Supernatural Deus Ex Machina

_Hi, everyone, and welcome to my first attempt at a Supernatural fanfic. I've been more or less binge-watching the series lately, and am finally almost caught up on Season 9. That said, this story starts toward the end of the eighth season, shortly before "Goodbye, Stranger," and will be AU from there. Major players include Sam, Dean, Castiel, Crowley, Chuck, Kevin, and Meg (I wish the site would let you list more names, because I can't just choose one as being more important than another). I'll try to update as frequently as possible, but with school, work, dance, and family I can't really commit myself to deadlines.__ Anyway, hope you enjoy, and thanks for checking it out!_

_DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural or any part of its amazing universe. Though I wouldn't mind owning some of its characters... a few specific ones come to mind..._

**CHAPTER ONE**

_**There I go**_

_**Turn the page**_

**-Bob Seger**

_Lebanon, Kansas_

It was just past 10:00, but the bunker was nearly silent, save for the sounds coming from the refrigerator as Dean Winchester rifled through it in search of food. All he found was a half eaten burger, some dried-out rice, and, inexplicably, an entire jar of black olives; clearly, it was time to do some shopping. He snorted in disgust and selected the burger. Its bun was soaked through with old ketchup and mustard, the onions rubbery, but he tore off half of it in one bite and choked it down. Food was food, after all (despite what Sam might say to the contrary).

_Sam._

Squashing the rest of the burger into his mouth and wiping his hands on his jeans, he headed for Sam's room. The poor kid had definitely taken a turn for the worse recently, as he struggled to complete the Trials that Dean wished to God he could have taken on himself. What little time Sam had that wasn't spent researching or hunting was reserved for sleeping and trying to maintain his fragile health. Though Sam would never say as much, Dean knew he was barely functioning, putting on a brave face to keep his brother from worrying. _Not gonna happen, Sammy. Someone's gotta look out for you, and if you're not gonna do it yourself..._ In a way (and it killed him to admit it, even to himself), he almost wished Sam had never gotten his soul back. At least that Sam had had his own best interests at heart.

He found his brother sprawled on his back on his bed, on top of the blankets, one arm draped across his stomach, fingers brushing against the heavy volume that lay at his side. A trashcan sat beside the bed, and a box of tissues next to that. An ancient goose-neck lamp cast a sickly glow glow on the spine of the book: _Darkest and Moste Terrible Secrets of the Demonick Realms. _Dean let an affectionate smirk relax his features for a moment; even deathly ill, Sam could still muster the energy to be a total geek. The grin disappeared quickly, however, when he noticed how hot Sam was, his obscenely long hair plastered to his forehead in sweaty, stringy strands. His soft snoring was punctuated by hacking coughs, and Dean couldn't be sure in the poor lighting, but it looked like the pillowcase was speckled with blood.

He slipped the book carefully from under Sam's hand, marked the place with a tissue, and set it on the dresser. He debated finding a thermometer to make sure that Sam wasn't dangerously overheated, but decided that Sam probably wouldn't react well to being woken by an unknown object being shoved into his mouth. He flicked off the lamp- a fire hazard if he'd ever seen one- cast one more worried look at Sam, and had just started toward his own room when there was a knock at the bunker door.

Wait... _what?_

He ducked quickly into his room and selected a pistol off what he had coined his "weapons wall." He threw on his coat, concealing the gun inside, and waited until he heard it a second time. His heart thudded in his chest. No one- _no one_, with the possible exception of Castiel, and he wasn't exactly "answering his messages" at the moment- should know they were here at all. He walked cautiously toward the bunker's single entrance, lifted the weapon, and opened the door just enough to stick the barrel through the gap.

"Please! Don't shoot!"

The panicked voice was vaguely familiar, but not enough so for Dean to lower the gun. He opened the door a little more and stared at the small, dark-haired man crouched before him.

"Chuck?" he said in astonishment. "_Chuck?_"

"Hi, Dean." The other man smiled shakily and straightened. "Long time no trying to fend off the impending Apocalypse, huh?"

"Chuck?" Dean repeated. "Wha- how- _Chuck, what the hell are you doing here?"_

"I need to talk to you," the prophet replied, twisting a plastic grocery bag nervously around his hand. "Can I, uh, come in?"

"What? No, you can't come in! You're supposed to be dead!"

"Am I? Well, I'm not, as evidenced by the fact that I'm, you know, alive. I suppose I could be a hallucination, of course, but last time I wro- I mean, _saw _you, you weren't crazy, so-"

"Okay, I get it, you're not dead!" Dean cut him off impatiently. "How did you find us? This is important, Chuck, if you can find us, it means other unwanted guests can find us, too." He stared stonily at the man who had published his and his brother's life stories for profit. Even after all this time, he wished he had something heavy to hit him with.

"I saw you," Chuck said, looking stung. "You, the bunker, the location, all of it. Loving the bedroom, by the way, though you might consider imparting some of your decorating sense on your brother..."

"So- so what, you saw us in one of your bizarro, alcohol-fueled visions and decided to just drive across multiple states and drop by for a late-night coffee break?"

"Something like that. Dean," he said softly, looking around as if to check that no one was listening, then leaning in so close Dean could smell the stale liquor on his breath, "I have to tell you about the future."

"Okay, McFly, well, I'd love to hear it, believe me, I would, but now is not really a great time, so-"

"I know," Chuck said apologetically. He proffered the grocery bag. "Which is why I brought a peace offering."

Dean took the bag and looked inside, then back at Chuck. "This lemon?"

"There's strawberry, too."

Dean hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "What the hell? Come on in."

