The mischievous gamer God

Bobby Singer sat at his desk, the old wood creaking under the weight of scattered lore books and half-drained whiskey bottles, his wheelchair tucked beneath. His eyes narrowed behind wire-rimmed glasses as he listened to Sam, Dean, Castiel, and Crowley discuss their latest strategy for tracking down the remaining Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

"We have to find Pestilence as soon as possible," Castiel said grimly, his tone low and urgent. "He's spreading plagues all over the U.S., even as we speak."

Dean scoffed and leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. "That's a great idea, Cas. Any chance you've got an actual location? And while we're at it, you still haven't told us why you were acting all weird earlier."

Castiel hesitated. His eyes flicked away for a moment, his usual stoicism cracking just slightly before he turned back toward the group.

"I briefly felt the presence of God," he admitted quietly.

Crowley, lounging in his usual snide swagger by the wall, raised an eyebrow and rolled his eyes. "You're serious? The Almighty did what—pop in to say, 'Hello, still here'? That's bloody helpful."

"It's the first sign of His presence in… a very long time," Castiel replied, his expression troubled. "But… it felt different. Less serious, and more… playful."

Just then, a light, almost musical voice chimed from the doorway.

"That's 'cause there's a new god in town."

Every head snapped toward the voice. Guns were drawn in a heartbeat—Sam, Dean, and Bobby all raised theirs instinctively. Castiel summoned his angel blade with a sudden flash of light, wings tensing behind the veil. Crowley didn't move, but the tension in his shoulders and the flicker in his eyes said everything—he was already calculating half a dozen exits.

Dean narrowed his eyes, looking the intruder up and down. "Who the hell are you… and why do you look like a twelve-year-old?"

Before the newcomer could say anything, Castiel's eyes widened with sudden recognition. His blade dropped from his hand and clattered to the floor. He dropped to his knees.

"Forgive me for not recognizing you, Lord. What is thy will?"

The boy-like figure gave a small sigh and a soft, bemused smile. His mismatched red and golden eyes twinkled.

"Now, now… none of that, Castiel."

Sam stared, dumbfounded. "Cas… is he—?"

"Yes," Castiel said reverently as he rose. "This is God."

The figure giggled and waved his hand dismissively. "No, no. I'm the new God."

Castiel blinked, clearly confused. "New God? I… I'm not sure I understand, Lord."

"It's simple, Castiel," Tet said, skipping a step forward with the fluidity of a being untouched by gravity. "The one you knew as God had overstepped his boundaries one too many times. So I, and the god from the multiverse next door, decided it was time he got the boot."

Bobby squinted at him, unimpressed. "What the hell does that mean?"

"I'm glad you asked, Bobby," Tet said cheerfully, pacing the room like a kid giving a class presentation. "You see, your God—" he said, gesturing with finger quotes, "—he's destroyed and remade this universe so many times that I've lost count. And why? Because he wasn't happy with how things turned out. Certain people wouldn't bow to him, wouldn't dance to his little tune, and when that happened—boom! World's gone. Try again."

Dean gave a low whistle, shaking his head. "Damn. Sounds like some badass people."

Tet turned to Dean with a knowing, mischievous smile. "Oh yes. Yes, they are."

He paused, then added more seriously, "But your God's biggest crime wasn't just being petty. It was when he started encroaching on multiverses that didn't belong to him. Including those under the protection of The Presence."

Crowley scoffed, arms folding tighter across his chest. "And who the hell is that supposed to be?"

Tet's grin grew wider, but his tone was more solemn now. "The Presence. He's everything your Bible says the Christian God is—and more. But unlike your version, He doesn't rule with ego. He's a true God. Kind. Compassionate. Devoted to his creations. Your God? He was a parasite with a God complex who treated existence like a child's toy box."

"Action figures in a playset," he added with a shrug. "I got rid of him. This universe belongs to me now."

Before the group could respond, Tet held up a hand. "And before anyone starts freaking out—I'm not here to rain hellfire and brimstone. That's not really my thing."

He floated just an inch off the floor now, legs crossed in midair like a child watching cartoons on Saturday morning.

"But," Tet continued, "we're getting ahead of ourselves. Allow me to properly reintroduce myself. I am Tet, Multiversal God of Games."

Crowley blinked. "I'm sorry… did you just say multiversal?"

Dean pointed incredulously. "That's what you picked up on? He just said he's the god of games!"

Crowley gave Dean a look like he was the village idiot. "Dean, you dumbass—if he's a multiversal being, he could snap his fingers and obliterate the planet!"

"I could," Tet replied with a toothy smile, "but I'm not a destroyer god. I can summon one if you like?"

