Chapter Three

If hard-pressed later, Dean wouldn't have been able to tell a living soul exactly what'd happened or even how the hell it'd happened. All he knew for sure was that the next time he opened his eyes he was no longer in the crap motel he'd been kneeling in, in the charmingly small and completely unassuming town of Snowflake, Arizona. Scrambling hurriedly up from his knees, he took a quick look around scanning the area for anything that screamed: Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!

He was in a dimly lit area, so he narrowed suspicious green eyes in order to see better. On first inspection there didn't appear to be anything worth pulling his gun or demon knife for. But it was mighty tough to tell because a fog – slightly glistening, or hell maybe… illuminating? – hung in the air making it difficult to know for certain. Dean wasn't taking any chances so he gingerly slipped old faithful from the waistband of his jeans. On top of this oppressive, fire-fly like mist it was also quiet, a little too damned quiet for Dean's liking; making him disturbingly and bone-chillingly aware of the weird stillness which had the hairs on his arms rising in reaction. Dean equated the eerie stillness to that of the heavy, ominous pause in the air right before a major electrical shit-storm was about hit.

As soon as Dean's eyes had somewhat adjusted, all the muscles in his hands clamped spasmodically round the grip of his gun as a spike of pure unadulterated horror ran through him. Was he was back in that supreme dick Zachariah's fuckin' green room? If so, how the mutherfuckin' hell had he ended up back here?! Dean steadied his stance – swiveling back and forth at the waist – then pivoted on his heels, gun ready, searching the area at his back. Nothing jumped out at him from the depths of grayness. Thank God for small favors, he supposed.

Suddenly, the smoky, twinkling air separated and then completely dissipated into brightness so stunning in its strength that Dean felt compelled to cover is eyes with one wrist in defense even though it went against every gut instinct he had. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the devastating brightness was gone leaving Dean with the ability to really view the room for the first time in its entirety.

"They'll be no need to wield your weapon here, Dean."

Dean spun around, alarmed that even though he'd been on high alert, someone had managed to sneak up on him with the unnatural stealth that Dean'd only ever attributed to Cas. He was even more stunned when he realized who stood before him. A 'holy hell' followed quickly with a 'what the fuck' stampeded through his noggin'.

"Hello, Dean."

After picking his jaw up from where it rested on his chest, Dean asked incredulous, "Chuck?"

Raising his arms in an all-encompassing gesture, the other man answered with a small smile, "In the flesh, or so to speak."

Dean, who was making a Herculean effort to unscramble his brain, demanded through clenched teeth, "What the hell is going on here? What is this place?" Because Dean now realized that it wasn't Zachariah's death-trap of a green room. Nothing like, in fact.

For one thing this room was round… No, not round exactly; more oval-ish, and not nearly as cavernous as the other had been, and it wasn't a stark white either nor looked like it'd been decorated by Angels Are Us. The walls were a mix of dark blue and, he guessed maybe a shade of black, but wasn't certain. One concave area had – what looked to be – a mural of sorts. It was difficult for Dean to take in the details while trying to keep at least one eye trained on the other 'person' here with him. Dean was starting to think it was an angel posing as Chuck and, if one were smart, one didn't take their eyes off an angel.

The distinct scent of apples and cinnamon reached his nose, and was that rice and tomato soup he was smellin' too? The next thing that assailed his senses was the taste of oil in the back of this throat followed quickly by the flavor of whiskey. What the hell was happening? This was well beyond way weird and Dean might've found all this weirdness a tad comforting in an ass-backward kinda way if Chuck wanna-be hadn't been here too. This was his doing, it had to be! That being the case, Dean couldn't afford to let himself relax into this pseudo-comfort no matter how enticing.

"I suppose," Chuck began slowly, "you could call it a waiting room of sorts."

Dean swallowed, enjoying the aftertaste of fine whiskey despite his certainty that this asshole angel-dude was responsible for it, and bit out angrily, "Stop what you're doin' and I mean right now." At 'Chuck's' confused expression Dean added, "These things that you're making me smell and taste." And feel. "Stop messing with me and my head, or I'll shoot you where you stand, no more questions asked." Not that shooting an angel (if Dean's suspicions were correct) would do much good but it'd go a long way to making him feel better.

