A/N: I've only written a few chapters of this so far, and I currently have yet to continue, but this should really only be novella sized (20,000 - 50,000 words).

Sam was sitting against one of the bookshelves, stone and wood digging into his back. A volume on werewolves and the lunar cycle had been doing the same thing, but he'd gotten fed up with it and had tossed it across the room, and the pages were now bent and crumpled. Dean had put a hand on his bicep at that, gripping tightly, but Sam had shoved him off. Dean also sat beside him, bottle of scotch in hand. Castiel was next to Dean. They all stared ahead. It was dim in the bunker, and before them on one of the tables in the library was Jack, a blindfold wrapped over his eyes so they didn't have to see.

They should be taking care of themselves, they should be finding a way out of there, they should be doing so many things, but they just sat and stared at their kid who lay there with his eyes burned out by God himself.

God… Sam huffed. To think that he used to pray to him, to think that he had agency in his life, or that he had clawed and scraped for it. Did he even have it now? The universe was ending. Everything was ending.

Story was over.

The End.

His body ached and bled, and so did his family's, but they were numb, shell-shocked.

After fighting and crawling their way out of the zombies, taking Jack's body with them, which had been nearly torn to pieces in the melee, they'd high-tailed it back to the bunker. It'd let them in, but now it wasn't letting them out. Lights had flashed in the war room, alarms screaming, and now they were locked in.

It was trying to keep them safe.

But Chuck could get in if he wanted.

And they couldn't get out.

"What do we do?" Sam asked.

As if it was an answer, Dean took a long pull from the bottle he held, and he passed it to Sam.

Sam stared at it, unsure about putting poison in his body. He'd drank before when Jack had died, when he'd lost his son the first time. And he'd wanted him dead this time around, some part of him hurting that his mom was gone again, but now that it was real, that it was in front of him, that his body was slowly decomposing before him and his eyes were gone, and the zombies had slashed him up pretty good, and he couldn't suddenly get up and smile at them, or even try and apologize, or shed a tear… Sam didn't want it. And he didn't want to put anything in his body.

The demon blood. That was Chuck.

That wasn't just Lucifer and his demons, and the angels scheming for the Apocalypse.

That… Fuck, that was God.

And if he drank, if he got drunk, did that mean that God would win?

Or was it a choice he made for himself now?

Sam gave up, his head aching, all of him hurting, and he tilted his head back, having a sip.

Dean pat him unthinkingly on the shoulder, the one ripped through with the bullet wound, making Sam grimace, almost choke, and he shoved the bottle back at Dean.

"I suppose we hang out here till we die," Dean eventually said.

"I believe we fought our way out of that graveyard for a reason," Cas argued.

Sam watched as he traded a forlorn look with the angel, and Castiel stood, going over to Jack, brushing his hair back from his forehead. Sam grunted, pulled himself to his feet, and stood beside him. He looked wrong with the blindfold, so wrong, as if they were trying to hide things from him like they'd done before his death, but he looked worse without it, stomach churning.

"Jack, I'm so sorry," Castiel said, voice low. A tear dripped off of his nose.

Seemingly feeling left out, Dean got up, was on the other side of the table now, still drinking. His lips pressed together, turned down, and Sam realized he was trying to hold back tears, maybe trying to not sob.

Sam just felt empty.

"Where do you think he is?" Sam asked.

"The Empty surely has him. With his soul gone— It's the only place he could go."

"Chuck was… scared of him," Sam reasoned, frowning. "I… I don't get it. He killed a child. Our child. Why…?"

"'Cause he's a fucked up son of a bitch who plays with people's lives, our lives," Dean intoned, "and he's out there right now throwing the biggest temper tantrum in the whole goddamn universe, and he ain't stopping. So how about we say goodbye, huh?"

"Dean!" Cas cried. "We can't let it end like this!"

"I say we can. You got any better ideas? We're trapped in here, man. We got our dead kid on a table, Sammy's hurt, you're hurt, I'm getting hammered. You think we're any good to the world anymore? Chuck didn't just change channels on us. He's turning the TV off. That's it! No more Team Free Will 2.0, no more saving the world, no more shit we gotta deal with. Lights out."

Arguing. Had all their arguments been for God's entertainment?

Sam didn't have it in him to join this one, didn't have any ideas on what to say. He wanted to be the one to come up with a brilliant idea, wanted to say the thing that would turn this whole shitty situation on its head, wanted to stick a middle finger up at Chuck.

But he had nothing. He just rubbed his hand against Jack's too-cold cheek, and let his eyes fill with tears.

Then he headed off to the infirmary, Dean and Castiel's raised voices breaking off from their yelling at each other, and asking him where he was going.

"I'm not bleeding to death in here," he told them. "I say we try and win by living as long as possible." He paused in the archway to the war room, tilting his head to them. "Got any better ideas?"

Dean fondled the bottle of scotch, eyeing Cas, and then was looking back at him. They both were bleeding, cuts on their faces, bruises, too, and their clothes were stained red.

Dean shrugged, Castiel's eyes were big, tears in his eyes.

"Alright, angel, after you," Dean said, arm out for Cas.

Cas glared at him, teeth bared, lip curled up in a slight snarl, but he went first, following after Sam, and then came Dean.

Sam hoped his last few hours, or days, or however long Chuck wanted to drag on his apocalyptic ending wouldn't be spent with those two being cruel to each other. And he hoped to hell that whatever angsty shit they all held against each other they could just let go of, or else death was going to be an even crueler mistress.