#hewontbreak

The prophet had a life before the penthouse and the dust and the whiskey bottles. He had a dream and a degree and a life. At least he thought he had a life before something inside him was triggered and it awakened something so much greater than one Chuck Shurley could ever imagine.  -- But that prophet life of his didn't exist here. Oh no, as far as anyone was concerned -- this was Chuck Shurley: the man with many priorities before him.

Chuck was just waking up from his first year well into adulthood. A clean shaven face, brushed back locks, a suit, and even a tie. The younger author was determined to score a slot into the publishing stream. 

He had the rough draft of a novel he’d been writing for sometime now. A typical historical fiction about the theories of the infamous Jack the Ripper and his victims. A case still unsolved, but stirred the world around them if you so much as uttered the nickname to someone not-so ignorant. 

Needless to say — Chuck was stoked. He looked forward to seeing his novel on shelves of book stories. Who knows? Maybe he’d score a spot on the “best sellers” section. The young man was more of an optimist in this time. Bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Even walking out of his vehicle of the hustle and bustle of the city -- well, parking lot in this case --  wasn’t enough to break his unwavering look of determination. 

“No need to worry, Chuck,” the author would mumble to himself, “you’ll be great.”

All was well in the world until he returned to his car in the parking lot a little ways away from the building. The back tires of the vehicle had been slashed and the back window shattered by what was undoubtedly a crowbar. Chuck bit his lip and peered into the driver's window only to find out

                                           --his iPod had been stolen.

"Jesus Christ--" Chuck huffed, stuffing his hand into his slacks in an attempt to pull up yellow pages and call the closest automotive shop that could do towing as well. There was no way he'd be able to drive an inch without the steel of his tires grinding into the ground. 

I DONT REMEMBER

meee

S I L E N C E

It is deafening, no faint murmur of enochian to be found in the farthest corners of his mind. The angel, or what's left of him, feels heavy, his limbs aching. Quickly, he comes to realization.

                                  F A L L E N

Fear, regret, anguish coil in his belly, Castiel stumbles to his feet,it is a new feeling, and completely unwelcome. Weakness knocks his knees, and breathing is too much of a chore. Turning his face to the sky, 

                       Heaven is  g o n e                                                

                                                                  angels  r a i n i n g from the  s k y.

Unable to turn his eyes from the burning comets of his siblings, the fallen angel backs his way to the old church. Slamming to his knees in sight of the cross, he does the only thing he knows.

      P R A Y

He should have known better than to bait Dean has he had. But mischief often crept into his mind when he sat alone at his desk. He pardoned himself, even as he slid the key into the lock of his door; nudging it open with a shoulder. He had not truly intended to encourage such behaviour. 

It had been inadvertent. 

Tugging his phone from his pocket as he wedged two fingers between the knot of his tie and his throat in an effort to loosen it, Cas sent two messages to Dean.

[txt msg] Im home

[txt msg] Come and get me 

He could not keep the lecherous grin from his features. Not this time. Placing the phone on table by the door, he shrugged out of his overcoat. 

[txt msg] If I’d known you’d act like this I would have called you a monkey sooner

[txt msg] On my way

[txt msg] Are you being dominant Dean?

[txt msg] And you think I’m not?

[txt msg] Fine