There are two things I need to explain:
First - about the abuse and violence in chapter 6. This chapter concerns the same topic. I was trying to be ambiguous, so that you can decide whether it looks more like Dean hurting Cas or more like Dean trying to stop Cas from hurting himself. Even I don't know which interpretation I prefer.
Second - SPOILER for season 11 ahead (only in the AN, not the story,)
I know that Chuck was revealed to be God in season 11, but I don't think that this plot twist was planned as early as in season 5. Endverse Chuck was meant to be just a regular guy.
I had this chapter written and ready for quite some time, but recently I decided to perform a major surgery on it to replace one part. I did my best to blend the new text into the old one, but I don't have a beta (and as you know one is usually blind to his own mistakes), so if something doesn't make sense (like the characters suddenly teleporting or standing up right after they've stood up) please don't mind it. It'd be wonderful if you dropped me a line so that I could correct the error.
Musical dare: This time, try reading it while listening to "Dust in the wind" by Kansas.
Chuck straightens up to inhale deeply when soft draught blows from the forest encircling the camp. His aching back needs this simple exercise no less than his nostrils needs the scent of pines to oust the sharp smell of chemical fumes rising from three large plastic boxes he is unpacking. This time the plundering squad managed to reach a relatively intact pharmacy. Nonetheless, some phials are broken, some ointments and infusions are expired, many bottles leak. Atop of the chemical, prickling reek wafts a foul stench of mold that feeds on damp cardboard. In spite of being accommodated to it - at least far better than other dwellers of the camp - Chuck hates this part of his job.
The ex-prophet and pill popper hangs around the hospital barrack, checking med supplies and trying to assess needs of newly rescued refugees. He has no real function; leastwise no rank in Deans improvised chain of command. Nonetheless, Chuck sometimes feels like someone between eminence grise and granny-matriarch of the camp. He is probably the only person that knows the location of every piece of equipment and amount of supplies they have left. He is also the first one people approach when they need anything.
It is Dean's strict order that Chuck stay around the weak and those in need. The official version is that years of living on the verge of poverty made the former writer an expert when it came to making bricks without straw. Dean would never admit he still hopes that despite the fact that Chuck's visions are gone, the prophet of the Lord is still protected; Chuck knows that it is the real reason for ordering him to stay near the weak ones anyway. Even if this is just a delusion, it is worth a shot. Past years had all of them gotten used to trusting desperate guesses and taking every slightest chance. They have nothing else left.
Chuck does not mind. Protected or not, he prefers relative safety of Camp Chitaqua to battlefield. Was it not for the duty of unpacking smelly medicaments, he would be content.
There is one more reason that makes his work unpleasant. The closeness of the leader's cabin.
Bawled obscenity makes him budge. The sequence of sounds that follows is ever so familiar: a thump, a moment of silence, slammed door and Dean yelling in low, throaty voice:
"Don't you dare dog me like this, you son of a bitch!"
Cas stands just outside their cabin for a while, dazed and disoriented, then heads towards one of the watchtowers for a calming walk. Chuck observes him for a while, then gets back to running through the boxes and checking their content against the list of needs reported by the refugees.
In moments such as this his writer's acumen is likely to kick in. Sometimes he can't help self-loathing, sometimes it makes him snicker because of how absurd it is. Take these two, for instance. From the moment he met them, over the years of living on the edge Dean and Castiel somehow switched roles. It was Cas now who would fool around telling bad jokes with this devil-may-care attitude that would sometimes crack, revealing a defeated, shattered soul; Dean has turned into an emotionless war machine. It would make a fantastic background for a story. An angel - fierce, wrathful Power Chuck knows from his feverish prophetic visions, a being older than humanity; woven of light and force he effused, scorching everything it touched, is now bound to a group of twitchy, filthy, ailing survivors, not less disoriented than them - and all of it because of one man, whose soul used to be more precious to this angel than the Heavenly Host and who is now just a burnt out, empty shell of a man. Only the shreds of their fights Chuck can't help overhearing reassure him that Dean still has a heart. It is filled with nothing but anger, but it is there. If it was his own idea Chuck would probably have a hard time deciding if it was wonderfully epic or too gloppy to include in a book.
Except that it is real. It is so real that Chuck's stomach cramps with fear and pity, especially in moments such as this. The anticipation of what will follow throbs dully in his chest.
After several minutes Chuck catches a glimpse of a silhouette. Cas is standing halfway between the lavatory and the hospital barrack, hesitant and visibly fighting an internal fight. He sways slightly, then approaches Chuck, dragging a heavy cloud of the smell of weed with him.
"Listen, could I...? I think I might use some company."
Chuck looks up. He knew what to expect, but still the view makes him twitch. Cas's lips are trembling, his pale skin looks almost deathly against the dark shadows under his eyes. His breath is still quickened and jerky.
