I had to write it . . .
Title: Deus ex
Fandom: Supernatural/BtVS crossover
Rating: PG-13, for language and blasphemy
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Castiel, Dawn Summers
Genre: Crack. Complete and utter crack.
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don’t own it. This is a work of fanfiction; no profit is being made, no copyright infringement is intended, please don’t sue.
Summary: Cas finds God.
***
They’re in a crowded rest-stop on Route I-80 through some Godforsaken patch of Nowhere, Pennsylvania, in the middle of the afternoon. Sam is back at Bobby’s, doing research and generally laying low and avoiding the devil, so it’s just Dean and Cas. Castiel stops in his tracks so suddenly that Dean just keeps on walking and talking for a good two or three seconds before he processes that the angel is no longer next to him. It’s not unlike Castiel to disappear without warning, but Dean looks around for him anyway, just because it’s human habit and he’s never going to get used to the idea that a guy he hangs out with on semi-regular basis is a freakin’ angel of the Lord who can disappear at will.
“Cas?” Dean says - and for once, Cas hasn’t pulled the disappearing act. He’s just stopped, still as a statue, about four paces back. The crowd is milling around him, people giving him the occasional unnerved look. Cas himself looks . . Dean’s not sure what he looks. Like he’s been hit in the head, maybe. His eyes are wide and his mouth’s a little open and his posture is so rigid it looks painful and, Dean realizes as he approaches, the guy’s actually shaking. “Hey, Cas,” Dean repeats, frowning. “What’s up with you?”
“Father,” Castiel breaths, not looking at Dean at all, eyes fixed on something - someone - across the room.
Dean raises a brow - okay, so maybe not such a Godforsaken part of Pennsylvania. He follows Cas’s line of sight with no small amount of trepidation, wondering idly if he’s about to get his eyes burned out of their sockets, but hey, nobody else seems to notice God walking around among them, so probably the big guy’s not in his true form at the moment.
It turns out Castiel is staring at a tall, slim brunette in line at the Starbucks. She’s young, curvy, hair pulled back in a ponytail, and when she feels the weight of their combined staring and turns to frown worriedly back at them, Dean sees that she has absolutely enormous blue eyes. She is, in a word, hot. Really hot. Would-make-Dean-consider-actually-drinking-Starbucks-just-to-have-an-excuse-to-go-introduce-himself hot.
Dean gives her a nervous smile, which she returns with a half-smiling, half-freaked-out expression of her own and a subtle change in posture that lets Dean know the girl’s keeping tabs on them even if she does turn back around to face the counter, and if he’s not mistaken, the hem of her left pant leg is shifting around the shape of something strapped to her ankle. He can’t make out if it’s a knife or a gun, but there’s something there, and she’s standing with her shoulders loose and her feet planted a little wide. This is a chick who knows how to take care of herself - maybe a cop, maybe a bounty hunter, maybe even a hunter hunter. Her bland sweater and jeans don’t give her away as anything.
This makes her even more hot, if possibly bad news.
Except that she’s apparently God.
Dean turns back to Castiel. “Seriously?” Dean asks, one brow raised. Castiel’s still making with the brain-damaged sort of staring, and also starting to hyperventilate a little, swallowing rapidly, brow furrowing and mouth opening and closing like he plans on answering Dean just as soon as he remembers how. Dean turns back to the Starbucks line - maybe he got the wrong person? He looks around hopefully for some sage-in-long-flowing-robes type, or maybe Morgan Freeman in an expensive suit, but there’s just a gaggle of frat boys, a tired looking mother with two pre-teen girls, and the tall brunette. Who’s watching him, and has totally caught him staring at her. Again.
Dean tries again for the I-am-not-a-serial-killer winning smile - this time it earns him a look of flat warning and her eyes holding his until he turns back to Cas. “Seriously? I mean - seriously?”
Though he would rather think he’s just gotten stared down by God than by some random chick.
“Yes,” Castiel manages to choke out, in a voice that sounds even more like gravel poured over brimstone than usual. Then he jerks into sudden motion, striding purposefully past Dean, towards the girl.
