Who? Chuck (narrative) What? Contemplating the hermit lifestyle. Where? His apartment. When? At some point after everything settled down. Rating? Not terribly high; it's mostly just introspection, but it's a little bleak and angsty and anxious?
Chuck was starting to think the fact that he wasn’t leaving his apartment meant he was slightly less fine than he was trying to claim he was. At first, he just... hadn’t wanted to. And then it had slowly (okay, not so slowly) turned into a paralyzing fear. Thankfully that part didn’t happen until he was already in the store, which, okay, sucked ass, trying to shop (which was something he already hated, to begin with) while feeling like someone was watching him and waiting to pounce, and so he’d left the store with lots of alcohol and probably really strange food combinations, but he’d managed to get home before he had a proper panic attack, so that was something, at least.
And now he just wasn’t going to leave. At all. He wasn’t entirely sure that was going to be a very good plan, in the long run, but, hey, some people were hermits, right? And they survived. So it wasn’t like it was impossible, just, uh... slightly inconvenient. At least here, he could have someone in the complex bring him groceries or something. Although, how was he going to get money? His books weren’t selling anymore, and he hadn’t been able to write anything new - not Supernatural-related, in a long time, and he’d been working with Jo but doing that meant leaving, and he wasn’t even sure if she’d want him to keep working there with her anymore, after... everything.
So he was going to be broke and waste away in his apartment. He wondered if the angels would let that happen, or if he’d just magically, like, never die. He wasn’t sure which sounded like a better plan, and that was a sure sign that he wasn’t drunk enough to be thinking anything this heavy right now.
He had a lot to write, right now, too. He hadn’t gotten the chance to catch up on everything he’d seen in... weeks, really. Between a lack of motivation (what did it even matter what he wrote, now? No one was ever going to get to read them, both because they’d never be published and because, you know, the end of the world) and a lack of time (being kidnapped out of the apartment for a week during that whole War / pseudo-demon-invasion thing had kind of put a damper on any kind of progress on anything), there was quite a backlog, and he was pretty sure if he didn’t get with the program, he’d get a dream-visit from one of the angels telling him he needed to write.
Of course if they did that, he could always just tell them to take this whole Prophet gig and give it to someone who wanted it. Because he definitely didn’t, hadn’t asked for it and never would have, if he’d been given the option, because all he wanted was a simple, quiet life that didn’t involve gruesome mental images and angels and demons and almost-dying and all the fear and horror that went with all of the above. That wasn’t what he’d signed on for when he’d decided to become a writer. That wasn’t what he’d thought was the point, when he’d started dreaming.
He’d been able to see past all the horror and the monsters and the demons and the torn-open bodies, when he’d started dreaming them, seen past all of that to the story underneath. The story of two brothers who were saving people and hunting things. It was a horror story, a tragedy, a comedy... a story about family.
But it hadn’t been the same since he found out it was real, because now he felt wrong, writing it. Felt like he should ask Dean or Sam if he was right, if he got them down right, felt like he was intruding on their relationships and personal struggles and fears and hopes and dreams. He was intruding, and he knew they thought he was intruding, too...
There was nothing any of them could do about it, though. He couldn’t stop any more than they could make him stop, because whether he wrote it or not, he’d still see it, and if he didn’t write he’d get the angels on his ass yelling at him about shirking his duties as if he was another soldier in their war, instead of just an average guy who just wanted to live in peace.
So, basically, he had things to write, whether he wanted to or not, but at least it was a good excuse to stay in, he could always tell people he had writing to do, if anyone asked. It wasn’t lying, it was just avoiding other truths he didn’t want to talk about right now, leaving things out but that wasn’t the same thing.