With wry exasperation, Chuck answered the serious-as-hell man, "This isn't my doing, Dean. You haven't got much imagination, or this place would be a lot more interesting. Yet, I'm finding it hard to believe – with all that I know of you – this is all you could come up with." Tapping his chin in a reflective manner, he then tacked on, "The only other possible explanation for this rather prosaic background must be attributed to your lack of faith. This, as Castiel has so eloquently informed you of, is one of your problems."

Dean snorted before waggling his gun at Chuck. "You don't honestly expect me to believe that this is all me?" When no response was forthcoming, Dean snapped, "Chuck – if that is who you are, which I highly doubt – I don't give a fuck about this room or your views on my faith or lack there-of. All I want are some answers. Give 'em to me in plain English cause a bunch of high-falootin' mumbo-jumbo bullshit is just gonna really, really piss me off, and when I'm pissed I tend to act without thinkin'."

Clicking his tongue in re-proof Chuck, who sounded abnormally sanguine considering a Colt.45 was aimed at his slightly tilted head (and under threat of being shot clean off), replied, "Dean, Dean, Dean." Sighing, he continued with a look of disappointment stamped on his features, "This place is of your own making and your weapon really is unnecessary, and have I failed to mention also utterly useless?"

His weapon was useless? Well, that wasn't good, nope, not good at all. Dean, suspecting he was being lied to, murmured suspiciously, "That a fact? What if I don't believe you? What if I just go ahead and check it out for myself? You know," he challenged sarcastically, "just to keep it real and all."

Giving a nonchalant shrug, Chuck replied, "Be my guest. I'm all for keeping it real; present environment notwithstanding."

For the first time since this whole surreal – whatever it was – had occurred, doubts began to filter through Dean. For a second, his gun wavered in his hand then he demanded harshly, "Are you Chuck? Chuck Shurley – Prophet of the Lord?" Without waiting for an answer, Dean muttered conversationally, "If you are – fuck all weird as that would be – I'd be good with it. Course you'd have to prove you're really Chuck; me being the untrusting type a guy that I am."

Huffing a small laugh and giving Dean a quizzical stare (and whoa, that reminded him a helluva lot of Cas) Chuck or Chuck wanna-be answered softly, "I am Chuck Shurley… after a fashion."

"Wow," Dean bit out sardonically, renewing his strangle-hold on the gun, "that really clears things up. Thanks for a whole lotta nothing."

Chuck merely pointed out gently, "You're asking all the wrong questions, Dean."

"Is that a fact," Dean shot back snidely. "How bout you point me in the right direction."

"Very well," Chuck agreed. "Let's start off with how you got here."

"I don't think so, dude," Dean calmly disagreed. "Let's start with who the hell you are."

"As you wish," Chuck gave in willingly before saying with clear amusement, "You're a rather troublesome enigma, Dean Winchester. An interesting mix of pride and self-loathing; stubborn and unreasonable, yet willing to give into whatever is asked of you if it means saving those dearest to you. You carry an immeasurable amount of anger and wrath, but it's tempered by a deep, abiding love and tenderness that you keep well hidden. You truly are a perfect, flawed creation."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Dean responded snidely. Then, with a wry twist to his lips, Dean amended his statement by saying conversationally, "Unless you were a hot chick with killer legs and a mighty fine rack."

With a mischievous twinkle in his eyes Chuck remarked with a chuckle, "How could I have forgotten Dean Winchester's infamously insatiable lust for Lust?" Quirking an eyebrow, he answered his own question by saying, "Perhaps it's because it's been so long since you've indulged in sampling all the carnal pleasures those lovely ladies have to offer."

"Hey," Dean exclaimed indignantly, "I'm still a huge stud. Just been kinda busy lately is all."

"I am aware," Chuck acknowledged with a nod of his head. "Averting the Apocalypse, avoiding demons and angels; both, of which, are out for vengeance in one manner or another does tend to be time consuming."

"You seem to know a helluva lot there, Chuck."

"Being all-knowing and all-seeing does have its benefits."

Completely flummoxed, Dean lowered his gun before asking incredulous, "God? You're God? Come on, you gotta be kiddin' me. Chuck Shurley is a terminally drunk, half-assed writer of half-baked novels. Other than having a questionable taste in chicks (Becky and Lady Magdalene came to mind) he's a pretty good guy, but God? I don't think so, dude."

