The Scriptorium

Title: The Time the Winchester Boys Met God or the Terrible Truth About Demon Tofu (1/2)
Author: Rusty Armour
Summary: While Dean and Sam try to work out how and why Dean was sprung out of hell, they have an unexpected encounter with…God. Category: Crossover
Word Count: 1,547
Rating: PG-13
Warning: This story contains not only tofu, and references to the origins of demon tofu, but Doctor Who content as well!
Spoilers: No Rest for the Wicked (3.16), Lazarus Rising (4.1), Utopia (Doctor Who, 3.11), The Sound of Drums (Doctor Who, 3.12), Last of the Time Lords (Doctor Who, 3.13)
Disclaimer: I don't own the Winchesters and I don't want to own them. Those boys are all dark, twisted and tormented inside, so I'm only willing to make very brief visits to their universe in the interest of birthday fic.
Author's Note: This was written in 2008 for jackycomelately's birthday and is a sequel to The Return of the Demon Tofu: A Supernatural Adventure. I want to thank jackycomelately for putting up with all the Doctor Who content that mysteriously worked its way into this story.

---

“Man, I sure missed tofu!” Dean said as he consumed his third plate of thit pan tofu.

Sam stared at him in confusion. “I thought you said that you couldn’t remember anything about hell.”

Dean swallowed a mouthful of tofu. “Yeah? So?”

“Well, if you can’t remember anything that happened then how could you miss tofu?” Sam asked. “You had a tofu burger the day before that hell hound tore you apart.”





Dean grimaced. “Thanks for the reminder, Sammy,” he said, though it didn’t seem to affect his appetite as his fork lunged into the thit pan tofu again.

Sam rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said. “You think that just because my mind doesn’t remember being denied tofu all those months that it’s somehow okay. Well, let me tell you, Sammy. My body knows that it’s been deprived and it’s not happy.”

Sam’s forehead furrowed. “Your body was torn apart by a hell hound and it’s tofu it’s fixating on?”





This time Dean flinched. “Will you stop bringing that up? It’s something I’m really trying to forget about, okay?”

Sam shrugged. “It’s your trauma. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“Thank you!” Dean raised his beer to his lips and took a healthy swallow.

“We can talk about God instead,” Sam said. Then he winced as he was sprayed by Dean’s beer.





“That’s not funny, Sammy,” Dean growled.

Sam wiped the beer off his face. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

Dean shook his head. “We’re not having this conversation.” He stood up and grabbed his jacket off the bed, but Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulder before Dean could leave their motel room.





“Dean, this is serious,” Sam said. “God sent an angel to spring you out of hell. God said He had plans for you.”

“And Elvis is alive and running a fat farm.” Dean shoved Sam’s hand off his shoulder. “It’s a hoax, Sammy. Some elaborate con.”

“Then how do you explain Castiel?” Sam asked. “He knocked Bobby out by just touching his forehead and he didn’t even blink when you stabbed him.”

Dean snapped a finger in front of Sam’s face. “Hello? Does the word ‘demon’ mean anything to you?”

Sam looked thoughtful for a moment. “I suppose that’s a possibility, though if he is a demon he must be pretty powerful.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“Well, he was able to pull you out of hell, Dean,” Sam said. “That’s no mean feat.”

“Okay, fine,” Dean grumbled. “So he’s a powerful demon. So what?”

Sam smiled, though it was a look that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So it has to make you wonder just what kind of being Castiel would answer to given that he’s so powerful himself.”

Dean crossed his arms. “Well, it’s not God,” he said.

Sam didn’t look convinced. “You can’t be sure of that, Dean.”

“Sure I can: God doesn’t exist,” Dean said. “And,” he added, lifting a finger when Sam opened his mouth to argue, “even if he did exist He wouldn’t be interested in me. I mean, it’s not like He’s going to show up at the door and say, ‘Hi, Dean. It’s nice to meet you. I’m God.’”

The loud knock on the door had both brothers almost jumping out of their skins.

Dean laughed nervously. “I’m sure it’s just one of your many girlfriends, Sam.”





Sam snorted and walked over to the door. “Uh, hi,” Sam said to the stranger standing out in the hall. “Can I help you?”





The stranger in question had dark hair and eyes, a crisp white shirt, and a neatly pressed black suit and tie. He beamed brightly when he saw Sam, and Sam instantly thought politician. However, when the man opened his mouth, he didn’t sound like any politician Sam had ever come across. For one thing, he had an English accent.

“Hello, Sam,” the stranger said. “I believe your brother is expecting me.”

