Sam slammed a notebook down on the library table, startling Dean from his stupor induced by scotch and too many pain pills. His little brother had taken his fair share of medicine too, but there was still that weird light in his eyes he'd had earlier, an angry determination. Dean didn't get it. And Castiel, well, he must've had something different because he took away Dean's second bottle of scotch and handed him his sling that he'd purposefully left on the war room table. Huh, he wasn't treating Sam like that. Well, Sammy was being a good patient and wearing his sling. Dean just tossed his somewhere over on the floor; Cas rolled his eyes, tilting his head too.

Jack's body was no longer in the room. Thank god. Dean couldn't stand being around it anymore. It. Yeah, that's what it was. Jack was gone. Had been gone before he killed Mom, and now any hope of ever seeing his kid again had been murdered by God himself. The body was in one of the cooler drawers in the infirmary. They couldn't go outside and burn it, so there it stayed.

"We gotta do inventory," Sam said. "Starting with food. This isn't like the time Ketch locked us up in here. We have plenty of air. So we'll most likely die of starvation."

"Fun," Dean commented.

Now it was Sam's turn to roll his eyes.

Castiel seemed frustrated about the sling, and he got up to retrieve it.

Sam kept talking, "We probably don't have much. Think we last did a supply run before Mom… Before… Anyway, tried contacting the other hunters. No bars. No wi-fi either. Just glad they're not locked in here with us. Maybe the ones who survived Michael's attack have a chance."

Castiel was back with Dean's sling, and he promptly threw it again. Cas seemed pissed enough to hit him, but he settled for a bitch face to rival one of Sam's fuck you faces. Dean took his scotch from him, and gave him a nasty look right back.

Sam sighed.

"Hey, can you two focus?"

"Fine, you want us to focus?" Dean asked, pointing a finger at Cas. "Then let's talk about how Mom's dead 'cause he didn't tell us Jack wasn't chugging morality fiber with his breakfast smoothies."

"Dean, we've been over this," Cas argued. "I thought I was doing what was best."

"Oh, you're always doing that, aren't you?"

Sam planted a fist down on the table. "Enough! If you two want to die mad at each other, fine, but do it on your own time. Yeah, Mom died. Jack died. And we're next."

"Then why drag it out?" Dean asked. "Huh? The way I see it, we should just grab a gun, and…" He made a finger gun with his hand, put it under his chin and mimicked pulling the trigger.

Castiel grabbed his hand, and lowered it, not caring that it was with Dean's bad arm, and he grunted at the sudden flare of pain. Now he was glaring at him again.

Sam was snapping his fingers, which was a fuzzy sound in Dean's ears.

"Hey! We can't give God what he wants."

"What does God want?" Castiel asked. "We can't know for sure. Maybe he wants this. Maybe it's not the end. Maybe he's playing us again. Sam, what if we're not going to die in here? We have to try and get out."

Dean continued drinking, setting his feet on the table, just sitting back and watching the conversation, not really caring anymore. God, his arm hurt, and it itched.

"With what, Cas? Your Grace? This bunker's warded against nearly everything. It's powerful enough to keep most angels out. I'm sure it can keep you in if it wants to, and whatever Chuck's doing it must've put a failsafe in place. It wants us in here, trying to keep us safe."

"What if we tell it it's safe?"

"Then we need someone on the outside. Communication's down."

"What about angel radio?"

"You try it yet?"

"Oh come on," Dean groaned. "Chuck's done with us. It's time for him to break his toys and throw 'em away."

Dean nearly shuddered at the thought. So that's what he'd been. Just some pretty doll on a shelf, or a character in a book, or a TV show. The injuries, the trauma, the heartbreak, the depression, the grief, the aching hurt he felt inside now, the self-loathing, the disgust, the violations, all of it. It was from the guy who ran it all, the head manager of the fucking universe.

Yep, he needed more alcohol.

He took another sip of scotch, but the burn of it down his throat wasn't satisfying because he thought maybe he was satisfying Chuck. Fucking Chuck. Was all the alcohol his doing too? All the pointless sex? All the pining? All of it? Was Dean even real?

God damn it!

Were Sam and Cas having these thoughts?

How were they talking about plans? How were they doing it? Dean just wanted a quick death, but they were making him sit with them.

More people controlling him. It made him resent them.

"Dean—" Castiel began.

"Shut up."

He couldn't hear Cas' voice right now. A million emotions went through him when he spoke, and he could hardly interpret them. The worst of it was that he wasn't filled to the brim with anger. He was just hurt, and it was because there was something underlying it. Something he didn't want to give a voice to. But maybe if they were going to die he was going to have to do so.

Or he could keep running from it.

Either way he didn't want to do this anymore.

"Dean," Sam tried. "I know it sucks. It's like we never saved the world, or ever did anything—"

"Great pep talk."

"—but let's last a few days, okay?"

"Why?" he asked.

"Because maybe we'll figure something out!" Cas yelled. "Don't you want to fight?"

Dean stared hard at him, pursed his lips. Then he shook his head.

"No."

Castiel seemed to lose it at that. He was up out of his chair, grabbing Dean and slamming him against a pillar.

"Don't you dare, Dean Winchester!" he snarled, voice all low and gravelly. He didn't even seem to realize his hand was on his hurt arm, which was in a similar place to where he'd scarred him when he'd lifted him from Hell, though on the opposite side. Dean's years of training kicked in, trying to fight him off, but Cas held him tight. "Don't. You. Dare! You're my family. You taught me what humanity is, what free will is, what it feels like to fight for something. I refuse to believe that was Chuck. That was you! You're a warrior. Maybe you're content with letting yourself die in this bunker, but I'm not. I dragged you out of perdition once, and I'll do it again. Have faith."

There were tears in Dean's eyes, and he told himself it was from the pain flaring down his arm into his hand.

"In what?" he asked, voice quiet as he stared into those blue depths that burned into him.

They breathed heavily, just staring at each other. God was more than gone. He was the enemy, and Heaven was nearly dead, and the Earth crawled with the monsters they'd killed, and Hell was… Hell.

There was nothing.

"In me."