Yo, a friend of mine made an amazing list about imortant and historical trans men!
A list of historical (and some recent) trans men since everyone likes to ignore the fact that we did in fact exist before Chaz Bono came out
(TW: transphobia, obviously, and r*pe)
• Hatshepsut (1479 - 1458 BC)
Hatshepsut was a female Egyptian
pharaoh, who went to great lengths to
present as a man, wearing male
clothing and a fake beard, took on
wives, and used both male and female
Though it cannot be definitively said
if Hatshepsut was a trans man or not,
a lot of the evidence points to that
being the case.
• Anonymous Man (16th century)
Henri Estienne wrote of a FTM man
who was burned alive for living as a
man, learning a trade, and taking a
wife. The man was outed by someone
who recognized him from their
hometown and when given the option
between death and living as a woman,
the man chose death.
• Jospeh Lobdell (1829 - 1912)
A frontier man and skilled marksman
who lived on the frontier with his wife
before being locked in an asylum for
insisting that he was a man.
Scholars used to label him as a lesbian
before it was revealed by his own
writings that he more likely was in fact
a trans man.
• Reed Erickson (1912 - 1992)
After inheriting his father’s fortune in
1962 and after transitioning in 1963,
Erickson launched the Erickson
Educational Foundation in 1964 and
through that laid the foundation for
several trans activism organizations
like the Harry Benjamin International
Gender Dysphoria Association,
Paul Walker’s Janus Information
Service, Sister Mary Elizabeth’s and
Jude Patton’s J2CP, and several
He was also an alternate health
practices supporter and funded
research on homeopathy and
• Billy Tipton (1914 - 1989)
An American jazz musician from 1936
to 1970, Tipton began presenting as
male full time in 1940, with only his
two cousins knowing his assigned
To avoid explaining his breasts and his
lack of package, he would tell women
that he had been in a serious car
accident that resulted in damaged
genitals and broken ribs that he had to
keep wrapped constantly.
No one knew he was trans until he
died and and it was revealed by the
• Dr. Alan L. Hart (1890 - 1962)
An American physician, radiologist,
TB researcher, writer and novelist.
Alan L. Hart was one of the first trans
men to have a hysterectomy and a
gonadectomy in the US and his
research on TB detection saved
thousands of lives.
He presented as a boy as a child and
was encouraged by his grandparents
and parents to do so, and was listed as
his grandparent’s grandson in their
obituaries. He’s was recorded as
always begging to cut his hair, wear
boy clothes, and would refer to himself
as a boy as a child.
He’s the first documented trans man
in the united states. His doctor who
helped with his transition described
him as “extremely intelligent and not
mentally ill, but afflicted with
a mysterious disorder for which I have
no explanation” and said that “from a
sociological and psychological
standpoint [Hart] is a man”.
Not only was he a man of medicine but
he was also a fiction writer, and such
a lot of his fiction writing reflected his
own experiences and feelings.
• Michael Dillon (1915 - 1962)
The first FTM person to have a
phalloplasty. He’s also believed to be
the first FTM person to undergo hrt.
While in the hospital with a head injury
he met a plastic surgeon who gave
him a double mastectomy and a note
to help get his birth certificate
Dillon performed SRS on Roberta
Cowell, the first British trans woman to
receive SRS, but because Dillon had
not completed his medical training the
surgery was considered illegal.
Later on he ended up devoting the
rest of his life to Buddhism in India.
• “Little Axe” Broadnax (1916 - 1992)
Little Axe was an American gospel
singer. I couldn’t find much on his
personal life, but he was apart of
several gospel groups between the
1940’s and 1980’s.
He was not discovered to be trans
until his death in 1992.
• Lou Sullivan (1951 - 1991)
An American author and activist, and
also one of the first trans men to
publicly identify as gay. He’s heavily
credited to the modern understanding
of gender identity and sexuality being
As a child, he would write in his journal
about being confused about his
identity, and expressed his ideas of
wishing he were a man and wanting to
be a gay man there from a young age.
