Fic: The Tribulation of Chuck (4/5)
Title: The Tribulation of Chuck (Part 4/5)
Characters: Chuck, Cas/Dean, Sam, Missouri Mosely, Lucifer, Crowley, Jesus...etc.
Ratings/Warnings: R/spoilers for season 4, violence, sacrilege (no, really - see character list)
Word Count: 7800
Summary: BOSS FIGHT!
Note: Many thanks to mandolin_1004 for beta reading this and the final chapter at the last minute!
And there was much rejoicing. Chuck couldn’t resist making the Monty Python reference in his head as the party erupted around him. The demons dragged out all the liquor, making a dense forest of bottles on the kitchen table, Missouri started doing shots, and Sam’s laptop suddenly sprouted a playlist of dance beats that Chuck was pretty sure hadn’t been downloaded by legal means.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Crowley announced, holding a drink over the gathered demons, hunters, and apocalyptic hangers-on, “this is quite likely our last night on earth. I propose a toast.”
Glasses and bottles of liquor sloshed as they were hoisted in the air.
Crowley gave his glass of Jager a contemplative look and said, “To humanity. They may be entirely responsible for unleashing this mess of an apocalypse-”
“Hey!” Dean said.
“And an unsettling odor follows them around - sort of a foul musk-”
Missouri elbowed him in the ribs.
Crowley smirked. “But they did invent alcohol, so where would we be without them?”
“To humanity!” the demons echoed, and everyone drank.
The party swung into motion, with drinking games around the table, dancing in the living room, and pockets of conversation and laughter throughout the house. Missouri had even splurged and turned on the air conditioning. Grinning and slightly buzzed, Chuck stumbled into the den to grab his sweatshirt. This was the first time in weeks that he could wear it in temperature-appropriate conditions, and he’d be damned if he was going to waste that opportunity.
He got a couple steps into the room before he stopped, grin dropping.
Jesus was sitting on the floor on the far side of the sofa-bed, knees bent up against his chest and hands in his hair. It looked like he’d tried to dress up - a button-down shirt and an obvious attempt to comb his hair down - but he clearly wasn’t going anywhere.
Sighing, Chuck closed the door. “Hey, dude. What’s up? Why aren’t you out there banging gongs with the rest of them? ”
Jesus shook his head. Chuck rounded the bed to sit next to him and almost tripped. Guilt surrounded the guy like a veil, and Chuck could feel him tugging at the projection, trying to keep it from expanding out into the house.
Chuck sat down beside him, swallowing down what the guilt brought up. Lying to Castiel. Being a virtually useless prophet. Stealing Joey Nguyen’s toy tank in first grade. It took him a second to put together the pieces.
“It’s not your fault if we fail,” he said, clapping Jesus on the knee. “Hell, if you weren’t down here seeking sanctuary, Heaven would probably be forcing you to win for their side, and then where would we be? Freaky Stepford Heaven on earth, that’s where. At least this way, we’ve got a chance.”
No dice. Jesus ducked his head between his knees, and his hands fled again to his hair. The guilt concentrated around him, and this time, Chuck paid attention to it, trying to pick out what had brought it on.
The first full image that the projection pulled out of his mind was his mother chastising him for wasting his time with novels.
“Oh,” he said, swallowing hard. “I think I get it. This isn’t just about the end of the world. You think you’re a disappointment because you’re not living up to your destiny. And not just to us, but to-Jesus, dude, that’s some heavy family pressure.”
Jesus nodded under his hands.
“I know how you feel, man. My parents wanted me to be a dentist. Look how well that worked out.”
Jesus raised his head to look at Chuck, his eyebrows making ripples on his forehead.
“I know, right? Me, a dentist.” Chuck smirked, waving a hand in an arc in front of them. “It even sorta sounds like ‘destiny’ - ‘dentistry.’”
Jesus let out a laugh that turned into a sniffle against his sleeve.
“It’s not on the same scale as yours, but I get it. Someone else lays out a road in front of you and says, ‘Here you go. This is your life.’ Or afterlife, whatever.” Chuck slouched, leaning his head against the wall. “But it doesn’t work that way. That whole free will thing, y’know? I mean, hell, I’m a freaking prophet, and if you asked me point-blank, even I don’t believe in a concrete destiny.”
His mind flew to Castiel’s death scene again, and he pushed it away. “I stopped writing down visions involving myself a long time ago. Mostly it’s because the idea scares the crap out of me, but it’s also sort of a ‘screw you’ to whoever up there is trying to put a road in front of me. I don’t need someone else to tell me where my life’s supposed to go, just like I didn’t need that anatomical tooth model for Christmas when I was nineteen. Thanks, Dad, I got the hint.”
Jesus raised an eyebrow at him.
“Anyway,” Chuck said, “it’s not really my place to give you advice.”
Jesus shook his head quickly and made a summoning gesture with one hand. Go ahead.
Chuck took a deep breath. Telling a messiah what to do was way beyond his pay grade. But the guy was also just his friend who was having a bad night. Shaking off nerves, he said, “You don’t have to do what your parents or destiny or some long-dead holy man’s scrolls say you’re supposed to do. It’s your life - find your own freaking road. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the whole point of living.” He chuckled. “Look at me - I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, I’m about to barrel headlong into the devil’s lair with a hand-me-down shotgun, and I still don’t have a nine-to-five job or a useful degree. But I’m okay with it, because this is the road I chose for myself. If I die tomorrow-”
If he died tomorrow. God, he hadn’t even thought about it. There was a pretty good chance of that, even with the archangel on his shoulder. A chill went down Chuck’s middle. Jesus was waiting for him to finish his sentence. “If I die tomorrow,” he started again, “I think I’ll be okay with that, too. I figured out what was important to me, and I’ll be going out fighting for it. I know you’ve seen a lot of the crappy side of humanity, but I promise there’s a lot of it worth saving, too, I swear.”
Jesus gave him a a soulful look and laid a hand on his shoulder. Next came a pretty clear “What do I do now?” look.
“Stop guilting yourself, for one.”
The projected emotion fizzled and receded. Jesus closed his eyes for a moment, as if willing it quiet inside his head.
Chuck smiled. “Next, you get out of this room and enjoy yourself. It might be your last chance, and there’s pie in the kitchen.”
He followed as Jesus got to his feet, and the two of them started out toward the party. At the door, Jesus paused, stopping Chuck with a hand at his arm. The guy’s mouth was open, like he wanted to say something. Chuck waited for a minute, but nothing came out.
“Come on,” he said, and put on his grin again as he led Jesus out to the party.
***
In the morning, the kitchen was utterly silent. Missouri had cooked up a massive stack of pancakes - waffles’ less hot sister, as far as Chuck was concerned - and somehow even the usual lip-smacking and syrup bottle farts of pancake eating seemed absent. It was him, Missouri, Dean and Castiel, Sam, and for some reason Crowley - who seemed to have invited himself - sitting around the kitchen table with him, and yet no one had spoken. Chuck cut up his pancakes methodically, wondering with each swipe of the knife whether he’d be able to keep them down, if he ever managed to clear the lump in his throat long enough to swallow them. That was probably what everyone else was occupied with, too - pancake mortality thoughts.
Well, that or-
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Missouri said, flinging her cutlery down on her plate. “We’re all thinking it. Will someone just say it already so we can move on?”
Crowley turned to Dean and Castiel and said, a little too eagerly, “Everyone heard you two last night.”
Dean half-choked on a sausage link.
Castiel only gave the demon an inquisitive head tilt. “Really? I would have thought this house had more solid construction than that.”
“My house is plenty solid,” Missouri said, giving her plate a disdainful look. “You’re just loud.”
“Ev-everyone?” Dean stammered, still swallowing.
“Yeah,” Sam said, avoiding eye contact. “I heard the demons in the backyard rating your performance.”
“Jesus couldn’t sleep,” Chuck said. “But if it helps, I’m sure he forgives you.”
***
Jesus didn’t look like forgiveness was on his mind - more despair, really. He sat on the sofa-bed in the den, hugging a pillow to his middle and watching The Breakfast Club on the old laptop for the third time since Chuck had woken up that morning.
“Hey, hon,” Missouri said, setting a box of cookies down on the bedside table. “We’re taking off. Help yourself to-well, anything you like. There are leftover pancakes in the fridge, and I left the liquor cabinet unlocked in case you wanna go that route.”
Jesus nodded, his eyes locked on the screen.
Missouri paused for a second, her bottom lip sucked into her mouth like she was debating saying something, then reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m honored to have met you,” she said, giving him a smile.
That got a reaction out of him. Jesus peeled himself away from the laptop and looked up at her, the edges of his lips curling up slightly. He patted her shoulder in return, then cupped a hand at the back of her neck and drew her down to plant a kiss on her forehead.
Missouri chuckled. “You too.”
Chuck stood at the doorway watching and feeling like he was intruding in someone else’s personal moment. But when Missouri said goodbye and left the room, Jesus turned immediately to him.
“Big goodbye scene,” Chuck said, shrugging as he approached the bed.
Jesus nodded, looking uncomfortable again. On the screen, the brainiac was narrating the group’s letter to Mr. Vernon.
“I love this part.”
Jesus nodded again.
Way to make the end of the world as awkward as possible, Chuck told himself. As he shifted foot to foot, a shape in his hoodie pocket pressed against his side. He pulled it out and handed it to Jesus. “Hey, so, uh, the video rental place down the street had this. I thought you’d like it.”
Jesus opened the DVD case and ran his fingertips over the surface of the Dogma disc.
“And hey,” Chuck added with a forced little laugh, “if we don’t come back, I don’t think you’ll need to worry about returning it.”
The guy smiled up at him in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes and extended a hand to him.
Chuck shook it. Jesus’s hand was warm and a little sweaty.“And, y’know…what she said.”
