After so much mouth-running, Castiel couldn't stand it anymore. He pulled the Lincoln over. The large gold body swerved off of the pavement onto a gravelly shoulder, and he popped his door open. Metatron stopped yapping about how his captor was so obviously head-over-heels for Dean Winchester. He was starting to venture into certain sub-genres of his favored topic that were highly offensive to the angel.
He'd done it now.
Castiel ripped open the back door and the archangel–now perfectly human–scrambled to scoot back away towards the opposite side, away from the angel's grasp. Castiel hauled him back forward by his coat and the scruffy scribe yelped. Castiel was right in his face, seething.
"Shut up," his scratchy voice boomed. Face scrunched up, Metatron still dared to retaliate, wheezing.
"What? Like it isn't true-"
Castiel shoved him back and his rough action earned a hard grunt as the man hit the upholstery. The taller angel rounded his car and unlocked the trunk. He stopped, seriously considering throwing the small weevil in it, but he needed him up front to give him directions. Castiel grabbed something out of it, slapped the trunk shut, and came back for the scribe. He was a little surprised that the man hadn't tried to bolt. Then again, how far would he get with a partially-legitimized angel on his heels?
The small man fought, but he couldn't match Castiel's strength anymore, and was dragged from the car. The blue-eyed creature pulled the Men of Letters' handcuffs from his pocket and snapped them around Metatron's wrists, locking them together behind his back.
"Ow, ow-!" he hissed, "Not so tight-!"
Castiel ignored him and lead him around the another side of the car. He opened the passenger door and forced the man inside. Then, the final touch; Castiel shucked a roll of duct tape from his wrist, ripped a strip, and tore it off with his teeth.
When he was done, Castiel slammed the passenger door shut. He retreated back to his own side, closed back door on his own side, and climbed back in behind the wheel. Metatron's eyes were icy beside him, but he didn't try to speak. His breath whistled through his nose. He winced visibly from discomfort, but Castiel wasn't going to appease him. The driver was about to switch gears again, but he forgot one thing.
He leaned across and grabbed the passenger's seat belt.
Buckle up.
_
The silence was both cherished and unsettling. Castiel was focused on the road, but the heavy weight of Metatron's presence beside him put him ill at ease, despite how wrapped up he was. A thought was prickling his mind, and it festered to the point when he was feeling compelled to act on it.
Castiel was brooding. Metatron could tell by the hard look in his eyes. It might have been brief, but he once was writing Castiel's story, and he knew enough to capture the details where he saw them.
Personally, he would've much preferred a cloth gag if he had any say in it. He'd been courteous enough to his own captor when the tables had been turned the other way. Breathing– being conscious of your breathing (or in this case, inability to breathe) was a restrictive feeling. He hated it. But more than that, he hated that his wrists were being crushed behind his back. He wriggled a bit in his seat, trying to keep the cold metal from jabbing him. For a moment, Castiel's blue eyes turned aside from the road, locked with his, and he stared.
Suddenly the Lincoln dropped, pulling both men down before jumping up again. The car suddenly shot forward when it sprang back, taking Castiel by surprise. And only then did he see it; a speed trap. He nearly slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The cop car's lights flipped up as the Lincoln flew by. Wide-eyed, the angel exhaled an expletive. He had no choice but to pull over, so he did. Again the vehicle glided to the side of the road and squealed to a stop. The second he was parked, Castiel tore the tape from Metatron's mouth, and the small man yelled in pain. The moment he'd been dreading came at last; Goodbye whiskers-
"Don't say a word," the captor glowered. He moved quickly to uncuff the archangelic human. Metatron clasped his own wrists alternatively, rubbing the reddened skin there. A state trooper was bearing in on them, and Castiel flattened back against his own seat, dropping the cuffs and kicking them under the bench with his heel. A slow blink orientated him, several thoughts rushing over his mind at once.
He rolled down his window.
"Sir, turn off your engine, please."
Castiel's ignition clicked with the twist of his keys.
"License and registration," the trooper said, shades masking his eyes, despite having a rimmed hat circumferentially wide enough to shield his face from the sun. Castiel fumbled. He didn't know what to do. He fished for Jimmy's wallet. He was wearing Jimmy's face, so his ID would have to work-
Metatron watched silently as the officer took Jimmy's license and looked at it. A second later he looked back at Castiel and said, "And registration."
Metatron knew what to do. Quickly, he reached over for Castiel's visor, to which the trooper tensed, reflexively reaching for his holster.
"Don't move!" he said, "Sit back down." The archangel froze, then relaxed back against his seat. He almost forgot for a minute that he wasn't immune to bullets anymore. Castiel looked aside at him, and Metatron conservatively pointed to the visor, pivoting one finger. Castiel followed his line of sight, and checked, flipping the visor down.
"—Sorry, officer," Metatron apologized meekly, leaning to look over Castiel, "Didn't mean any harm."
He went ignored. Castiel found a little yellow card under the visor, tucked into a tight pocket. He didn't know exactly what it was, but he handed it over to the trooper–after flipping it over questioningly–who took it and inspected the print on it.
