Prologue
Chuck Shurley sat before his computer, a bottle of aged whiskey on his left side and an ash tray with a burning cigarette propped into it on his right. It had been a long time since he'd gotten any real writing done – after Dean and Sam had managed to thwart the apocalypse, he pulled out for a while. Getting directly involved with the tangle of his creation's lives was psychologically exhausting for him, and after he'd finished guiding things along and making sure that free will was dutifully preserved, he left. Chuck never really went anywhere, because that would imply that the place he went to existed prior to his arrival, but instead he traveled to the space between the multiverse and the antiverse and settled down for some serious R and R.
The planet he settled on wasn't so much a planet as it was a cold, dense rock, but after a few minutes, he shaped it into something liveable. After he'd set up the rudimentary basics – an atmosphere, a few laws of physics, he built a house. There were many planets like these that he'd visited and left over time, utterly lifeless except in the memory of his presence. Empty homes, empty whiskey bottles, lingerie from the girls he'd fashioned to keep him company, and books, always books. He'd always been one for a good story, and somehow there was something grounding about writing things down. Although there are very few creatures who've been alive as long as he, when one does, you find it hard to keep track of things.
Out here, anything worked if he wanted it to work, so when he plugged in his aged desktop computer, he had no trouble checking his email and facebook accounts before he begrudgingly opened up his MS Word document. It wasn't often that Chuck questioned his own judgment, but lately, a very strange cocktail of emotions had overtaken him: guilt, regret, mourning, and worst of all, self doubt. Gabriel and Raphael were dead, and Lucifer and Michael were trapped endlessly in hell – it was a strange thing, to know you'd never see any of your children again. That was the nature of his godliness, to be a creator meant to observe the beginning and ending of all things, but it still… burned in the pit of his gut. Low and wrong. A parent wasn't supposed to watch their child die, and yet Chuck had seen the deaths of so many of his children, over and over.
He thought of Castiel. His favorite, always his favorite since the morning star was cast down – he'd finally come to realize he'd overreacted slightly, but it was too late for apologies and setting things right. In this time, at least. Even for someone all powerful and omniscient, there are some things that once done can never be undone. The thought stirred painfully in his chest.
Chuck stared at the blank document, the vertical line blinking accusingly at him, daring him to make a decision. That's what writing is, really – creation at its finest, its most literal. To write something, to commit to a sentence, is to commit to a universe all one's own. He frowned, opening the bottle of whiskey and pouring himself a liberal amount, slightly wet and wonderfully square icecubes forming in the glass to keep the drink cool and clinking. The sound of slowly melting ice sliding around in a whiskey glass was one of the most oddly satisfying sounds, and he raised it to his lips, draining the contents and letting it settle familiarly in his stomach. He was ready. They deserved this – all five of them, his most beloved. Just this once. Reality was not a literal thing, there were millions of realities and possible futures stacked on top of one another, and he was God. If he could not do this for his most devoted children, just once, what was he?
He refilled his glass and the sounds of his typing filled the empty house, on this empty planet, in the space between spaces.
She was the fifth woman he visited. Her name was Amelia, and she carried herself with ethereal grace reserved almost exclusively for true servants of the Lord. At night, she read her bible; on Sundays, she sat at the pews, head bowed in respect and begging him for forgiveness for her sins, and on this day, a Thursday, he came to her. He came to her with a smile, eyes a little bloodshot, spine creaking from spending night after night awake at his computer, and she loved him unconditionally and unfamiliarly.
"Can I help you, sir?"
Half a screen of glass separated them, and she sat up so straight in her professional clothing, surrounded by important looking documents and a computer which ran at top speed because it was only used for banking. Never did she log on to virus ridden websites, or sneak a peak at her personal email for emails from her husband; she pursued her career with the same unconditional devotion as she did her faith. This is why he has chosen her. Saint Amelia.
"Yes. He will come in nine months, and you will call him Castiel. Take good care of him, for he is beloved."