A shrug.
“Yeah, well.” Chuck shrugged, too, and let go of his hand. “Good luck, man.”
That was it. As Chuck excused himself from the room for the last time, he heard Jesus swapping out discs on the external DVD player.
***
Chuck pretended everyone was just heading out on a big road trip. Yeah, that was it - an epic road trip. With trunks full of weapons. Dean had showed him how to operate the sawed-off that would be his own special prophet weapon this morning, and Chuck stood around while the heroes did hero-talk, holding the gun casually like an action hero on coffee break and trying not to look out of his mind with nerves.
Which he wasn’t, honestly. It surprised him just how not out of his mind with nerves he was. His stomach was a little woobly, but not in an “Oh god oh god we’re all gonna die” way - more in the way it got woobly when he watched the climax of Return of the King. Epic, life-changing crap was going down, but all he could really do was watch it unfold like he knew it would. He supposed he should be sad or upset or maybe rallying with the troops all “A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day!” But Chuck didn’t have it in him. He was just…resigned.
Man, he’d make the worst Gondorian soldier.
Car trunks slammed, Sam hollered orders at some of the demons, and suddenly everyone was piling into cars. Sam, Dean, Missouri, and Bobby led the caravan in the Impala, and Chuck brought up the rear with Castiel in the passenger seat. No one else seemed to want to share the station wagon with them - probably because the moment Castiel had called shotgun, he’d shoved Ace of Base back into the tape deck and cranked up the volume. Crowley approached and did a brisk turn on his heels once he heard the synthesizers, choosing instead to ride with some of his demonic colleagues.
“Time!” Castiel sang.
Chuck echoed, “Time!”
“Close your eyes, see dreams of tomoooorrroooow! Time!”
“Time!”
“The wheels are turning ‘til eternityyyy!”
“And as the darkness comes, I start to see a picture-” they both raised their hands toward the windshield “-of a lonely man, so clearly now, reaching out for meeeee!”
“LEAD ME TO THE LIGHT,” Chuck crooned.
“AND TAKE ME TO THE EDGE OF HEAVEN,” Castiel cried.
“I’M STANDING IN THE NIGHT-”
“LOOKING FOR THE EDGE OF HEAVEN-”
Closing their eyes, they harmonized, “WE’LL BE TOUCHING THE EDGE OF HEAAAVEN!”
“And sail the endless sea-” Castiel started.
“Is Heaven really like that?” Chuck asked, dropping his hand to the steering wheel. Ace of Base continued singing without him.
Castiel’s mouth dropped open slightly. “I’m fairly certain this song is a sex metaphor.”
“Huh.” Chuck frowned at the back of the rusty Bronco in front of them in the caravan. “That puts a lot of their religious imagery in a different light.” Shaking off mental images, he said, “The real Heaven, though - what’s it like?”
Castiel sighed, slumping back in his seat. “Do we have to have this conversation?”
“If I’m gonna die today, I’d like to know what to expect.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“I could die. You don’t know. You’re not a prophet.”
“Have you seen yourself die?” Castiel said, looking concerned.
“Well, no…but I don’t do the Mary Sue visions thing.”
“That’s always puzzled me.” Castiel rested his cheek on his knuckles. “Why not seek out visions of yourself, if you have the ability? Don’t you want to know what’s going to happen to you?”
Chuck’s fingers tightened on the wheel. He didn’t seek out visions of himself because…well, because it seemed like a waste of time. An unnecessary subplot that would get cut in revision anyway. And if he reframed the end of the series to put himself at the center of it, wouldn’t that be like Stephen King level douchiness? Oh ho ho, the writer is the main character, isn’t he so freaking clever! Besides, he wasn’t interesting enough to be a main character. Or important enough. But saying any of that would probably get Castiel on his case, so he simply said, “No.”
Castiel shook his head.
Chuck cleared his throat. “So, Heaven. Do they get Netflix up there?”
“Each individual’s Heaven is different,” Castiel said, his voice lower than usual. “You see what your soul desires to see, based on the life you lived. For some, it’s precious family outings; for others it’s one big moon bounce.”
“Huh.” Chuck tried to think of his own best memories. His first time getting to second base. Late nights on IRC with his college gaming group. The day he found out his first novel was going to be published. Road tripping with Castiel. “What do you think you’ll see?”
Castiel said nothing.
Chuck wished he had an Omega 13 device to hop back 13 seconds in the past and take back the sentence. He’d forgotten - Castiel was a fallen angel. They probably didn’t get back into heaven.
Well, that was frakking depressing. Chuck’s stomach knotted up, and for the first time since they’d started off on this foolish quest, he felt something other than resignation. Swerving the station wagon to a stop, he wrenched his door open and threw up on the roadside.
When he pulled the door shut again, Castiel was already singing along to “Experience Pearls.” Chuck took a deep breath, put his foot back on the gas, and joined in.
***
Sam and Dean’s plan was remarkably unsneaky. They rumbled right up to the front of St. John’s along with their whole freaking entourage of allies and double-parked with the Impala’s speakers blaring. Even from his parking spot down the block, Chuck could make out the lyrics of Styx’s “Renegade” echoing across the churchyard.
“You sure this is a good idea?” he asked as they all gathered on the sidewalk.
“This will draw Lucifer’s minions right to us so we can fight ‘em,” Dean said.
“Unless they hate Styx,” Sam added, and his brother gave him a look like he’d just said something horribly offensive.
But Lucifer’s minions didn’t seem to have a problem with Styx. They appeared around the foundation of the church, poured from the front doors, and formed a blockade of neat lines in front of the building.
Sam’s eco-friendly demon army grouped into a much less organized formation on the sidewalk. Bobby stepped out in front of them, Ruby’s demon-killing knife strapped to his chest along with a belt of holy water vials. He hoisted his rock salt rifle over his head, and for a second, Chuck saw King Théoden. But this leader didn’t make a speech. He just gave Sam’s assembled demons a look like he’d rather be dealing with pre-schoolers, shook his head, and said, “All right, kids. Let’s kick it in the ass.”
And with that, the demon armies ran to meet each other, weapons upheld. Chuck cringed behind his sawed-off as the first blows fell.
“Well, that was rather crude,” Crowley said.
“Okay,” Sam said, gesturing for the others to follow him. He led Dean, Castiel, Missouri, Crowley, and Chuck through the small grove of trees beside the church and around the flank of the building, where the sounds of battle dimmed. Stopping just under the last of their tree cover, he said, “Missouri, where’s the next easy access point?”
“Basement door,” she said, pointing. “It goes through the storage room and comes out in the community room. I helped set up the manger scene one year.”
“Perfect,” Dean said, starting forward.
Chuck grabbed his arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Uh, into the battle that decides the fate of the earth?” Dean said, yanking his arm away.
Chuck scoffed. “Not before you hug your brother, you’re not!”
Sam and Dean exchanged perplexed looks.
Crowley ran a hand across his face like he couldn’t believe he was here with these people.
“What?” Sam tried.
Chuck gave them both his most intense action hero scowl. “Look. If there’s one complaint that my books about your stupid lives have gotten more than any other, it’s that you two don’t hug each other enough when you should.” He glared at them both. When they just stared back at him with matching “The prophet’s lost his marbles” expressions, he threw his arms up in the air. “It’s the end of the goddamn world - for the love of crap, do you need a neon sign?”
“But-” Dean started.
“Honey, don’t,” Missouri said, at the same time that Castiel said, “Shut up, Dean.”
“He’s right,” Crowley said, inspecting his watch. “I’ve read one of those books, and there were some grade-A macho gender tropes in it. If I didn’t know the author, I’d think you two were extensions of his own need to prove his hypermasculinity.”
“Hey, I’m plenty masculine!” Chuck said.
“Of course you are, lad,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “Now, will you two please hug so we can get on with trying not to get ourselves killed?”
Sam and Dean faced each other, extended their arms and pulled each other into a hug. It was awkward and forced for a moment, but Sam’s hand took a fistful of Dean’s jacket and Dean pressed his cheek hard into his brother’s shoulder, and the whole thing drifted into Lifetime Movie Network territory real quick.
“All right,” Dean barked. “Now, can we please get in there?”
“One more thing,” Castiel said, and dragged him into a kiss.
Crowley gave a low whistle.
“Now we can go,” Castiel said, breaking away. Dean stared at him, stunned.
“Keep behind me,” Sam said, retrieving his angel-killing sword from its sheath as he stepped out from under the trees.
The dying chords of “Renegade” and the sounds of slaughter - hopefully the other guy’s side - rode with them to the basement door. Sam raised his hand to the door and focused for a second, and the lock clicked. Dean passed him a disapproving look as they snuck inside. The clashing and shooting and screaming muffled as the door shut behind them, leaving them alone in the unlit basement room.
Missouri paused, turning her head like she was trying to make out a distant sound. “He’s upstairs, in the tower. He’s waiting for us - I can feel it.”
“Anyone between us and him?” Sam said.
“No.” Missouri frowned. “Cocky bastard.”
“Lead on,” Dean said.
Missouri took up the lead beside Sam, bringing them into the community room and up the stairs. The basement of the church was all modern facilities, and the stillness of it and the nerves in the air made Chuck feel like he was in one of those video games where the music fades out and something leaps out at you from the shadows. He hated those games. All he’d ever been good at were text-based adventures.
Aw, crap. This was so not the time to start thinking about being eaten by a grue.
Their footsteps landed on carpet for the first half of the stairs up, then hit stone and began to echo softly at the landing. The group tried to tread quietly, but by the time they reached the church’s main room, the shuffle of six sets of feet was just too much to pretend to be quiet. Missouri strode out ahead of the group, the tapping of the heels of her clogs echoing from one stained glass window to the next.