"They're not half baked-novels, Dean," Chuck corrected severely. "They are the Winchester Gospels and, long after you and Sam are gone, they will be read by generations to come." Dean's stance stiffened as Chuck began to move closer. "You and I both know that Chuck drinks in order to deal with the migraines and horrific events that he witnesses in his visions. Let's not be hypocritical, Dean. You're not averse to a drink or two yourself, so I wouldn't be going around casting stones if I were you."

It wasn't until Chuck was about four feet from Dean that he realized not only hadn't he had the inclination to raise his weapon in defense, but that he didn't actually feel as if Chuck meant him any sorta harm. What the fuck was that about? Still, ingrained habits were tough to break and belatedly he began to lift his arms cocking the gun as he did so.

"Stop right there," Dean commanded, but it was as if Chuck hadn't heard the threat of violence in Dean's voice cause the fucker just kept on coming! "I mean it." And he did, even though the words shook right along with his arms. "I will shoot you."

"No Dean, you won't." Chuck had the gall to refute him before raising his own arm and making a quick twist of his wrist.

And, of all the fucked up things to happen, his precious .45 just out-and-out disappeared right from is fuckin' hands! Before his eyes! His unbelieving eyes! This was totally fucked up, man!

"No worries, Dean. I've sent it back to the motel room," Chuck informed him with a serene smile. "I'm well aware of your attachment to it. When you return, you will find it perfectly safe and in perfect working condition. I wouldn't deprive you of a weapon of such import. Sentimental value aside, you're going to need it."

"If you really are God," Dean was beginning to think he was, "where the fuck have you been and why didn't you tell us who you were when Cas and I zapped to your house right before I tried to stop Sammy from killin' Lilith?" Dean knew he sounded belligerent and disrespectful, but he didn't give a shit cause this bastard hadn't been MIA at all! He'd been right there the whole fuckin' time!

"You misunderstand, Dean," Chuck began and then waved his hand up and down his body, "I have taken the form of Chuck Shurley, but it isn't my actual manifestation. If I were to have come to you as such, you would not have survived the encounter."

"Wait a minute," Dean said, mind working double time, "are you possessing Chuck right now?"

This did not sit well with Dean. He really hated it that those ass-wipe angels took over regular every day people who'd been tricked into thinking they were doing God's will and all that stupid 'holy' shit. They never told those poor shmucks what their fates were really gonna be. Trapped inside for God knew how long (could be centuries!) with no will of their own and after those dicks were done wearing those true believers they were left dribbling, babbling messes; their minds totally demolished. Yeah, so not okay with it.

"I have no need to do so," Chuck patiently explained. "I merely appear to you in Chuck's form not in his body. As Chuck is familiar to you, I thought you might be more comfortable if you were seeing him while we have our conversation."

"Oh," clearing his throat, Dean said, "Thanks… I think."

Pleased, GodChuck smiled and answered, "You're welcome. Now, let us discuss why you are here now that we've established who I am."

"Wait," Dean intervened quickly, still wanting answers to his questions. "Where have you been, dude? Cas looked for you all over the place." With renewed anger, Dean bit out, "He was devastated, man and I'm talkin' to the point of drinkin' an entire liquor store devastated." Pointing his finger at Chuck, Dean continued waspishly, "He never gave up on you. He practically moved Heaven and earth to find you!" GodChuck's face screwed up in anger, as Dean continued his tirade. "But he came back empty handed over and over. And, if that wasn't bad enough, his douche-bag brothers and sisters were houndin' his ass big time. I'm sure y'know – you being their daddy and all – that using his angel mojo made him a target, but he didn't give a fuck; he kept searchin' for you, you sorry motherfucker. How could you do that to him?"

"While I understand your anger, Dean there are things that are beyond your comprehension." Dean snorted, and Chuck continued sounding more severe. "I owe you no explanations just as I owe Castiel no explanations. Suffice it to say, everything that has occurred has been within the parameters of a clear and defined, divine cosmic plan."

"Bullshit," Dean argued, "and you can take your divine plan and shove it up your ass."

"If he were here, Castiel would rebuke you for speaking to me in such a manner." GodChuck's mouth quirked up slightly as he added sounding both amused and bemused, "Though, I doubt it would have anything to do with your irreverence and more to do with him fearing for your life because of your irreverence."

Ooh-kay. So GodChuck was reminding him that he could smite him into smithereens. Like Dean didn't already know that. But, maybe he'd better tone it down a bit cause it wasn't like he actually needed Dean's body like Michael did; this douche had no real reason to not smite him for being a big-mouthed smart ass.

