Hell's Greatest Weapon

Chapter 37: Ghost of Birthdays Past

You weren't sure what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.  You thought that maybe this was a trick, that maybe you passed out and were in some sort of mini-coma from the injuries you had managed to collect (you were almost certain you had a concussion, but were far too prideful to admit it until now) and this was all a joke your own mind was playing on yourself.  Especially since you imagined God, you never thought of the wimpy, sweaty, mumbling prophet that the Winchesters had a beef with from years ago.  Although, you figured, it would make sense that they were angry with Chuck.  If he was God, there were a few more things the Winchesters had a right to be angry with other than the terribly written book series they knew Chuck to have written.

You only stood, staring at the man in front of you in absolute awe while he walked over to the dining room table and began picking papers up and moving them over to the already over-filled kitchen counters in order to make space.  He was mumbling something about cleaning up so you could sit, but you were far too entranced by his awkward, human movements to pay too close attention.

Chuck finally nodded at his work before turning to you and gesturing to one of the chairs he cleared along with the now empty space of table in front of it.  "You can have a seat, I'm sorry it's a mess in here."

You only stared at him, not moving.

"Or... or we can stand." He mumbled out with a nod before clapping his hands in front of him and standing on his tiptoes a moment in the awkwardness of the situation. "Whatever's more comfortable for you, I suppose."

"We've met." You pointed at Chuck, then back at you, your voice slow, questioning.

Chuck nodded slowly, almost as though he thought this might be a trick question.  "Yes, yes, you're right.  We've met."

"I mean, I was in your house." You pointed toward the ground, figuring earth was likely somewhere below you, as was the stereotypical location relative to Heaven.  "I talked to you with Sam and Dean and we had a decent conversation. We drank together."

"Yes, we did."

"How are you," you took a step forward, you hand outstretched before you cut off your own words and withdrew, putting your arm back into the pocket of your jacket.  "How are you here?"

"This is my house," Chuck said, eyes wide, his voice slightly questioning.  You were missing something, you had to be.  "I live here."

"You?"

"Yeah."

"You're God?"

"Well I mean I got by a couple names, but if that's what you're most comfortable with," Chuck's hands went into the pockets of his jeans and he shrugged before turning toward the table to take a seat. He gestured to the seat he cleared once again, this time his eyes looking a bit more serious.  "We can talk about it at the table, if you don't mind. I've been standing for ages, I'd like to sit without seeming rude."

"Right," you nodded once before walking around the table and pulling out the chair to take a seat beside Chuck, your eyes never leaving him.  "Right, of course.  I'll just sit with God at this table, here."

"Look, if you could keep it on the down low, that would be great," Chuck said as you took a seat, his head tilting slightly to the side as a slightly pleading tone took over his voice.  "I don't want Sam and Dean to know who I am because I like to walk the earth sometimes."

Your jaw dropped as he said that and you simply stared at the man while pure disbelief while you recalled the words that ran from your mouth only moments before; he was sitting in front of you, God, asking you to keep his identity from Sam and Dean, the latter of which was likely dead.  God.  Was. Asking.  You.  To. Keep.  His.  Identity. Secret.