Chapter I.
The Value of Choice

"We all make choices, but in the end, our choices make us."
- Andrew Ryan, Bioshock

For the first time in all those years living in there, the silence filling the bunker felt heavy, oppressive. An almost physical reminder that he was, once more, completely alone. Sure, he knew Castiel was still there, still trying to make him feel any better because there was no way the angel would leave his side after everything they've been through, even after all the mistakes and sins they both had commited in the name of 'greater good'. They were some twisted kind of family now, if he cared to remember. They had no one but each other now. Heaven had abandoned Cass. Dean was gone, just as dad and mom and... He sucked in a harsh breath, trying to focus on anything but the burning pain on his chest - but honestly, Sam almost had lost the little self control he had the moment he stepped into the hideout, because nothing else could make Dean's absence so clear than the empty place they were just getting used to call 'home'.

But he had a vague idea of how crushed, how miserable and broken beyond repair he'd feel the moment he looked at the Impala again after the shock had dispersed from his tired brain.

And there was Cass talking, trying to break the silence but it just made the Winchester feel even more at egde. He didn't want to talk right now. He didn't need to, in fact. All he needed in that very moment was a few bottles of the strongest alcohol he could find and then he'd just drown himself in self loathing and pity for some hours... or days, at least. That sounded like a very good plan, yes sir.

"Cass, listen-" Sam finally said, cutting whatever emotional crap the angel was trying to say. He really wasn't in the right mood for that, for anything concerning Dean and his death. Because obviously his brother had to play the great hero, because Dean had to save the fucking world again and... he took another deep breath, pushing those thoughts away as quickly as they had slipped into his mind, ignoring the little voice in his head just telling him what he had known for years now. Your fault it's your fault he's dead because of you again- "I know you're trying to help and all, but... not now, okay?"

"Dean asked me to look after you." Castiel said simply, yet there was something hidden in his voice, some kind of disguised pain he had never heard before, that prevented the Winchester from punching him in the face- no matter how much he wanted to do exactly that.

"I know. But I need some time alone."

And for a brief moment he felt some part of his stupid, tired brain scoff at that pathetic excuse of a lie, another one to add to his huge pile of countless lies he had gathered throughout the years, but Castiel didn't comment on it nor tried to change his mind. Sam didn't even try to hold the sigh of relief that escaped his lips as he smiled weakly at the old friend, finally reaching the library. What a foreign feeling it was, that one of not having Dean around once more, of being on his own again. And it was for good this time, a part of him decided to remember bitterly. No coming back from Heaven, Hell or Purgatory. Dean was gone, and there was no coming back now. How could've he ever agreed with that? But again, they didn't have many choices to begin with. Sam had sealed their fate the moment he decided to set Amara free.

The memory sent a bitter, poisonous taste up his throat and he forced himself not to choke on the wave of pure guilt that assailed him.

"I could..." The Winchester heard Castiel talking again, his tone careful as if he didn't know what to do around Sam. Funny, because not even the hunter knew what to do around himself now. "Go back to field. Check if there's any trail of Lucifer around. It's almost certain that Amara... ended him, but we have to be 100% sure. Are you sure you'll be fine?"

No, I won't. "Of course, Cass. You've got a good plan."

Sam didn't mention the fact that his new plan was to drink himself into a probable coma. Castiel could always give him a lecture later but man, was he decided to empty the bunker's entire alcohol stock in that single night if it was be humanly possible. He just wanted to forget that Dean was dead. He wanted to forget all the lies he had said and all the pain he had caused because he was so damn tired of screwing everything up. Of being a real screw up, a monster - just like Dean had called him before. And looking back at everything he had done, all the damage he had caused in the name of a brother he had killed, how could someone call him anything but a monster? How could he dare to call himself human yet, when it was more than obvious he had crossed the human line a long time ago?

A shuddered sigh, something so pathetic that almost sounded like a broken sob, echoed on the library before Sam had enough time to understand it was just him making such miserable noises. Fortunately he was alone again, and he couldn't be more glad that Castiel wasn't around - because some part of his useless mind was still trying to preserve whatever little dignity was left on him. The other part simply didn't give a fuck about anything happening around him in that moment. It was just so hard to understand Dean wasn't coming back anymore. It shouldn't be like this. And the hunter decided to move into the kitchen before he got too lost on his depressing thoughts. Better drown himself in self pity while he was downright drunk.

Never before the bunker looked so overwhelming. The silence, the emptiness, the guilt gnawing at his very insides... it was just too much. His feet, however, decided to move against his will and he just noticed something was wrong the moment his fingers curled around the doorknob of the room that once belonged to Dean. Honestly, it'd bring him only memories and scents and... everything he wanted to forget at once. Yet the Winchester caught himself turning the knob and pushing the door open, looking at the empty room that he'd never dare to step in again. Sam swallowed back the huge, uncomfortable knot stuck in his throat, trying not to break down right there and right now.

He should remember that maybe Lucifer was still out there, wreaking havoc, that there was no guarantee Amara had killed him for good. They've never been that lucky. If the fallen angel was still walking on Earth, they had to find a way to kick the devil's ass back to Hell as soon as possible, and they couldn't do it if Sam wasn't in his best shape. There'll always be time to mourn later, Dean would've said. Not that Sam was good at following his older brother's advices, had never been. So he closed the door, pretended not to feel the hot tears streaming down his face shamelessly and finally forced himself to go the kitchen. Everything was on the exact spot Dean had left them (Dean's kitchen, it's always been his, not Sam's) and hell, the younger Winchester felt like never touching any of those things, just as he'd do with his brother's room.