He moved away from Milwaukee in
1975 to San Francisco so he could
have easier access to not only hrt but
a more understanding community. His
family was supportive of this move and
gave him a man’s suit and his
grandfather’s pocket watch as going
In San Francisco, he lived openly as
a gay trans man but was denied SRS
constantly because of his sexuality,
since at the time trans people were
expected to adhere to a more
heterosexual lifestyle. He finally had
SRS in 1986.
He was diagnosed as HIV positive in
the same year, and said afterwards:
“I took a certain pleasure in informing
the gender clinic that even though
their program told me I could not live
as a Gay man, it looks like I’m going to
die like one.”
As an adult he was active in the
Gateway Gender Alliance, which was
one of the first educational
organizations that offered support for
FTM people. He was an editor for The
Gateway, a newsletter with “news
and information on transvestism and
transsexualism” that originally primarily
focused on MTF issues, but started to
also talk about FTM issues under his
He was a founding member of the
GLBT Historical Society in San
Francisco, he founded FTM
International - an organization
specifically for trans men - and was a
huge advocate for gay trans men, and
gay trans people in general.
He ended up passing due to HIV
Brandon Teena was raped and
murdered at age 21 for being trans.
He asserted that he was male from a
young age and began identifying as
a man during adolescence. He would
constantly reject school dress code by
When he was 18 he tried to join the US
army but failed to enter after listing his
sex as male.
In 1993 he began living as a man full
time and associating with John L.
Lotter, Tom Nissen, and Lana Tisdel.
During a Christmas Eve party, Nissen
and Lotter forced Brandon to pull
down his pants revealing that he was
trans. They forced him into a car, drove
to a nearby meat packing plant, and
raped him. They then took him to
Nissen’s house, where they told
Brandon to shower, allowing him to
escape out the bathroom window and
to Tinsel’s house.
They went to the ER where while
Brandon was having a rape kit done,
he was asked invasive, rude, and
unnecessary questions about him
being trans so they left.
When Nissen and Lotter found out
about the police report and rape kit
they started a hunt for Brandon, and
eventually found him on December
31st when they shot and killed him and
the two other people in the house
where he was staying. Brandon was
also stabbed in the chest to ensure he
He’s had two movies made on his life
a documentary called The Brandon
Teena Story and movie called Boys
Some more recent trans men include:
• Thomas Beatie - in 2007 was the first
trans man to become pregnant
through artificial insemination after
finding out his wife was infertile.
• Balian Buschbaum - a former German
pole-vaulting champion. He competed
during the early 2000s and retired in
2007 to transition
• Chaz Bono - son of Sonny and Cher,
he is a writer, musician, and activist
• Ian Harvie - a comedian and actor, he
was in Transparent and Roadtrip
• Buck Angel - a former adult film star
and producer, and is now a trans
activist, writer, and speaker
There are obviously many, many other well known current trans guys out there, but those are just some ✌️
The history of trans guys is often overlooked and/or forgotten, so hopefully you learned something from this
Each occupant of the bunker has their favourite spot. Sam spends most of his time in the library, Dean in his room, and Castiel, when he becomes human, in the observatory.
At first, neither Dean nor Sam question this: Cas gets a couple of books out of the library, sets himself up in front of the big telescope every night, and does his thing. Cloudy or clear sky, Castiel is in his nook with a cup of tea and his huge-ass telescope.
And then the observatory nook becomes a kind of nest.
Small, largely unnoticeable things end up making a home there first–a leftover mug here, a blanket there, but then pillows start appearing. And Dean’s sweatshirt. And another blanket. And a small collection of harlequin romance novels, alongside Hawking’s Brief History of Time (Castiel seems to get almost a vicious pleasure from going through the latter with a highlighter and pencil and scoffing at the majority of the text).
content: After hearing some
suspicious noises coming out of Dean’s bedroom the night before, Sam
decides to confront his brother.
word count: 2,088
“Dean, we need to talk.”
Sam’s voice sounds very serious
while he leans against the kitchen counter and folds his stupidly
long arms in front of his chest, glaring at his older brother with
the familiar I-don’t-support-your-life-choices look. He
doesn’t even waste his time with a “Good morning” or something
similar and that’s always a bad sign.
Dean, however, isn’t really
impressed by that. He places the bacon onto the hot pan at a
leisurely pace, ignoring Sam completely, until he finally shoots a
quick glance over his shoulder.
