Dean Winchester hated writing. As his friend and sometimes brainstorming partner Chuck liked to say, writing was hard.

In particular, he hated when his publisher gave him impossible deadlines and sent him to conventions. Oh, and all this while he was in the middle of a writing block. He hated writing, but he loved it… and he had no idea what to do with his latest book. Staring at his computer screen, he let out a noise of disgust. He had read and reread what he had so far way too many times to count—hell, he'd probably memorized every word. And it was fine. All of it was just… fine.

Dean slammed his laptop shut a little harder than was probably advisable, unable to look at what was supposed to be a completed book. It wasn't. It wasn't even close. He had no idea what was going to happen next—he was as clueless about what was going on as his characters were. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. It had been like this for three weeks now and he was beginning to get desperate. So desperate, in fact, that he found himself calling his brother to brainstorm.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was strained, as if he were in the middle of something important. Dean chose to ignore his suspicion, too eager for some help—even if it was from Sam who, let's be honest, was not the imagination type.

"Sammy, listen," Dean started, not even pausing to say hello. "I need legal advice."

There was a pause. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"What?" Dean blinked and then realized what that sounded like. "Oh. No, no. Why do you assume I'm in trouble?"

Another pause and then, "Well, Dean, if you'd recall the last time you asked me for legal advice?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "That was only once!" Dean defended himself. "And I mean, come on you can't blame me for that. You're the one who's always saying I need to do more research."

"Breaking and entering was not what I had in mind and you know it," Sam answered, his bitchface audible in his voice.

"That's beyond the point and you know it," Dean snapped. "Look are you going to help me or not? Pamela needs legal advice."

There was a sigh on the other line and Dean could almost see his younger brother leaning back in that big, lawyer chair of his, probably pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Look, Dean, I'm kind of in the middle of—"

"If a psychic made an unproved, possibly false accusation against a judge, how much trouble would she be in?"

For a brief moment, the line went silent, as if Sam had covered the mouthpiece. Then he asked, "Is this for your next book?"

"Yes."

"Wasn't that supposed to be done last week?"

Dean grumbled something that was incoherent even to him and then said, "Just help me out, would you?"

Sam sighed again in that Sam way he always did. "Yes, an unproved accusation against anyone could be considered slander. A judge would be even better equipped to take her to court. Who's Pamela accusing?"

Pamela was one of Dean's main characters, a badass psychic teamed with a hardedge cop. They solved crimes, and yes, Dean knew exactly how lame that sounded, but it had made the New York Times bestseller list more than once so it was good enough for him. Also, it was better than it sounded. Usually.

"Uh, well," Dean laughed. "A judge."

"That's all you've got?" Sam asked. Dean practically growled, a little offended by the doubt in his brother's voice. "You're not really calling for legal advice are you?"

Dean rolled his eyes, ready to snap something snarky at his brother before he remembered that he was really desperate for some help. He let his head fall forward onto his desk.

"C'mon, Sammy," he moaned, feeling pathetic. He wasn't sure he'd ever asked anyone outright for help, but he did it now. "Help me out, would you?"

Sam wasn't really helpful. When Dean said that his brother wasn't very imaginative, he wasn't exaggerating. Sam Winchester was brilliant and could come up with great stories for the jury stand, not to mention the most epic research, but ask him about a book and he was lost.

"I don't get why you're asking me," Sam whined, after being badgered with random questions (the answers to which were completely unhelpful by the way). "You just need brainstorming. Why don't you call Chuck or Jo? You know I'm not good at this."

He wasn't. But…

"They're tired of me 'fishing'," he muttered. "That's Jo's word, not mine."

Yet another sigh. "Look, Dean. I don't think I can help you with this one, I'm sorry. Besides, don't you have a flight to catch?"

Dean scowled, then frowned and looked at his watch.

"Shit." He had to be at the airport in half an hour. "I'll talk to you later."

Sam started to say something, but Dean had hung up already.

- -
"You tried to get Sam to brainstorm with you?"

Dean ground his teeth together and shifted his bag more firmly up on his shoulder. Chuck was laughing at him—laughing at him! Chuck, who at eleven o'clock in the morning already seemed tipsy. Chuck, who said he got his ideas from dreams and headaches.

"You really must be desperate," the other writer chuckled. They walked toward the concierge of the fancy hotel where the convention was being held, both out of place in their grungy clothes. Luckily, writers aren't known for all being impeccably dressed, so it wasn't so bad, even if the lady at the desk looked a little weirded out when she handed Chuck his key. (Apparently Dean's clothes didn't bother her much, however, since she slipped him her number with his key. He pocketed it for future reference…)

"Whatever, dude," Dean growled, deciding to move the topic away from himself. "How's your series going? Have your crime fighting brothers found that demon yet?"

Chuck shot him an offended look and said, "Dean, do you even read my books? They got him forever ago!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I've been sort of busy, Chuck," he replied, partially annoyed and partially embarrassed to admit that he really hadn't gotten around to reading his best friend's books in a while.

"You know Jo'll be here," Chuck started, smoothly shifting topics again. "And Ellen."

Dean didn't think his wince was visible, but he couldn't be sure. He and Jo had come very close to flings more than once—the girl had had a crush on him for years, and yeah, she was pretty hot—but she was also his publisher's daughter, as well as a travelling (and seriously hard hitting) journalist. So if things were a little awkward , well… it wasn't a surprise.

"I figured," Dean murmured, hitting the up arrow on the elevator. "Have you gotten a look at the schedule yet?"

Chuck shuffled through his duffle bag for a moment, found his flask (and took a swig before putting it back) and then pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Dean snatched it as the elevator doors slid open, trying to smooth it out enough to read it. They stepped inside, followed by someone else whom neither acknowledged.

"What've you got?" Chuck asked, peaking over Deans shoulder and losing his balance momentarily as the momentum of the elevator picked up.

Dean grumbled, "Looks like Rebecca Rosen will be here, giving a talk about the homoerotic subtexts of… your books."

He was laughing too hard to continue, so Chuck snatched the paper back and read aloud, "And you'll be doing a panel with Castiel."

Dean snorted. "Castiel? What kind of a pretentious douche bag writes as Castiel?"

They were both laughing hard enough that it took them a moment to notice the other man in the elevator shifting uncomfortably and clearing his throat.

"That would be me," the man rasped, his voice low and gravelly. Dean turned more slowly than was probably necessary, his ears hot. The man behind him was a handsome dark haired man who looked more like a tax accountant than a novelist, but it was the sharp blue of his eyes that caught Dean and wouldn't let him go.

"Oh."