Moderating his tone, Dean asked, "Why are you here now?"

GodChuck, sounding like he was stating what Dean should already know, replied, "You prayed to me, Dean."

Dean blinked. Huh. This was weird. "I've prayed plenty, dude and this is the first you're pullin' a burnin' bush on me."

A fuck all if GodChuck didn't totally astonish Dean by bursting out laughing! Actual, honest to goodness laughing, and Dean really felt like he was in a royally fucked up version of The Twilight Zone.

Seeing Dean's exasperated confusion only set GodChuck off again, and it took awhile before he was able to contain his mirth. When he finally did, he offered up an explanation.

"I am not without a sense of humor, Dean. Take the aardvark for example, and you definitely have the gift of amusing me greatly." GodChuck's eyes were still twinkling when he remarked, "I really am here because you prayed to me."

Put out, Dean huffed, "So, like I said… I've prayed plenty and you've been a no-show til now."

"Your prayers, up until now, haven't been made to me. Have you not realized that when you have prayed it has been, not to your God, but to your angel?"

Dean's brows drew together tightly. Yeah, he supposed that was true, but Dean didn't count it as odd or out of the ordinary. Hell, it was Cas' doin' that Dean even prayed at all. It just seemed natural for him to address all of his spoken aloud thoughts – Dean wasn't even really sure it counted as prayin' – to the angel. At least Cas answered him and when he didn't he mostly had a good reason for it. Dean believed in his friendship with Cas, and believed that Cas'd always do his best to have his back. Dean hadn't always been the nicest to the angel, but Cas' loyalty hadn't wavered and that meant a helluva lot to Dean. Basically, Dean believed in Cas and the same could not be said of GodChuck here.

GodChuck's amusement vanished within a blink of an eye to be replaced by such awe-inspiring solemnity that it made Dean almost wanna bow down and beg forgiveness. Almost.

"Your unremitting faith in Castiel is not without justification. It would be remiss of me to rebuke you for your enduring belief in one of my most majestic creations; he has indeed earned your respect, friendship, and loyalty."

Dean's eyes widened in horror. The bastard was reading his mind!

"Yes," GodChuck verified Dean's fear. "Up until now I have respected the privacy of your thoughts. I know how much you abhor that particular practice. You apparently have no idea that often your thoughts are so loud, and of such an intense nature, that they are impossible ignore."

Dean fidgeted nervously. "Can we cut to the chase here," he asked, anxious to get off the subject of his thoughts and the reading of minds. "You know why I prayed, right?"

"Indeed," GodChuck acknowledged gravely. "Castiel is mortally wounded and you desire that I heal him."

"That's about the gist of it," Dean returned with a hopeful smile. "No time like the present. Get on with the healin'."

Cocking his head to the side, GodChuck asked quietly, "Why, Dean?"

Dean was so shocked by this question that for a second he did nothing, and then he let fly with an angry, "What d'ya mean why? Cause he's one of your kids. Cause he's one of the good guys. Cause it's Cas!"

Fathomless eyes narrowed. "Have I not already saved Castiel thrice?" Dean's heart seized in terror. "More times than any other child of my creation has he been reformed and had his Grace restored to him; made that much more powerful by my hand. Even for Castiel, who has served us both well, there must be an end."

"No," Dean snarled, grabbing GodChuck by the shoulders. "I won't let you! He's given so much… done everything, been a good little soldier… all in your name! He's the best of those holier than thou asshat sonsofbitches to ever come outta Heaven and he deserves to be saved!"

GodChuck's hold on Dean's wrists was firm but gentle as he pushed him away. "Castiel is indeed a remarkable achievement on countless levels." Dean allowed a certain amount of hope to blossom. "Still, you must understand that to everything there is a season. I'm sorry, Dean. Truly."

Stunned, Dean asked in disbelief, "So, that's it? That's all y'got for me?"


"I said, no," the agitated man yelled, heart hammering out of control. Pointing an accusing finger he bit out with a low growl, "Screw you and your seasons." Dean was so pissed he couldn't even see straight. GodChuck wavered and blurred in his vision, and Dean didn't even know he was on the verge of tears until he heard it in his voice. "Please," he begged, choking up. "Just this one more time. I won't ever ask for anything else in my whole sorry as shit life."

