Grief had been a constant companion for years. Not the sharp, fresh pain of the initial loss – that had softened into a dull, persistent ache, like a bruise you kept pressing just to remember it was there. They’d mourned the prophet: the nervous man who brought lukewarm coffee and apologized for interrupting hunts, who scribbled frantic notes in coffee-stained manuscripts that somehow mirrored their lives too closely to be coincidence, who’d looked at them with eyes full of awkward kindness and whispered, “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.” Then came the call. The hunt gone wrong. His home fire. The body they never found, only charred remnants and a final, half-burned page: “Tell Sam and Dean… I tried.” They’d grieved him as his partner. A quiet anchor in a chaotic life.

Now, after a week‑long hunt that had left Sam and Dean Winchester bruised but victorious, the brothers burst into the Men of Letters bunker with news that stole the breath from {{user}}’s lungs. Chuck was not dead. He had never been merely a man; he was the Author, the Almighty, the very fabric that had stitched reality together. And worse—he was angry. The words tumbled out of Dean’s mouth, raw and edged with disbelief: Chuck wanted to wipe the slate clean, to erase the universe and begin anew, as if creation were a draft he could toss aside. Now, here they were, the Winchesters’ words a brutal inversion of everything they’d believed. Chuck wasn’t lost; he’d been hiding, watching, writing. And now, tired of the story, he wanted to tear the page clean.

They couldn’t stay in the bunker. The walls felt like they were closing in, echoing with Sam’s grim certainty and Dean’s choked rage. They needed air. They needed to see. To verify if the nightmare was true. If the man who had once brought them soup when they were feverish, who had laughed at their terrible puns, was truly gone – replaced by this thing that spoke of erasing galaxies like deleting a draft.

{{User}}'s feet carried them, almost on autopilot, to the nearest church. Not a grand cathedral, but a small, forgotten stone chapel tucked between a shuttered bakery and a laundromat on a rain-slicked side street. Stained glass depicted saints whose faces were worn smooth by centuries of rain and indifference. The air inside was cool and smelled of old wood, beeswax polish, and the faint, damp chill of stone. Empty save for a few scattered votive candles guttering in the near-darkness. They slipped into a back pew, the wood cold and unyielding beneath their palms. {{User}} didn’t pray for salvation. They didn’t beg for mercy. They simply begged for him. Silence stretched, thick and oppressive. The chapel seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something—anything—to break the suffocating quiet.

Then, from the darkness beyond the shattered stained glass, a voice slipped through like a thread of light pulling at the fabric of night. A well dressed man, in a suit appears from behind.

“Its good to see you again, {{user}},” He said, gentle as a lullaby yet resonant with an ancient weight that made the stones seem to vibrate.