Chuck’s gaze clung to the windows. They were all symbols - the cross, the burning bush, the flaming sword - and he knew one of them had to be the dove. Beside him, he heard Castiel swallow a gasp.
The dove window was just over the altar, fifty yards in front of them.
Chuck gripped Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel swallowed, quickening his steps. Missouri tossed them a glance from the front, her mouth a tight line.
The walk to the front of the church seemed to take hours. Chuck’s heart hammered in his ears, choking off his other thoughts. He closed his eyes and tried to write on the blank wall in his mind, laying out a better story about how this went.
Lucifer expected them to come a different route than they did, and when he turned around, Dean had already pulled the trigger on the Colt and Sam was ramming a sword through his gut. He toppled from the tower, landing in a lifeless heap on the stone. Everyone cheered. The apocalypse was over, and everything was all right.
“This is it,” Sam whispered as they turned right at the altar and faced the stairs to the tower. He gave Missouri, Crowley, Castiel, and Chuck a stern look. “Thank you - all of you. Stay here until-”
“Until you give the signal,” Missouri said, shaking her head.
“Right,” Dean said, unholstering the Colt.
Sam and Dean went up the stairs, disappearing around the bend.
Chuck craned his neck to try to see up the hollow center of the tower to the top. “What’s the signal? I missed it.”
“Idiot number one calls something snarky at the devil,” Crowley said.
“Oh, Lucy,” Dean’s voice echoed down the tower, “we’re home!”
“That would be it,” Castiel said, his voice shaking.
“That’s the best he can come up with?” Crowley sneered.
Missouri elbowed him. “Give the boy a break, he’s under a lot of pressure.”
They started up the stairs, weapons drawn - Crowley and Chuck with the Winchesters’ spare guns, Missouri with a blessed sword and dagger that Bobby had brought from home, and Castiel preparing to light the first of a series of holy oil-soaked Molotovs from the bag strapped to his hip. Overhead, a gunshot rang out and something heavy hit the floor.
Crowley grabbed a whistle from his coat pocket and blew it, producing no sound.
“What was that?” Chuck hissed.
“Dog whistle,” Crowley said with a dangerous look. “Reinforcements.”
Chuck had never heard hell hounds in person before, but he recognized the sound of their growls as it echoed in from the front doors of the church. It tore a shiver out of him.
But the moment they reached the top of the tower, Chuck recognized another sound he’d written but never heard in person - a scream of pure grief.
“SAAAMMM!”
Sam was okay, Chuck wrote in his head. It was just a fake-out. He got up from where he’d been knocked down, stabbed Lucifer in the heart, and kicked the devil’s corpse into the gap. The apocalypse was over, and everything was all right.
They ran the last few steps to the top. The tower room was a small square space with a gap in the floor beneath the hanging bells. Dean clung to the far wall over a series of cracking floorboards, the Colt hanging limply from his mangled hand. Opposite him, Lucifer held Sam over the gap in the floor by-
“Oh god,” Missouri gasped, tears starting down her cheeks.
The angel-killing sword protruded from Sam’s front, holding him up by his ribs.
Chuck had time to think one thing: CRAP.
Then Lucifer glanced over at them with a polite smile. “Hello, kids. I’m glad you came.” He let go of the sword hilt as easily as dropping a pebble, and Sam fell into the gap. Metal and flesh hit the stone floor two stories down, and selfishly, Chuck was glad he’d already thrown up everything in his stomach.
Dean bit down a sob. “You son of a bitch!”
“Language,” Lucifer scolded with a smirk. “My, my, you sound almost like you didn’t expect this to happen. Somebody’s got an overactive sense of ambition.” Holding Dean’s gaze, he gave a golf clap. “Though I’m impressed, as always, with your swagger.”
Growls resonated up the tower, and the sound of great claws scrabbling up the wooden stairs. Crowley pressed himself against the wall and motioned for the others to do the same.
Missouri crept to the back of the group and started down the stairs, staying flat against the wall. Chuck felt a leap of hope in his chest.
The hellhounds made short work of Lucifer, Missouri retrieved the sword to finish the job, and they brought Sam back with a spell the next day, right as rain. The apocalypse was over, and everything was all right.
“I’m gonna kill you,” Dean seethed, grabbing the Colt in his left hand.
“Oh, you might have, according to Heaven’s backup plan,” Lucifer said.
Dean pulled the trigger.
…and Lucifer caught the bullet in his hand. “There are only so many of you champions who might have been able to do it. Two, to be exact - you and your dearly departed brother. And I’ve got you here, minus the one weapon that could maybe kill me. Once you’re out of the way, I can move on with the rest of my plans uninterrupte-”
Howls drowned him out, and Chuck felt the stairs shake as Crowley’s hell hounds galloped up to the bell tower. Their heat rushed right past him, a bristle of fur brushing his arm. The sounds of their bodies rumbled straight at Lucifer.
He froze them with a look. “Do you mind? We’re having a conversation here.”
The hell hounds whimpered.
Lucifer gave them a sour look, and his gaze flicked up to Crowley. “Find your master.”
Crowley pushed off from the wall, swearing under his breath, and sprinted down the stairs. A thundering of clawed feet and a rush of hot breath followed him.
In between the thuds of his own heart in his ears, Chuck heard the race continue out into the altar room. And Crowley’s scream, followed by a frenzied round of gunshots. And a tearing sound he hoped wasn’t what he thought it was.
Lucifer listened impatiently. “And his sneaky psychic friend, too, if you would,” he called.
Chuck’s heart stopped. Below came another scrabble of paws. He peered down into the gap and saw Missouri slash her sword at the air. The hell hound shrieked, an arc of blood falling on the floor. Something heavy fell, a puddle starting beneath it.
A second invisible body hit Missouri in the chest, toppling her over as she struck blindly at it with her dagger. Chuck squeezed in closer to the wall and Castiel so he couldn’t see anymore.
“Now,” Lucifer said, giving Dean an apologetic look, “where were we?”
“This-this was your plan all along?” Dean said, his voice thick with tears.
“Ah, yes, the monologue.” Lucifer smiled smugly. “I find those tedious, don’t you? Yes, this was my plan all along. You and your little dog, too; when everyone is special, no one will be; maniacal laughter, and so on. How about we skip the gloating and move on to the me killing you?”
“NO!” Castiel yelled.
Lucifer raised his fist to his mouth and gave it a light blow. The bullet he’d caught flew from his hand and caught Dean in the chest, buckling him over sideways with a choked sound.
No. No, no, nonono. The apocalypse was over, and everything was all right. The apocalypse was over, and everything was all right. Everything was all right. Everything was all-
Castiel lobbed a holy oil Molotov at Lucifer and ran left toward Dean. The cracked boards broke apart under his feet, and he scrambled against the wall, grabbing the gaps between stones to pull himself along. “Dean,” he gasped, kneeling beside the hunter’s body.
“Oh, this is just pathetic,” Lucifer said, and snapped his fingers.
Castiel’s body lurched upright and flew across the gap to Lucifer.
He grabbed the former angel by the throat and held him over the gap, peering at him with a look of mild annoyance. “It’s over, little brother. You, and this whole world, are headed to Hell.”
“Screw you,” Castiel hissed, clawing at Lucifer’s hand.
“Let him go!” Chuck yelled.
Lucifer sighed dramatically and rolled his head toward Chuck. “At the risk of sounding like a Disney villain… Or what?”
Chuck fired at the church bells. They clanged against each other with such force that Chuck felt the sound in his ribcage. He raised his hands to his ears, cringing.
So did Lucifer, letting go of Castiel.
Castiel seemed to hang in midair for a moment. Then he fell. Chuck jumped forward to look over the railing and saw Castiel land hard on something invisible. A yelp rent the air alongside the bells, and both Castiel and the last hell hound hit the ground. Castiel, at least, seemed to wince and move after.
Chuck whooped, the sound getting lost amidst the cacophony. The moment of victory was short-lived as he realized three things:
1. Everyone else was lying dead around them.
2. Neither of them had the angel-killing sword.
and
3. He was alone in the tower room with Lucifer glaring at him.
So screwed. So very, deeply, completely screwed. Maybe they could at least get away. Chuck raised the sawed-off again. Cans on a fence, he told himself. Cans on a fence.
In three quick shots, he hit Lucifer twice in the lower legs, sending him toppling over long enough to make an escape. The stairs echoed almost as loudly as the bells under his feet as he sprinted and jumped back down to the first floor.
Oh god. There was blood everywhere. His friends’ blood. Chuck swallowed, running to Castiel’s side and helping him up. “Come on, we’ve gotta get out of here.”
“No,” Castiel said, wiping blood away from his upper lip. “Give me-give me two minutes-”
“In two minutes you’ll be dead!” Chuck cried.
Castiel cringed as he put weight on his left leg, but he moved to Sam’s body anyway, gripped the sword still in him, and pulled.
Chuck swallowed again. “Ugh. That’s-that’s still got some Sam on it.”
“Maybe that will be enough,” Castiel said. “The blood of a champion, just not the champion himself.”
Overhead, the clanging of the bells halted. A shadow appeared in the floor between Chuck and castiel, and they both stumbled backwards.
“Crap,” Chuck heard himself say. “Boss fight.”
Lucifer landed with a surprising lack of pomp and circumstance - just a frown and a small sound of rubber against stone. One of his feet landed in a pool of blood, spattering red up the sides of his sneakers, and he took a moment to wipe his shoe off on Sam’s jeans before he stepped forward toward the two remaining members of the special probably-all-gonna-die mission.
Chuck and Castiel backed up as Lucifer approached, stepping out of the tower. A few paces back, Chuck felt his shoulder knock into the altar. The afternoon sun poured in through the stained glass window behind the altar, casting the shape of the dove on the floor.
There went his heartbeat again, disappearing. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t just his heart but all the sounds around him that had stopped - all of them drowned out except for the faint ringing echo the bells had left in his head.