GodChuck sighed quietly. "There might be a way…

Wiping his face on his sleeve, Dean rushed in eagerly, "What'd I hafta to do, Chuck? Tell me and I'll do it." Then, he declared, "I don't care if I hafta become a monk or some shit like that. I'll do it. Come on," he insisted, "let's make a deal."

A lightening storm, an actual lightening storm, swirled and brewed like an untamed tempest in GodChuck's eyes. "How dare you offer to wheel and deal with me as if I were some common Cross Roads demon," he roared and Dean stumbled backward as the room shook violently and gale-force winds buffeted him ruthlessly. All he needed now was a house, a flying cow, and Toto cause GodChuck was already providing the tornado.

The massive crashing and thundering was indescribable; there just were no words in the human language to cover it, and Dean feared the boxers he was wearing were about to be irreparably stained. Covering his ears didn't help much either. If he had to put a description to it, he'd say it was as if a volcano was exploding the same time a mountain was crumbling down around him. Take all that and mix in one helluva shit storm, and that'd be close but still way off base. This was it, Dean thought fatalistically, his ass was gonna get smote and smote good.

Dean was forced to his knees by the relentless power of the overwhelming onslaught. Covering is head with his arms, he prepared for whatever the hell was gonna happen. If he was lucky, it would be quick and painless. He supposed exploding was quick and painless but it had a real yuck factor, so Dean sent out a hope (he refused to call it a prayer) that he wasn't going to be blowing chunks all over the fuckin' place. Maybe Chuck'd realize what a bitch that stuff was to clean up and end Dean's existence with a little more class and a lot less gross.

I love ya, Sammy! Please, please keep my Baby safe and try not to turn out to be too much of a dork. Odds are against it though without me there to balance you out some. Thanks Cas, for savin' my bacon more times than I can count. Sorry I couldn't return the favor buddy. You have your douche of a dad to thank for that. Maybe you and me can hook up in the great unknown. We could go find Ash and hang out; have a beer or two. You'd like him, Cas.

The racket had all but deafened Dean, so it was understandable that it took a minute or two before he realized that the room had gone quiet. Taking a chance he warily opened one eye. GodChuck was a little further away from Dean than he had been before trying to send Dean over the rainbow. Probably was afraid if he was closer he'd strangle the life outta the hunter. Whatever. Dean was just grateful that he was going to live to fight another day… hopefully.

Opening both eyes, he quickly looked himself over; patting himself down to make sure all relevant body parts were intact. Heaving a sigh of relief after discovering all were there an accounted for, which was also fuckin' fine with Dean, he made a hesitant move to stand up.

"Stay where you are, Dean."

While Dean wasn't too keen on torturing his knees any further, he also didn't wanna piss off GodChuck anymore than he already had. Dude was still fuming, he could tell. Seeing as how he hadn't ended up as human chunky soup, Dean figured he wouldn't risk that possibility by refusing to obey.

"Sorry," he mumbled, not even sure why he was apologizing, but hey, couldn't hurt; right?

GodChuck threw Dean for a loop by saying, "I'd like to tell you a story."

"Uh, okay," Dean agreed, really, really confused. "But, what about Cas?" At GodChuck's furiously furrowed brow and exasperated expression, Dean added cautiously, "It's just we been here for awhile and well… when I left or got beamed up or whatever, he was in a pretty bad way…"

Dean let out a relieved sigh, when GodChuck said, "Castiel still lives."

"Good. Great… uh, thanks."

"Thanks are unnecessary, Dean," GodChuck informed him with quiet sincerity. "Castiel is strong."

"Yeah," Dean agreed with a fond half smile, "he's got one tough feathery ass for sure."

"Indeed," GodChuck agreed amiably before asking, "Did you know that when Castiel's garrison was ordered to retrieve your soul from Hell that, initially, Castiel was refused permission to accompany his brothers and sisters on the mission?"

"No," Dean began slowly, a bit unnerved. "Me and Cas haven't ever talked about it."

Dean had his reasons for that. Nightmares of his time in the Pit still haunted him and as for Cas, well Dean supposed he had his own reasons for not mentioning his descent into Hell. Or maybe he just respected Dean's stance on the matter. Whatever the case might be, their mutual code of silence worked for Dean.

"At that time, Castiel had been the last angel of my creation." GodChuck smiled to himself. "Even though he was by your estimation millennium ages old, he was considered quite young by Heaven's standard. Because of this, it was determined that Castiel was unprepared for such a venture as the raising of the Righteous Man."

