"Tethered by timing, let it undo

Aimless and ripped from the root

Binds you

Why can't you miss me

From the Otherside?"

-"Otherside", Perfume Genius

Jack is.

Every whisper in the wind, every drop of rain, every molecule vibrating across the cosmos…everything is Jack. He takes in a breath and inhales the universe, all of the planets and the galaxies and the stars; and when he exhales, he sends himself out into every particle of life, every molecule, every whisper. He is a force that keeps all things in motion, like the gears of a clock or the rudder of a ship. He is everywhere and everything at once. He is life.

This new state of being is complex. He can be everything and he can be just Jack at the same time. If he wants, he can stretch himself across the whole world like a blanket. He can live in every atom of every being. But right now, he chooses to have a body, a physical form. Right now, he is sitting on a bench in Central Park watching humanity pass by.

A light breeze brushes the chestnut colored hair off of his forehead. He could look like anyone right now, but it feels right to assume the shape that the Winchesters and Castiel would recognize him by. After all, that was the form in which he knew himself best, the form in which he spent his entire earthly life. He can smell a slightly burnt scent coming off the halal cart on the corner, mixed with the damp smell of autumn in the orange and red leaves covering the walkways. Down the path there is a small saxophone ensemble blasting away, their cases open for tips, and a little beyond that, a cluster of dogs yapping at each other and straining against their owner's leashes.

Earth.

Jack feels almost human when he is in this form, and for right now, that is a comfort. How vivid the memories are, of his old self before he became this: of joy, like his first time driving the Impala, hearing his mother's voice, cracking open a beer with the Winchester's; and of pain, like the tearing in his throat when he had been stripped of his powers, the pang of hunger after a long hunt, the agonizing guilt for the atrocities he committed and the people he hurt. Sitting amongst humanity is a reminder of his happiness and his suffering, and by extension, humanity's happiness and suffering.

There is one thing he keeps telling himself, like an instinct, a gut feeling: he mustn't interfere.

A puppet, Dean had called himself. Jack remembers the panic in Dean's eyes, so severe it was almost hysterical. With Chuck pulling the strings, free will was no more than a fantasy. No one was free. Now, with Jack at the helm, he promised that he would not interfere with humanity's freedom, even if it meant that more would suffer while on Earth. Don't interfere.

But the thought grates against him. Humanity is not that simple. If there's one thing he learned from his time with the Winchesters, it is that nothing is ever simple. This feeling—this unease about his choice—lives within him and will not go away. As he begins to grasp the rules and responsibilities that come with Chuck's power, he can't shake the feeling that he is missing something.

He vanishes from the Central Park bench and reappears elsewhere. He leans against a pole in the outskirts of Las Vegas where a beggar reaches out a hand to vacant passersby. He mustn't interfere. He moves again. Now he is on a large fishing vessel in the middle of the Atlantic, the crew nearly overwhelmed by the storm that they were not prepared for. They do not see Jack. He mustn't interfere. Then Jack is in a hospital and the patient at hand has mere seconds to live. He moves again. He is in a metropolis ravaged by war, the buildings on either side of him reduced to rubble and ash. There are children crying—don't interfere—

Jack appears in the bunker.

The lights are still on, but the laptops and backpacks are gone. No beer cans yet. Sam and Dean are out on a hunt. It's strange being back here after everything that transpired with Chuck. It feels almost as if this place, his only real home, should be somehow changed. It looks almost exactly the same as how he left it.

Jack walks through the halls, peers into the boys' rooms—Sam's all organized and Dean's a predictable mess—opens the fridge and closes it again, pulls a book off the shelf and rifles through it. In a few hours they will return, sweaty and tired, but pleased with themselves. They will never know the number of times he will return to this very place, looking for something—answers, maybe, or comfort just from seeing them. But he will never reveal himself to them while they are on Earth.

There is one thing about having Chuck's power that Jack has learned quickly, and it is that answers are not any more apparent to him than before. But there's something about seeing the bunker, seeing their clothes and shoes and empty beer cans, that helps him to know that it is time—time to call upon a friend who will know what to say to him, a friend whom he will not be separated from a moment longer. It is time to fix the the one thing above all others that is wrong.

"Castiel," whispers Jack. An invitation.