Crowley immediately raised a hand. "No thank you, Your Excellency. That's not necessary."

Tet chuckled, genuinely amused. "Oh, Crowley… you always were one of my favorite demons in the multiverse."

Everyone—even Crowley—stared at him in disbelief.

"…Really?" Crowley muttered.

Tet nodded, hands behind his back. "As far as demons go, you're nowhere near as evil as others I've encountered. For example, there was once a demon who captured the Angel of Justice, tortured him until he went insane, and stuffed him inside whatever poor soul was desperate enough to sell their own… thus creating Hell's Bounty Hunter."

Castiel looked genuinely horrified. "That's… monstrous."

Dean raised a hand, still trying to wrap his head around it all. "Okay, hold up. Let's back up a second. I'm still stuck on the fact that you, someone who looks like an actual child, are God. Sorry—new God."

Tet smiled and shrugged. "Yeah, let's put a pin in all that. I'd like to say something first."

He turned toward Bobby.

"Bobby Singer. Stand up, please."

Bobby frowned, skeptical. "Not sure if you noticed, Your All-Mightiness, but I'm in a damn wheelchair."

Tet gave him an innocent, almost cheeky grin. "Just humor me."

Bobby sighed heavily, muttering under his breath as he tried to push himself up from the chair—only to freeze when his legs responded. Slowly, shakily, he stood. His breath caught in his throat.

"Oh… thank God."

"You're welcome," Tet said brightly.

Bobby blinked. "Oh. Right. Still not used to that... God's in my house."

Sam shook his head slowly, still trying to process it all. "Yeah… still working through that over here too."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Okay, Tet—if I can call you that—why are you here?"

Tet clasped his hands behind his back and started to pace again, his expression a strange mix of lighthearted and utterly divine.

"I have a lot of things to fix on this Earth. And I mean—a lot. But despite being a multiversal-level being, it's not like I can just snap my fingers and make everything okay. Destruction? Sure. That's easy. But building something that lasts? That takes time. And care. And rules."

"This place needs an overhaul. I've got a few ideas. But they'll take time."

Tet's tone suddenly shifted, brighter and more whimsical again.

"So for now, I thought I'd just hang out with all of you and introduce myself. But we'll go into the details somewhere nicer. No offense, Bobby."

He clapped his hands.

In an instant, the world vanished in a burst of color and stars—leaving behind only the lingering scent of old books and the echo of a god's laughter.When they next opened their eyes, the group found themselves standing outside an elegant, modern building of sleek glass and polished stone. A glowing sign above the entrance proudly read: Restaurant Gordon Ramsay.

The air smelled faintly of truffle oil, charred meat, and fine wine.

Sam, Dean, Bobby, and Castiel instinctively looked down, surprised to find themselves dressed in sharp, tailored suits—each one perfectly fitted, their hair immaculately styled, skin fresh and clean as if they'd just stepped out of a luxurious spa. They all exchanged confused glances.

Crowley, however, stood there completely starstruck, his eyes wide with something dangerously close to glee.

"Are we really at Gordon Ramsay's restaurant?" he gasped, adjusting the lapels of his suit. "Oh, bloody hell… How's my hair? Do I look okay?"

Dean furrowed his brow and side-eyed the demon. "What's the big deal? It's just a restaurant."

Crowley turned to him slowly, eyes narrowed like Dean had just insulted his grandmother.

"Just a restaurant? Just a bloody restaurant?! How dare you!" he said, visibly offended. "I'll have you know this establishment is owned by one of—if not the—greatest chefs of all time!"

Then he looked to Tet with a hopeful gleam in his eye. "Please tell me… he's here. Right now."

Tet, who stood beside them dressed in a pristine white suit with pastel-pink accents and that ever-smug grin, answered casually, "Yes, he is. Shall we?"

They stepped inside and were immediately greeted by an interior of contemporary elegance—clean lines, gold accents, warm lighting, and the refined murmur of dignified conversation. Open flames flickered behind glass in the kitchen, and the aroma of world-class cuisine wrapped around them like silk.

They approached the hostess stand.

"Table for six. Name's Tet," Tet said cheerfully.

The hostess scanned her reservation list, then smiled politely. "Oh yes. Right this way."

They followed her to a large, circular table with plush velvet chairs and crisp white tablecloths. As they sat, a smartly dressed waiter arrived with menus in hand.

Tet leaned back in his seat and said brightly, "Order whatever you like, gentlemen. It's on me—obviously."

Castiel, perched stiffly in his chair like the suit itched, glanced around nervously. "Lord… not that we don't appreciate this… but we should really be looking for Pestilence right now."