He watched it happen like he watched his visions happen.
Lucifer came for him first, roped a hand around his neck and dangled him over the bodies of his friends, saying something - probably something smug and threatening.
Castiel yelled and ran forward, driving the blade of the angel-killing sword into Lucifer’s side.
Lucifer swayed, grimacing. He dropped Chuck to the floor.
For a moment, Chuck thought it had worked. The devil was going to keel over dead in front of them, and they’d have to figure out a way to bring back the rest of their friends, but hey, this was the Winchester Gospels, right? They’d saved the world. They’d find a way. There was always a way. There was always-
Chuck’s hearing flooded back in a rush, just in time to hear Lucifer snarl. The devil whirled around and snapped the sword from Castiel’s hands. Before Castiel could react, Lucifer ran the sword into his middle and pushed him over onto the floor.
Castiel made a horrible sound in his throat.
Lucifer just sneered. “You really thought you could save him, Castiel? Shame they took your good sense along with your grace.”
“CAAASS!” Chuck screamed.
“Oh goodie, alone with the prophet,” Lucifer said, shaking his head. A whistle came from outside the church, and he sighed. “I’ll snap your neck in a minute - it sounds like I need to check on my cannon fodder. If you need anything between now and your untimely death, I’ll be outside killing the rest of your forces with my mind.”
Chuck couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. He crawled over to Castiel, stumbling over part of a hell hound, and slumped beside him. His friend’s eyes were wide open and dilated, and blood pooled thickly beneath him.
“Castiel?” he tried, smoothing back his hair. “Cas, can you hear me? I’m here, buddy. You’re not alone. You’re not alone.”
Not a breath. Not a blink. Castiel was already gone.
“Cas,” Chuck whispered, his voice fading in his throat. He’d failed. He’d failed his best friend, the heroes who’d put up with him, and probably the whole of humanity. He felt hollowed out, a third-person narrator without a voice.
Please, he begged silently. Please, don’t let it end like this. Please.
It couldn’t end like this. It wasn’t right - it wasn’t fair! The hollow space inside him filled with rage. No. He wouldn’t let it end like this - not if he could help it. His limbs forced him up, and he started to walk, then run.
Lucifer was halfway up the center aisle of the church when Chuck took a running leap at him from behind. He made an “Oof!” noise when the prophet hit his back and latched scrawny arms around his throat. Chuck scratched at him with his fingertips, kicked his heels into Lucifer’s legs, and-holy crap, he realized as he did it-he was biting the devil’s neck.
He kicked Lucifer in the groin, and Lucifer leaned forward with a growl. “What are you, four?”
“Take it back!” Chuck shouted. “All of it - all of them! Take it back!”
Lucifer reached back, trying to pry the prophet off him, but couldn’t quite reach. “There are no take-backs in the apocalypse! And I will rend you limb from limb once I get my hands on you!”
Chuck bit one of his fingers. “Go ahead and try! I’ve got an archangel watching my ass for just such an occasion.”
Lucifer threw his head back, barely missing Chuck’s nose, and cackled. “Hell’s attack dogs bow to my commands and shirk away at the sight of me - you really think Heaven’s attack dogs are any different?” He grabbed one of Chuck’s ankles and yanked, making Chuck’s grip on his neck loosen-
A crack echoed through the church, and light flooded in from the front doors.
Chuck slipped from Lucifer’s back onto the ground, hands to his ears and face to the floor. It took him a few seconds to realize that the usual archangel voice wasn’t trying to tear his eardrums apart. And Lucifer wasn’t moving to kill him.
Chuck raised his head from the floor and peered between Lucifer’s legs at the source of the light.
Jesus stood in the doorway, light radiating from his outstretched hand, wearing hand-me-down cargo jeans and a wolf t-shirt. He was glaring straight at Lucifer with the most intense focus Chuck had ever seen on him. Chuck scooted behind a pew, out of Lucifer’s reach.
“Oh, it’s you,” Lucifer said, sounding slightly less confident than a minute ago. “Come to concede defeat?”
Jesus shook his head and took a step forward.
Lucifer stepped back, passing Chuck’s row of pews. “Come to destroy me and claim victory for Heaven, then? As if you could.”
Jesus shook his head again, his frown deepening as he took another step forward. Understanding passed between them.
Lucifer’s eyes widened. “I’ll never go back there. That cage was-it was beyond Hell. You can’t imagine.”
Jesus continued toward him, dropping his arms to his sides.
Lucifer laughed. “You can’t make me surrender - who do you think you are?”
Jesus stopped four rows down the aisle, opened his mouth, and projected.
It was like the wave of emotion Chuck had felt him project in the den the day before, only stronger, and aimed right at Lucifer: pain. Even from a distance, the second-hand exposure was enough to knock Chuck to his side, wracked with sobs. Two-thousand years of humanity’s ugly side came with the projection. Chuck saw the events unfold rapid-fire, like frames of an animated gif: wars, hatred, stonings, assaults, ostracizing, and atrocities he didn’t even have names for.
So this was what had turned Jesus silent - two millennia of pain issued by and against the human race he’d tried to protect, pain he was powerless to stop from the distance of Heaven. The guilt was suffocating - and contagious. Chuck felt the worst things he’d done welling up inside him once more, and then some. So, apparently, did the devil.
Lucifer screamed and dropped to his knees. “I’m sorry!” he cried, bowing his head to the floor with a sob. “I’m-I’m so sorry! Oh, Father, all that I’ve done-all the pain I’ve caused-I’m sorry! Mercy-penance-please-”
Jesus closed the distance between them and laid his hand on Lucifer’s head.
Lucifer nodded. “Yes-yes, thank you…”
Light poured from Jesus’s palm, engulfing the room.
Chuck squeezed his eyes shut behind his hands. All sound and sensation drowned out for a minute, and then the room felt like it had when they’d first entered the church - except calmer, and with something missing.
The light flooding in between Chuck’s fingers faded, and Jesus’s projection ceased pulling him apart. When all he could see behind his hands was the vague red of sunlight through his fingers, he parted them and looked up. Lucifer was gone - back in his cage.
Jesus saves, Chuck thought - the rest of you take half damage. Oh…oh, god. The rest of them.
Jesus stood a short distance away, holding something small and bright between his open hands. Chuck rose to his feet, peering at the thing. He thought he knew what it was, but when he got close, he was sure.
Jesus held Castiel’s grace.
Chuck swallowed. “Did you take that from Lucifer?”
Jesus nodded, peering at the grace with a bit of a frown.
Chuck couldn’t breathe for a second. He blinked back tears. “A-are you gonna…?”
Jesus looked up at him with his brow furrowed and his lower lip drawn in, then looked back down to Castiel’s grace. He pushed his hands at Chuck. The gesture was a clear “You take it,” like he was handing back a baby he was nervous about dropping.
Chuck cupped his hands and let the ball of grace-light roll into them. It was cushiony, with a slight weight, and it reminded him a little of the hacky sack bags he’d played with in college. But it was also warm - so warm - and had within it something like a tiny heartbeat. Chuck cradled it against his chest. “Hey, Cas,” he whispered.
Jesus turned, his feet padding softly against the floor as he started away.
“Wait,” Chuck said. “What do I do now?”
The son of God glanced over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows.
“Right. I’m the prophet. I should know this.” Chuck took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Okay. Focus.”
He didn’t have a notebook to write in, so he started writing the scene on a blank wall in his mind. He scrawled the words “Castiel’s grace” to get started, and once he pulled at that plot line, the rest came cascading into place.
The Prophet Chuck held his friend’s grace at his sternum, feeling it flutter like the wings of a sparrow settling onto a perch. His own heart drummed against it, way too loud. The heat that radiated from the grace warmed and calmed him throughout, drying the tears that were still wet on his cheeks. This small thing clutched in his curled fingers was holy. Loving. Powerful. It was an entire life - an eons-long one, at that - encapsulated in one tiny bit of light.
Chuck knelt at Castiel’s side. The former angel was pale, his eyes fixed blankly at a distant part of the floor. Chuck held the angel’s grace against his own chest with one hand, using the other to undo the buttons of Castiel’s shirt. He slid aside the fabric, and there was the scar from where the grace had been torn out, smooth pink skin stretched just a bit too tight.
Chuck lowered Castiel’s grace and placed it very carefully at the center of the scar. Once he was sure it was steady, he removed his hands.
Castiel’s grace flared suddenly, like the appearance of an archangel but without the quaking or impending sense of doom. A sense of peace spread throughout the room. He felt it reach into the hearts of everyone there as if they were his own, spilling light in to break up their remaining doubt and fear.
The grace sank through Castiel’s chest, the last of its glow lingering in a round patch just under the skin. Color flooded back into his face, and Chuck suddenly found his hands shaking. Castiel’s grace had been ripped from him months ago, before they’d gotten to know each other. Before Castiel had stopped being that imposing supernatural messenger of bad news and started being his friend.
His friend. What if that wasn’t the Castiel that this would bring back?
Castiel blinked hard, and his eyes took on that spacey angelic stare he’d been known for. He sat up slowly, his lips parted, taking in the room first, and then himself. He traced his fingers across the glowing patch of light at his chest as it faded, and then looked over at Chuck and narrowed his eyes.
“I am Iron Man,” he said, his voice hoarse.
The prophet Chuck gasped in tears and pulled his friend into a hug so tight it probably would have broken the ribs of a mortal man. The angel Castiel only laughed.
With his newly restored grace, the angel brought his fallen allies back to life. Each rose from the floor better than before, their blood wiped clean. Finding Lucifer gone, they cried and whooped and hugged each other.
The apocalypse was over - for real, this time. And everything was all right.
Chuck stood with the scene written across the wall in his mind and Castiel’s grace beating in his hands. He smiled, knowing exactly what came next.