"Oh, man..." Chuck sighs sympathetically "Sure. Come. Were OK on happy pills if you want some," he runs his fingers through his hair before gesturing for Cas to sit next to him, "Just tell our high and mighty Leader to bring more ligature from next supply run..."
The fallen angel staggers up the stairs onto the porch, while Chuck points at the messy mass of soaked cardboard boxes, phials and blisters of drugs with revulsion.
"But hey, nothing comes free," he adds, trying to sound casual "In exchange you'll have to help me go through these boxes that Yager brought yesterday, arrange and label drugs, check expiry dates, make a list, you know," Chuck babbles uneasily, "Perhaps I'll let you chose something of your liking without reporting it in the inventory," for the first time he dares to look into his friend's eyes, afraid of what he will see. Cas gives him a faint smile meaning that he understands what the offer really means. Refuge. A few hours of purpose and action instead of wandering aimlessly in wait for Dean to calm down.
"You know how to bait me. I can even help you arrange pills by color. I guess I won't be going home until his highness comes down a bit."
Cas sits cross-legged next to the largest container, but he does not seem to be overflowing with enthusiasm. The prophet feels anger swelling in him, fueled by his helplessness. There is something wrong going on between these two - something much worse than should be, given the circumstances.
Chuck finishes browsing through the first box, then opens his mouth to speak, let the air out with a sigh, then works up courage to speak again.
"What was it this time?"
Cas lets out a low, husky, ugly chuckle, then leans back and look up. His lips stretch in a wide, toothy grin, but there isn't even a hint of smile in his eyes.
"It's the same old story over again. Castiel, a former provider of readily and facilely performed miracles, reduced to an useless, juiceless bag of meat. Accepting it takes a significant amount of patience."
Chuck can barely hold his tongue and not remark that the fallen angel indeed is falling apart. There used to be a time when Cas was already deprived of his powers, but he remained a good soldier with lots of stamina in his skinny body; unparalleled in hand-to-hand combat and with cold steel. The prophet just grunts uneasily and decides to let it pass. There is no use of reminding a junkie that he was a junkie.
He sits down on the deck and starts to browse through the looted goods. After a while of awkward silence Chuck speaks again:
"Man, I mean, why don't you do something about it?"
"About not being able to zap myself all over the world? I am doing something about it all the time. If you wish, I will let you try my special soup that takes you for astral journeys."
"Cas, you know what I am talking about. What's wrong? What is he doing to you?"
The fallen angel sniggers and shakes his head while systematically shoveling phials of pills with his hand.
"Oh, that one is interesting," he fishes out an orange plastic tube before examining it under the light, "and looks all right."
Chuck frowns.
"Ya sure? That's some pretty hardcore stuff."
"Hardcore stuff for hardcore problems." The blue-eyed man drops the subject sharply, then slips the tube into the front pocket of his worn out military jacket.
The prophet straightens up, trying tries to give his friend a somber look, anxiously aware that neither his posture, nor his character can make him look serious or respectable. Nonetheless Cas calms down a bit; for the first time during their conversation he really looks Chuck in the eye. His goofy smirk fades away.
"Chuck, I know you are worried. You have your perspective, I have mine. That is all."
"Well, my perspective is that you're turning your brain into mashed potatoes and... uhm, let me guess, the majority of your hardcore problems has one walking talking source... You don't have to stick to him. Look, I know it all may be confusing for an angel, but...you know, just, uhm...oh, man..." Chuck loses his train of thought halfway and just hopes that his sincere concern and compassion will somehow get through to Cas.
Cas sighs. Rays of setting sun soaking through tree branches hit his face as he sits back with his eyes closed. For a moment he is immobile, not even breathing, and just when Chuck is starting to get really worried he speaks in a strangely calm, deep voice.
"You know what I am. What I used to be. I have been here for a very, very long time. I witnessed the creation of Earth. I saw the first things that were there to be seen when the Sun combusted. I witnessed the rise of humanity... and now, in what seems like seconds ago compared to my lifetime, everything I have ever known, everything I have ever believed proves wrong, so forgive me, but saying that I am confused is rather an understatement. I gave up everything to find answers; something to believe in, to rely on. All I've got is...this. And him. He is the one thing I know for sure, one thing that anchors me to sanity. If I let go of it, there's nothing," he slowly turns his head to look at Cas; his eyes seem to emanate soft, blue light that pierces Chuck with bittersweet sorrow, "Do you understand?" he repeats softly, "Nothing."
The prophet grunts uneasily, shifting his weight onto one side. Before he can force words through his tight throat, Cas taps his own thighs energetically like he's just resolved something, gets up and turns towards the stairs, but stops halfway to give Chuck a sidelong glance.
"Anyway..." he begins with a fake cheer, " the problem is not in what he's doing to me. It's in what I'm doing to him. That's why I need these," he pats the pocket; the pills rattle dryly against hard plastic of the phial, "So don't worry. Que sera, sera. All we are is dust in the wind..." he sniggers moonily, shakes his head slowly as if he was astonished by his own thoughts and totters towards his cabin.