Chuck sat in his cabin with the lights dimmed feeling the cold wafting through the cracks under his door. He leaned forward to the papers on his desk, scanning the various numbers he'd scrawled across the pages, rolling his chewed up pen back and forth between his fingers.
The camp would need to ration some of their grains in favor of canned foods for awhile. Chuck closed his eyes, letting the pen drop back to his desk, listening to the clack and smooth vibrations as it hit the paper and rolled down with the tilt of the floorboards.
He stood and walked to his door, opening the screen with a muted creaking sound then let it slam closed behind him as he stepped out. He looked over the camp in the darkness, eyes falling on the windows, noting the few lights still left on while his ears were flooded with chorus of crickets.
Why did I invent these bastards? he thought, looking down at one of the alien looking creatures by his feet. And he contemplated the latent simplistic urges of the insects below him wondering if they hadn't been born out of his urge to dominate something.
He lifted his worn boot, crushing out the cricket's song with a crunch. If there was ever a time he felt the need to split the ocean in a show of magnitude and power, to appear in fire and glory, he acknowledged now that that impulse was extinct.
He tightened his jacket against the approaching winter, stepping down into the muddy trailways through the camp, noting the way the moon lit the brown lumber of each cabin's exterior under the glow, overlaying the earth in subtle blue. And he wished he could enjoy it. Could acknowledge the way his work had taken on autonomy and evolution. Wished he could be glad of it.
But instead, he reminisced about what a bitch it had been to get the calculations right. The painstaking mathematics of the rotation of the planets. The ebb and flow of the oceans. And, the even more intricate workings of the human nervous system. He'd poured bits of himself into each piece and let them loose.
Chuck walked on, watching different windows as the people in the camp went to bed, extinguishing their lights one by one.
He reached Dean's cabin, noting the lamp inside it still on, feeling the pull of it like a beacon. And through the shades he could see the silhouette of his angel, Castiel, chin resting on Dean's shoulder from behind.
Chuck didn't often let himself unzip from the skin of his persona. Didn't often peel away the layers of protection that his mediocrity provided him. But sometimes he could afford to do it. In small doses. Could admit that the creatures he'd made were beautifully separate from him now, owning bits of his own godly power to create and destroy.
And he sat down right there. In the dirt, back leaning on the wood of a vacant Cabin across from Dean's. If he wanted to he could listen in. But he thought he knew their words, anyway. Acknowledged that he possibly knew them better than any of his other children.
So instead, he listened the quiet groan of the earth's tectonic plates shifting and settling as they moved. And he played the tale of the fallen angel and his hunter over in his mind again like a bedtime story, knowing it was his favorite. Pulling lines of dialogue and stolen looks from the banks of his memory to reminisce with like an old photo album.
He could be proud of this. Of the man that sacrificed himself to Earth and Heaven for his brother. Of the angel that showed the hunter that someone would do the same for him. And Chuck felt a certain sense of belonging to know that as their creator he had chosen to pattern his decisions after them, too. He would stay by their side until the end, watching his works devour each other and their God, never knowing that he was among them. Never knowing he was something different from them.
But he thought of Lucifer, feeling the ache growing in his chest. He had loved him, too. Felt a sense of pride at his son, so confident, so bright. It had been a delight to watch him. To see what he would move and generate.
And suddenly, Chuck felt the shame of his betrayal. He'd taken his bright star and used him to lock away his burden. Then watched again as the power to destroy overtook his creative endeavors. Filling him. Changing him.
Chuck looked down at his hands, noting the very human callouses dotting the outsides of his palms. He could stop it now. Could heal the world and pluck his dolls from their broken existences and rebuild their cherished homes. Wrap them up in blankets and summer, apologizing for his neglect with peace and safety.
Could lock up Lucifer again.
Chuck's mouth felt dry as he looked at Dean's cabin. He could do it tonight. Could give up his own safety net in exchange for his children. All but one. Two, his mind corrected as he thought of Sam. It was too late for him, too.
Suddenly, Chuck grabbed at the Earth beneath him, fisting the roots of the grass, filling the cracks between his fingers with dirt. And he tried to remind himself that he was the only person in this camp that wasn't a victim. He was God.
And, in the quiet of his solitude, he touched the ground beside his toes, noting the tiny seed he felt under the earth, calling to it. He felt the stirrings of the plant's small struggle as it pressed against the frozen ground, trying to please its master. Chuck poked his finger against the hard grit, loosening it until he saw the rope of green peeking through its hiding place, searching for the absent sun.
The flower wasn't in season. Didn't have the right conditions for growth. But Chuck birthed it anyway, watching as the petals unfurled in the blue fog of the night. And it looked so beautifully delicate surrounded by the cold and guns of a dying world.
Maybe it's not too late, Chuck thought, looking up one last time at Dean's cabin.
But even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie. And he felt the renegade wind blasting through the camp in a numbing reply. Watched as the flower withered in it's cold wrath, petals groaning against the pressure, breaking free and tumbling to the mud.
And he watched as his broken angel reached for the light behind the curtains in Dean's cabin, tugging at the cord, releasing them all to darkness.
Chuck let his head fall again to his chest momentarily before pushing himself up to stand.
He looked at his broken flower, letting his weight press it down into the Earth beneath his shoe. And he knew it was all an illusion, anyway. Once he had been God. But not now.
And he made his way back to his cabin curling on top of his hard mattress, letting the cold find him between the sheets.
Everything has to die, he thought, closing his eyes. Even me.