Characters: Chuck, Cas/Dean, Sam, Missouri Mosely, Lucifer, Crowley, Jesus...etc.
Ratings/Warnings: R/spoilers for season 4, violence, sacrilege (no, really - see character list)
Word Count: 7800
Summary: BOSS FIGHT!
Note: Many thanks to mandolin_1004 for beta reading this and the final chapter at the last minute!
And there was much rejoicing. Chuck couldn’t resist making the Monty Python reference in his head as the party erupted around him. The demons dragged out all the liquor, making a dense forest of bottles on the kitchen table, Missouri started doing shots, and Sam’s laptop suddenly sprouted a playlist of dance beats that Chuck was pretty sure hadn’t been downloaded by legal means.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Crowley announced, holding a drink over the gathered demons, hunters, and apocalyptic hangers-on, “this is quite likely our last night on earth. I propose a toast.”
Glasses and bottles of liquor sloshed as they were hoisted in the air.
Crowley gave his glass of Jager a contemplative look and said, “To humanity. They may be entirely responsible for unleashing this mess of an apocalypse-”
“Hey!” Dean said.
“And an unsettling odor follows them around - sort of a foul musk-”
Missouri elbowed him in the ribs.
Crowley smirked. “But they did invent alcohol, so where would we be without them?”
“To humanity!” the demons echoed, and everyone drank.
The party swung into motion, with drinking games around the table, dancing in the living room, and pockets of conversation and laughter throughout the house. Missouri had even splurged and turned on the air conditioning. Grinning and slightly buzzed, Chuck stumbled into the den to grab his sweatshirt. This was the first time in weeks that he could wear it in temperature-appropriate conditions, and he’d be damned if he was going to waste that opportunity.
He got a couple steps into the room before he stopped, grin dropping.
Jesus was sitting on the floor on the far side of the sofa-bed, knees bent up against his chest and hands in his hair. It looked like he’d tried to dress up - a button-down shirt and an obvious attempt to comb his hair down - but he clearly wasn’t going anywhere.
Sighing, Chuck closed the door. “Hey, dude. What’s up? Why aren’t you out there banging gongs with the rest of them? ”
Jesus shook his head. Chuck rounded the bed to sit next to him and almost tripped. Guilt surrounded the guy like a veil, and Chuck could feel him tugging at the projection, trying to keep it from expanding out into the house.
Chuck sat down beside him, swallowing down what the guilt brought up. Lying to Castiel. Being a virtually useless prophet. Stealing Joey Nguyen’s toy tank in first grade. It took him a second to put together the pieces.
“It’s not your fault if we fail,” he said, clapping Jesus on the knee. “Hell, if you weren’t down here seeking sanctuary, Heaven would probably be forcing you to win for their side, and then where would we be? Freaky Stepford Heaven on earth, that’s where. At least this way, we’ve got a chance.”
No dice. Jesus ducked his head between his knees, and his hands fled again to his hair. The guilt concentrated around him, and this time, Chuck paid attention to it, trying to pick out what had brought it on.
The first full image that the projection pulled out of his mind was his mother chastising him for wasting his time with novels.
“Oh,” he said, swallowing hard. “I think I get it. This isn’t just about the end of the world. You think you’re a disappointment because you’re not living up to your destiny. And not just to us, but to-Jesus, dude, that’s some heavy family pressure.”
Jesus nodded under his hands.
“I know how you feel, man. My parents wanted me to be a dentist. Look how well that worked out.”
Jesus raised his head to look at Chuck, his eyebrows making ripples on his forehead.
“I know, right? Me, a dentist.” Chuck smirked, waving a hand in an arc in front of them. “It even sorta sounds like ‘destiny’ - ‘dentistry.’”
Jesus let out a laugh that turned into a sniffle against his sleeve.
“It’s not on the same scale as yours, but I get it. Someone else lays out a road in front of you and says, ‘Here you go. This is your life.’ Or afterlife, whatever.” Chuck slouched, leaning his head against the wall. “But it doesn’t work that way. That whole free will thing, y’know? I mean, hell, I’m a freaking prophet, and if you asked me point-blank, even I don’t believe in a concrete destiny.”
His mind flew to Castiel’s death scene again, and he pushed it away. “I stopped writing down visions involving myself a long time ago. Mostly it’s because the idea scares the crap out of me, but it’s also sort of a ‘screw you’ to whoever up there is trying to put a road in front of me. I don’t need someone else to tell me where my life’s supposed to go, just like I didn’t need that anatomical tooth model for Christmas when I was nineteen. Thanks, Dad, I got the hint.”
Jesus raised an eyebrow at him.
“Anyway,” Chuck said, “it’s not really my place to give you advice.”
Jesus shook his head quickly and made a summoning gesture with one hand. Go ahead.
Chuck took a deep breath. Telling a messiah what to do was way beyond his pay grade. But the guy was also just his friend who was having a bad night. Shaking off nerves, he said, “You don’t have to do what your parents or destiny or some long-dead holy man’s scrolls say you’re supposed to do. It’s your life - find your own freaking road. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the whole point of living.” He chuckled. “Look at me - I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, I’m about to barrel headlong into the devil’s lair with a hand-me-down shotgun, and I still don’t have a nine-to-five job or a useful degree. But I’m okay with it, because this is the road I chose for myself. If I die tomorrow-”
If he died tomorrow. God, he hadn’t even thought about it. There was a pretty good chance of that, even with the archangel on his shoulder. A chill went down Chuck’s middle. Jesus was waiting for him to finish his sentence. “If I die tomorrow,” he started again, “I think I’ll be okay with that, too. I figured out what was important to me, and I’ll be going out fighting for it. I know you’ve seen a lot of the crappy side of humanity, but I promise there’s a lot of it worth saving, too, I swear.”
Jesus gave him a a soulful look and laid a hand on his shoulder. Next came a pretty clear “What do I do now?” look.
“Stop guilting yourself, for one.”
The projected emotion fizzled and receded. Jesus closed his eyes for a moment, as if willing it quiet inside his head.
Chuck smiled. “Next, you get out of this room and enjoy yourself. It might be your last chance, and there’s pie in the kitchen.”
He followed as Jesus got to his feet, and the two of them started out toward the party. At the door, Jesus paused, stopping Chuck with a hand at his arm. The guy’s mouth was open, like he wanted to say something. Chuck waited for a minute, but nothing came out.
“Come on,” he said, and put on his grin again as he led Jesus out to the party.
***
In the morning, the kitchen was utterly silent. Missouri had cooked up a massive stack of pancakes - waffles’ less hot sister, as far as Chuck was concerned - and somehow even the usual lip-smacking and syrup bottle farts of pancake eating seemed absent. It was him, Missouri, Dean and Castiel, Sam, and for some reason Crowley - who seemed to have invited himself - sitting around the kitchen table with him, and yet no one had spoken. Chuck cut up his pancakes methodically, wondering with each swipe of the knife whether he’d be able to keep them down, if he ever managed to clear the lump in his throat long enough to swallow them. That was probably what everyone else was occupied with, too - pancake mortality thoughts.
Well, that or-
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Missouri said, flinging her cutlery down on her plate. “We’re all thinking it. Will someone just say it already so we can move on?”
Crowley turned to Dean and Castiel and said, a little too eagerly, “Everyone heard you two last night.”
Dean half-choked on a sausage link.
Castiel only gave the demon an inquisitive head tilt. “Really? I would have thought this house had more solid construction than that.”
“My house is plenty solid,” Missouri said, giving her plate a disdainful look. “You’re just loud.”
“Ev-everyone?” Dean stammered, still swallowing.
“Yeah,” Sam said, avoiding eye contact. “I heard the demons in the backyard rating your performance.”
“Jesus couldn’t sleep,” Chuck said. “But if it helps, I’m sure he forgives you.”
***
Jesus didn’t look like forgiveness was on his mind - more despair, really. He sat on the sofa-bed in the den, hugging a pillow to his middle and watching The Breakfast Club on the old laptop for the third time since Chuck had woken up that morning.
“Hey, hon,” Missouri said, setting a box of cookies down on the bedside table. “We’re taking off. Help yourself to-well, anything you like. There are leftover pancakes in the fridge, and I left the liquor cabinet unlocked in case you wanna go that route.”
Jesus nodded, his eyes locked on the screen.
Missouri paused for a second, her bottom lip sucked into her mouth like she was debating saying something, then reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m honored to have met you,” she said, giving him a smile.
That got a reaction out of him. Jesus peeled himself away from the laptop and looked up at her, the edges of his lips curling up slightly. He patted her shoulder in return, then cupped a hand at the back of her neck and drew her down to plant a kiss on her forehead.
Missouri chuckled. “You too.”
Chuck stood at the doorway watching and feeling like he was intruding in someone else’s personal moment. But when Missouri said goodbye and left the room, Jesus turned immediately to him.
“Big goodbye scene,” Chuck said, shrugging as he approached the bed.
Jesus nodded, looking uncomfortable again. On the screen, the brainiac was narrating the group’s letter to Mr. Vernon.
“I love this part.”
Jesus nodded again.
Way to make the end of the world as awkward as possible, Chuck told himself. As he shifted foot to foot, a shape in his hoodie pocket pressed against his side. He pulled it out and handed it to Jesus. “Hey, so, uh, the video rental place down the street had this. I thought you’d like it.”
Jesus opened the DVD case and ran his fingertips over the surface of the Dogma disc.
“And hey,” Chuck added with a forced little laugh, “if we don’t come back, I don’t think you’ll need to worry about returning it.”
The guy smiled up at him in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes and extended a hand to him.
Chuck shook it. Jesus’s hand was warm and a little sweaty.“And, y’know…what she said.”
A shrug.