“Whoa, buddy -” Dean spins and hurries after him; people are getting out of their way. The girl is at the counter now, in the middle of giving her order when she notices their approach, and then she’s grabbing a tall cup of something out of one of the frat boys’ hands and positioning herself and her cup of scalding liquid between the civilians and Dean and Cas.
Cas falls to his knees in front of her.
The mother with the two girls suddenly looks a lot less tired, and she’s high-tailing it out of there. The frat boys just look a little freaked out and a lot amused, elbowing each other and jeering at the scene in front of them. The girl herself looks somewhere between totally confused and ready to open a can of coffee-flavored whoop-ass on Cas’s angelic rear.
“Hey,” Dean calls out, approaching with both hands in the air. “Let’s all just calm down,” he suggests.
“Who the hell are you?” the girl demands. Dean thinks Cas might have flinched at the ‘hell’, but it’s difficult to be sure with how hard the guy’s shaking.
“Father,” Castiel whispers reverently. “I have been searching . . . ” And he doesn’t seem to know how to finish the thought, which is probably just as well.
“I’m Dean,” says Dean. “This is Cas. He’s got some issues.”
“Yeah,” says the girl, “I’m getting that.”
“C’mon, Cas,” Dean says, dropping a hand onto Castiel’s quivering shoulder and plastering his best normal, everyday guy expression onto his face, “She’s not who you thought she was, obviously.”
“No,” Cas insists, shaking his head rapidly. The girl’s staring hard at him. “She is - Dean - you can’t see it, but - she is.”
The girl sighs, shoulders slumping. “Really thought I was done with this,” she mumbles under her breath, which makes about as much sense as the rest of the situation, and makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end. She turns to Dean with at weary, faintly apologetic expression, “I’m sorry, I . . sometimes have that affect on people. Mentally ill people. He’s schizophrenic?” she hazards, then turns back to Cas before Dean can begin to piece together an answer. “Hey,” she says gently. “I’m Dawn. I’m sorry I startled you.”
The Starbucks barista is watching them in unabashed curiosity from behind the counter; one of the frat boys calls out a lewd suggestion. Castiel tenses and shoots the poor kid a look that promises smiting, and suddenly the frat boys are finding somewhere else to be.
“Father,” Castiel repeats, when he turns his eyes back to Dawn, sounding lost and bewildered, “Do you not know me?”
Dawn’s looking increasingly unnerved all over again - but she’s not looking anywhere near as confused as she should be, which is making all sorts of alarm bells go off in Dean’s head.
“What do you mean, you have that affect on people?” Dean asks.
“It’s - a thing,” Dawn hedges. “It’s -” She gives Dean an unabashed once-over that has nothing to do with his rakish good looks and everything to do with deciding how much he knows, what he can handle. It’s not a look Dean’s used to getting from college girls, Jo notwithstanding - Jo’s different. “Maybe we should talk,” Dawn finally suggests, sounding resigned. “Not here?”
“Parking lot?” Dean suggests.
“Sure,” Dawn replies.
No normal female in her right mind would follow some guy she’s just met out of a rest stop, unless of course she were a hooker, but Dean’s not thinking that so hard his brain hurts, not wanting to be on the receiving end of the sort of glare Cas directed at the frat boy. No having dirty thoughts about God. Even if she’s really hot.
Dean is so going directly back to Hell.
***
God, Dawn, whomever, drives a vintage Ford pick-up with a tarp strung over the bed and the tires compressed in a way that suggests there are heavy things in there. This does nothing to settle Dean’s nerves.
“So,” Dawn says, leaning back against the side of the truck, arms crossed beneath the breasts Dean is so not staring at. Cas is still just watching her face with complete lost-puppy adoration, and she’s still not anywhere near as creeped out about that as she should be.
“So,” Dean repeats.
Dawn sighs impatiently. “What’re you, Initiative?” she asks.
“What now?” Dean asks, brow raising.
“Demon-hunters,” Dawn says flatly.