"Stay right here," the cop said, before walking back to his own car. Castiel's anxiety rattled his Grace and Metatron could see it plain as day despite having lost his own perception of it. Neither of them spoke to each other for at least a minute. Then the cop came back.
"Sir, step out of the vehicle."
Castiel's eyes went wide again. He spared a glance at his captive, who stared right back at him with a mirrored expression.
"Now, sir, get out of the car."
Castiel quickly cracked his door open and climbed out of the Lincoln. Metatron couldn't see either of their faces anymore, but he heard the cop say, "Turn around and put your hands on the roof."
"What-?" Castiel asked, dumbfound. The cop raised his voice.
"Sir, turn around and put your hands on the car."
After gaping, the angel slowly turned around and splayed his hands over the roof of the Lincoln. Metatron saw the cuffs come out. The trooper reached for his hands.
"You're under arrest for the possession of a stolen vehicle-"
Castiel's arm shot back, striking the officer's face with his elbow. His shades cracked and went flying. The angel spun back on him, and a struggled ensued. Metatron spectated as Castiel grabbed the officer. He heard the distinct twitter of a taser gun amidst everything.
The angel was only momentarily jolted by the shock. He quickly bypassed the stun and clocked the officer again, effectively punching his lights out. The man collapsed on the pavement with a heavy unfurling thud. His gun clattered not far from his loosened grasp.
Hardly winded, Castiel pulled the metal tips that the trooper had shot into his chest, fisting the the fish-line wires from the tazer. The angel quietly inspected the holes in his shirt, and regarded the dabs of blood showing through his white shirt. Slowly he stooped and sniffed around the unconscious man. He found the registration card, and he paused before touching his fingers to one of the cop's temples. Seconds later, he got back up.
He opened his door and climbed back into the Lincoln. Metatron was peering over said door to see the cop sprawled on the ground, but he sat back when Castiel pushed him over to his own seat. Lips pressed thinly together, the angel's face looked grim as the engine turned over at his hand.
"...Cop's car has a dash cam," his captive pointed generously. Castiel looked up and saw the idle vehicle behind them through the rear view mirror between them. The blue-eyed celestial took his pointer gratefully, and with a concentrated gaze, he snapped a finger.
That should do it.
The Lincoln slowly rolled away, and soon both car and body were shrinking behind them. Castiel didn't put a second strip of tape on Metatron's mouth.
Just as he expected.
_
'Manuel Salvatella,' Metatron had read on the little yellow card after requesting to see it. Castiel passes it over, not seeing any harm in it, and minutes later he broke the silence.
"...You wanted this to happen."
Metatron glanced up curiously. "What?"
"What happened before." Castiel's eyes fled to the mirror and out the rear window, "Back there."
The angel's expression dropped, insulted. "Castiel, I did not-"
"Yes you did," the driver insisted roughly, fists clenching the wheel. "I was under the speed limit right up until we passed that cop. I exceeded it only because the car suddenly sprang up under my foot. The hydraulic system this car has is top-of-the-line, and I know that that jump was no accident.
"Get your damned foot away from the switch box."
Castiel was a lot smarter than Metatron gave him credit for. Compliantly, he pushed the box away with his foot, and his face straightened itself.
"Why?" Castiel looked aside at him. "What possible motive did you have for pulling that stunt? Did you know I was driving a stolen car?"
"It wasn't that hard to figure out, Cas," Metatron said a touch snidely, "I mean, a Lowrider? You?" He snickered, large teeth unveiled from behind those thick lips as his head tipped back. "God couldn't have made that up if He wanted...!"
"You had to have known that that cop didn't stand a chance against me-"
"Oh, obviously," the scribe recovered, rolling his eyes.
"Then why? Were you trying thwart me? Get under my skin? Buy more time?"
"Well, sure, why not?" the scribe shrugged. "All that, and my hands were starting to feel numb."
Castiel couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"I hurt an innocent man just so that you could get your cuffs off?"
"Well, no, let's recap this chronologically now," Metatron offered condescendingly, "You uncuffed me before flipping that blue boy's switch."
"And after you let me hand over incriminating evidence of a crime I committed."
"Hey, it's not my fault you didn't know better," Metatron said wryly. "You have smarts, Castiel, but book smarts apparently aren't a part of the package deal. If you had read up on the knowledge I gave you–you're welcome, by the way–you would've known that had you failed to present "your" registration at all pullover, there's an extremely high chance you would've been let off the hook. Those schmucks? Most of 'em can't be bothered with a little extra paperwork or making a court appearance for something so trivial. You probably wouldn't have even gotten a slap on the wrist, I'd bet."
Castiel was silent.
Metatron could see him scanning the recesses of his mind for confirmation.
But not only that, he saw how Castiel's fingers ever-so-slightly twitched around the steering wheel. The debilitated archangel kept his eyes trained on those fingers.
"...All that knowledge, and you still haven't learned how to use it," he muttered. "I gave you more than just witty pop culture references, you know. I've read everything."