Sam’s mouth fell open. “Umm…I think you must have the wrong room.”

The man looked momentarily confused. “No, I don’t think so. I’m positive that I made an appointment to speak with Dean Winchester and seeing as I was in the neighbourhood—”

Dean pushed past Sam to confront the stranger. “Look, mister, I think I’d remember if I made an appointment with some-some British guy.”

The man tilted his head to one side, studying Dean in interest. “Actually, I was the one to schedule the appointment. As you may recall, Castiel did inform you of My interest in you.” The man tossed a quick glance at Sam. “In you and your brother.”

Dean and Sam exchanged startled glances before staring warily back at their visitor.





The man sighed wearily. “I take it that neither of you are regular churchgoers,” he said. “It’s such a shame in this day and age that people are rejecting religion when there’s so much wrong with the world. If they would just embrace Me and take Me into their hearts—”

Dean slammed the door in the stranger’s face and locked the deadbolt with trembling fingers. “Call 911,” he said to Sam. “This guy is obviously a whackjob.”

“Dean,” called a voice through the door, “I realize that this must all seem rather overwhelming, but I only seek to guide you and help you find your true potential.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Dean shouted back, “but I think I’ll pass, thanks.” He glared at Sam, who was still standing in the same spot. “I thought I told you to call 911.”





“But what if he’s the real deal?” Sam asked. “What if he’s really—?”

Dean clamped a hand over Sam’s mouth. “Don’t say it. It’s impossible.”

Sam laughed. “Dean, we see impossible things every day. What makes this any different?”

Dean scowled and muttered something under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “What was that?”

Dean blushed and refused to meet Sam’s eyes. “He’s too short and he doesn’t have a beard.”

“I used to have a beard,” the stranger said. “For that matter, I believe I used to be taller.”





Dean and Sam spun around, shocked to find the stranger in their room.

“How did you get in here?” Dean demanded.

The man seemed mildly disappointed. “Oh, Dean. I created the world in seven days. Do you really think getting through a simple door is going to prove a challenge?”

Dean scanned the room wildly, trying to find any weapons within easy reach. Sam, on the other hand, regarded their guest with open curiosity.

“Your angel Castiel burnt Pamela Barnes’s eyes out of her sockets when she saw him in his true form,” Sam said. “Would I be right in thinking that you’ve also adopted a human form?”

The man smiled. “Bright boy. Yes, I use this form when I honour mere mortals with My presence. It’s the more PC, family-friendly model. It’s proven to be more effective than the white flowing beard, robes and the bright glowing light. People want a God they can trust, a God who believes in the same morals and values that they do. In other words, a God who—”





“Oh, cut the crap!” Dean said. “You’re not God!”

The man raised an eyebrow. “You would deny your Lord and Saviour?”

Dean crossed his arms. “You’ve given me no proof that you’re God. For all I know, you could have escaped from a mental institution.”

A brief look of anger crossed the man’s face, but then it was gone as quickly as it had come. “Very well,” he said. “Until the age of three, you had a favourite blanket named Binky.”

Sam burst out laughing. “A blanket named ‘Binky’? Oh, come on. That’s ridiculous.” He glanced at Dean for his reaction and was surprised to see his brother staring at the stranger with wide, startled eyes.

“You know about Binky?” Dean whispered.

“Of course, Dean,” the man said. “I know about everything.”

Dean stared at him for a few seconds longer before prostrating himself at the man’s feet. “Forgive me, O Lord! I should never have doubted You!”

God regarded Dean sternly. “No, you shouldn’t have doubted Me. However, I’m prepared to forgive you, my son.”

Dean gazed at God’s Italian leather shoes in adoration. “Thank you, O Lord. I am your most grateful and humble servant.”

Sam couldn’t hide his mortification. “Dean, get up!” he hissed. “He’s not God!”

“Of course, He’s God,” Dean said from the floor. “He knew about Binky!” He glanced at the Italian leather shoes again. “Forgive him, O Lord. He knows not what he says.”

Sam glared at his brother. “Dean, the man is obviously psychic or something.”

God raised his chin defiantly. “I prefer the term ‘omniscient,’ though obviously ‘omnipotent’ would be more accurate.” He was about to say more when he suddenly froze and glanced quickly over his shoulder.





A strange sound was filling the room, one that neither Dean nor Sam could recognize. However, God seemed to know what it was because He turned a few shades paler.

“Shit,” He said. “I should have known he’d find me.”

“Who, O Lord?” Dean asked.

God grimaced. “Lucifer, Dean. Lucifer in his bloody blue box.”


Part Two