Dean stares.
“What got him?” Dawn asks, jerking her head at Cas. “I may be able to help, and if I can’t, I bet I know someone who can. Whatever’s wrong with him isn’t natural, because I don’t show up to plain old unfortunate-genetics schizophrenics anymore, and you are so not a civilian, so spill already.”
“I don’t even know where to start,” Dean says, then comes up with a place to start. “He’s not schizophrenic,” Dean says, jerking his head towards Cas, “he just thinks you’re God.” Dean pauses. “That made more sense in my head.”
“She is God,” Castiel insists, to Dean. His voice has taken on an edge of desperation. “You are . . ” He begins, staring back at Dawn, but the words trail off into the same frown of bewildered awe he’s been wearing for the past twenty minutes or so.
“ - really bright and shiny, and green, right?” Dawn suggests.
“What?” Dean asks.
“No,” Castiel says, shaking his head. “You are . . human language is insufficient. You are All.”
Dawn looks stumped. “Huh,” she says. “You sure he’s not schizophrenic?” she asks Dean.
“Reasonably,” says Dean. “Now about you being green and shiny -”
“Really, really long story,” Dawn cuts him off. “And you never answered me.”
“Yeah, we’re hunters,” Dean admits. “Well, I’m a hunter. He’s, ah -”
“You . . don’t know who You are,” Castiel whispers. The capitalization is audible.
“I’m Dawn Summers,” says Dawn, still in that gentle talking-to-a-crazy-person voice, “And I’m something called the Key. That’s what you’re seeing. I’m sorry, but I’m not God.”
“You’re - wait, Summers?” Dean says, things suddenly clicking in his head. “As in, that mess in California, Summers? Demon-juice girl-warriors, Summers?”
“Buffy’s my sister,” Dawn says, tone full of warning. “You got a problem with ‘demon-juice girl-warriors’?”
Yeah, actually, he does - but Dean knows better than to say that. “Nope,” he says, gritting his teeth and smiling. “No problems.”
“Good,” says Dawn. She sighs noisily. “Okay, look, I’ve got places I’m supposed to be by tonight - but I really don’t believe in coincidences and this is just too weird, so - what’re you hunting?”
“You,” Castiel insists. Then his eyes go wide. “Not hunting! I have been searching for You.”
Dawn closes her eyes. “Right. ‘Cause I’m God. Why don’t you guys just start at the beginning?”
And Dean figures what the hell, and he does.
***
Three hours and two very long stories later the parking lot is starting to darken, the air is chilling noticeably, and Dean is seriously, seriously freaking out.
Because he’s pretty sure he’s standing in the presence of God. Only God doesn’t seem to know she’s God. And God is still hot. And having a bit of a panic attack of her own.
It’s just really not good when God is having a panic attack.
“Shouldn’t I remember this?” Dawn is saying, pacing and flailing her hands. “I mean, being God? How the hell do you forget being God?”
“I do not know,” Castiel says somberly; he’s regained a little of his equilibrium.
“Maybe your vessel couldn’t handle it,” Dean pipes in. “Like, all that God-knowledge would make your brain explode, so you . . tucked it away somewhere? There weren’t any huge trees suddenly popping into existence anywhere nearby, when you got created, were there?”
“What? No!” Dawn snaps. “And I don’t have a vessel, which is, incidentally, the creepiest concept ever, I have a body, which is mine. The monks made me out of Buffy.”
Castiel tilts his head. “Would that not make her your mother, not your sister?”
“Technically, yes,” Dawn says, “but we don’t acknowledge that because it’s creepy. Like, oh, me being God. Oh my God. Oh my God! If I’m God and I say ‘oh my God’ am I disrespecting myself? Can I just change that rule? It’s officially okay to take the Lord’s name in vain, at least for the moment, because oh my God?” She pauses, which is good, because she was getting seriously hysterical and all Dean knows to do with hysterical people is slap them, but he really, really doesn’t want to slap God.
A strange, not really much more comforting expression takes over her face. “Could I see my mom?” Dawn asks, voice small.
