All right, so there's been some muttering about the unfairness of Bunny #2 and then Bunny #1 from 'The Jimiverse's Next Top Plot Bunny getting an airing, while the smallest and most nebulous one, Bunny #3 (rehabilitation of Godstiel in the Jimiverse), didn't even get a mention. Well, if nothing else, a fickriter must be mindful of her reviewers' preferences, so I thought I'd try a strategy that has worked before: start writing something, and see if the bunny is emboldened by a bit of an airing. (It's always a gamble when you don't know exactly where a story will go, but we seem to muddle along in most cases.) I just hope it doesn't get pulled because of the title...

DISCLAIMER: They're not mine. Seriously. I'd be a lot richer if they were.

TITLE: The Man Who Spewed Too Much

SUMMMARY: He is their new god, Castiel. He's got all the god moves (joke missiles, rains of lobster bisque), the god wisdom (drinking faecally contaminated water won't cure diseases) and some god Commandments. And also, the mother of all tummy aches... but never fear, Dean knows how to deal with that, and Sam has a quote for every occasion. How Godstiel rehabilitated back into the nerdy, socially awkward, deadpan Sheriff of Heaven that he is in the Jimiverse.

RATING: T. Because Dean's potty mouth is bound to crop up sooner or later

BLAME: Lies ENTIRELY with the Denizens who pushed for an airing of Bunny #3 from 'The Jimiverse's Next Top Plot Bunny'.

PROLOGUE

Dean Winchester didn't claim to be a learned man. He didn't claim to be particularly smart, particularly intelligent, particularly wise, or particularly well educated. But he was certain that he did know one thing.

His life sucked, and God hated him.

Two things, then. His life sucked, God hated him, and the entire universe got its amusement from kicking him when he was down.

Okay, he knew three things. His life sucked, God hated him, the entire universe got its amusement from kicking him, and angels were, after all, all dicks.

He frowned.

Among the things he knew were: His life sucked, God hated him, universe got its jollies, angels were dicks, and he'd been exposed to too many late-night Monty Python reruns as a small child...

"Give me a hand here," Bobby broke into his thoughts, and Dean rushed to help him manhandle his gigantic baby bro's unresisting form out of the truck and into the house, where they settled him on the sofa. Sam yawned, squirmed to get comfortable, and began to snore gently. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with him other than the fact he wouldn't wake up.

"What did our new 'god' do to him?" Dean asked.

"No idea," scowled Bobby, "But when I find out, I'm goin' to pull on his feathers until he cries. God's tits, you weigh a ton, Sam..."

"You talkin' to me?" mumbled Sam.

Dean and Bobby stared at the younger Winchester.

"Sam?" prompted Dean, shaking his brother's shoulder gently.

"I want to be alone," Sam muttered, his face clouding.

"I'm not going anywhere, bro," Dean told him firmly, "Until we find out what that flying dick did to your head, then we pluck him and crumb him and fry him in holy oil..."

"Quite frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," Sam smiled, yawned again, and went back to snoring.

Dean blinked in bemusement at his brother.

"He's just talkin' in his sleep, son," Bobby rolled his eyes.

"I didn't even have the salmon mousse," Sam yawned.

Dean sighed, and ran a hand down his face. "Okay, so, we gotta find Castiel, or find a way to summon him, then get him to fix Sam, then we gotta fix him, or kill him."

"You can't fight in here! This is the War Room!" announced Sam.

"Well," mused Bobby, "If Cas is serious about being a god, I guess he'll be wantin' to go out and do some godding. Announce himself, as it were. So, if we just watch for signs of, I dunno, miracles and such, I guess, we may be able to figure out what he's up to. He'll have to show himself if he wants to be worshipped."

"I got no other ideas," shrugged Dean, turning on the TV and searching for a news channel. "All I know is, I want to shoot an angel in a trench coat."

"One morning, I shot an elephant in my pyjamas," added Sam, snuggling under his blanket.

Yep, thought Dean, life officially sucked, whether you expect the Spanish Inquisition or not.

So, whaddyareckon? Reviews might encourage the bunny to continue!