“And what’s so important at 7
Sam huffs impatiently. “You know!”
Dean rolls his eyes. “No, I don’t
know. That’s why I’m asking.”
Sam fidgets uncomfortably as if he’d
rather be somewhere else and doesn’t want to have this discussion at
all. And then he starts to gesticulate, flailing his limbs in Dean’s
vague direction, and performs a very complicated dance with his
“How about we talk about last
Quite suddenly Dean’s attention is
grabbed, but he keeps himself from acting like a deer in the
headlights. Instead he clears his throat and asks, a bit croaky,
“What do you mean?”
“Well, just look at you!” Sam
says, pointing at Dean’s face with an accusatory expression. “There
is that stupid grin I’ve seen so many times and I think it’s even
worse than ever before. And let’s not even mention that huge hickey
on your neck.”
Dean ducks his head and tries
forcefully – and highly unsuccessfully – to fight back a blush.
So, I wrote a thing and I’ve never written a thing before and shared it so go a little easy on me. This idea popped into my mind and idk. Cas is grumpy, human, and a little needy.
It was too cold. Since when does the bunker get this cold?
The sheets were too scratchy. Why are they so scratchy?
His legs ached. Dean was talking too loud.
Cas huffed and gripped his blanket harder, yanking it up to his chin and settling again. This routine was all too familiar; feeling every little fiber of the pillow beneath his head, hearing every shaky breath he inhales. Laying in his feelings. Feelings of all things.
Once, he thought, I was an angel; an all powerful, full authority, eyeball burning angel. Feelings were abstract. Once.
If he could go back, which, if he were still an angel, he could, would he make the same choices as the first time? The fall, the army, playing God, losing it all, countless mistakes, for a couple of humans? Was humanity worth his downfall?
On the one hand, these mistakes showed Castiel free will. They showed him a way out of being a mindless soldier, that there are things, and people, he had yet to understand, that he wanted to understand. It’s funny to him, really, how he has watched humanity since creation, watching them evolve, adapt, change, break each other, and mend each other. He watched since his own creation, and yet, being here, on Earth, it was so much harder. What’s that saying? Becoming a part of humanity was easier “said than done.” On the other hand, Castiel is looked down upon (literally and figuratively) by his brothers and sisters.
It was worth it. They are worth it. He is worth it.
His eyelids heavily drooped closed, his head fuzzy. Success.
Why don’t we ever talk about what’s going on? Is there even really something going on? Is it worse to try something and fail, or to not try at all?
Damn his brain, damn it all, for letting him reach the rim of sleep before yanking him back to the beginning. These nights were the worst, when his thoughts wandered to the edge of existential crisis, just enough to charge him with apprehension. He preferred the nights where he lied awake, tossing and turning and thinking, but thinking about things like bees and honey and the flowers; going through the motions of nature, in a state not quite peace or even aggravation from being awake, but somewhere blissfully and ignorantly in between.
It reminds him of Dean. Dean, the righteous man, the savior of his brother, of everyone. The one who started the apocalypse, Michael’s sword, a Knight of Hell, and, no matter how much he denies it, a hero. The fact is, Dean’s helped save hundreds of people, not to mention the world. He’s stopped the world from crashing and burning multiple times. He can’t deny that. How can he deny that he’s a hero when he’s saved so many? Saved Castiel himself?
He was tired. Why couldn’t his brain just settle down and let him get some seemingly deserved sleep?
Huffing for the hundredth time, Cas sat up and grasped his thin, almost hospital-like blanket and wrapped it around himself. He trudged to the door, flinging it open dramatically. As he started down the hall, that gruff and maddening, yet enchanting voice grew louder, causing Cas to grin sleepily despite himself.
What am I doing?
He was so fed up with this. This dancing around, not acknowledging what was always so close, hanging in the air, close enough to touch, but too far to clutch, to hold. He was going to settle this once and for all. If this went sideways, that would make Cas the worst at reading people than anyone in the entirety of his existence.
The walk to the library was long and foreboding. Sam and Dean were still up for some reason, talking. Talking too loud, he might add, about what seemed to be anything and everything; although, that could just be concluded from his irritation.
