Okay, this one's kind of lame, but. . .I was also pissy about Chuck-As-God. So. Here.

Castiel does not know how it is that he comes to be sitting on Chuck's couch. He does not know how it is that the writer does not hear him, is just crouched intently over a glowing computer.

"Endings are hard," the writer mutters. "Any chapped-ass monkey with a keyboard can poop out a beginning, but endings are impossible. You try to tie up every loose end, but you never can."

Castiel stands, comforted a bit by the familiar rustling of his trenchcoat.

"The fans are always gonna bitch. There's always gonna be holes. And since it's the ending, it's all supposed to add up to something. I'm telling you, they're a raging pain in the ass."

Castiel is behind him now, can read the words over the writer's shoulder. Everything smells like liquor and cigarettes.

"So what's it all add up to? It's hard to say. But for me. . .for Sam and Dean. I think they did all right. Up against good, evil, angels, devils, destiny, and god himself, they made their own choice. They chose family. Isn't that kind the whole point?"

"That is shit," Castiel says, and the writer screams and jumps about four feet into the air.

"But you're. . .you're. . ." the writer turns back to the computer, scrolls back several pages to where it is written "Castiel shattered into a thousand red spheres of blood guts and gore". "See!" he says, pointing at the computer. "You died!"

"Yes," Castiel says. He runs his hands over his shoulders, twitches them, is surprised to feel the shadow of wings. "God must have brought me back. New and improved."

"What. . .but. . ." Chuck giggles nervously. "Talk about deus ex machina! Get it. . .God. . .anyway. What about Sam and Dean, then?"

Castiel frowns, reaches out his consciousness, seeking for that familiar brightness in the world. . .cannot find it. "I. . .do not know," Castiel says.

"Oh," Chuck sighs, sits down at his seat, gestures toward the computer. "You're right," he says. "It is shit. Wished they passed out talent when they gave prophecies."

"Are there any more?" Castiel asks. Chuck shuts his eyes, shakes his head.

"No," he groans. "Nothing but the start of a killer hangover. I think it's over, man. I really think it is."

Castiel is not so sure about that. There's no doubt – endings are hard. He glances into a mirror, sees renewed resolve. Thinks. . .somewhere, Crowley stills holds Bobby's soul. Somewhere God is still holed up, still hiding. Thinks that the world is missing a bit of green, a bit of hazel, a bit of leather and motor oil and brotherly love. . .and, well, he pulled Dean out of hell once, he can surely do it again.

Nothing really ends, does it?