Castiel is in the Empty, and Jack can feel him there. He is sleeping, or close to sleeping. His dreams are troubled—but not for long. He feels Castiel awakening, feels his eyes opening, gazing into the darkness and the nothingness of the Empty. He knows that Castiel can feel him too.

"Jack?" whispers the angel.

"It's time," says Jack. His eyes glow a brilliant gold.

And then, in the blink of an eye, Castiel is standing in the bunker, directly in front of him.

The angel is visibly startled, glancing skittishly around him as though he were seeing his surroundings for the first time. Then his eyes, blue and wide, find Jack's. Relief and recognition wash over his face. Castiel moves swiftly forward and embraces Jack.

"Is it really you?" he asks, pulling away and studying Jack's face. His eyes are shining.

Jack is filled with such relief and joy at seeing Castiel that, for a moment, he can hardly speak. "It's really me," he says. "You won't have to worry about the Empty anymore."

Although the separation has not been long, it feels like an eternity since he has seen Castiel. He watches as the angel's expression quickly grows concerned.

"What did you do?"

"I brought you back," says Jack, simply.

"I…I don't remember…" says Castiel, his eyes glazing over. "The Empty was like a…like a dream world. Even now my memories fade…" He looks at Jack seriously. "Why have you brought me back? How? I made a sacrifice for a reason. Is Dean—?"

"Very much alive. And Sam, too," says Jack. "But I didn't bring you back to walk this Earth. I need your help. Your advice."

A flash of danger crosses his face. "With Chuck," growls Castiel.

"Chuck is gone," says Jack. "Well, he's not dead. But he is powerless."

"Powerless? What do you mean?"

"He's only human now," explains Jack. "I took his powers from him."

Castiel studies Jack's face as if checking to see if he is joking. "What do you mean you took them? You mean, you possess the power of—"

"God, yes," says Jack. "But I don't like to think of it that way." With the stunned look on Castiel's face, Jack summons forward two chairs from the nearby table. Their legs squeak across the ground as they move on their own, stopping just behind the two of them. "Would you like to take a seat?"

Castiel sinks into the chair without comment, not taking his stunned eyes off of Jack. Jack settles comfortably into his chair and has a sudden urge to laugh at Castiel's disbelief.

"So that means…" says Castiel slowly. "That means you're God. The new God."

"I prefer my name, actually," says Jack. "I don't want to run things like Chuck did. I want to make them better. That's what I wanted to ask you about."

Castiel perches himself on the edge of his seat, looking curious. "Well, thanks to you, I'm here for you, Jack."

The joy of seeing Castiel and the conflict inside of him are like two crashing waves grating against each other. He looks down at his hands. "I have this feeling, Cass...I don't know how to explain it. I know inside that I need to be hands-off, like what Dean said he wanted. I don't want to control everyone or make anyone do anything. But...that also means a lot of bad things will happen."

Castiel is nodding along with him, and Jack already thinks the angel knows what he trying to say.

"How do I restore balance?" asks Jack. "How do I make it right, make it fair? Do you understand what I am asking?"

Castiel doesn't speak for a moment. He clasps his hands under his chin in thought, staring at the floor. Then he lowers them and stares Jack straight in the eyes. "Yes," he says. "And I have your answer."

Jack sits up a little straighter. "You do?"

"It starts with Heaven," says Castiel. "Chuck was never satisfied with utopia. He was nostalgic, a little too nostalgic. Heaven as it stands now, under his design, is not the paradise that awaits people like Sam and Dean."

Jack frowns. "What it is?"

"It is a place where you relive your greatest memories," says Castiel. "It sounds nice, I suppose, but it was never real."

"So that means…"

"That means the life handed to you on Earth is the life you get in Heaven. No redemption. No reunions. But Heaven could be what Sam and Dean want it to be—what they deserve."

"A true afterlife," says Jack.

"Exactly."

Jack feels the coarse wood of the arm rests under his fingers, drums the edges. He looks at Castiel and breaks into a smile.

"I'll need your help for a few more things," says Jack. "The Empty, for one. And some specifics about Heaven's design."

Castiel gives him an appraising look, his face full of pride, and Jack cannot find the words to express how good that makes him feel. "And you can do all that?" says Castiel.

"Yes," says Jack. "And I'll need you by my side."

He snaps his fingers, and Heaven moves.

My first Supernatural fanfic! Please leave a review! I wasn't planning on make a sequel to this, but if it's something you really want to see, let me know…