_**SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN**_

"It's even better in real life!" Chuck exclaimed, awestruck, running a hand along a book shelf and wearing the expression of a person experiencing something significantly naughtier than a hidden bunker. "I mean, I know this place from top to bottom, but it's just... different somehow. Classy, sophisticated exterior, but full of hidden secrets, a darkness even. Know what I mean?"

"Yeah, she's like a fine woman." Dean rolled his eyes sardonically. "Now if you're done creaming yourself over our humble abode, would you mind explaining why you're here? And for God's sake, keep your voice down. Sam's finally getting some sleep and if you disturb him..." He left the threat unfinished and began serving pie as Chuck took a seat at the bunker's long table. "So seriously, what's so important that you had to hunt us down after three years of no contact at all?

"Well, it's like I said..."

"The future, right, I got that. You're gonna have to give me a little more detail than that."

Chuck sighed, appearing to struggle to find the right words. "It's not really... wise for a person to know too much about their own future..." Dean twirled the kitchen knife menacingly. "But that doesn't mean I can't give you some general warnings," he finished quickly.

"Great, so give 'em to me! I'm getting real sick of pulling teeth here," Dean growled.

"Okay." The prophet took a deep breath. "First of all, keep an eye on Castiel."

"Why? What's up with Cass? Where is he? I haven't even seen him."

"See, that's the problem. _I can't tell you_," Chuck said exasperatedly. "Just know that he might not be... totally himself right now." Dean nodded; he had seen the signs. "And even if he is, well, one of Castiel's biggest character flaws is that he always thinks he's doing the right thing. It's put you and many others in jeopardy before, and it could happen again if you're not careful."

Dean pondered this for a moment. He couldn't deny the truth in Chuck's statement, but he also wanted to believe that the angel had learned his lesson after the last few near-disasters he had helped to facilitate. "Alright, noted. Moving on."

"Secondly, not everyone upstairs is your friend-"

"Yeah, I'd worked that one out for myself, thanks."

"-but that doesn't mean everyone downstairs has to be your enemy," Chuck continued. "You might find some unexpected allies in people- or creatures- you would've slaughtered in a heartbeat before the Apocalypse. Things aren't black and white anymore. Make sure you know for sure who you can put your trust in."

"If you think I'm gonna be hosting movie night for Abaddon and Crowley-"

"And third..." Chuck paused and chewed his lip nervously. "I know you're not gonna want to hear this, and I'm really sorry, but..." he closed his eyes and lowered his head, as if anticipating the death blow. "Dean, you need to start getting used to the idea that you... you might lose Sam."

Dean's stomach plummeted. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "Sam's fine! I mean, yeah, he's a bit under the weather right now, but-"

"Dean, he's not fine, and you know it," Chuck said softly. "These trials are killing him. The way he's going, he'll be lucky if he survives long enough to attempt the third. And even if he does, the consequences of closing the gates of Hell could be disastrous-"

"So what, does he die or doesn't he?" Dean hissed, resisting the urge to shout. "Tell me!" he snarled, leaning across the table and seizing Chuck but the front of his shirt.

"I don't know!" Chuck cried, quaking under Dean's livid glare. "I'm sorry, but I don't! The visions, they- they're not concrete, like they used to be! There's too many variables, too many ways things could play out! I don't even bother writing most of it down anymore, because as soon as I do something changes. Don't you think I'd tell you if I knew?"

"Dean?" came a weak voice from the other room. "Is someone here?"

"It's just the TV, Sam, go back to sleep." Dean released his grip on Chuck's shirt, roughly dropping the smaller man back into his seat. He stared him dead in the eyes, struggling to keep voice low as he spoke. "Now you listen to me," he growled, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that Sam hadn't decided to get up and investigate the noise. "Sammy's gonna be fine. I don't care what your freaky little visions say, I don't care if Death himself comes knocking on that door. Sam's gonna complete those trials, and he's gonna be fine, because he has to be. I wish I could do it for him, God knows I would do anything to take that burden off his shoulders, but what's done is done. He's our best- our _only_ shot, and he's gonna come through for us, just like he always does. So why don't you just go on home to your shit stack of a house, get yourself good and hammered, and get that down in writing so everyone can read it. I want the whole goddamn world to know that they have Sam Winchester to thank for saving their asses _yet again_."

"Dean, I'm really sorry, I wish I could give you more hope-"

"You need to leave," Dean said shortly. "Thanks for the pie, and thanks for your so-called warnings. Don't bother keeping in touch."

"Dean-"

"No. Dammit, you can't just show up here after disappearing off the face of the planet for three years and start dropping cryptic messages! We could've used your help a million times over, man, and you let us think you were dead! Well, you know what? We've got a new prophet now, a better one, and he hasn't seen any of this, and I would take his word over yours any day."

"I wish- I just want to help-"

"Well, it's a little late for that, isn't it?" Dean said grimly. He stepped away from the table. "Come on, I'll walk you to the door." Chuck simply nodded, knowing he had been dismissed, and followed Dean without another word.

"Hey, Chuck!" Dean called after him as he plodded slowly toward his car. "One more thing. Cass said only one prophet can exist at a time. In order for a new one to be made, the old one has to die. So how exactly are you still kicking around on this God-forsaken ball of crap?"

Chuck smiled wanly. "Guess I got lucky."

"I guess." Dean eyed him suspiciously, then sighed. "Hey, listen, we both know I don't like you, but just... take care of yourself, okay? Try not to die."

"Yeah..." Chuck nodded sadly. "You too, Dean." The prophet clambered into his car, and with a wave of his hand and an unhealthy sputtering from the engine, he was gone.


End file.

Supernatural, Drama, Supernatural