Name: Erin Age: 20 Email/AIM: firstname.lastname@example.org // ShadesOfFree Timezone: EST
Name: Chuck Shurley Fandom: Supernatural Age: 32 Point in Canon: S4, first appearance Alignment: Good? Honestly he's really mostly looking out for himself, right now, but if he knew any of this stuff was real, he'd definitely choose the good side. Powers: Chuck is a Prophet - which makes him sort of like a psychic, where he has dreams of the future, and writes them down. Unfortunately nothing really useful comes of this most of the time - it's all headaches and drinking himself into a stupor and then writing whatever comes out, and honestly he'd really rather skip out on the whole deal, thanks. (Chuck does not currently know that he is a Prophet - he just gets "inspired" and writes, and assumes his headaches are just migraines.)
Personality: Chuck is a little on the high-strung, slightly neurotic side of things. He's a nice enough guy, and he likes to have fun just like most people do, but to him, a lot of simple things are a Big Deal. Things like having a normal job and traveling and buying shampoo are Huge Ordeals, okay? He's got a bit of an anxious / agoraphobic edge to his personality - if he spends x amount of time out in public, he has to spend at least that long, sometimes twice as long, back at home curled up with some kind of booze to unwind enough to go out again, after. He's learned to adjust to it, though, and he can even go out with friends (the few he has) without too big of a problem. He's had a hard time holding down jobs, though, between the anxiety and the migraines he suffers from and just his tendency to either call in sick (whether he isn't or not) or just not show up. He's been fired from more jobs than he can count anymore.
He's probably officially considered an alcoholic, but he's a semi-functioning one. Or, at least, the alcohol has nothing to do with the reasons he's dysfunctional. If Chuck isn't at least buzzed by noon, there's something wrong - and by something wrong, I mean he's probably out of alcohol and money. When he's buying groceries, he'll buy beer and booze before food. He doesn't even bother with the I can stop anytime I want to - yeah, he's got a problem, whatever. He has a bigger problem when he doesn't drink, and that's stress, and it's chronic, so, yeah, he's drinking, shut the hell up. Please?
He hates confrontation, or generally 99% of all social interaction that's with anyone he doesn't already know rather well. Once he knows someone well enough to not feel awkward around them, he seems like a totally different guy - he's quite a loyal friend, and not a horrible listener, although if you want him to give you advice, um, you... probably are very, very desperate, because his advice is usually get drunk? or something. He'll often ramble or rant about his writing process, and go on and on about how he's writing the next Big Thing, the next Epic Novel that will be his ticket to fortune and then he'll retire and never write another word again, because he's pretty sure he's actually a pretty terrible writer. He's not very confident in ...anything, honestly, except if he's drunk, because then he seems to think he's invincible. He's been known to throw punches at guys three times his size when intoxicated - it's a wonder he's still alive. This fearlessness does not extend to talking to girls, however. Unfortunately, he just gets more awkward around them once he passes buzzed and head straight into drunk.
Brief History: Chuck grew up a rather neurotic, geeky kid. He was always having trouble in school - mostly because he wanted to get the hell out of the packed hallways and couldn't think very well in a room full of people, and by the time he'd get home he would be far too drained from this Big Ordeal to do any kind of homework at all. Logically his parents should have tried home-schooling him, but they both worked and just assumed he was trying for attention. He had little luck getting jobs, once he was old enough - or, okay, he had okay luck getting jobs, and really bad luck keeping them. He's had a panic attack while on duty a number of times, called in sick whether he was or not if he didn't want to go in, and, once he turned eighteen, started having serious migraines that seemed to have absolutely no cause.
After these 'episodes', he'd usually curl up in bed for almost a whole day, and then write. He'd write all kinds of weird stuff, at first, like he was trying to figure out what he was doing, and then it was this story, this detailed story about two brothers, hunters of supernatural creatures... It started to be all he really thought about, wondering where his "muse" was going to take him next with this story. Because it was never just something he planned out, it always came to him in a dream, and, hey, it worked that way. Why mess it up with his own thoughts on the matter? So he just sort of channelled whatever the dreams showed, turned images and impressions into words...
His parents humored him for a while, but once he turned twenty and had nothing to show for himself, they pleasantly informed him that if he didn't get his ass in gear, they were going to kick him out into the street. He managed to get a publisher for the first of what was to become many books, made just enough money off the first one to rent himself a little place just outside of Lawrence, Kansas, and to supply his increasing alcohol habit. From there, he published more books - carried these characters through hardship after hardship, various tragedies written simply for the literary symmetry, gave them personality and detail and development ...
The books never really were that popular - they had their own little cult following, but it was tiny, and the publishers he worked with were bought out by a bigger company who saw no use for the Supernatural series. They canceled the release of the next book, and Chuck spun into some kind of a depression, but he kept writing. Suddenly the dreams, the inspiration he'd been getting, was changing, though - it wasn't just the brothers he was writing about anymore. It was other characters, characters from TV shows and movies and books, some he'd heard of and some he hadn't, that he assumed he was making up as he went along. He kept trying to get a new publisher to pick him up, but they took one look at the newest books and promptly ignored him - who was going to publish a book about copyrighted characters from other creators?
So, he started writing other things. Little novelettes, things that had nothing to do with his beloved Supernatural universe. It paid the bills, at least, even though he honestly didn't enjoy it very much, anymore. The only thing he felt right writing was his Supernatural books. Anything else was work. The headaches and the dreams kept coming, and he found himself unable to stop writing them completely, whether they'd ever be published or not.
Played By: Rob Benedict
The light in his bedroom is too bright. The laptop hurts his eyes. Chuck turns down the brightness, takes off his glasses, runs a hand through his already-wild hair and sighs. That’s the first sign.
The second sign is the faint humming in his ears, the one he knows isn’t the fridge or the ceiling fan, or anything else in the room with him. It’s different, distinct, familiar. It makes him reach for the alcohol (the bottle of whiskey that’s half-empty; he’s going to need to go downstairs to get anything else) and close the laptop in front of him, because he knows, after all this time, what comes next.
Chuck knows he has maybe five minutes. He spends those five minutes rushing downstairs for more bottles (almost drops one down the stairs when his vision goes splotchy for a second, but he recovers it smoothly enough and gets them all mostly-settled on his bedside table), taking the migraine pills he’s been taking for years, the ones that don’t do enough to make the pain bearable, but without them he’d probably die from the pain, stupid yellow capsules in an orange bottle that says do not take with alcohol, a warning which he ignores wholeheartedly.
He has just enough time to practically fall into bed, clutching the bottle, before the pain starts up, white-hot and it feels like his brain is being scooped out, lit on fire, shoved back in, stabbed burned shredded chopped doused in acid and a million other things, and his hands are shaking while he drinks. If he can just get drunk enough to pass out, it’ll all be better...
First Person (Comm Post Style):
Uh, hey, is this comm for real? ‘Cause I had a dream like thisI wrote this this looks an awful lot like copyright infringement to me.