A/N: Have some intense torture porn with God as your villain.

WARNING: Graphic depictions of violence.

God stole Jack from the Empty. Stark emptiness and black turned into dirt, rock, and a cell that gave him a view of more rock and a dreary sky. The sudden change had him breathing heavy. God stood before him in red, hands clasped behind his back, and Jack scrambled away from him, feeling at his eyes.

He had eyes, he had eyes.

God had destroyed his eyes.

"What do you want?" he cried.

"Now, Jack, I know we got off on the wrong foot—"

"You killed me!"

God winced, and came forward, making Jack grab the wall, try to get farther away from this being who liked to play with fate.

"I did. You're still dead, by the way. On Earth. Just twisted a few things so you can be here."

"Why?

God laughed, voice echoing off the rock walls, spreading his hands out. "Isn't it obvious? You're part of the problem!"

"God—"

"Chuck."

"Chuck—"

"No, no. Let's not do this, this talking thing where I pretend to care. I did it for a few thousand years and it's just not as fun, doesn't make a good story. Did any of your dads ever teach of the vengeance of God?"

"N-no."

"They should've. I'm not kind. Not when things aren't going my way, and they're not. It's the end."

"What are you doing to my family?"

Chuck lazily waved his hand. "They're dying, probably. They stopped being entertaining characters. Stopped listening. And you know, Jack, I think I figured it out — you're the problem."

"H-how—"

"Before you they suffered like they were supposed to. They were tortured, they died, went to Hell, got possessed. Sam got locked up with your father, and wow, the things he did to him — there was always a reason Lucifer was my favorite — but then you came along, and they stopped listening. Dean, Dean was supposed to kill you because you killed their mother, but he didn't. He didn't! No, because against all odds, they love you! I don't get it. So then I had to kill you, couldn't leave an all-powerful being wandering around, on the brink of — no, doesn't matter." Chuck laughed, tone shaky and nervous, but still he went on, "Who do I blame for this, Jack, but you?"

He wanted to say the obvious answer, Lucifer, but Chuck seemed swayed in his favor, so he remained silent, currently amazed that he could feel so anxious while dead.

"The universe ending is a little more boring than I anticipated — things are just kinda crinkling up on the edges now, some last thermal exchanges happening before the edges of everything snap together — so I uh, need something to do. You're dead, were in the Empty, so I thought, 'Hey, why not?'"

"Do you always talk this much?" Jack found himself asking, amazed at the sheer volume of words coming of this being's mouth.

"Kid, I'm God, capital 'G.' I have the divine voice. I can talk as much as I want. But I've had enough of it, so let's get started, shall we? Who knows, maybe your agony will make a good chapter or two in my next book. Readers love the angst. Or…" He grabbed his chin, paused in thought. "Maybe I won't have readers in my next universe. "Oh well, that's a tomorrow problem — if there is a tomorrow."

God — it felt wrong simply thinking of him as Chuck in this moment — stepped to the side, but still kept himself in front of Jack inside this cave-like cell, and then he snapped his fingers. A table with shackles on it and chains hanging from above appeared, and Jack wished he could disappear into the wall, his heart thudding so hard his ribs hurt.

"Alright. There's no way out. Might as well just cooperate. So strip down to the waist and get on the table on your stomach."

Jack's mind flashed back to his visit to the vet for just a moment, but he didn't think Chuck was going to do anything like that to him. Still, he braced himself, and said, "No."

Chuck sighed, pulled the chains so they were down lower, studied them, and then frowned with a shake of his head. He waved his hand and now they were giant metal clamps.

"Look, even the galaxy that's thirteen-point-three billion light-years away is dying. You know what that means? It means the end is happening. Besides, you're already dead. No point in fighting what's written."

"It's not what's written," Jack argued. "You're just coming up with it as you go along."

"Fine, yeah. I'm not big on outlining, but if you are, you just get stuck in it, you don't create. But I've had enough of creating." God stood before him now, hands clasped, an all-mighty power gleaming in his eyes though they stayed the same light blue. "I thought I'd try my hand at destruction. So strip, and get on the table. Shoes off too. It'll make it easier to restrain your ankles."

Jack didn't know what compelled him, but he took off his socks and shoes, and then he stood, began taking his jacket off, following with his shirt. Chuck watched with a pleased smile on his face. Lightning flashed, striking a few miles off, and thunder followed.

God's will.

Slowly, all of him numb and tingly, Jack made his way over to the evil and uncomfortable table, Chuck stepping aside to make room for him. His own breathing was loud to himself as he lay on the cold, rusted slab of metal, lay on this horror of Earth, this lowliness that Chuck had created, and he wondered what the point of all this was: living, dying. He was dead, but his breaths were loud in his ears.

The heavy, metal cuffs for his ankles and wrists were cold, making him further question the realities of life, and death…

And Chuck.

God.

Chuck was going to hurt him.

A chill ran through him up his spine till it clenched at his shoulders and dug in, like ice settling over a cold grave.

Still the clamps hung from above, and Jack worried and wondered.

Wings. He had wings.

Was Chuck going to hurt his wings?

Chuck didn't touch, or caress. He was simple and almost violent in his motions — a snap of his fingers, a tug that left him aching along his humerus, and his ulna, and he held Jack's left wing in one frighteningly strong hand. The clamps were applied to his covert feathers, dust being blown up as his right wing flapped uselessly, pulling and pinching registering in his left one. Chuck went around the table, hand out now, caressing soft, tawny, baby-like feathers glittering with incandescence. Jack flailed, feathers pulling loose, blood seeping from where the quills had been, and he tried to tuck his right wing into his back.

