âOf course Iâm not,â Chuck snapped. Of course Castiel would see it like that. He was ungrateful for everything â all the times Chuck had bought him back, all the times heâd rebuilt him from scratch because he couldnât drag him out of the Empty. Of course Castiel would see his father as some kind of dictator, because he was a child, and children always lashed out at their parents. He folded his arms and listened to his sonâs tirade, bored. Wrong, wrong, and wrong again. Of course he owned the angels. Not in a creepy way, but they were his creations. Ergo, he owned them. Chuck didnât like a lot of the Bible, but there was that passage. The earth is the Lordâs and everything in it. He was down with that.
âI owe you?â he repeated, staring at Castiel. âI donât owe you anything, son. Iâve been more than patient with you. Iâve explained where I was, why I didnât answer your prayers. I apologised. But you just wonât listen.â His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, like he was talking to a toddler, because he was. He was old when Castiel was formed. His son might have seen thousands of years, but he was still a child to Chuck. And him cursing like a human was just proof of how far Castiel had fallen. Chuck raised his eyebrows, not so much surprised as amused. Fuck you? Yeah. He sounded just like Dean Winchester.
He watched calmly as Castiel fell apart in front of him. He knew this had happened to Lucifer when he was cast out from Heaven, but heâd never watched it. Castielâs wings were in tatters, his halo had cracked, and when he fell to his feet, Chuck just looked down at him. It was a real shame, but he didnât see his son, not really. He saw a rebellious soldier, finally being put in his place. And he turned and walked away. Castiel didnât want him, he didnât wanna listen. So he would suffer the consequences of his actions. Just like Lucifer had.
Heâd almost made it to the door when Castiel called out to him. I need your help. Chuck stopped walking. He heard the pain in his angelâs voice, the anger and hurt and humiliation. Was it enough? Had he done penance for acting out? It was tricky to decide. He turned around and looked at Castiel, his once-favourite angel, the first one to act out and go his own path, break the rules of the story, the role that an angel was meant to fill. And he sighed. There was every possibility that Castiel would die if he didnât do something. And it was obvious that it hurt him to admit that he needed Godâs help. Castiel had done his time. He deserved to be forgiven.
âAlright, Castiel,â he said, softly. And he knelt beside his broken angel, and laid a hand on him. He let the healing energy flow out, more powerful than any angelic grace, more pure and clean than any other power in Heaven. Pure, unfettered, creation. He let it seal the cracks in his sonâs halo with white light, let it restore his moulting, shredded, wings, and soothe his filthy, disgusting, grace. After a few seconds, he let his hand fall and just sat there on the ground, next to Castiel. âYou know,â he said, in the same gentle voice, âI do love you. It hurt me to see you doing that to yourself. But you should be healed now.â He didnât expect thanks. That wasnât why heâd done it. He managed a small, encouraging, smile. âYouâre welcome.â
âYou didnât explain. You made excuses, just like you always do, to attempt to apologize for creating us and leaving us to die.â Castiel wasnât ready to forgive him for anything. In fact, he wasnât even sure he wanted to forgive him. He hadnât asked for apologies, he wanted the truth, and it was what Chuck never understood. âDo you realize I donât want you to apologize?â It was a simple question, one he had since he had heard everything he had to say. âIâm just done with your lies. With how you always disappear when itâs convenient for your selfish self to do so. Iâm done with you.â
And he wanted to keep going like that, but then he collapsed. All this hurt, this pain, it was excruciating and Castiel remembered the first time it had happened. Stripped from his powers first, stripped from his wings then, and it seemed like the history was repeating itself over and over again. It felt like his wings were clipped and he was tied down to Heaven and their wishes, all the time. And God, how it kept bothering him.Â
But then, he felt his fatherâs hand on him. Which for once truly felt like a father, the warmth of the light and how soothing it was once the pain disappeared. But after it was done, after a second or two, he realized himself how he had destroyed what he believed in even more. He shouldnât have asked him for help, because now, now he owed him. More than his father to him. And he wouldâve given anything to be out of this all.Â
As he looked at his own wings, he still didnât feel like it all was fixed. His mind was so shattered, corrupted, and even if blood didnât taint his black feathers, his hands were still covered in it. So he stayed silent for a second, before his eyes found back his father and the angel shook his head. âI still donât believe in you.â It was on a lower tone than usual, and it was only because he knew, deep down, how wrong it was. Maybe he was more similar to Lucifer than he had always thought he was. âMaybe you canât help.â And now it was a whisper. Because he was fully aware it was a work he had to do on himself. Control and tame the beast. Stop it from destroying himself in the process. But what is an angel without his faith? Simple thought, with a more simple answer that came in his head. Monster.