When he finally approached the war room, his heart started beating double time. The table was occupied by the familiar hooded outlines of the Winchesters, the only sounds being their voices and the beer bottle Dean was holding in his hand and idly rolling on the table. He looked stressed, from what Castiel could tell in the dim lamp light. For some reason, this observation set him off. His mouth went from a soft smile to a hard line as he stomped his way over to Dean.
Sam smiled when he first noticed Castiel. “Hey, Ca-”
Dean was looking at him. Always looking at him. Always staring. Always knowing.
Cas ignored Sam, and stomped straight up to Dean’s seat. Dean furrowed his brow, noticing the grim look on Cas’ face. Of course he’s wearing a damn flannel in the middle of the night. The flannel pissed him off. It elated him. He grabbed the collar of it.
“Cas, what is going on?” The first time Dean spoke to him that night. Cas ignored him. He yanked his infuriating human up by the collar of his flannel, and began pulling him out of the war room. Sam shot his brother a worried look while Dean’s feet stumbled over themselves, trying to keep up with Cas’s dragging pace. He looked back at Sam with wide eyes and threw his hands up in confusion.
They finally made it back to Cas’s room. When Cas shut the door behind them, Dean finally spoke up again.
“Cas, what the hell, man? What’s going on?”
“You’re so infuriating, you know that? ‘What’s going on’? Sitting there in your dumbass flannel with your beer and your voice.”
“My voice? What are you going on about? You’re not making sense.” Cas ignored him and walked back to him. He grabbed Dean’s flannel again, and began pushing it down his arms. Dean stepped back, face red.
“Woah, man - I don’t-”
“Yes, you do.” Cas held his eyes, challenging him to disagree. Dean huffed and took the flannel off the rest of the way, leaving it on the floor, still looking at Cas with a flushed face. Cas only pointed to the bed, waiting for Dean to comply.
Once dean was flannel-less and moving to lay on the bed, Cas, still drowning in his blanket, made it to the other side of the bed and laid down and got comfortable. Dean hesitated, watching Cas’ every move with careful eyes. Castiel’s eyes, though, were rolling into the back of his head at Dean’s hesitance. He rolled over to face the nervous hunter, reaching out and grabbing his hand. He yanked the man down and onto his bed, grinning smugly when he succeeded.
Cas didn’t want to waste anymore time. He was done playing these games. Of the stares, the feather light touches, the unspoken words, hanging in the air at the end of every conversation with him and Dean.
The former angel rolled back over, still holding Dean’s hand, and scooted backwards until his back was pressed against Dean’s chest. He took Dean’s arm and pulled it across his stomach, keeping his hand on top of Dean’s, interlacing his fingers with his in a backwards hand hold. Dean let out a breath he was holding and relaxed into Castiel, pulling him closer and resting his head between his angel’s shoulder and head, getting a whiff of his own shampoo that Cas borrowed, heat blooming in his chest.
Castiel’s eyes closed, a sleepy smile on his face. Finally. Success.
He could feel Dean’s own lips turned upward as he sighed one last time.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Dean didn’t have to respond. He knew. Cas was asleep in minutes.
Cas used to be an all powerful, full authority, eyeball burning angel once. He gave it all up for one human, mistakenly, he had thought. Once he would have given anything and everything to be what he used to be again, not some weak human being.
i deadass love the concept of lucifer, satan himself, one scary motherfucker and god’s former favorite angel ever being soft for his girl - so soft that he takes care of her, is there for her, and gives her lil gifts on her birthday while shes passed out asleep in his bed from partying
Dean is drunk. No, not drunk exactly, just…buzzed. He has to concentrate pretty hard on unlocking the door to the bunker and on not falling headfirst down the staircase. The whole place is silent and still, and it fills Dean with relief. After his conversation with Cas, short as it had been, he’d had to go. Had to get out of there, because the crushing guilt of everything he’s done would have sent him over some sort of edge if he’d stayed.