The only thing that wouldn't be safe from his trembling hands was the liquor cabinet, and he found it a bit too quickly.

He got drunk a bit too quickly, too. Not that it really mattered.

That's the whole point, Sam thought.

Clinging at his third (or maybe it was fourth, but he couldn't really tell) bottle of scotch, he decided to move somewhere way more comfortable than the kitchen's cold floor. His hands still trembled, and for a moment his legs refused to sustain his entire weight but he finally stood up, breathing slowly through tears. It was pathethic, he knew - but he couldn't help it. Dean was just gone and there was nothing to do. No deal would ever bring him back, and God had just... left again. How was he supposed to deal with it? What was he supposed to do now? And then, just like that, the first notes of an old fashioned tune started echoing on the empty Bunker. Sam frowned, head moving towards the noise. Maybe he was drunker than he had thought. That would be a good explanation. For a second, he wondered if smacking his head against the closest wall would help him to pass out right there- and the tune melted into some happier, louder song.

"What the... Cass?"

No answer. He shouldn't be as surprised as he felt.

His hand flew to the gun on his pocket, the bottle long forgotten on the table. Someone had just entered the Bunker and how was it even possible? No one else had the key, Dean was dead, Cass wasn't around... and he was drunk. Oh well. As if he had anything else to lose. The Winchester half sobbed, half laughed and finally decided to throw all caution out of the window. If something was there to end him, so be it. He followed the song slowly, moving down through a corridor they almost didn't use for all those years they'd been living in the Bunker. There were locked rooms everywhere around that place, keys nowhere to be found, and those which were open only held countless dangerous items the Men of Letters had collected in their time. Maybe something had just escaped a box. It wouldn't be the first time, really... wouldn't be that hard to put it back, too. A soft, frustrated sigh left his lips as he located the room he had been looking for. One of those damned locked doors.

"Of course."

Because he couldn't have some few hours of peace of mind.

Even so, he grabbed the doorknob just to give it a try, just to be sure anything would leave the room anytime soon- and to his surprise, it trummed under his fingers with pure power, unsettling and agonizing. Before he could step away the door slid open easily, as if it'd never been locked for the past 60 years or so. The music was louder and the words were clearer now, and for a few seconds Sam swore he had heard a couple of different voices, laughing and chatting as if it was completely normal. His eyes scanned the entire door, filled with ancient symbols he didn't recognize. Old, powerful magic, maybe. Something Rowena could talk about, if he felt like asking. Maybe he should... It was time to go back and check. Even so, no matter what he did, his fingers refused to let go of the doorknob, and the hunter felt his breath hitching in blind, stupid, drunk panic. What in heaven's name was going on now? He finally released the cursed thing, and just when he believed he had managed to step away of the magical door, the noises and voices engulfed him completely. Pure dread filled his entire, tall body at the sudden change.

For a long, painful second, Sam closed his eyes and forced not to listen.

It was just a trick. He was too drunk, his mind was spinning and he just needed a long night of sleep and everything would be okay-

A loud, creepy laughter echoed right at his side and he jumped away as if Lucifer was right in front of him once more, heart beating too fast against his ribcage as his eyes fell on some kind of vending machine with a damned clown painted all over the thing. His breath got stuck on his throat as he stepped back, as far as he could from the cursed thing- and then felt himself hitting something, someone. He turned slowly, hands pocketing the gun long before his mind followed his movements. It was just too much to comprehend, too much-

"Hey! You okay, pal?" He had stumbled on a man. He was small, with a friendly, almost concerned face. His clothes, though... it seemed the kind of clothing his grandfather would've used during his adulthood. Too outdated. Sam simply gulped back whatever words dancing on his tongue, not trusting himself to say anything at that point. He needed to find out what the hell was going on, find a way back home and... "You look like you've seen a ghost or somethin'."

"I... S-something, I guess."

"You new around here, huh? Never seen your face before." The man just laughed, and the Winchester could do nothing but nod. He had no idea where 'here' was. He needed to think clearly, to pull a plan out of his pockets just like any other normal hunt and that'd be it. He'd be home sooner than later, he knew it. "I know how it feels. Livin' in a freakin' city at the bottom of ocean makes us all a little shaky at first."

Wait, what?

"What?"

But the man just patted his shoulder in a friendly gesture and left without another word.

Hazel eyes fixated on a newspaper vendor resting at the right side of the creepy machine, and he approached it too fast.

Rapture Tribune.
December 02, 1958.

Later, he'd blame all the liquor he had drank for passing out in that right moment.

*snickers at stupid summary and not so subtle title* the hell am I doing... Well thank you for taking your time to read! This crossover had been bothering me for a while now, so I decided to write it down for good. First of all, lemme apologize for any typos or whatever you may find on your way. English isn't my first languague but I swear I'm doing my best here! ;v;

Second, I'm deeply sorry if anyone looks a bit OOC. It's been years since I wrote something and Bioshock isn't exactly fresh in my mind either. For those who had never played this masterpiece, there'll be a lot of spoilers. Proceed with caution.

Furthermore, just kick back, relax and enjoy the story. See you on the next chapter!