Author: Regala Electra
Spoilers: S5, Good God, Y'all
Summary: Adventures in being God: skeeball, pool hustling, zombie dancing, 20 oz. slushies, and messing with an angel.
Warnings: I always warn for crack. And second person POV. This story contains both.
Word Count: 810
Author's Notes: This story is dedicated to President Dog. See story notes at the end for special credit to some of the references used. Um, I can only blame myself for this one. I had designs for a far more serious story called god writ on your bones but this story wanted to be told first. Title from Clone High in reference to when the clone Joan of Arc believed she could finally hear "the voices".
the god who comes
No rituals performed or offerings granted call You. Instead You come without invite and dance in the throng of false zombies. Your costume is painstakingly handmade since You made it out of the nexus of impossible creation that is polyester.
(The bible got that one wrong too: poly-blends are a blessing.)
You’re a terrible dancer but You decided to miss the beat on purpose. It's a stark contrast to everyone around You as they flawlessly perform the Thriller dance to the adoring crowd's cheers.
You make them better if only because they will not let You ruin their fun.
After the parade, they will go to their cramped apartments for parties or to restaurants to celebrate how alive they are though they decided to dress as the walking dead. Perhaps they will recall how fine they danced and only laugh a little at the ridiculous little old lady trying to keep up with them.
the skeeball wizard
You lose as best You can in the final round, reveling in the tension permeating the air and the superlative sympathy of sound that the weak ecstatic glory of heaven’s own choir wishes to emulate. The song lingers on as the sighs and howls of disappointment continue, the suffering aww as You slowly close Your eyelids, tears splashing hot on Your freckled cheeks.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a big round of applause to the youngest Skeeball contender ever in this tournament! We’ll see you next year, son. And you see, folks? Anyone can master skeeball, even the Kid.”
The champion is gracious and claps before the announcer has finished his sentence. He tells You he got lucky and winks that he'll have to watch himself next time.
Next time You’ll try pool hustling.
what if God was one of us
That song got played out. Right now You’re all about Single Ladies although it won’t be the best song of all time.
Time’s funny that way.
You might watch too much TV and spend too much time on the internet but You’re still quite proud of seeing My So-Called Life blossom and even better, You've finally had a meme take off although You can’t claim credit because you don't want to deal with the cry of “pics or didn’t happen”. You'd rather not give away what You’re doing every spliced split millimeter second of unyielding time’s passing.
Admittedly, You are a little embarrassed by the Desperate Housewives fanfic but ff.net deleted it after You didn’t warn properly for sexual content.
You couldn’t help it. Sex is hilarious and You did warn for crack.
for those who wait
You do not appear on any flatbread or leavened bread either for that matter.
A 20 oz. blue raspberry slushie has always intrigued You and being nothing more than liquid molecules is an enjoyable state of existence. Sort of like a day at the spa.
Alas, poor Dean Winchester. Without his amulet he does not notice that the slushie purchased by the teenager Jenn-with-an-i-e in front of him at the 7-11 checkout line is You.
The work of God is burned deep on his bones and You love him for that.
You do not love being ingested. You’ve forgotten how it tickles.
there is no God
You hustle Sam Winchester in a round of pool where You call all the shots since gravity is one of Your shots. Yes, You cheated. Don't be surprised.
Afterwards, You buy him another kind of shot, of the alcoholic variety, flattening the thick wad of Sam’s money on the bar before handing the cash back to him.
“You won it, fair and square,” he tells You. He knocks his shot back in a flash, lips twisting irritably as only the best whisky can do to a mouth.
“It’s not about winning, Sam.”
You could try to explain but You know his run-ins with gods of yore have hardened him so You can only offer him a kiss. Within him is such bitterness and the slow burn of easy temptation. He falls for You in this kiss; he'd fall for anyone. He kisses back fiercely, holds the back of Your head as his mouth lingers, unwilling to break contact.
He would love You in the fucking, this is the promise he makes but You take no offerings, bowing Your head to break the kiss.
“I’m sorry,” he says and he doesn’t know why he’s saying it, bewilderment in his eyes.
You grasp his hands, can feel the violence in them but Your work is carved into his bones and his blood is Your making and only his free will is his and his alone.
You accept the apology and kiss benediction against closed eyelids. When he opens them, he will be alone in the bar but You will not be forgotten.
bullshit. God has horns.
Castiel holds the amulet over the mechanical bull and drops to his knees.
The bull does not answer.
Sometimes it’s just too easy fucking with an angel.
addendum or where the story notes are:
- the god who comes = as taken from True Blood, the theorized God who comes when the proper magic has been conducted.
- skeeball wizard = why hello there Pinball Wizard of the musical Tommy.
- Desperate Housewives fanfic = merely a polite nod to Glee (episode: Acafellas, now on Hulu, *pimps*) that DW fanfic would indeed be a fantastic creative outlet.
- what if God was one of us = if I have to explain this one, then you missed out on a song killed by overplay in the 90s. Congratulations.
- bullshit. God has horns. = I opened and closed with quotes from True Blood. This one is uttered by the delightful Terry, because as anyone knows, the God Who Comes has horns. Duh.
- Dogma very much inspired my characterization of God and so, the skeeball mention. Oh, and Good Omens was a huge inspiration as well.