A/N: Written in an especially bitchy mood, at the prompting of a buddy, who said I should take out my bitchiness on my least-liked character in Supernatural.
Metatron loved the creativity that permeated humanity, God's most interesting creation. (Not, in his humble opinion, the most "perfect".). He loved the tales passed down from generation to generation through word of mouth, and delighted in the shifts and changes through the generations.
He loved everything, from the story of Gilgamesh; through Euripides, Homer, Beowulf, the Canterbury Tales, Shakespeare; to the incredible proliferation of story-telling that was spawned by technology. Cinema mesmerized him, from the early days of black and white movies through to such timeless classics as The Incredibles, with stops for Ghost, When Harry Met Sally, and Dirty Dancing. Well. Okay, those weren't "classics", but he loved them anyway.
He expected his own death to be as celebrated in story, song, and movie.
He wasn't sure that was going to happen, though. Not now.
The angels had found him. Every angel still alive had reason to hate him. The mob surrounded him, tattered wings drooping behind them, and hissed and murmured threats, eyes glowing electric blue.
They were waiting for something, though.
Then they parted, like the Red Sea parted for Charleston Heston, and he groaned.
"Asstiel. What the hell are you doing here? I'm hated, but you're public enemy number one in Heaven. Or at least, that's what I thought. And I see you've got Heckle and Jeckyll with you." He sneered at the trio. Castiel, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester. Dead multiple times, then resurrected. Why did God love them so much? He was the one who had taken down God's Word, sat with Him through innumerable sessions of drunken self-pity (Alcohol! Now, that was another amazing creation of humanity's!), been his confidante.
What did these three have that he didn't?
"Time's up, Metadouche," Dean sneered back. Sam just nodded, face stern. Like he was being Justice incarnate. Prissy, self-righteous prig.
Castiel simply drew his angel blade and plunged it in without a single word. No oration! No monologuing! Bad taste.
Metatron had just enough time to think, "Wait! This is so anti-climatic, so bana - "