He told Cas he could stay the night. But come morning, before Sam wakes up, then he has to leave. He secretly hopes Castiel leaves before he wakes up too - or maybe that he’s already left - because he can’t face saying goodbye. Asking Cas to leave was the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, and it still makes his chest clench in pain as he recalls it. The pained, crushed look on Cas’ face as Dean says the words, the words he had to just come out with so bluntly because if he tried to say it in any other way he would have just broken down crying and confessed everything to the ex-angel and begged for his help.
He stumbles down the hall, trying not to knock anything over or wake anyone up. He wants to be alone. Alone with his pain and guilt, alone with the knowledge of what he’s done to his brother, inviting that angel in without his consent; alone with the resignation of asking the best friend he’s ever had to fend for himself in a world he doesn’t belong in and can’t find his feet in. He knows Cas is struggling with his newly human body. His little speech in the bunker earlier on had proved it. He had tried to smile, tried to brush off everything that happened with April, but there was a strange sense of melancholy that had settled around the former angel, one he either couldn’t or wouldn’t shake off.
Dean casts a glance at the closed door to the room he assumes Castiel is in. He isn’t sure, and is still clinging to the hope that it’s only him and Sam in the bunker now, but he sure as hell isn’t going to knock on the door to find out. He couldn’t lie to Cas about why he needed to leave, so he had to stay as far away from him as possible. Awkward questions would be his undoing, and God knows Cas is the master of those.
He turns the doorknob to his own room and stumbles in, not bothering to turn on the light. He kicks off his shoes and strips off his outer shirt and jeans, leaving his boxers and t-shirt on and trying to keep himself upright. Damn, maybe he’s drunker than he thinks. He grips the edge of the dresser and turns to climb under the sheets, achingly desperate to pass out and just not think any more. But once he turns, all thoughts leave his mind and he just stares, open-mouthed, at the sight before him.
Castiel is asleep in his bed.
For half a second, Dean swears his heart stops beating. He casts around the room in rising concern, wondering if he’s stumbled in to Cas’ room in his inebriated state but no - everything that should be there is. His iPod, John’s journal, the wall of weaponry, the half-empty bottle of Jack… he’s in his own room, and Cas is in there too. Jesus fuck, now what is he supposed to do?
He half considers waking Cas up, asking him what the hell he’s doing and kicking him out into his own room. It would be like kicking an injured puppy, and Cas definitely didn’t need any more kicking when he was down. He’s never been this low before, and Dean can’t bring himself to add to it any more than he already has. He could wander across the hallway and sleep in another room - it wasn’t like they were short on space. He wanted to be alone, after all. Didn’t he?
Or, he could do what he does next. His legs move of their own accord and he approaches the bed. Castiel is lying on his side, on Dean’s side of the bed, facing the wall. Dean leans over, just to check Cas is actually asleep, and almost overbalances and falls on top of him, the whiskey in his veins not playing fair. Cats is definitely asleep, but he doesn’t look peaceful. One hand is scrunched in the sheet, the other pillowing his face, and his brow is scrunched up in consternation. His dark hair is a mess, and he’s still wearing the t-shirt he had on earlier. And are those tear tracks on his cheeks…? Fuck. Dean isn’t sure, and he isn’t waking Cas up to ask. The bed is big enough for both of them, he can just slide under the sheets, turn away, and nod off. He and Sam have shared enough beds in the past, it isn’t weird.
Except that he and Cas have never shared a bed. They share a ‘profound bond’, which seems to get stronger as the days go by no matter how hard it’s tested, but sharing a bed is a new one. Dean lifts the corner of the covers and cautiously slides into bed, mindful of moving around too much and waking his friend. Castiel should at least be allowed a good night’s sleep before Dean casts him out into the world, alone.
That thought was painful, and Dean cuts off that line of thinking with precision.
He settles down on his back and firmly closes his eyes, refusing to look at the former angel. He wanted to pass out, to go to sleep and not have to think about Cas leaving. Them sharing a bed would inevitably mean a tough conversation in the morning, unless Dean could fake sleep well enough for his friend to slip out thinking he was unnoticed. He listens to his own breathing, then Cas’, then his own again, and can feel himself starting to drift when a noise, soft and barely audible, cuts through the silence.