“Buffy?” Castiel asks, confused. “I don’t see why you couldn’t -”
“No,” Dean cuts him off. “She doesn’t mean Buffy. She means her mom. Who died?”
“Oh,” says Castiel, looks momentarily like he’s going to argue over the semantics of Dawn’s actual lineage, but then seems to remember she’s God and you don’t argue with God. “Of course,” he says instead. “You may choose to reveal Yourself to any human soul, living or dead, though they will not be able to perceive your true nature without perishing. You would have to appear in a guise comprehensible to human senses.”
“I hear burning bushes are popular,” Dean suggests.
“Dean!” Castiel snaps, horrified, but Dawn giggles. And keeps giggling. A family of four picks up their step a little as they walk past them.
“Look, uh,” Dean begins awkwardly, because God or not God, right now Dawn just looks like a pretty girl who’s had the shock of her life, and he feels bad for her. “You don’t have to figure this all out right now, okay? The important thing is we, ah, found you, and now you know what’s going on, and just as soon as you get your memory back, everything’s gonna be cool.”
Dawn’s giggling has slipped into something that looks a little more like crying, and her arms are wrapped tightly around herself. “I want to see my mom,” she says quietly. “And I want to save the world. But I don’t want to be God.” She looks up at Castiel, eyes huge and tearful. “I’m sorry. I mean, if I’m God, and there’s nothing stronger than me, then I suppose that means I must have done this, I must have bugged out and made myself forget, and hey, that’s a kinda shitty thing for me to have done, but - I really don’t want to be God. I’m sorry.”
Castiel looks, in equal parts, like someone has just kicked his puppy and like he wants to give God a hug.
Dean slings an arm around Cas’s shoulders. “It’s okay,” Dean tells Dawn. “Cas here gets it. It’s not his fault you left, you just didn’t like your job at the post office.”
Cas tenses; Dawn stops sobbing long enough to frown and say, “What?” in a completely nonplussed tone, and Dean . . . Dean can’t wait to see the look on Sam’s face when he introduces him to God.
***
Fandom: Supernatural/BtVS crossover
Rating: PG-13, for language and blasphemy
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Castiel, Dawn Summers
Genre: Crack. Complete and utter crack.
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don’t own it. This is a work of fanfiction; no profit is being made, no copyright infringement is intended, please don’t sue.
Summary: Cas finds God.
***
They’re in a crowded rest-stop on Route I-80 through some Godforsaken patch of Nowhere, Pennsylvania, in the middle of the afternoon. Sam is back at Bobby’s, doing research and generally laying low and avoiding the devil, so it’s just Dean and Cas. Castiel stops in his tracks so suddenly that Dean just keeps on walking and talking for a good two or three seconds before he processes that the angel is no longer next to him. It’s not unlike Castiel to disappear without warning, but Dean looks around for him anyway, just because it’s human habit and he’s never going to get used to the idea that a guy he hangs out with on semi-regular basis is a freakin’ angel of the Lord who can disappear at will.
“Cas?” Dean says - and for once, Cas hasn’t pulled the disappearing act. He’s just stopped, still as a statue, about four paces back. The crowd is milling around him, people giving him the occasional unnerved look. Cas himself looks . . Dean’s not sure what he looks. Like he’s been hit in the head, maybe. His eyes are wide and his mouth’s a little open and his posture is so rigid it looks painful and, Dean realizes as he approaches, the guy’s actually shaking. “Hey, Cas,” Dean repeats, frowning. “What’s up with you?”
“Father,” Castiel breaths, not looking at Dean at all, eyes fixed on something - someone - across the room.
Dean raises a brow - okay, so maybe not such a Godforsaken part of Pennsylvania. He follows Cas’s line of sight with no small amount of trepidation, wondering idly if he’s about to get his eyes burned out of their sockets, but hey, nobody else seems to notice God walking around among them, so probably the big guy’s not in his true form at the moment.
