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I.
Death is easy, when it comes down to it. It’s closing your eyes to one life and opening it to another. But because most beings rather like the life they’re currently involved in, they fight. It’s the fight that’s painful, but no one can’t really blame them for wanting it. It’s good that they do — good that they’ve poured enough of themselves into it to give it value.
Often, Castiel doesn’t get the chance to fight it. Between exploding because an archangel’s snapped his fingers and exploding because his vessel can’t contain leviathan, his deaths are pretty swift. He closes his eyes to the feeling of sharp, sudden pain, and opens them to a pair of bare feet tucked under a desk, the wheels of a chair, and faux-hardwood floors.
The feet shift. The wheels slide away. The floor creaks. Castiel rolls onto his back and looks up to see Chuck’s bearded face peering at him from over the edge of the desk.
“You’re early again,” says Chuck. He sounds fond. “I don’t remember making you this much of a martyr.”
Castiel licks his lips and croaks out: “Don’t you?” Chuck pushes up his glasses, humming as if he is considering his question seriously, and Castiel flinches as he comes around the desk and kneels next to him. “Please, no — don’t—”
“Shh,” Chuck soothes, petting through Castiel’s hair. “It’s okay. I know.”
“It hurts,” Castiel says, unsure if he means living or dying. “I’m tired.”
“I know,” Chuck tells him. “And I am so, so proud of you. You’ve learned so much, so quickly. You’re more than I ever imagined you would become.”
“Father,” he gasps. “Father, please.”
Chuck snags a tissue from his desk and wipes at the tears squeezing out from Castiel’s eyes. “You’re doing so well, Castiel,” he says and bends to kiss the angel on the forehead. “But—”
(“No, please. Please, let me—”)
“There is still much for you to learn.”
—Stay.
*
When Castiel is gone, thrust back into life and his vessel with as much ease as Chuck could grant him, the only thing that remains behind is a handful of memories. Chuck cradles them gently within his palms and feeds them gently into his computer for safe keeping. These words may never see the light of day, but they are His. Some day, He may even return them.
II.
Castiel doesn’t have to eat. He knows this. He’s dead now and before that, he was an angel — or a god, or something anyway. Something that wasn’t human. He doesn’t have to eat, but because Chuck sets a plate of food in front of him, he eats. It’s all food that he likes — rather, that he’s come to appreciate for their flavor or texture — and Castiel takes small bites around conversation.
It feels, strangely, as if Chuck has picked up a conversation in the middle, and Cas stumbles through responses at first until they reach the middle and things settle out. He can’t stop looking at Chuck as he speaks — and eats and smokes and fiddles with his glasses and drinks and drinks and drinks — but Chuck doesn’t seem to mind.
“How many times have we done this?” Cas ends up blurting out.
“Done what?” Chuck asks.
“This.” Castiel gestures, encompassing with a single turn of his finger the homey atmosphere of the room around them. “It’s not the first time I’ve been here, is it?”
Chuck takes a swig from his glass. He licks his lips. Castiel can’t help the way his brows crease at the sight of it. It’s odd to think of God licking his lips or having lips or even eating, and yet he is watching all these things. He created Man in his image so perhaps it’s not so far-fetched.
“It depends,” Chuck says.
“On?”
“On how you look at it.” A sly smile lights across his lips. “From one perspective, perhaps we’ve only done this a few times. From another, thousands. Does it matter so much?”
“I suppose not,” Castiel grudgingly agrees. “Will you let me remember, this time?”
“No,” Chuck tells him without hesitation. “It would be harder on you if you did.”
“But at least I would know.” Castiel flattens his hands over the table. At least he would know that his Father is real. That he’s paying attention. That he cares, even if it’s in a way that’s inscrutable. At least Cas would know that he’d found God once and knelt in his presence and watched him smile from across the table. “Wouldn’t that make me stronger? I wouldn’t have to rely on so little.”
Softness touches Chuck’s face. “Oh, Castiel.” He covers Cas’ hand. It’s warm, and he turns his hand to grasp it, to keep it if only for a few moments before he’s sent away. “You think so little of your faith,” he says. “Are the memories of this place so important when the only explanation of your life is me?”
Chastized, Castiel bows his head, and when Chuck cups his cheek, he leans into it. There’s comfort in this palm that Castiel has felt no where else. “It isn’t the place that’s important,” he says. “It’s the memories of you.”
III.
“You abandoned me,” Castiel accuses as he shifts away from God. Not truly turning away, but keeping space between them, moving to keep Him in his sights at all times. “You said... You wanted me to let the world end.”
Chuck spreads his hands placatingly. He seems very human for that gesture. “Cas. It was necessary. For the story—”
Castiel bristles all over: “Fuck your story. I died for this world! Twice!”
“Well, I did bring you back. Both times!” Chuck smiles uneasily.
“To civil war,” Cas snarls.
“Which you tidied up quite neatly. Good job, there.”
Cas sinks into the nearest chair. “By taking all the souls in Purgatory and the Leviathan, and slaughtering half of my family.”
“That’s true,” Chuck acknowledges. “But you’ve learned from it, haven’t you? You’ve evolved a lot from what you used to be — blind and obedient. You understand what it is to feel love and grief and betrayal and frustration and happiness.”
“But what good is that,” Castiel demanded. “People are still dying.”
“It’s part of their nature. They’ll all die sooner or later.”
“You should want to stop it!”
“If I wanted to keep people from dying, I would’ve made them immortal. It’s not their deaths that are important, but what they learn in the meantime. To fight their end is human, and I am not.”
“What am I then?” Castiel asks softly.
Chuck touches Castiel’s shoulder. “Human, I think. At least, this time.”