“Yeah, well.” Chuck shrugged, too, and let go of his hand. “Good luck, man.”
That was it. As Chuck excused himself from the room for the last time, he heard Jesus swapping out discs on the external DVD player.
***
Chuck pretended everyone was just heading out on a big road trip. Yeah, that was it - an epic road trip. With trunks full of weapons. Dean had showed him how to operate the sawed-off that would be his own special prophet weapon this morning, and Chuck stood around while the heroes did hero-talk, holding the gun casually like an action hero on coffee break and trying not to look out of his mind with nerves.
Which he wasn’t, honestly. It surprised him just how not out of his mind with nerves he was. His stomach was a little woobly, but not in an “Oh god oh god we’re all gonna die” way - more in the way it got woobly when he watched the climax of Return of the King. Epic, life-changing crap was going down, but all he could really do was watch it unfold like he knew it would. He supposed he should be sad or upset or maybe rallying with the troops all “A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day!” But Chuck didn’t have it in him. He was just…resigned.
Man, he’d make the worst Gondorian soldier.
Car trunks slammed, Sam hollered orders at some of the demons, and suddenly everyone was piling into cars. Sam, Dean, Missouri, and Bobby led the caravan in the Impala, and Chuck brought up the rear with Castiel in the passenger seat. No one else seemed to want to share the station wagon with them - probably because the moment Castiel had called shotgun, he’d shoved Ace of Base back into the tape deck and cranked up the volume. Crowley approached and did a brisk turn on his heels once he heard the synthesizers, choosing instead to ride with some of his demonic colleagues.
“Time!” Castiel sang.
Chuck echoed, “Time!”
“Close your eyes, see dreams of tomoooorrroooow! Time!”
“Time!”
“The wheels are turning ‘til eternityyyy!”
“And as the darkness comes, I start to see a picture-” they both raised their hands toward the windshield “-of a lonely man, so clearly now, reaching out for meeeee!”
“LEAD ME TO THE LIGHT,” Chuck crooned.
“AND TAKE ME TO THE EDGE OF HEAVEN,” Castiel cried.
“I’M STANDING IN THE NIGHT-”
“LOOKING FOR THE EDGE OF HEAVEN-”
Closing their eyes, they harmonized, “WE’LL BE TOUCHING THE EDGE OF HEAAAVEN!”
“And sail the endless sea-” Castiel started.
“Is Heaven really like that?” Chuck asked, dropping his hand to the steering wheel. Ace of Base continued singing without him.
Castiel’s mouth dropped open slightly. “I’m fairly certain this song is a sex metaphor.”
“Huh.” Chuck frowned at the back of the rusty Bronco in front of them in the caravan. “That puts a lot of their religious imagery in a different light.” Shaking off mental images, he said, “The real Heaven, though - what’s it like?”
Castiel sighed, slumping back in his seat. “Do we have to have this conversation?”
“If I’m gonna die today, I’d like to know what to expect.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“I could die. You don’t know. You’re not a prophet.”
“Have you seen yourself die?” Castiel said, looking concerned.
“Well, no…but I don’t do the Mary Sue visions thing.”
“That’s always puzzled me.” Castiel rested his cheek on his knuckles. “Why not seek out visions of yourself, if you have the ability? Don’t you want to know what’s going to happen to you?”
Chuck’s fingers tightened on the wheel. He didn’t seek out visions of himself because…well, because it seemed like a waste of time. An unnecessary subplot that would get cut in revision anyway. And if he reframed the end of the series to put himself at the center of it, wouldn’t that be like Stephen King level douchiness? Oh ho ho, the writer is the main character, isn’t he so freaking clever! Besides, he wasn’t interesting enough to be a main character. Or important enough. But saying any of that would probably get Castiel on his case, so he simply said, “No.”
Castiel shook his head.
Chuck cleared his throat. “So, Heaven. Do they get Netflix up there?”
“Each individual’s Heaven is different,” Castiel said, his voice lower than usual. “You see what your soul desires to see, based on the life you lived. For some, it’s precious family outings; for others it’s one big moon bounce.”
“Huh.” Chuck tried to think of his own best memories. His first time getting to second base. Late nights on IRC with his college gaming group. The day he found out his first novel was going to be published. Road tripping with Castiel. “What do you think you’ll see?”
Castiel said nothing.
Chuck wished he had an Omega 13 device to hop back 13 seconds in the past and take back the sentence. He’d forgotten - Castiel was a fallen angel. They probably didn’t get back into heaven.
Well, that was frakking depressing. Chuck’s stomach knotted up, and for the first time since they’d started off on this foolish quest, he felt something other than resignation. Swerving the station wagon to a stop, he wrenched his door open and threw up on the roadside.
When he pulled the door shut again, Castiel was already singing along to “Experience Pearls.” Chuck took a deep breath, put his foot back on the gas, and joined in.
***
Sam and Dean’s plan was remarkably unsneaky. They rumbled right up to the front of St. John’s along with their whole freaking entourage of allies and double-parked with the Impala’s speakers blaring. Even from his parking spot down the block, Chuck could make out the lyrics of Styx’s “Renegade” echoing across the churchyard.
“You sure this is a good idea?” he asked as they all gathered on the sidewalk.
“This will draw Lucifer’s minions right to us so we can fight ‘em,” Dean said.
“Unless they hate Styx,” Sam added, and his brother gave him a look like he’d just said something horribly offensive.
But Lucifer’s minions didn’t seem to have a problem with Styx. They appeared around the foundation of the church, poured from the front doors, and formed a blockade of neat lines in front of the building.
Sam’s eco-friendly demon army grouped into a much less organized formation on the sidewalk. Bobby stepped out in front of them, Ruby’s demon-killing knife strapped to his chest along with a belt of holy water vials. He hoisted his rock salt rifle over his head, and for a second, Chuck saw King Théoden. But this leader didn’t make a speech. He just gave Sam’s assembled demons a look like he’d rather be dealing with pre-schoolers, shook his head, and said, “All right, kids. Let’s kick it in the ass.”
And with that, the demon armies ran to meet each other, weapons upheld. Chuck cringed behind his sawed-off as the first blows fell.
“Well, that was rather crude,” Crowley said.
“Okay,” Sam said, gesturing for the others to follow him. He led Dean, Castiel, Missouri, Crowley, and Chuck through the small grove of trees beside the church and around the flank of the building, where the sounds of battle dimmed. Stopping just under the last of their tree cover, he said, “Missouri, where’s the next easy access point?”
“Basement door,” she said, pointing. “It goes through the storage room and comes out in the community room. I helped set up the manger scene one year.”
“Perfect,” Dean said, starting forward.
Chuck grabbed his arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Uh, into the battle that decides the fate of the earth?” Dean said, yanking his arm away.
Chuck scoffed. “Not before you hug your brother, you’re not!”
Sam and Dean exchanged perplexed looks.
Crowley ran a hand across his face like he couldn’t believe he was here with these people.
“What?” Sam tried.
Chuck gave them both his most intense action hero scowl. “Look. If there’s one complaint that my books about your stupid lives have gotten more than any other, it’s that you two don’t hug each other enough when you should.” He glared at them both. When they just stared back at him with matching “The prophet’s lost his marbles” expressions, he threw his arms up in the air. “It’s the end of the goddamn world - for the love of crap, do you need a neon sign?”
“But-” Dean started.
“Honey, don’t,” Missouri said, at the same time that Castiel said, “Shut up, Dean.”
“He’s right,” Crowley said, inspecting his watch. “I’ve read one of those books, and there were some grade-A macho gender tropes in it. If I didn’t know the author, I’d think you two were extensions of his own need to prove his hypermasculinity.”
“Hey, I’m plenty masculine!” Chuck said.
“Of course you are, lad,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “Now, will you two please hug so we can get on with trying not to get ourselves killed?”
Sam and Dean faced each other, extended their arms and pulled each other into a hug. It was awkward and forced for a moment, but Sam’s hand took a fistful of Dean’s jacket and Dean pressed his cheek hard into his brother’s shoulder, and the whole thing drifted into Lifetime Movie Network territory real quick.
“All right,” Dean barked. “Now, can we please get in there?”
“One more thing,” Castiel said, and dragged him into a kiss.
Crowley gave a low whistle.
“Now we can go,” Castiel said, breaking away. Dean stared at him, stunned.
“Keep behind me,” Sam said, retrieving his angel-killing sword from its sheath as he stepped out from under the trees.
The dying chords of “Renegade” and the sounds of slaughter - hopefully the other guy’s side - rode with them to the basement door. Sam raised his hand to the door and focused for a second, and the lock clicked. Dean passed him a disapproving look as they snuck inside. The clashing and shooting and screaming muffled as the door shut behind them, leaving them alone in the unlit basement room.
Missouri paused, turning her head like she was trying to make out a distant sound. “He’s upstairs, in the tower. He’s waiting for us - I can feel it.”
“Anyone between us and him?” Sam said.
“No.” Missouri frowned. “Cocky bastard.”
“Lead on,” Dean said.
Missouri took up the lead beside Sam, bringing them into the community room and up the stairs. The basement of the church was all modern facilities, and the stillness of it and the nerves in the air made Chuck feel like he was in one of those video games where the music fades out and something leaps out at you from the shadows. He hated those games. All he’d ever been good at were text-based adventures.
Aw, crap. This was so not the time to start thinking about being eaten by a grue.
Their footsteps landed on carpet for the first half of the stairs up, then hit stone and began to echo softly at the landing. The group tried to tread quietly, but by the time they reached the church’s main room, the shuffle of six sets of feet was just too much to pretend to be quiet. Missouri strode out ahead of the group, the tapping of the heels of her clogs echoing from one stained glass window to the next.
Chuck’s gaze clung to the windows. They were all symbols - the cross, the burning bush, the flaming sword - and he knew one of them had to be the dove. Beside him, he heard Castiel swallow a gasp.
