Chuck Shurley

Chuck was a prophet. The Winchesters found out about these books and... Dean got too hot-tempered. Really. And one day, Chuck was cornered in an alley. Dean...
Sam was there too, but in the car. He didn't know what Dean was doing.

The alley behind some café reeked of mold and urine. The light above the fire escape flickered, highlighting a trash can, a brick wall, and Chuck's face.

Dean pressed him against the wall so hard the back of his head pierced the plaster. The elder Winchester's fingers gripped the collar of the "preacher's" shirt—not to intimidate, but to keep him steady. His breathing was rapid and angry.

"I'll ask again," he said quietly, though the silence in the alley was heavy on his ears. "Where. The originals."

Chuck wanted to answer. He really did. But his jaw was clenched, and there was such a lump in his throat that all he could do was croak. He tried to shake his head, but the back of it only pressed harder against the brick. His vision was swimming... either from the blow he'd received a second ago, or from fear.

Chuck didn't notice how, but Dean threw him down and kicked him in the stomach so hard that the "prophet" literally vomited bile (he hadn't eaten properly in a long time).

"Are you deaf?" Dean leaned closer, and Chuck saw the vein in his temple twitch. "I asked a question."

"Dean... " he croaked, and that was all that came out.

The alley was quiet. Only somewhere around the corner the Impala's engine hummed. Sam sat there, warm, leafing through a notebook, unaware of what his brother was doing two meters away behind a dumpster.

And Chuck was just hoping for some help, although he understood who would walk here?