"Yet, like a god, I did descend

At last to meet her love;

And like a god I then withdrew,

To my own Heaven above"

-Charlotte Bronte, "Gilbert."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Dean woke hours later, uncomfortably hot. He licked his lips and opened his eyes. He and Cas were pressed together, feet tangled. The air conditioning was working, obnoxiously loud and clunky. Dean shouldn't be this hot. It was only two in the morning.

It took a few seconds for his brain to come out of sleep and realize that the heat was coming from Cas. Cas was in a fitful sleep, flushed. Dean put his hand to Cas's forehead and grimaced. Cas's fever was getting worse. Dean didn't have a thermometer. He couldn't get an exact temperature. But it didn't take much for fevers to do serious damage. 104 degrees was considered in the danger zone, and by 106 the brain could start to cook itself.

Dean shifted out of bed, the mattress bouncing as he moved. He searched for his shoes and slipped them on.

"Dean?" Cas's voice was barely audible. When Dean turned to face him, Cas's eyes weren't even open.

"Hey," Dean whispered. "Sit tight. I'm going to get some ice. It'll bring your fever down. You'll feel better."

Cas opened his eyes. It was clear the movement was a struggle for him. His eyes were glassy. Dark, purple bags rested under his eyes. There was a shine them.

"Shit," Dean said. "I know that look." Dean lunged for the wastebasket just as Cas leaned over the edge of the bed. Dean just barely got it underneath him before Cas started vomiting. Dean watched helplessly as Cas vomited all the dinner he had. It lasted for over a minute, until Cas was dry heaving painfully, muscles spasming. Cas spit into the basket several times and then he was gasping.

"You done?"

Cas nodded.

"Okay," Dean said, putting the wastebasket to the side. "I'm gonna get ice and I'll stop by the vending machine and get you some Sprite. Worked miracles for Sam when he was younger and would get sick."

Cas didn't say anything. He turned to face the other way, looking absolutely miserable.

Dean looked around the room briefly. It was covered in all sorts of sigils. The threshold and window sills were thoroughly salted. It was as safe as Dean could make it. Still, he was nervous about leaving Cas alone, as sick as he was. Dean resolved to finish his mission as fast as possible. He grabbed his wallet and the ice bucket and left, before the courage left him.

Luckily, the vending machine was right next to the ice machine. Dean figured it was probably the luckiest thing that had ever happened to him. He bought the soda first and then filled the ice bucket. He tucked them both under his arms and headed back to the room.

He froze when he saw someone waiting by the door, trying to get a peek into the window.

"Hey!" Dean snapped, then realized he didn't have his gun. He stilled, wondering how he could have made such a stupid mistake. But then Dean got closer and he could see the person.

"Hi, Dean," Chuck said. "How've you been?"

Dean was speechless. He stood there and lost track of time as he took Chuck in. He looked no different than when Dean saw him last, nearly a year ago now. The corners of his lips were turned upwards, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

Chuck sighed and looked up at the sky. "Nice night, isn't it?"

"What are you doing here?" Dean growled. His voice was low, bordering on animalistic.

Chuck looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye. "What? You thought you'd seen the last of me?"

"Well, given your track record. . ." Dean shared a sardonic grin. It didn't last. It melted off his face within nanoseconds and then he was scowling, trembling with the rage that was coursing through his blood. Dean looked to the door. Cas was right behind there.

"Fair enough," Chuck said.

"What are you doing here now?" Dean snapped. "Do you know what we've been through this past year? Just these last few weeks? Do you care? I prayed to you."

Chuck shifted on his feet. He looked back up to the sky. "I know."

Dean snorted.

"Look." Chuck turned to face Dean. He had one hand in his jacket pocket. "This is what you fought for, Dean. This is free will. If I came down and waved my magic wand every time you didn't like the consequences, well, that wouldn't be free will, would it?"

"Lucifer's kid is a time bomb waiting to explode, my mom is trapped in another reality with Lucifer, and Cas—" Dean's throat swelled.

Chuck sighed and looked down at his feet. Dean wondered how the hell God managed to look so small.

"Yeah. That's what I'm here about actually."

Dean raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I want to talk to Castiel."

Dean paused. He licked his lips. Looked back and forth between Chuck and the door. Why the hell was God asking him permission to speak to Cas? He was God.

It dawned on Dean. "You can't go in."

Chuck looked at the door. "Your sigil work has dramatically improved."

"There's a sigil that can block you?"

"Not me, per se. You have one that blocks Heavenly power. Guess I fit that criteria. I need you to go in and destroy it."