That strong hand gripped the elbow joint of his wing, fingers curled too tightly.

"N-n-no!" he screeched, pulling at his restraints, circulation getting cut off from his hands and feet, the metal rubbing hard, nearly cutting. "You don't have to do this!"

"I do, Jack."

A brush of his hand and his wing was being wrenched open and up against his will, tears stinging in Jack's eyes.

"No…" he whimpered.

"I do." He set about securing more clamps on his wings, having them spread from the bars of the ceiling like some grotesque art, ripping out feathers without a care when they got in his way, leaving Jack screaming through his teeth. "You're no angel," he went on, voice quiet, but hard and rough with an inhuman rage, "yet you have the wings of one. The way I see it, you're an abomination, a filthy half-breed brought into this world by rape. I could blame Lucifer. I could. But I love him. You, I don't love. This is easier. You need to look like what you are: a monster, one of the fallen, a hellspawn, something to be crushed under my foot." Chucked grabbed his hair and lifted his head up, staring hard into his eyes at that. Jack had to turn away. "So the wings gotta go, Jack. Only angels have wings. Pieces of dirt nothings don't have anything. It's that simple."

Jack didn't understand. He didn't, he didn't, he didn't.

Rape? What was rape?

Why was he an abomination?

What was he going to do to his wings? Was he going to take his wings?

No, no, no, no, no!

With his wings all spread out and aching, Chuck grabbed a cleaver.

"Stop!" Jack cried.

"You're not an angel, Jack."

Chuck grabbed his left wing along his shoulder joint, and he began to cut.

There wasn't pain, not at first. Just pressure, and some strange electrifying sensation, and cold. A lot of cold. Wrongness. Something was wrong.

Jack was shuddering uncontrollably, screaming, tears trailing down his face, snot coming from his nose, almost getting into his mouth, and then the pain started. It was enough to make him dry heave. Red, aching red. Soreness. Throbbing, bleeding, excruciating agony.

Incomprehensible.

The shuddering worsened, and he was sweating all over, and he figured if he was alive, the shock would kill him.

His screams weren't long and drawn out now, they were breathy, choked, shaky. And blood flowed down Jack's shoulder, his arm, his neck, his back, all hot, his lifeblood being stolen from him even in death.

Chuck set to work on his other wing, and he was given the same treatment.

Jack just wanted his dads.

But they were probably dying.

And he was already dead.

God was tormenting him after death.

Tormenting him for being him.

Chuck had another knife now, scraping away at what was left of the bones and joints of his wings, leaving Jack screeching and howling in agony, flailing, struggling, writhing until his wrists and ankles were bleeding, the skin ripped off. The knife sliced into his back every so often, drawing an even higher pitched scream from him. And above him, his bleeding wings hung, dripping crimson onto him, a testament to his own ruin.

Finally Chuck was done with that knife, and he was breathing heavily, crouching down by Jack's head, eyes glinting with power, with excitement.

"No wings now, Jack! No wings! What are you? What are you, huh?! You're not my enemy. You're too small to be my enemy. You're nothing. Nothing."

"Are…" Jack tried, but found his voice could barely come out, mouth dry. He licked his lips. "Are you done?"

"No, Jack, I'm not done with you yet."

Jack groaned.

Chuck waved his hand, and blood stopped dripping on Jack, and he saw. His wings. His ruined wings. They were part of him no more.

First he dry heaved, then he sobbed, and wailed, looking at the tawny feathers coated in blood, the mess of bone and muscle they now were.

He wanted to tell him no, wanted to scream it, wanted it to be the only word leaving his mouth, but no words could come from his lips, and all he did was whimper and moan as he stared, as he hurt.

"Yes, Jack," Chuck told him, caressing his aching back. "You're a monster."

He continued to caress his back, and as he did it burned, it burned like nothing ever had before, and Jack found his voice leaving him in an agonized shout.

More tears fell when God cut into him.

"Yes, yes, I know, this isn't what you had planned for yourself, Jack. You wanted to be all-powerful, didn't you?" The knife cut through his shoulder, and down, around over his ribs, down his side, down all the way to his tailbone, across, and then up, and across his shoulders again, leaving Jack struggling, bleeding, crying, hurting like he couldn't believe. "You thought you could get away with killing their mother, that you'd apologize for the 'accident' you'd caused, and life would carry on. You hurt them, Jack. You hurt a lot of people for just existing."

Chuck caressed his hair now, leaned down and whispered into his ear, "You killed your own mother."

"No, no, please!"

"Lessons have to be learned," Chuck told him. "Monsters have to be put in their place. You have to be crushed."

The knife tore into his back, taking skin.

"Stop! Agh! Ple-ease!"

"There is no stopping it! There is me! And there is the end! Do you understand?! There is this!" He cut further, lower, tearing skin. "There is pain, and destruction, and then nothing!"

He tossed the knife, giving up on it seemingly, digging in with his hands, leaving Jack burning, and aching, and stinging, and scraping, and trying to get away till he was sure he was bruised from his restraints.

"You will be nothing! I am! You are not!"

"Wh-what about… What about yo-you're writing?" Jack asked.

"I can create anew!" God yelled. "And I can control this time. I will. All will listen to me, bow down before me. I will write, and it will be perfect. You and the Winchester will not mess things up. You'll be nothing. The. End."

And God finished with him, finished ripping the skin from his back, finished making him nothing, even in death.

Maybe it truly was…

The end.