And Dean freezes. His whole body goes rigid and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears. That was Cas speaking, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. It was distressed, and Dean wasn’t sure if Cas was crying in his sleep. The body next to him shifts, curling in on itself more, and Dean’s heart aches. Another whine leaves Cas’ lips and Dean can’t take it any more. He shifts onto his side and reaches a hand out towards his friend, his fingers finding his clothed shoulder and squeezing gently in an eerie mimic of the handprint on Dean’s own shoulder. Cas tenses, then relaxes minutely, still asleep but far from at peace. Tiny tremors quake through him, and Dean moves a little closer, his chest almost against the other man’s back. It felt strange to think of Cas as a mere man now, not the angelic force of nature he once was, and Dean swallows through a tight throat. Cas shifts again, snuffling a little in his sleep and it definitely sounds like he’s crying. Dean isn’t sure what heartbreak feels like, but it can’t be very different to this. His eyes burn, and he gives in: he pulls Cas close against him, wraps an arm around his waist and moves his other arm above both their heads to stroke Cas’ hair. It seems to soothe the former angel and he huffs out a deep, shuddering breath, one that Dean unconsciously mimics.
Cas could stay, couldn’t he? He can talk to Ezekiel again in the morning, figure something out. Cas doesn’t have to leave; he can’t let Cas leave. Castiel has put himself in danger for Dean and Sam so many times that throwing him out just can’t be the right thing to do. His drink-fuelled mind crashes through one idea after another, searching for a solution, and even though he fails to settle on one he knows he can’t let Castiel go. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Cas is relaxed against him, warm and soft in his arms, and Dean allows himself to settle back into the pleasant haze of near-dreamland he had been in before Cas’ words drew him out. His eyes close, his mind still wild with thoughts of angels and heaven and trench coats and bright blue eyes…
He wakes up slowly the next morning, on his back with his head pounding and tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. It takes him a moment to realise why he feels so shitty, and why he’s asleep on the wrong side of his bed. Then, with the force of a wrecking ball, it all comes screaming back and his eyes fly open of their own accord. Cas, Cas had spent the night with him in his bed, and Dean really needed to talk to him before he woke up and left. He turns, a hand outstretched to grip the ex-angel’s shoulder and shake him awake, but his hand finds empty air. He blinks, takes in the smoothed down sheets and fluffed up pillow, and the total absence of any of Cas’ meagre things and his throat tightens. Tears burn behind his eyes and he draws in a deep, shaky breath before collapsing back down onto the bed and letting himself cry quietly, his hangover mixed with his raw wave of emotions overwhelming him and breaking down any walls he has left.
prompt for anon request on this: “I confessed to you riding shotgun underneath the purple skies.”
The car was quiet, next to the soft roaring of the motor surrounding them. Dean was driving, as always, hands on the wheel. Where they belonged, he felt. He’d been listening to one of his tapes before until Castiel had fallen asleep, and Dean had turned off the music so it wouldn’t wake him up. He knew how difficult sleeping was for Cas - he’d give him any opportunity to get rest.
The bags under his eyes that had always been there had become significantly larger - ever since he’d lost his wings for the last and final time, Castiel had been trying to adjust to human life. It had been like fighting a fight without any training, never winning but never losing either.
He just had to keep going, learn to cope with hunger and getting tired, deal with new emotions, new moods, new feelings. Dean had been so dedicated, so determined to help him through that he forgot all about himself until Cas pointed it out to him that he, too, had to eat. He wouldn’t sleep if Sam wouldn’t take him away from Castiel’s bed where he sat, chin in his hands so he’d be there if Cas woke up with a nightmare.
Whenever Castiel looked tired, overwhelmed, Dean felt like it was his fault. He tried anything until he found the best way to keep Castiel going, get him positive. Castiel loved training. He was still amazing with any knife, preferably those that felt like angel blades. He still had the strength and energy of a grown, muscled man, but he got tired faster.
They had started training with guns two weeks ago, and Cas didn’t want to stop. Hours on end, he’d listen to Dean, mimic his hand movements, the position of his feet, and soon Dean realized Castiel was the best learner. Cas wanted and needed this and that was enough. He didn’t give up after mistakes and pushed himself to not stop until he got it right.