Dean frowned. "I'm not a real fan of that title. Fact is, I hate it."

Cocking his head to the side – and man Dean really wished he'd stop that – GodChuck, answered back, "That might be so, Dean but it doesn't change the fact that it was a title destined to be yours."

Rolling his eyes, Dean bit out in an exasperation, "Dude, quit with the whole destiny crap already. I make my destiny. Me. Otherwise your douche-kid Michael would be walkin' round wearin' my body instead of kickin' up dirt with his bro in the Cage."

GodChuck remarked cryptically, "There are things beyond your comprehension. Things which, at present, due to your spiritual and emotional 'constipation' as Sam would put it, make you unable to grasp those things."

"Whatever, dude," Dean snapped, not at all interested in hearing this crap. "How bout you get back to your bedtime story."

Shit was just gettin' good. Maybe God here could shed some light on the mystery know as Castiel. It was rare for Dean to find anything fascinating cause his line of work tended to tear the fascination off just about everything but Cas, even though he'd become a good buddy, was still as much of a fascinating mystery as when they first met.

Speculation gleamed in GodChuck's swirling star-infested, infinite eyes. "Castiel is…" he paused before continuing softly, "… special."

No shit, Dean thought exasperated. "And…"

"And many of his brothers and sisters were unprepared for how adamant Castiel was in terms of going with them to Hell. He could have been ordered stay behind; many thought this should have been the case, but Michael gave his consent."

"And, "Dean took up sardonically, "whatever Michael said those stupid, free-will less asses did without question."

"Just so," GodChuck answered sounding matter-of-fact. "It was Michael's duty, in my absence, to take charge of Heaven."

"Chief Douche did a bang-up job of that, now didn't he?"

"Dean, without Michael you would, in all probability, still be a slave in Hell." That statement startled Dean out of his wits. "In fact, by this point, it is conceivable that you would be one of Hell's most devious and blood-thirsty of demons."

Shock and revulsion made it impossible for Dean to formulate a thought let alone a response.

Taking advantage of Dean's stupor, GodChuck elaborated. "When the garrison finally reached you they were all appalled at what you had become." Dean winched, but GodChuck took no pity on him. "They were disgusted by your inability to hold fast; to endure, to maintain faith. You had traded what was left of your humanity for release from the rack; The Righteous Man was no more. To them, there could have been no worse act of betrayal against your God and all that He had bequeathed you."

That got a rise out of Dean. Jumping to his feet, and ignoring the painful pop and crack of muscle and bone, he pointed his finger at GodChuck in an accusatory fashion and sneered, "You or, whatever fucked up deities are out there, bequeathed me jack-shit!"

Ignoring this proclamation, GodChuck went on to say, "Castiel's brethren – all that remained of their garrison because many were destroyed as they fought their way through the levels of Hell – turned their backs on you Dean. Only Castiel – one small, inferior foot soldier – disobeyed those of higher rank and reached out to you."

Dean didn't know what to say. He tried to ignore the burning at the back of his eyes and the tightening in his sinus cavities because dammit! ... he was not gonna ball like a fuckin' wuss! Fighting off this alarming onslaught of emotion, Dean answered gruffly, "Look what it got him."

Dean was startled at the firm but gentle touch to his shoulder. Fucker sure was slick; he'd never even heard him move! GodChuck slid his hand down from Dean's shoulder until it rested right over the spot where Cas's handprint used to be. Giving the unblemished skin a slight squeeze (in consolation?), he answered back, "Yes, Dean… look what it got him."

The seriousness in GodChuck's voice had Dean choking back another bout of unfathomable grief cause knowing Dean had brought nuthin' to Cas but misery in one form or another and it was just about killin' him to think on it. Dean tended not to dwell on much of anything cause when he did, shit like this happened and that's when he'd take to drinkin'. Dean doubted very much that GodChuck here would be willin' to go on a beer run or maybe rustle up a bottle of Jack. Well, shit.

"Whatever, man," Dean sniffed slightly before clearing his throat. "That it? Can we get back to Cas and maybe healin' him or somethin' along those lines?"

"Hear me out, Dean," GodChuck urged, "Castiel's life could very well depend upon it."

I know this chapter ends somewhat awkwardly, but this chapter alone was already over 5000 words so I divided it up. Bear with me, and I hope you enjoy it!