring the taste of beer his taste buds picked up.
Nah, He thought to himself. There's no way I'm gonna' read a chick-flick.
Peeling his eyes away from it, he looked around the room again, trying to find something, anything, for him to distract himself with.
Not even five minutes later, Dean was taking one another gulp of his beer as he opened up the first page of Delilah. One page won't hurt, He reasoned as he leaned back against Chucks worn-down couch. He rested his feet on the coffee table as he used his thumb to quickly flick through the pages. Air lightly breezed against his face as he did so. Man, this is long, He raised his eyebrows. Am I really gonna' read this 'cause Chuck said the girls hot? He asked himself in disbelief.
"Well, I am Dean Winchester." He reasoned and grinned as he found the first page.
A young girl sat on her bed, her head buried in her knee's, hands over her eyes as her body rocked back and forth in - what can only be described as - a comforting manner.
There were voices downstairs, yelling at each other, cursing each other, making the young girl press her hands more firmly over her ears. She screamed in the back of her throat, biting her lip, trying to drown out the hateful words they were throwing at each other.
A smash echoed through the house, making the young girl jump and scream louder. She could feel her vocal cords vibrate harder as she did so. She stopped suddenly, gasping for breath. Through all her screaming she had almost forgotten to inhale.
With one last bang, the bang of a door slamming, the shouting stopped and the young girl finally lifted her head, her knee's soaked from the tears, eyes red and puffy and eye lashes clumped together.
She wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hands then wiped her nose with the back of one, her eyes watching the door.
Sniffling, she climbed off of her princess bed and walked over to the door, quietly opening it. "Mom?" She called quietly, walking to the stairs. She stepped down a few then stopped, looking over the banister. Her eyes then shifted to her mother who sat at the bottom of the stairs, facing the front door, her head in her hands.
"Mom?" She called again, more loudly.
Her Mother raised her head, quickly wiping her eyes before turning around. "Yeah, baby?" Her voice wavered slightly but she tried acted like she was fine.
"You OK?" She asked. By now she was stand behind her Mother. She sat down on the step above her, her legs laid either side of her Mothers back, her hands playing with her hair.
"I'm fine, Delilah," Her Mother sighed, grabbed one of the hands that played with her hair. She held it tightly.
"You don't have to lie, Mom," The young girl – Delilah – told her Mother. "I know how mean he is." She confessed quietly, using her spare hand to wrap a lock of her mothers hair around her index finger.
"Oh god," The Mother sobbed, her hand dropping Delilahs as she leaned her elbows against her knees and put her head in her hands. "You aren't meant to know." She whispered hoarsely.
"It's OK, Mum," Delilah assured, wrapping her arms around her Mother's shoulders, pulling her back. "You don't have to like any more. I'm big enough now."
The mother turned around, her watery eyes finding Delilahs. She shook her head. "You're Thirteen." She stressed. "You shouldn't have to deal with this." She whispered, turning back around and leaning her back against Delilah's front. She held her daughters arms tightly as they wrapped back around her shoulders. "I'm sorry," She cried. "I'm sorry you have to see it, to know its happening." She sniffled. "But I promise, I promise he'll never hurt you." She hiccuped, bringing Delilahs arm up to her lips. She laid a kiss there.
"I believe you," Delilah replied, laying her head against the back of her Mother's.
"Good." She sighed. "I'm sorry I haven't got us out of here yet."
Delilah shook her head slight. "It's OK, I know why we can't go."
"What?" The Mother questioned, turning her head towards her daughter. Her face was clearly in shock. "How?"
"I heard him," She admitted quietly. "I heard him say that he'll find us and hurt us."
"Oh god." The mother cried, laying her head against Delilahs body.
"It's OK, though, Mom," Delilah assured confidently. "We'll get away one day."
"Yeah?" Her Mother asked quietly.
"Yeah." Delilah nodded. "We'll get our own house, with a big garden and pond."
The Mother sighed. "Sounds lovely."
"It will be," Delilah said immediately. "We'll get loadsa fish as well, 'cause I know how much you like 'em."
"Yeah?" She grinned, sniffling.
"Uh huh," She nodded. "And we'll have a handsome neighbour who you'll fall in love with."
Her mother laughed. "I don't know about that."
"It's true," Delilah protested. "And he'll have a son that I can date."
She laughed again. "You're only Thirteen, you're too young to date."
Delilah rolled her eyes and chose to ignore her. "And they'll come to live with us."
Her Mother shook her head, smiling. "Yeah?" She said, going along with it.
"Yep," Delilah nodded. "And you know what else?"
"We'll be happy," Delilah said simply. "'Cause Dad won't be there."
"Dude," Dean breathed, laying the script down in his lap. "What the hell is goin' on?" He asked into the empty room. "That poor girl." He shook his head, drinking the last of his beer.
He sighed, leaning forward so he could put his empty beer bottle on the coffee table. When he was settled back against the couch, he turned to the next page. "Might as well as read another whilst I'm up." He mumbled. "Ain't got anything better to do."