The dove window was just over the altar, fifty yards in front of them.
Chuck gripped Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel swallowed, quickening his steps. Missouri tossed them a glance from the front, her mouth a tight line.
The walk to the front of the church seemed to take hours. Chuck’s heart hammered in his ears, choking off his other thoughts. He closed his eyes and tried to write on the blank wall in his mind, laying out a better story about how this went.
Lucifer expected them to come a different route than they did, and when he turned around, Dean had already pulled the trigger on the Colt and Sam was ramming a sword through his gut. He toppled from the tower, landing in a lifeless heap on the stone. Everyone cheered. The apocalypse was over, and everything was all right.
“This is it,” Sam whispered as they turned right at the altar and faced the stairs to the tower. He gave Missouri, Crowley, Castiel, and Chuck a stern look. “Thank you - all of you. Stay here until-”
“Until you give the signal,” Missouri said, shaking her head.
“Right,” Dean said, unholstering the Colt.
Sam and Dean went up the stairs, disappearing around the bend.
Chuck craned his neck to try to see up the hollow center of the tower to the top. “What’s the signal? I missed it.”
“Idiot number one calls something snarky at the devil,” Crowley said.
“Oh, Lucy,” Dean’s voice echoed down the tower, “we’re home!”
“That would be it,” Castiel said, his voice shaking.
“That’s the best he can come up with?” Crowley sneered.
Missouri elbowed him. “Give the boy a break, he’s under a lot of pressure.”
They started up the stairs, weapons drawn - Crowley and Chuck with the Winchesters’ spare guns, Missouri with a blessed sword and dagger that Bobby had brought from home, and Castiel preparing to light the first of a series of holy oil-soaked Molotovs from the bag strapped to his hip. Overhead, a gunshot rang out and something heavy hit the floor.
Crowley grabbed a whistle from his coat pocket and blew it, producing no sound.
“What was that?” Chuck hissed.
“Dog whistle,” Crowley said with a dangerous look. “Reinforcements.”
Chuck had never heard hell hounds in person before, but he recognized the sound of their growls as it echoed in from the front doors of the church. It tore a shiver out of him.
But the moment they reached the top of the tower, Chuck recognized another sound he’d written but never heard in person - a scream of pure grief.
“SAAAMMM!”
Sam was okay, Chuck wrote in his head. It was just a fake-out. He got up from where he’d been knocked down, stabbed Lucifer in the heart, and kicked the devil’s corpse into the gap. The apocalypse was over, and everything was all right.
They ran the last few steps to the top. The tower room was a small square space with a gap in the floor beneath the hanging bells. Dean clung to the far wall over a series of cracking floorboards, the Colt hanging limply from his mangled hand. Opposite him, Lucifer held Sam over the gap in the floor by-
“Oh god,” Missouri gasped, tears starting down her cheeks.
The angel-killing sword protruded from Sam’s front, holding him up by his ribs.
Chuck had time to think one thing: CRAP.
Then Lucifer glanced over at them with a polite smile. “Hello, kids. I’m glad you came.” He let go of the sword hilt as easily as dropping a pebble, and Sam fell into the gap. Metal and flesh hit the stone floor two stories down, and selfishly, Chuck was glad he’d already thrown up everything in his stomach.
Dean bit down a sob. “You son of a bitch!”
“Language,” Lucifer scolded with a smirk. “My, my, you sound almost like you didn’t expect this to happen. Somebody’s got an overactive sense of ambition.” Holding Dean’s gaze, he gave a golf clap. “Though I’m impressed, as always, with your swagger.”
Growls resonated up the tower, and the sound of great claws scrabbling up the wooden stairs. Crowley pressed himself against the wall and motioned for the others to do the same.
Missouri crept to the back of the group and started down the stairs, staying flat against the wall. Chuck felt a leap of hope in his chest.
The hellhounds made short work of Lucifer, Missouri retrieved the sword to finish the job, and they brought Sam back with a spell the next day, right as rain. The apocalypse was over, and everything was all right.
“I’m gonna kill you,” Dean seethed, grabbing the Colt in his left hand.
“Oh, you might have, according to Heaven’s backup plan,” Lucifer said.
Dean pulled the trigger.
…and Lucifer caught the bullet in his hand. “There are only so many of you champions who might have been able to do it. Two, to be exact - you and your dearly departed brother. And I’ve got you here, minus the one weapon that could maybe kill me. Once you’re out of the way, I can move on with the rest of my plans uninterrupte-”
Howls drowned him out, and Chuck felt the stairs shake as Crowley’s hell hounds galloped up to the bell tower. Their heat rushed right past him, a bristle of fur brushing his arm. The sounds of their bodies rumbled straight at Lucifer.
He froze them with a look. “Do you mind? We’re having a conversation here.”
The hell hounds whimpered.
Lucifer gave them a sour look, and his gaze flicked up to Crowley. “Find your master.”
Crowley pushed off from the wall, swearing under his breath, and sprinted down the stairs. A thundering of clawed feet and a rush of hot breath followed him.
In between the thuds of his own heart in his ears, Chuck heard the race continue out into the altar room. And Crowley’s scream, followed by a frenzied round of gunshots. And a tearing sound he hoped wasn’t what he thought it was.
Lucifer listened impatiently. “And his sneaky psychic friend, too, if you would,” he called.
Chuck’s heart stopped. Below came another scrabble of paws. He peered down into the gap and saw Missouri slash her sword at the air. The hell hound shrieked, an arc of blood falling on the floor. Something heavy fell, a puddle starting beneath it.
A second invisible body hit Missouri in the chest, toppling her over as she struck blindly at it with her dagger. Chuck squeezed in closer to the wall and Castiel so he couldn’t see anymore.
“Now,” Lucifer said, giving Dean an apologetic look, “where were we?”
“This-this was your plan all along?” Dean said, his voice thick with tears.
“Ah, yes, the monologue.” Lucifer smiled smugly. “I find those tedious, don’t you? Yes, this was my plan all along. You and your little dog, too; when everyone is special, no one will be; maniacal laughter, and so on. How about we skip the gloating and move on to the me killing you?”
“NO!” Castiel yelled.
Lucifer raised his fist to his mouth and gave it a light blow. The bullet he’d caught flew from his hand and caught Dean in the chest, buckling him over sideways with a choked sound.
No. No, no, nonono. The apocalypse was over, and everything was all right. The apocalypse was over, and everything was all right. Everything was all right. Everything was all-
Castiel lobbed a holy oil Molotov at Lucifer and ran left toward Dean. The cracked boards broke apart under his feet, and he scrambled against the wall, grabbing the gaps between stones to pull himself along. “Dean,” he gasped, kneeling beside the hunter’s body.
“Oh, this is just pathetic,” Lucifer said, and snapped his fingers.
Castiel’s body lurched upright and flew across the gap to Lucifer.
He grabbed the former angel by the throat and held him over the gap, peering at him with a look of mild annoyance. “It’s over, little brother. You, and this whole world, are headed to Hell.”
“Screw you,” Castiel hissed, clawing at Lucifer’s hand.
“Let him go!” Chuck yelled.
Lucifer sighed dramatically and rolled his head toward Chuck. “At the risk of sounding like a Disney villain… Or what?”
Chuck fired at the church bells. They clanged against each other with such force that Chuck felt the sound in his ribcage. He raised his hands to his ears, cringing.
So did Lucifer, letting go of Castiel.
Castiel seemed to hang in midair for a moment. Then he fell. Chuck jumped forward to look over the railing and saw Castiel land hard on something invisible. A yelp rent the air alongside the bells, and both Castiel and the last hell hound hit the ground. Castiel, at least, seemed to wince and move after.
Chuck whooped, the sound getting lost amidst the cacophony. The moment of victory was short-lived as he realized three things:
1. Everyone else was lying dead around them.
2. Neither of them had the angel-killing sword.
and
3. He was alone in the tower room with Lucifer glaring at him.
So screwed. So very, deeply, completely screwed. Maybe they could at least get away. Chuck raised the sawed-off again. Cans on a fence, he told himself. Cans on a fence.
In three quick shots, he hit Lucifer twice in the lower legs, sending him toppling over long enough to make an escape. The stairs echoed almost as loudly as the bells under his feet as he sprinted and jumped back down to the first floor.
Oh god. There was blood everywhere. His friends’ blood. Chuck swallowed, running to Castiel’s side and helping him up. “Come on, we’ve gotta get out of here.”
“No,” Castiel said, wiping blood away from his upper lip. “Give me-give me two minutes-”
“In two minutes you’ll be dead!” Chuck cried.
Castiel cringed as he put weight on his left leg, but he moved to Sam’s body anyway, gripped the sword still in him, and pulled.
Chuck swallowed again. “Ugh. That’s-that’s still got some Sam on it.”
“Maybe that will be enough,” Castiel said. “The blood of a champion, just not the champion himself.”
Overhead, the clanging of the bells halted. A shadow appeared in the floor between Chuck and castiel, and they both stumbled backwards.
“Crap,” Chuck heard himself say. “Boss fight.”
Lucifer landed with a surprising lack of pomp and circumstance - just a frown and a small sound of rubber against stone. One of his feet landed in a pool of blood, spattering red up the sides of his sneakers, and he took a moment to wipe his shoe off on Sam’s jeans before he stepped forward toward the two remaining members of the special probably-all-gonna-die mission.
Chuck and Castiel backed up as Lucifer approached, stepping out of the tower. A few paces back, Chuck felt his shoulder knock into the altar. The afternoon sun poured in through the stained glass window behind the altar, casting the shape of the dove on the floor.
There went his heartbeat again, disappearing. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t just his heart but all the sounds around him that had stopped - all of them drowned out except for the faint ringing echo the bells had left in his head.
