Chuck closed his eyes. He could feel it, her longing, her anger, her frustration.
She had prayed to him, sacrificed his chosen, killed his angels. Still he didn't go to her.
How could he? When he was finally seeing the errors of his ways. When all he wanted was bliss. When he knew he had been wrong. This world was perfect, but it was damaged and flawed.
He had put himself on a pedestal intentionally to give his creation what they craved — bliss. The one thing he didn't know how to incorporate. He could only guess at it, show them feelings akin to it through meditation, enlightenment, he didn't know how to make it sustainable.
He had set out to prove her wrong. That bliss wasn't everything, that emotional turmoil was helpful in unlocking that feeling.
He wanted to show her that if his creation had to work for it, it would be meaningful. The end would justify the means. That bliss would be its own reward.
But he could hear her in his head. That patronizing look she would give him,
"What about war? Was that part of the plan brother? Was pain, death, part of the plan?"
He shook his head. His hands digging into his scalp. He had tried! He had tried her idea. Created a paradise for the first couple. Lucifer had destroyed it! She had destroyed it!! How was he supposed to believe her, when it was her power that destroyed the very idea she strived for?
The memory shook her head and chuckled. She reached and lifted his chin up,
"I was locked away. Don't blame me for things I didn't know. Lucifer had the mark, I couldn't see. You wanted it, so I destroyed it. Try again, and this time we'll do it together. There is nothing we can't accomplish, right brother?"
He got up, smacking a glass bottle as he moved. It fell toward the floor. As it fell he turned, and pointed. It stopped an inch away from breaking.
He breathed hard. His gaze fixated on the bottle.
"We? We haven't been we in a long time. I highly doubt we could work together. We'd kill each other."
He murmured. He reeled his arm back and pointed to far wall, the bottle rose in the air and zoomed toward its target. This time it shattered.
"And whose fault is that?" She would ask.
Chuck almost roared with frustration. If she refused to see his side he wouldn't deem her worthy of his presence.
He took a deep breath to clear his head, and braced himself on his desk, and stared at the table. It was littered with papers. Parts of stories, snippets about Sam and Dean. Vignettes of his children. Gabriel's adventures as a pagan God. Raphael's heart wrenching conclusion he was dead (he couldn't make himself write too long on that one, it killed him too much).
Michael poised to do what he thought he wanted (he didn't want that, not then. Not when he had become invested in Sam and Dean. When he had started to like humanity again).
Lucifer. His beautiful, clever Morning Star. The story he never should have written. The mark that should never had been his. But if he went back in time, how much would everything change? Would the earth still exist? Would Sam and Dean be alive? Would Castiel still fight for humanity?
He shook his head, and cursed under his breath as he looked for his modern bliss inducing amber liquid. He groaned and went to the kitchen. He passed the window as he went, saw as the heavenly wrath rained down on his sister.
He wavered. Should he intervene? Would it make a difference? Probably not. She'd still try to kill him. He'd let Sam and Dean deal with it. She couldn't do anything to terrible could she?
He shook his head, if she tried to destroy the world, he would intervene then. And besides, she should know if she did manage to destroy his creation, he'd have no choice but to go to war... Again.
He got his drink and sighed as he heard it open. Time to make himself forget, to fall into a blissful stupor.