Crowley shot the angel a glare. "Hush now. Our God has graciously decided to treat us to dinner. And even for a demon like me—eating here, at Gordon Ramsay's, while the man himself prepares the meal? That's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Next to that, Pestilence can f*** off."

Castiel frowned sharply. "Do not curse in front of the Lord."

Tet laughed, his eyes glimmering with mischief. "It's okay, Castiel. And as for Pestilence—don't worry. I sent someone after him."

Dean leaned forward, frowning skeptically. "Who the hell could you possibly get to go after one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and expect them to win?"

Tet gave a cryptic little smirk. "A professional. Now order your food."

Dean looked over the fancy menu, squinting at the French and Italian names like they were in ancient Enochian.

"Man… I don't understand half this fancy crap," he muttered. "I'll just have the burger."

Crowley, already sighing before Dean finished the sentence, rolled his eyes dramatically. "You Philistine. That's like going to the Louvre, looking at the Mona Lisa, and saying 'meh.'"

Sam, scanning the menu with genuine interest, raised an eyebrow. "Well, since this is on someone else's dime… I'll have the beef bourguignon."

Crowley smirked with satisfaction. "I'll be having the beef Wellington. Naturally."

Bobby, flipping the menu closed, said with a shrug, "I'll try the rack of lamb."

Tet smiled and handed his menu over. "I'll have the stuffed pork tenderloin."

Castiel looked at Tet, then at the menu, then back again. "I'll have the same."

The waiter collected their menus with a courteous nod and walked off toward the kitchen.

As the tension eased, they resumed their conversation.

Dean turned to Crowley and raised an eyebrow. "Okay… why are you acting like a fan girl right now?"

Crowley straightened his tie, indignant. "I've been a fan of Gordon Ramsay's for years. If you embarrass me here, Winchester, I will find a way to drag you to Hell. So don't ruin this for me."

Dean raised his hands defensively. "Okay, chill. I was just asking."

Bobby leaned back in his chair and gave Tet a hard look. "Back to our original topic—Tet, what do you want from us?"

Tet swirled the water in his glass, his face unusually serious now.

"Yes… I suppose I should get to my point," he said. "Gentlemen, I know you want to stop the Apocalypse. And I know you're probably sitting here thinking, 'Now that Tet's here, he can just make it all go away.'"

He paused. "Well… I'm afraid I can't."

Sam looked surprised. "Why not? Can't you just make it all go away? Or order the angels to stop?"

"I could order the angels to stop," Tet said, "but that wouldn't solve the core of the issue. The previous God… he wrote the Apocalypse into the system, so to speak. It's hardcoded. Basically—it has to happen."

He looked around the table as they all absorbed that.

"The only part of it that isn't written is the conclusion. But the event itself? It's required. If you stop the Apocalypse outright, it's like throwing a monkey wrench into the cogwheels of a massive machine."

He gestured widely. "Imagine that machine is Earth. And you jam the works mid-process. Instead of saving the world… you'd actually end it. Because halting the Apocalypse would halt the system."

Sam leaned forward, catching on quickly. "You cause an explosion."

Tet grinned. "Bingo."

He sighed, folding his hands on the table.

"Until I can crack into the system and rewrite it from the ground up, I'm afraid Earth still has to run on the previous God's script. I will fix it—but not in time to stop the Apocalypse."

Bobby rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So what can you do?"

"In the meantime," Tet said, "I'll set up challenges for each of you. You'll be able to get weapons, spells, magical items—you name it. Everything that might help you win."

Dean blinked. "Why not just give us that stuff?"

Tet tilted his head and smirked, almost teasing. "You're not really grasping the whole God of Games concept, are you? What kind of self-respecting game creator would just hand the loot over to the players?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "That's another thing. You're the God of Games—but you're doing all this crazy stuff like fixing Bobby's legs, teleporting us across the ocean, and apparently snuffing out God. That doesn't sound like something a 'Game God' should be able to do."

Tet leaned forward with a grin that practically glowed with chaotic energy. "Once upon a time, you'd be right. But that was before humanity invented video games."

A light of understanding flickered in Sam's eyes.

Dean glanced between them. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Sam looked at his brother. "Dean… he's the God of Games. That means he has jurisdiction over everything game-related. So… any weapon, power, ability, or skill—anything that's ever appeared in a video game—belongs to him."

Tet clapped his hands enthusiastically. "Good job, Sammy! I knew you'd get it! Yes! Thanks to the creation of video games, my power is basically whatever I want it to be!"

He grinned wide, arms spread. "When humanity made video games, they bumped me up from a world-level god to a multiversal one. Crazy, right?"