It turns out Castiel is staring at a tall, slim brunette in line at the Starbucks. She’s young, curvy, hair pulled back in a ponytail, and when she feels the weight of their combined staring and turns to frown worriedly back at them, Dean sees that she has absolutely enormous blue eyes. She is, in a word, hot. Really hot. Would-make-Dean-consider-actually-drinking-Starbucks-just-to-have-an-excuse-to-go-introduce-himself hot.
Dean gives her a nervous smile, which she returns with a half-smiling, half-freaked-out expression of her own and a subtle change in posture that lets Dean know the girl’s keeping tabs on them even if she does turn back around to face the counter, and if he’s not mistaken, the hem of her left pant leg is shifting around the shape of something strapped to her ankle. He can’t make out if it’s a knife or a gun, but there’s something there, and she’s standing with her shoulders loose and her feet planted a little wide. This is a chick who knows how to take care of herself - maybe a cop, maybe a bounty hunter, maybe even a hunter hunter. Her bland sweater and jeans don’t give her away as anything.
This makes her even more hot, if possibly bad news.
Except that she’s apparently God.
Dean turns back to Castiel. “Seriously?” Dean asks, one brow raised. Castiel’s still making with the brain-damaged sort of staring, and also starting to hyperventilate a little, swallowing rapidly, brow furrowing and mouth opening and closing like he plans on answering Dean just as soon as he remembers how. Dean turns back to the Starbucks line - maybe he got the wrong person? He looks around hopefully for some sage-in-long-flowing-robes type, or maybe Morgan Freeman in an expensive suit, but there’s just a gaggle of frat boys, a tired looking mother with two pre-teen girls, and the tall brunette. Who’s watching him, and has totally caught him staring at her. Again.
Dean tries again for the I-am-not-a-serial-killer winning smile - this time it earns him a look of flat warning and her eyes holding his until he turns back to Cas. “Seriously? I mean - seriously?”
Though he would rather think he’s just gotten stared down by God than by some random chick.
“Yes,” Castiel manages to choke out, in a voice that sounds even more like gravel poured over brimstone than usual. Then he jerks into sudden motion, striding purposefully past Dean, towards the girl.
“Whoa, buddy -” Dean spins and hurries after him; people are getting out of their way. The girl is at the counter now, in the middle of giving her order when she notices their approach, and then she’s grabbing a tall cup of something out of one of the frat boys’ hands and positioning herself and her cup of scalding liquid between the civilians and Dean and Cas.
Cas falls to his knees in front of her.
The mother with the two girls suddenly looks a lot less tired, and she’s high-tailing it out of there. The frat boys just look a little freaked out and a lot amused, elbowing each other and jeering at the scene in front of them. The girl herself looks somewhere between totally confused and ready to open a can of coffee-flavored whoop-ass on Cas’s angelic rear.
“Hey,” Dean calls out, approaching with both hands in the air. “Let’s all just calm down,” he suggests.
“Who the hell are you?” the girl demands. Dean thinks Cas might have flinched at the ‘hell’, but it’s difficult to be sure with how hard the guy’s shaking.
“Father,” Castiel whispers reverently. “I have been searching . . . ” And he doesn’t seem to know how to finish the thought, which is probably just as well.
“I’m Dean,” says Dean. “This is Cas. He’s got some issues.”
“Yeah,” says the girl, “I’m getting that.”
“C’mon, Cas,” Dean says, dropping a hand onto Castiel’s quivering shoulder and plastering his best normal, everyday guy expression onto his face, “She’s not who you thought she was, obviously.”
“No,” Cas insists, shaking his head rapidly. The girl’s staring hard at him. “She is - Dean - you can’t see it, but - she is.”
The girl sighs, shoulders slumping. “Really thought I was done with this,” she mumbles under her breath, which makes about as much sense as the rest of the situation, and makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end. She turns to Dean with at weary, faintly apologetic expression, “I’m sorry, I . . sometimes have that affect on people. Mentally ill people. He’s schizophrenic?” she hazards, then turns back to Cas before Dean can begin to piece together an answer. “Hey,” she says gently. “I’m Dawn. I’m sorry I startled you.”
