Saints or Sinners | {BOOK 3}

99| Fighting Metatron

Sam and Dean had gone off to investigate the homeless community where Metatron, or Marv, was supposedly hiding out while I stayed by the Impala. My right hand was shaking uncontrollably, and as I placed it on the covered First Blade, the calming surge of power immediately soothed my body. A throat cleared behind me, and I whipped my hand off the blade.

"Anything?" I asked Sam.

"Uh, yeah. He's up there. About a mile up the road. There's a homeless encampment. The way folks are talking, he's got them convinced he's the new Jesus or something."

"Where's Dean?"

"On his way. He was doing one more sweep just to be safe."

I nodded my head in understanding.

"You good?" he asked me.

"Yeah, I'm good."

Sam picked up the First Blade, handing it over to me in silence.

"Listen, Sammy, about, um, you know, the last couple months..."

"I know. So, before we find something else to fight about...tell me...Are you ready to gut this bitch?"

He turned to pick up his bag, but as he was turning back to face me, I threw a punch, knocking him out cold on the ground.

"Sorry, Sam. It's not your fight," I muttered, placing his hand on his chest so it wasn't on the ground.

As I stood, I came face to face with Dean.

"Ellie-" he began, looking down at Sam.

"Don't follow me, Dean. Stay here with him. This is my fight."

"I can't-"

"If you try to follow me, you'll join him on the ground."

Dean was silent as we communicated silently through our eyes, and then he nodded slowly. I pushed past him to head off in the direction of the encampment while he moved closer to check on his little brother on the ground.

⁘

As I approached the homeless encampment, I found my path blocked by a man and a woman.

"Can I help you?" the man asked.

"Take it easy, Chief," I told him.

"You're Eleanor Winchester," the woman said.

"Now, how did you know that?"

"He said you were coming."

"Well, here I am. Where's Metatron?"

"Marv," the man corrected.

"Sure," I rolled my eyes.

"In there," the woman gestured to a nearby building, "...praying for our forgiveness."

"Forgiveness for what?"

The woman eyed a pool of blood on the ground and I followed her gaze.

"Is he now?" I raised an eyebrow.

The pair let me pass, and I headed into the warehouse where Metatron sat in a meditation pose on the floor.

"You can save the humble-pie Jesus routine for somebody who gives a damn."

"The problem with you, Eleanor, is the cynicism. Always the cynicism. But most people- even the real belly crawlers living in filth... or Brentwood... they don't want to be cynical. They just want something to believe in."

"And that'd be you," I stated.

"Why not me?" Metatron asked.

"You've been working those people outside for, what, a day? They've already spilled blood in your name. You are nothing but Bernie Madoff with wings."

"So I'm a fake," the scribe rose to his feet. "Do you have any idea how much pancake makeup and soft lighting it took to get God to work a rope line? He hated it. And, you know, humans sense that. So they prayed harder and longer and fought more wars in his name. And for what?! So they could die of malaria? Leukemia? And all the while, blaming themselves! 'Oh, if only I'd been more prayerful, God would have loved me! God would have saved me!' You know what?! God didn't even know their name! But I do. Because I've walked among them. And I can save them."

"Sure you can," I nodded. "So long as your mug is in every Bible and 'What would Metatron do?' is on every bumper."

"And? What, are you blaming me for giving them what they want, giving them a brand they can believe in?"

I started unwrapping the cloth from the First Blade in my hand, not breaking eye contact with the angel.

"I'm blaming you for Kevin! I'm blaming you for taking Cass's grace. Hell, I'm blaming you for the Cubs not winning the World Series in the last 100 freaking years. Whatever it is- I'm blaming you."

Metatron eyed the Blade now fully uncovered in my grasp.

"The First Blade. Nasty piece of work, isn't she? Okay, let's say you win, Ellie, and I die. What's the world left with then, hmm? A herd of panty-waisted angels and you? Half out of your mind with Lord knows what pumping through those veins?"

I took a step forward, advancing on Metatron.

"Yeah, you see, the only thing you've said that went into my ear was that you die."

"Ohhh," the scribe groaned, rolling his eyes. "Fine. We'll fight. I don't know what you expect is gonna come of all this. Unless... That's why you're stalling. Because you know nothing's gonna come of this unless your pals succeed upstairs. Well, here's a news flash- Humpty and Dumpty are starring in their very own version of 'Locked Up Abroad: Heaven' right now."

I turned to the side to hide my anger, then threw my hand to stab Metatron with the Blade. He blocked the blow, and I punched him in the face with my left hand, causing him to stumble backward.

"Wow, that big Blade and that... douche-y tribal tat sure gave you some super juice. Whoo! Okay."

Metatron motioned with his hands for me to bring it on and I rushed toward him. However, before I could even get close, he used his powers to throw me in the air. I hit the wall ten feet up and fell to the ground with a crash. The scribe continued beating on me, flinging me into the wall once more before viciously kicking my right arm, making the First Blade fly out of my hand. I cried out as he put all his weight into one foot, stepping on my wrist.

"So, you took Abaddon's scalp, then you figured you'd take on little old nebbish-y me. What could go wrong," Metatron rambled. "And you're powered by the bone of a jackass, and it's just awesome, right? Here's a tip- next time, try being powered by the Word of God."