Before anyone could respond, the waiter returned with their meals, each plate a work of edible art.

Dean's gourmet burger was stacked high with smoked cheddar, dry-aged beef, and bacon jam on a brioche bun. Sam's beef bourguignon was served in a rich, red wine reduction with pearl onions and glazed carrots. Crowley's beef Wellington practically glistened, its flaky pastry wrapped perfectly around a center of rare tenderloin and mushroom duxelles. Bobby's rack of lamb was crusted with herbs and resting on a bed of whipped potatoes. Castiel and Tet both received a beautifully plated stuffed pork tenderloin, filled with sage, apples, and wild mushrooms, served with cider glaze.

Tet raised his fork with a grin.

"Enough talking for now," he said, beaming. "Let's eat."

Elsewhere, Pestilence drove through the countryside, wreaking havoc and spreading disease. Wherever he went, sickness followed in his wake—skin lesions, dead animals on the roadside, a greenish fog that clung to the trees like mildew. He was barreling down a deserted highway in Montana, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping a half-empty bottle of cough syrup, which he gulped like water between hacking sneezes.

The sky above was a putrid gray-green, and even the wind seemed to carry the stink of decay.

He sniffled loudly and rubbed his nose on his sleeve. Then, casually glancing into the rearview mirror, his bloodshot eyes suddenly went wide.

He saw something completely unexpected.

A tall, masked figure was riding fast down the highway behind him. His face was hidden behind a featureless silver mask, save for two glowing yellow eyes peering coldly from within. Long, unruly gray hair whipped in the wind, and silver plate armor clanked rhythmically with the gallop of his mount. A tattered purple cape billowed behind him, the same color as the ancient cloth draped over his massive twin pistols holstered at either hip.

And his mount… a towering, monstrous horse—part metal, part beast—charged forward with terrifying power. Its eyes glowed a brilliant lilac, and its black mane trailed behind like a storm cloud. Silver armor covered its body in jagged, overlapping plates, and strips of matching tattered cloth fluttered wildly in the wind. It moved like a thunderclap given form.

The rider was fast approaching.

Pestilence gripped the wheel tighter, his breathing turning shallow. His already pale face somehow went paler.

"What the f*** is that?!" he gasped, eyes wide with disbelief.

He didn't know who—or what—that rider was. But for the first time in a very long time, something primal and undeniable twisted in his gut: fear.

He floored the gas pedal, trying to flee. But the rider reached for one of his pistols with calm, practiced ease. The weapon gleamed with arcane symbols as he raised it in one smooth motion.

He took aim.

And fired.

The single shot screamed through the air and punched clean through one of Pestilence's tires, bursting it with a thunderous crack. The vehicle spun out of control, veered off the road, and flipped violently through the air before slamming into the ground in a sickening crash.

Metal crunched. Glass shattered. Fluids leaked and sizzled on the broken asphalt.

Pestilence slowly crawled out of the upside-down wreck, groaning, limbs shaking. His face was bloodied, his coat torn. He grunted in pain and spat out blood as he pulled himself free from the wreckage.

Just as he staggered to his knees, a solid boot slammed into his side, flipping him over with a choked grunt. He landed flat on his back, coughing.

Then a massive armored boot came down hard on his chest, pinning him to the pavement.

He wheezed, looking up—only to see the barrel of a massive pistol staring him right between the eyes. The cold glow of the masked rider's gaze bore into him.

The figure finally spoke, his voice deep, confident, and laced with biting sarcasm.

"So… you're what passes as a Horseman of the Apocalypse in these parts?"

He tilted his head slightly.

"I've got to say... I'm not impressed."

He paused just a beat, letting the moment hang in the air like a final breath.

"Better luck in the next life."

And then he pulled the trigger.

The bullet tore through Pestilence's skull, snapping his head back and painting the asphalt behind him with disease-tainted blood. His body went limp, twitching once, then still.

The rider stood there silently for a moment, smoke curling from the barrel of his gun.

Then, casually, he reached into a compartment on his belt and pulled out the most unlikely of things—a modern-day cell phone. He flipped it open and pressed a button, holding it to the side of his helmeted head.

"Hey, boss," he said casually, as if he'd just wrapped up a pizza delivery. "It's Strife. Yeah… he's taken care of."

He glanced toward the wreck, then started walking back toward his steed.

"I'm headed out to look for Death now."

He listened for a moment, then grinned behind the mask.

"Gotcha. I'll only kill him if he resists."

As he hung up the phone and tucked it away, he chuckled under his breath, reaching to pat one of his pistols.

"I really hope he resists."