He watched it happen like he watched his visions happen.
Lucifer came for him first, roped a hand around his neck and dangled him over the bodies of his friends, saying something - probably something smug and threatening.
Castiel yelled and ran forward, driving the blade of the angel-killing sword into Lucifer’s side.
Lucifer swayed, grimacing. He dropped Chuck to the floor.
For a moment, Chuck thought it had worked. The devil was going to keel over dead in front of them, and they’d have to figure out a way to bring back the rest of their friends, but hey, this was the Winchester Gospels, right? They’d saved the world. They’d find a way. There was always a way. There was always-
Chuck’s hearing flooded back in a rush, just in time to hear Lucifer snarl. The devil whirled around and snapped the sword from Castiel’s hands. Before Castiel could react, Lucifer ran the sword into his middle and pushed him over onto the floor.
Castiel made a horrible sound in his throat.
Lucifer just sneered. “You really thought you could save him, Castiel? Shame they took your good sense along with your grace.”
“CAAASS!” Chuck screamed.
“Oh goodie, alone with the prophet,” Lucifer said, shaking his head. A whistle came from outside the church, and he sighed. “I’ll snap your neck in a minute - it sounds like I need to check on my cannon fodder. If you need anything between now and your untimely death, I’ll be outside killing the rest of your forces with my mind.”
Chuck couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. He crawled over to Castiel, stumbling over part of a hell hound, and slumped beside him. His friend’s eyes were wide open and dilated, and blood pooled thickly beneath him.
“Castiel?” he tried, smoothing back his hair. “Cas, can you hear me? I’m here, buddy. You’re not alone. You’re not alone.”
Not a breath. Not a blink. Castiel was already gone.
“Cas,” Chuck whispered, his voice fading in his throat. He’d failed. He’d failed his best friend, the heroes who’d put up with him, and probably the whole of humanity. He felt hollowed out, a third-person narrator without a voice.
Please, he begged silently. Please, don’t let it end like this. Please.
It couldn’t end like this. It wasn’t right - it wasn’t fair! The hollow space inside him filled with rage. No. He wouldn’t let it end like this - not if he could help it. His limbs forced him up, and he started to walk, then run.
Lucifer was halfway up the center aisle of the church when Chuck took a running leap at him from behind. He made an “Oof!” noise when the prophet hit his back and latched scrawny arms around his throat. Chuck scratched at him with his fingertips, kicked his heels into Lucifer’s legs, and-holy crap, he realized as he did it-he was biting the devil’s neck.
He kicked Lucifer in the groin, and Lucifer leaned forward with a growl. “What are you, four?”
“Take it back!” Chuck shouted. “All of it - all of them! Take it back!”
Lucifer reached back, trying to pry the prophet off him, but couldn’t quite reach. “There are no take-backs in the apocalypse! And I will rend you limb from limb once I get my hands on you!”
Chuck bit one of his fingers. “Go ahead and try! I’ve got an archangel watching my ass for just such an occasion.”
Lucifer threw his head back, barely missing Chuck’s nose, and cackled. “Hell’s attack dogs bow to my commands and shirk away at the sight of me - you really think Heaven’s attack dogs are any different?” He grabbed one of Chuck’s ankles and yanked, making Chuck’s grip on his neck loosen-
A crack echoed through the church, and light flooded in from the front doors.
Chuck slipped from Lucifer’s back onto the ground, hands to his ears and face to the floor. It took him a few seconds to realize that the usual archangel voice wasn’t trying to tear his eardrums apart. And Lucifer wasn’t moving to kill him.
Chuck raised his head from the floor and peered between Lucifer’s legs at the source of the light.
Jesus stood in the doorway, light radiating from his outstretched hand, wearing hand-me-down cargo jeans and a wolf t-shirt. He was glaring straight at Lucifer with the most intense focus Chuck had ever seen on him. Chuck scooted behind a pew, out of Lucifer’s reach.
“Oh, it’s you,” Lucifer said, sounding slightly less confident than a minute ago. “Come to concede defeat?”
Jesus shook his head and took a step forward.
Lucifer stepped back, passing Chuck’s row of pews. “Come to destroy me and claim victory for Heaven, then? As if you could.”
Jesus shook his head again, his frown deepening as he took another step forward. Understanding passed between them.
Lucifer’s eyes widened. “I’ll never go back there. That cage was-it was beyond Hell. You can’t imagine.”
Jesus continued toward him, dropping his arms to his sides.
Lucifer laughed. “You can’t make me surrender - who do you think you are?”
Jesus stopped four rows down the aisle, opened his mouth, and projected.
It was like the wave of emotion Chuck had felt him project in the den the day before, only stronger, and aimed right at Lucifer: pain. Even from a distance, the second-hand exposure was enough to knock Chuck to his side, wracked with sobs. Two-thousand years of humanity’s ugly side came with the projection. Chuck saw the events unfold rapid-fire, like frames of an animated gif: wars, hatred, stonings, assaults, ostracizing, and atrocities he didn’t even have names for.
So this was what had turned Jesus silent - two millennia of pain issued by and against the human race he’d tried to protect, pain he was powerless to stop from the distance of Heaven. The guilt was suffocating - and contagious. Chuck felt the worst things he’d done welling up inside him once more, and then some. So, apparently, did the devil.
Lucifer screamed and dropped to his knees. “I’m sorry!” he cried, bowing his head to the floor with a sob. “I’m-I’m so sorry! Oh, Father, all that I’ve done-all the pain I’ve caused-I’m sorry! Mercy-penance-please-”
Jesus closed the distance between them and laid his hand on Lucifer’s head.
Lucifer nodded. “Yes-yes, thank you…”
Light poured from Jesus’s palm, engulfing the room.
Chuck squeezed his eyes shut behind his hands. All sound and sensation drowned out for a minute, and then the room felt like it had when they’d first entered the church - except calmer, and with something missing.
The light flooding in between Chuck’s fingers faded, and Jesus’s projection ceased pulling him apart. When all he could see behind his hands was the vague red of sunlight through his fingers, he parted them and looked up. Lucifer was gone - back in his cage.
Jesus saves, Chuck thought - the rest of you take half damage. Oh…oh, god. The rest of them.
Jesus stood a short distance away, holding something small and bright between his open hands. Chuck rose to his feet, peering at the thing. He thought he knew what it was, but when he got close, he was sure.
Jesus held Castiel’s grace.
Chuck swallowed. “Did you take that from Lucifer?”
Jesus nodded, peering at the grace with a bit of a frown.
Chuck couldn’t breathe for a second. He blinked back tears. “A-are you gonna…?”
Jesus looked up at him with his brow furrowed and his lower lip drawn in, then looked back down to Castiel’s grace. He pushed his hands at Chuck. The gesture was a clear “You take it,” like he was handing back a baby he was nervous about dropping.
Chuck cupped his hands and let the ball of grace-light roll into them. It was cushiony, with a slight weight, and it reminded him a little of the hacky sack bags he’d played with in college. But it was also warm - so warm - and had within it something like a tiny heartbeat. Chuck cradled it against his chest. “Hey, Cas,” he whispered.
Jesus turned, his feet padding softly against the floor as he started away.
“Wait,” Chuck said. “What do I do now?”
The son of God glanced over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows.
“Right. I’m the prophet. I should know this.” Chuck took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Okay. Focus.”
He didn’t have a notebook to write in, so he started writing the scene on a blank wall in his mind. He scrawled the words “Castiel’s grace” to get started, and once he pulled at that plot line, the rest came cascading into place.
The Prophet Chuck held his friend’s grace at his sternum, feeling it flutter like the wings of a sparrow settling onto a perch. His own heart drummed against it, way too loud. The heat that radiated from the grace warmed and calmed him throughout, drying the tears that were still wet on his cheeks. This small thing clutched in his curled fingers was holy. Loving. Powerful. It was an entire life - an eons-long one, at that - encapsulated in one tiny bit of light.
Chuck knelt at Castiel’s side. The former angel was pale, his eyes fixed blankly at a distant part of the floor. Chuck held the angel’s grace against his own chest with one hand, using the other to undo the buttons of Castiel’s shirt. He slid aside the fabric, and there was the scar from where the grace had been torn out, smooth pink skin stretched just a bit too tight.
Chuck lowered Castiel’s grace and placed it very carefully at the center of the scar. Once he was sure it was steady, he removed his hands.
Castiel’s grace flared suddenly, like the appearance of an archangel but without the quaking or impending sense of doom. A sense of peace spread throughout the room. He felt it reach into the hearts of everyone there as if they were his own, spilling light in to break up their remaining doubt and fear.
The grace sank through Castiel’s chest, the last of its glow lingering in a round patch just under the skin. Color flooded back into his face, and Chuck suddenly found his hands shaking. Castiel’s grace had been ripped from him months ago, before they’d gotten to know each other. Before Castiel had stopped being that imposing supernatural messenger of bad news and started being his friend.
His friend. What if that wasn’t the Castiel that this would bring back?
Castiel blinked hard, and his eyes took on that spacey angelic stare he’d been known for. He sat up slowly, his lips parted, taking in the room first, and then himself. He traced his fingers across the glowing patch of light at his chest as it faded, and then looked over at Chuck and narrowed his eyes.
“I am Iron Man,” he said, his voice hoarse.
The prophet Chuck gasped in tears and pulled his friend into a hug so tight it probably would have broken the ribs of a mortal man. The angel Castiel only laughed.
With his newly restored grace, the angel brought his fallen allies back to life. Each rose from the floor better than before, their blood wiped clean. Finding Lucifer gone, they cried and whooped and hugged each other.
The apocalypse was over - for real, this time. And everything was all right.
Chuck stood with the scene written across the wall in his mind and Castiel’s grace beating in his hands. He smiled, knowing exactly what came next.