The Starbucks barista is watching them in unabashed curiosity from behind the counter; one of the frat boys calls out a lewd suggestion. Castiel tenses and shoots the poor kid a look that promises smiting, and suddenly the frat boys are finding somewhere else to be.
“Father,” Castiel repeats, when he turns his eyes back to Dawn, sounding lost and bewildered, “Do you not know me?”
Dawn’s looking increasingly unnerved all over again - but she’s not looking anywhere near as confused as she should be, which is making all sorts of alarm bells go off in Dean’s head.
“What do you mean, you have that affect on people?” Dean asks.
“It’s - a thing,” Dawn hedges. “It’s -” She gives Dean an unabashed once-over that has nothing to do with his rakish good looks and everything to do with deciding how much he knows, what he can handle. It’s not a look Dean’s used to getting from college girls, Jo notwithstanding - Jo’s different. “Maybe we should talk,” Dawn finally suggests, sounding resigned. “Not here?”
“Parking lot?” Dean suggests.
“Sure,” Dawn replies.
No normal female in her right mind would follow some guy she’s just met out of a rest stop, unless of course she were a hooker, but Dean’s not thinking that so hard his brain hurts, not wanting to be on the receiving end of the sort of glare Cas directed at the frat boy. No having dirty thoughts about God. Even if she’s really hot.
Dean is so going directly back to Hell.
***
God, Dawn, whomever, drives a vintage Ford pick-up with a tarp strung over the bed and the tires compressed in a way that suggests there are heavy things in there. This does nothing to settle Dean’s nerves.
“So,” Dawn says, leaning back against the side of the truck, arms crossed beneath the breasts Dean is so not staring at. Cas is still just watching her face with complete lost-puppy adoration, and she’s still not anywhere near as creeped out about that as she should be.
“So,” Dean repeats.
Dawn sighs impatiently. “What’re you, Initiative?” she asks.
“What now?” Dean asks, brow raising.
“Demon-hunters,” Dawn says flatly.
Dean stares.
“What got him?” Dawn asks, jerking her head at Cas. “I may be able to help, and if I can’t, I bet I know someone who can. Whatever’s wrong with him isn’t natural, because I don’t show up to plain old unfortunate-genetics schizophrenics anymore, and you are so not a civilian, so spill already.”
“I don’t even know where to start,” Dean says, then comes up with a place to start. “He’s not schizophrenic,” Dean says, jerking his head towards Cas, “he just thinks you’re God.” Dean pauses. “That made more sense in my head.”
“She is God,” Castiel insists, to Dean. His voice has taken on an edge of desperation. “You are . . ” He begins, staring back at Dawn, but the words trail off into the same frown of bewildered awe he’s been wearing for the past twenty minutes or so.
“ - really bright and shiny, and green, right?” Dawn suggests.
“What?” Dean asks.
“No,” Castiel says, shaking his head. “You are . . human language is insufficient. You are All.”
Dawn looks stumped. “Huh,” she says. “You sure he’s not schizophrenic?” she asks Dean.
“Reasonably,” says Dean. “Now about you being green and shiny -”
“Really, really long story,” Dawn cuts him off. “And you never answered me.”
“Yeah, we’re hunters,” Dean admits. “Well, I’m a hunter. He’s, ah -”
“You . . don’t know who You are,” Castiel whispers. The capitalization is audible.
“I’m Dawn Summers,” says Dawn, still in that gentle talking-to-a-crazy-person voice, “And I’m something called the Key. That’s what you’re seeing. I’m sorry, but I’m not God.”
“You’re - wait, Summers?” Dean says, things suddenly clicking in his head. “As in, that mess in California, Summers? Demon-juice girl-warriors, Summers?”
“Buffy’s my sister,” Dawn says, tone full of warning. “You got a problem with ‘demon-juice girl-warriors’?”
Yeah, actually, he does - but Dean knows better than to say that. “Nope,” he says, gritting his teeth and smiling. “No problems.”
