Sophrosyne: A healthy state of mind, characterized by self-control, moderation, and a deep awareness in one's true self, and resulting in true happiness (We'll get there).
Sulit: Something worth the effort put into it.
God himself is a procrastinator. He stays up late into the night, eyes burning from his computer screen, legs cramping from their fixed position same as anyone else. He is prideful, lordly, and arrogant. He is everything one strives to be the opposite of.
And like anyone else, he changes.
Chuck's fingers flew over the keys, typing out the last page of his manuscript. Almost finished, almost.
The room was dark. The light from his laptop glinted in his glasses, illuminating the piles of trash and discarded bottles on the floor and table. The blinds were drawn tightly shut. His foot tapped the ground aimlessly. The end of the world loomed.
He scrolled back through his previous pages, searching for things to edit. He was no longer tracking Sam and Dean's story, but his own. It wasn't focused on himself, though. Rather, he told the story of four archangels, brothers who were closer than close, and then the fatal mistake that drove them apart. One, into Hell. One, into hiding. One, ruling Heaven. One, working in the shadow of the older.
An epic story of love, betrayal, and family.
It would be a stunning novel.
He sighed and leaned back in his seat. He took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. In his mind, he sought out his sons.
In Heaven, Raphael was sitting alone in his office, head buried in his hands. Held tightly in one fist was a single feather, golden in color. Not his, nor Michael's, or even Lucifer's. He'd found it when cleaning one day, and had not gone anywhere without it since. Gabriel's feather was the only thing left of his from before he left Heaven. He missed his younger brother terribly, though he refused to admit it. A shaky breath escaped him, but he stifled it a moment later. No room for weakness in Heaven.
Michael was in Heaven also, but he was out speaking to the garrisons, preparing them for the final battle. He'd taken the closest thing to his true vessel—Adam Milligan. But even now he could feel his grace chipping away at the faulty vessel. He'd be falling apart soon. He shook his head, then told the angel closest to him where to go. They were useless without direct command, all of the angels were. Sometimes he wished he could be like them, only required to follow orders and nothing else. It would be so much easier.
Down on Earth was Gabriel. Under the guise of Loki, he laughed and drank with his pagan friends, ignoring the subtle itch in the back of his mind that the Apocalypse was nearing. He turned his thoughts away from Michael and Lucifer, then tipped back another bottle of whiskey. Not strong enough to actually get him drunk, but he could hope. A pagan near him shoved another playfully, and then all of them were tousling and brawling in a drunk haze. Gabriel slipped from the room before someone could accidentally stab him. He needed to stretch his wings.
And lastly, Lucifer. He drifted through Hell with no true intent, scowling at demons who tried to approach him. He walked down the winding halls he knew by memory, listening to the tortured screams of damned souls. This part of Hell always disturbed him. He descended into the lowest, deepest level, where the place he hated the most resided. The Cage. It was a large, black thing, covered in runes and binding sigils that tugged and clawed at his grace. He looked up at it, watching the frost creep over the bars. He'd never go back in there again, if he had any say in it. He'd kill the entire host of Heaven and every other creature on Earth and Hell if it meant he wouldn't have to go back there. He stared at it for a few more moments, then spun on his heel and stormed away.
They were so different. Sometimes, Chuck thought the only thing they had in common was him. Still, they got along once upon a time.
Chuck found his chest aching with regret and longing. He shook his head. No use dwelling on the past. The Apocalypse would go as the Fates commanded.
Still.
He was fully capable of staging an intervention. He could gather the four of them and they couldn't do anything to stop him. It was a matter of would he.
Maybe that answer was yes.
He looked back at his manuscript, where he'd left off.
'...and then they were falling, two brothers entwined in a spiraling dance reminiscent of Lucifer's Fall from Heaven. The ground sealed up above them, the rumbling died down, and then the Earth was quiet once more.'
This was the future. This was how the events would unfold, if he didn't stop things now.
He opened up a new page and started to write. The words would steer fate on the right course, the one that bring his family back together. His fingers quickened in a frenzy of typing. It was time things went his way for once.
'God himself is a procrastinator. He stays up late into the night, eyes burning from his computer screen, legs cramping from their fixed position same as anyone else. He is prideful, lordly, and arrogant. He is everything one strives to be the opposite of...'