A/N: So, um, yeah. I really like Chuck. Like, I really, really like Chuck. And I wrote this at stupid early in the morning, and. And, yeah. And I'll I'm doing right now is procrastinating a paper. Someone smite me already, for srsly.

Disclaimer: Disclaimed.

Sometimes, Chuck really hates being a writer.

Because, see, he thought it was going to be so much fun when he started. Here's how it goes: he gets an idea at two o'clock in the morning, right? And then it stays in his head, and it won't leave, so he gets excited. He actually thinks, hey, look, it's a friggin' plot point! Which is the damn highlight of his evening… morning… whatever, which in itself is just sad. And then, this it is, the big start; the masterpiece. It's bloody perfect, too, he thinks. The characters are captivating, the scene is just a whole big playground for him to have fun in, to make something out of, and the plot is full of enough twists and turns to out-curve a rollercoaster.

So, he gets up, turns the lights on, does a mad scramble for a pen and a notebook….

And then, nothing. The words won't come, the prose won't flow, and he's left with that deep, unsatisfying feeling of "so what happens now?"

God, he hates that feeling.

And it's all he's got, lately. He's got editors yelling at him over the phone, he's got publishers yelling at him over the phone, he's got the whole freaking world with his damn number, and he hasn't written anything for the next installment of Supernatural because there's nothing left to write.

Sure, there's still stuff happening. There will always be stuff happening to Sam and Dean Winchester, he thinks, and that's the whole friggin' problem. There's always stuff happening, but he doesn't know what it is anymore because he's no longer being considered useful by Heaven's best and brightest. So, there's all this stuff, but he doesn't know any of it, and… well, what if he gets it wrong?

What if he writes out this huge, big old, dramatic ending, and it's all completely, totally, wrong?

It was so much better when they were his characters. Then, he could feel completely justified in putting them through all of this shit because they were just figments of his imagination. Now, it's just awkward, writing about Sam and Dean and everybody else, because he has no idea how it's going to end and he really doesn't want to piss off any higher-ups because he killed them off in his plotline.

Yeah, okay, so the angels probably have more important things to worry about than the Supernatural books. But hey, it never hurts anybody to be a little bit paranoid, especially in the world that he apparently actually lives in.

Plus, there's the whole "lack of inspiration thing" going on. Maybe it's one of those "all in his head" kind of things, but now that nobody's actually feeding him information, Chuck's starting to run out of ideas. He just… doesn't know where to take the story, now that it's continuing all by itself and not even feeding him prompts.

Not to get him wrong, or anything, he doesn't really miss waking up at not-drunk-enough-for-this-shit o'clock in the morning to freaking bleed his fingers out on a page because he's got angels pushing at his brain, but… really, the angels were almost better than his editors. The angels actually needed him around.

And all of that makes him feel like a really shitty writer, because seriously, he can't even come up with the conclusion to a plot that's been going on for, what, years now? He can't just pack it all up and leave it already?

No. No, he can't. He just doesn't feel right doing that. He feels like if he does that, he'll have robbed the good guys of their happy endings. Because those guys freaking deserve happy endings, and Chuck…

Well, to be honest, if it were up to him, they probably wouldn't get them. He's just not that kind of writer. He would try, but it would come out wrong, and somehow, that would be worse. And he thinks that Sam and Dean deserve to at least have a shot at making something like happiness for themselves, even if what they go through every day is absolute hell and they've lost so much that there's nothing that Chuck could even think of taking away from them anymore.

He sits there in his tattered bathrobe (he still has the damn thing, can't bring himself to get rid of it) with a pen behind his ear, a laptop under his fingers, and he wishes that he could still write about these guys like they were his own creations.

Now, it's like… it's like he's writing fanfiction, for Chrissakes, and he spent so much time with Becky that he's really freaking sick of fanfiction.

Like, really sick.

And if he has to go on making up stuff for these guys that's never going to happen, and they're going to go on completely contradicting every word he scribbles down in the margins of his Sunday morning newspaper, well.

He's totally going to go crazy.

So, in conclusion, writing. Sometimes, it really, really, really sucks.

Especially if the characters just aren't yours anymore.

The. Freaking. End.