Dean didn't have to think about it. "No."

Chuck's eyes widened. "No?"

"You're not getting near him."

Chuck laughed. He rubbed his mouth and stepped forward. When he met Dean's eyes again, suddenly he didn't seem so small. Dean towered over him, but the way Chuck looked at him, the gleam in his eyes, made Dean's skin itch.

"I'm not, am I?"

"Well," Dean said, taking a step back. His bravado was gone in an instant, like a flame in a hurricane. "You can't get in. Not unless I undo that sigil. Which I'm not. So. Yeah. You're not getting near him."

Chuck clicked his tongue. He shook his head and muttered under his breath. "Man. And I thought Jonah was bad."

"Excuse me?"

"You're lucky I like you, Dean. You got spunk. Can't say that about many people. Still, you could be a bit more amiable, you know? Jonah ran and ran and ran, but eventually he came to his senses. Realized I can't be outrun, no matter how far he went. Why can't you?"

Chuck took another step forward. "Let me speak to my son."

Dean had told the devil to fuck off and die. He figured telling the same to God wasn't any different.

Dean had never believed in God. Not since his Mom died. He grew up watching evil crawl the Earth and kill good, innocent people, and since there wasn't a God to defeat it, it was up to him, and Dad, and Sam. And he'd been okay with it. Shitty things happened to good people, but that was just the way it was, and it sucked, but it was tough shit.

Then he found out that angels existed. And there was a God. But the angels and God, they were dicks. God was real and He didn't give a shit about any of them. He was perfectly fine letting the World get obliterated while He sat on His ass in Cancun sipping daiquiris, and learning that was worse than if God didn't exist at all. He, Sam, and Cas—Cas especially—they all groveled, prayed, tried to talk to this dick, tried to get an answer to their questions and again and again and again they were met with nothing but silence. God was real, but it was like He wasn't.

And after years of silence He just showed up out of the blue, out of nowhere, proclaiming this time, He was going to help.

And then He played Dr. Phil with Lucifer for like, five minutes, almost died, and fucked off again, without even leaving a forwarding address.

"You had your chance," Dean said. God tried to make amends with Lucifer, but He didn't say jackshit to Cas. "You've had, like, a dozen chances. You could've talked to him at any time, but you didn't. You've been hiding for who knows how long, and when you do finally show your ugly mug, you don't talk to him. Not him. You were more concerned with trying to kiss ass to Lucifer, so no, I'm not letting you in that room, you're not getting near him. You've already broken his damn heart enough times, and I am not going to let you do it again. I'm not going to be a part of it, letting you in."

Chuck was silent, jaw tightening.

But Dean couldn't hold back. Years of pent up frustration, and the dam broke, all spilling out and he couldn't stop it, couldn't reign it in, didn't care who it was he was speaking to. "All these people, all over the World, all throughout time—they pray to you, build monuments, fight wars in your name—and you don't give a shit about any of them. And Cas—you know, when shit was going down, he was the only one who still believed in you. He looked all over Earth and probably the Universe, who knows where else, and you were just hiding under his nose the entire time. You stood by and watched Raphael blow him to pieces. You stood by while he was fighting another Apocalypse and you never helped when he asked, when he begged. If you really wanted to talk to him, you could've at any time. Nothing was ever stopping you any of those times."

"And this time?" Chuck asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Me. Now."

Chuck chewed on his lip and huffed. He looked over his shoulder, at the door that separated Him from Cas. "That day when you and Castiel showed up in my house—that wasn't supposed to happen. I'd written the story. I knew how it would play out. You would be kept away from Sam long enough for him to kill Lilith. Lucifer would rise, the Apocalypse would begin. You and Sam would say yes, and the battle would go on as I had written since the beginning."

Chuck sighed and stuffed his hands into his jean pockets.

"And then. . . and then you and Castiel showed up in that dingy, little house. You remember what Castiel said then? 'We're making it up as we go.' And I was—I was surprised. Because that wasn't how the story was supposed to go. And yet. . . so yes. I stood by and watched Castiel die, because that was what he chose. He knew the consequences of his actions. But I helped you and Sam. I put you on that plane and thought, 'let's see where this goes.' What can Is say? It's not that often I'm surprised.

"And I was surprised again. You and Sam came into my house, blasted Zachariah and the others away, and you said something that still. . ."

"I learned that from my friend, Cas," Dean whispered, throat tightening.

"'My friend," Chuck said. "It had been a long time since angels had interacted with humans. It wasn't the first time in history, but it was the first time I had ever heard a human call one of my angels their friend. So, I brought Castiel back, took a step back, and decided to see how the rest would play out.