He wasn’t the only one changing, though. Dean changed, too. The moment Castiel lay dead on the ground, the burn marks of his wings outspread in the dirt, Dean changed. Something died inside him, together with Cas and he only then, after all those years, understood what this ‘profound bond’ Cas had mentioned was, and how special it had always been.
But Cas had come back, thank God he’d come back, but Dean would never be the same. He was more careful, made sure Cas was never alone and told Sam to watch out for him whenever he had to leave them alone. Soon he noticed that Cas didn’t want him to watch over him like that, maybe it made him feel weak, so Dean kept it hidden. But it didn’t leave. Other feelings got stronger, too. Those feelings he’d always pushed away because he could and he didn’t want to deal with them.
“Well?” Chuck asked when Metatron finally put the sheets of papers down onto the table, removing his glasses as the former sat across from him in the booth. He frowned a little, confused and more than a little worried about that particular chapter’s fate, when he noticed that the ex-angel wiped a tear from his eye; was Chuck’s writing that bad? “What is it?”
“Nothing- It’s- It’s good, just…”
“’Just’ what?” The darker-haired one parroted back at him, not entirely sure he was as open to constructive criticism about that particular part of his book as he was regarding the other chapters. After all, this was a chapter about you; anyone with a brain and a heart knew that whatever Metatron had to say about God’s actual love of his (really long) life, he had to tread carefully, lest he accidentally invokes Chuck’s wrath and create a large hole in the middle of the United States or something. Chuck didn’t want that, he knew the former-angel was stalling, and he knew he struck…something when he wrote it, but…what? “It’s okay, this is still a safe place, you don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings or anything.”
Metatron sucked in a shaky breath, preparing the things he needed to say. “I’ve never seen someone pour so much…love and adoration for someone else the way you did in your writing.”
Chuck didn’t comprehend what the fallen angel was trying to state. “Is that bad?”
“No, no- Of course not, I just…I’m curious, you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t feel like you want to- But why didn’t you just bring her back?” Metatron asked him, making the omnipresent being before him tense up visibly. “You have the power to bring (Y/N) back from the dead! I mean, you’ve done it with the Winchesters, and you’ve rebuilt Castiel more times than you should, but not for the woman you love. Why is that?”
Chuck leaned back against the cushioned seat, not expecting that question to come from Metatron, but it was Metatron, after all; the angel and him had worked together in the past to write and had always managed to challenge him in the best ways, so of course he’d see the little details and question them. He was an editor, wasn’t that part of the job? “She made me promise not to.” Seeing Metatron’s confusion, the writer ran his fingers through his soft, curly hair before continuing.
“When I told her I wasn’t as human as she thought I was, she made me swear no matter the circumstances, I am to never, ever bring her back. When…When it was her time, she said, ‘I swear to you, Chuck, if I find myself still breathing after this, I will never forgive you’, and so I- I respected her wish.” Chuck drew a shaky breath, and Metatron’s heart (does a fallen angel have one?) nearly shattered for his Father. “I miss her so so much, more than someone like me should for such a small human, and not one day had passed where I don’t think that I wanted, more than anything, to bring her back, to see her again in the flesh, to hold her hand one last time. Nothing hurts me more than the fact that I could breathe life back into her and she could be by my side if I wanted to. Believe me, I do want to, but then I can’t live with the idea that she could never forgive me for doing so. I guess I just find it easier to go through those particularly hard days without her, knowing that she’s in Heaven, and she’s happy. She makes me more human than I could ever possibly be when she’s gone, and I love her for that.” Chuck spoke quietly, his eyes downcast. The ex-angel before him could tell that even if this was God, and people presumed he didn’t care, he sure does care for this particular girl.
“I can’t imagine what that must be like for you, Chuck.” Metatron said genuinely. He’d never known love, never known what it’s like to fall for someone who would mean the universe to him, someone to cherish for as long as life let him, but if anything, he knew right then, Chuck and (Y/N) were the greatest and most tragic of all. “To live through that day by day.”
“That’s the thing; just like the rest of the broken-hearted humans here on earth, I don’t have the strength to. I try, sure, but most days I find myself too numb to even think of moving on.” He answered truthfully.