“Good,” says Dawn. She sighs noisily. “Okay, look, I’ve got places I’m supposed to be by tonight - but I really don’t believe in coincidences and this is just too weird, so - what’re you hunting?”
“You,” Castiel insists. Then his eyes go wide. “Not hunting! I have been searching for You.”
Dawn closes her eyes. “Right. ‘Cause I’m God. Why don’t you guys just start at the beginning?”
And Dean figures what the hell, and he does.
***
Three hours and two very long stories later the parking lot is starting to darken, the air is chilling noticeably, and Dean is seriously, seriously freaking out.
Because he’s pretty sure he’s standing in the presence of God. Only God doesn’t seem to know she’s God. And God is still hot. And having a bit of a panic attack of her own.
It’s just really not good when God is having a panic attack.
“Shouldn’t I remember this?” Dawn is saying, pacing and flailing her hands. “I mean, being God? How the hell do you forget being God?”
“I do not know,” Castiel says somberly; he’s regained a little of his equilibrium.
“Maybe your vessel couldn’t handle it,” Dean pipes in. “Like, all that God-knowledge would make your brain explode, so you . . tucked it away somewhere? There weren’t any huge trees suddenly popping into existence anywhere nearby, when you got created, were there?”
“What? No!” Dawn snaps. “And I don’t have a vessel, which is, incidentally, the creepiest concept ever, I have a body, which is mine. The monks made me out of Buffy.”
Castiel tilts his head. “Would that not make her your mother, not your sister?”
“Technically, yes,” Dawn says, “but we don’t acknowledge that because it’s creepy. Like, oh, me being God. Oh my God. Oh my God! If I’m God and I say ‘oh my God’ am I disrespecting myself? Can I just change that rule? It’s officially okay to take the Lord’s name in vain, at least for the moment, because oh my God?” She pauses, which is good, because she was getting seriously hysterical and all Dean knows to do with hysterical people is slap them, but he really, really doesn’t want to slap God.
A strange, not really much more comforting expression takes over her face. “Could I see my mom?” Dawn asks, voice small.
“Buffy?” Castiel asks, confused. “I don’t see why you couldn’t -”
“No,” Dean cuts him off. “She doesn’t mean Buffy. She means her mom. Who died?”
“Oh,” says Castiel, looks momentarily like he’s going to argue over the semantics of Dawn’s actual lineage, but then seems to remember she’s God and you don’t argue with God. “Of course,” he says instead. “You may choose to reveal Yourself to any human soul, living or dead, though they will not be able to perceive your true nature without perishing. You would have to appear in a guise comprehensible to human senses.”
“I hear burning bushes are popular,” Dean suggests.
“Dean!” Castiel snaps, horrified, but Dawn giggles. And keeps giggling. A family of four picks up their step a little as they walk past them.
“Look, uh,” Dean begins awkwardly, because God or not God, right now Dawn just looks like a pretty girl who’s had the shock of her life, and he feels bad for her. “You don’t have to figure this all out right now, okay? The important thing is we, ah, found you, and now you know what’s going on, and just as soon as you get your memory back, everything’s gonna be cool.”
Dawn’s giggling has slipped into something that looks a little more like crying, and her arms are wrapped tightly around herself. “I want to see my mom,” she says quietly. “And I want to save the world. But I don’t want to be God.” She looks up at Castiel, eyes huge and tearful. “I’m sorry. I mean, if I’m God, and there’s nothing stronger than me, then I suppose that means I must have done this, I must have bugged out and made myself forget, and hey, that’s a kinda shitty thing for me to have done, but - I really don’t want to be God. I’m sorry.”
Castiel looks, in equal parts, like someone has just kicked his puppy and like he wants to give God a hug.
Dean slings an arm around Cas’s shoulders. “It’s okay,” Dean tells Dawn. “Cas here gets it. It’s not his fault you left, you just didn’t like your job at the post office.”
Cas tenses; Dawn stops sobbing long enough to frown and say, “What?” in a completely nonplussed tone, and Dean . . . Dean can’t wait to see the look on Sam’s face when he introduces him to God.
***