"Castiel. . . Castiel's always been different. He's a good fighter. A good soldier. But he's never exactly. . . ticked right. He never really followed orders, not completely. You know kids; you give an inch, they take a mile. I mean, he stopped Abraham from killing Isaac. Refused to kill the first borns of Egypt. But, you know what happened after those. Naomi did her thing, and in between those rare instances, Castiel was a good soldier." Chuck paused, licked his lips, hardened his eyes. "When he rescued you from Hell, he took to the task with the greatest amount of pride. I don't know what happened, but I know it happened in Hell. When he touched your soul—something changed."

Dean swallowed, feeling the burning scrutiny wafting from Chuck.

"When did you realize you loved him?"

Dean felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He inhaled sharply. He had to think about it. He could still feel Cas's lips against his own, and in that moment, wanted nothing more than to be back in the room, curled up against Cas, kissing softly and gently.

When did he realize he loved Cas? Cas had been family ever since he made the decision to stand by Dean and Sam against the Apocalypse, but the love for Cas had always been different than the love for Sam, or Bobby, or even Jo and Ellen.

There'd been some bad blood between him and Cas throughout the years. The whole Purgatory thing was something Dean wished he could travel back to and do differently. But as he thought on it, the answer to Chuck's question was obvious.

"When I found him, alive, during the Leviathan shit." The first thing he'd felt when he saw Cas playing a Stepford wife was relief. The plethora of other emotions came after, hitting him like a tsunami, but the very first thing that washed through his blood was relief.

Chuck smiled softly.

"You wanted free will, Dean. You fought for it and died for it. You, Sam, and Castiel. That is not something you can pick and pull at. You can't demand free will, but call on me to magically fix your problems. You can't have your cake and eat it too."

It hurt to breathe. "So, what? My mom? She's just—she's just stuck in that other World? It was your prophecy that screwed her over, that screwed my entire family over, and you're not going to help her?"

Chuck sighed. It was hard to tell in the dark, but Dean would've swore Chuck rolled His eyes. "No," Chuck said, mouth in a thin line.

"She didn't even ask to come back, you know. That was all your sister's bright idea! She was happy in Heaven. She hated being back, I could tell."

"Amara has free will too."

"So that's it," Dean snapped. "We're all just screwed again, huh. I guess that's par for the course, but really—you know what? Screw you. No. Fuck you. Fuck you and your high horse and everything you stand for. I'm glad Cas never got to talk to you. And as long as I'm around, he's never talking to you. I thought my dad was an abusive bastard, but man—you make him look like Mister Rogers. My dad wasn't perfect, but I never once doubted that he loved me and Sam. Even when he messed up, I knew he was only doing what he thought would protect us. So, you go do what you do best—disappear, fuck off, and me, Sam, and Cas—we're gonna figure this out. We'll get my Mom back, and we'll figure out what to do with Jack, and we are gonna kill Lucifer.

"And after that, I'm taking my family and getting the Hell out of dodge. We'll take a beach vacation and stop hunting. For real."

Dean pushed back Chuck, wrapped his hand around the doorknob.

"Dean."

Dean's shoulders tensed.

Chuck sighed. "You don't have to worry about the Empty. When you guys die, you'll get into Heaven. I'll let you all into the same Heaven. That's my gift to you."

Dean was tempted to say thanks, but no thanks. If God wouldn't help them, then Dean didn't want anything from Him.

But Dean was done. He was done talking to this asshole. Cas was on the other side of the door, sick, and Dean had been gone for a while already. Cas was probably worried. Dean turned the knob and entered, quickly closing the door behind him.

Cas was curled on the bed, breath shallow and raspy.

"Hey," Dean said, lowering his voice. He walked to the side of the bed and put the bucket of ice on the nightstand. He opened the Sprite bottle and helped Cas sit up.

"There you go," Dean said, handing the bottle to Cas. "Winchester family secret. Cheaper than Pepto-Bismol and way better tasting." Cas coughed after taking a small sip, but once he finished, he took another, longer sip.

Dean went into the bathroom and grabbed a hand towel. He wrapped it with ice. Cas was lying on his side again. Dean put the ice pack on Cas's neck.

"Dean?" he mumbled into the pillow. "Who were you talking to?"

Dean flinched, and bite his lip. Cas's eyes were closed. Dean glanced over his shoulder, at the sigils that were all painted onto the wall. He looked at the window, where the blinds were still closed. Dean turned back to face Cas and made a decision. "No one," he whispered. "Just go to sleep, Cas. I'll watch over you."