"So?" Sam lounges on the spare hotel bed, picking at the stiff, polyester bedspread. He's propped up on his elbows, waiting for Dean to finish dressing. Sam shakes his head, his hair still damp from the shower they shared after making love. Not the brightest idea for two lovers who become so easily immersed in each other that watching warm water sluice over one another's skin results in an hour long detour and the depletion of the hot water tank. To be fair, distraction doesn't take a lot these days; Sam finds it difficult to concentrate when he thinks of something as simple as Dean smiling. That gorgeous expression that spreads from his plump cupid bow of a mouth to his eyes, like sunrise spilling light across a field of wheat at dawn, illuminating and warming the landscape and melting the frost that has taken hold in the darkness. It has become as vital to Sam as his own breath, an expression that carries none of the burden of hell, none of the loss or betrayal of their earlier lives.
"So what?" Dean dips his head, eyes of Baltic amber flecked with onyx focus intently on lacing his Wal-Mart special construction boots. Sam notices the heel separating from the leather and makes a mental note to pick up a new pair the next time they swing through a town with more than a Benjamin Franklin, a diner and a bar.
"So what now?" He looks around the hotel room, same battered dresser, same five-channel TV screwed into the wall, same gilded wallpaper, the leaf pattern pocked and pitted in the places where previous guests had railed against whatever fortune drove them to stop in this no-name Nebraska town. Sam's eyes trace the topography of history written in the walls of their hotel and he imagines Dean's thighs and the marks of his self-loathing that he will carry for the remainder of his life, sure as he carries the imprint of Castiel's hands on his shoulders. He wishes he could whisper the old wounds away like a monk sweeping the sands of a Mandala into the heart of God. Sam wants to give Dean a body unmarred by the burning palms of angels and the ministrations of self-hatred.
"Now? Now, Sammy, we go across the street, order an onion blossom and shoot some pool, maybe get a little drunk…" Dean saunters over to Sam, hooks his index fingers through the belt loops of Sam's blue-jeans and pulls him up from the bed. "Maybe come back here later, roll around, get frisky, sleep late, then lather, rinse, repeat. Haul ass up to Bobby's for a few days and then who knows." Dean leans in, his tongue flicking out and caressing the buttermilk soft skin above the collar of Sam's shirt. "Sammy, we have to talk about all these layers, it's not right hiding your gorgeous body under all this." Dean's hand snakes underneath the strata of clothing and starts to draw lazy figure eights across the planes of Sam's chest.
"Dude." Sam blushes and pulls away, albeit reluctantly. There are decisions to be made and as appealing as onion blossoms, whiskey, and the prospect of naked writhing Dean are, it's not going to get them any closer to making them. "I meant, what now? You know; keep hunting? Tell Bobby about us?" Dean grimaces and gulps air like a goldfish in a shattered bowl, "Not that we have to right way; God knows what he'll do. Anyway, there are other, more pressing matters."
"Like?" Dean steps in toward Sam again and places a hand on either side of his brother's slender hips, the contact isn't necessary, but Sam's tone exposes a host of troubles that both of them have been blissfully ignoring for the past several days. Touching Sammy staves off some of the anxiety that has been skulking in the back of Dean's mind.
"Like…" Sam pauses and places his palm against Dean's cheek, softening his voice so as not to frighten his brother. "Like, I don't think Lilith is going to care that we've had an epiphany. She's still breaking seals and trying to spring Lucifer. I don't even want to imagine what Urielle and Cas are going to do when they figure out what's going on between us. And then there is Ruby," Dean's expression darkens "I know what needs to be done and I'm not arguing, I just think we need to think, you know…"
"Ah…to be or not to be, that is the question, whether it be nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or take arms against a sea of troubles…"
The English drawl startles both of the men, Dean spins and in one fluid motion has pushed Sam behind him in a protective stance, his hand going to the small of his back where he has tucked his 9mm. When Dean sees Castiel his tension ebbs a little. At least it's not Lilith or that hell-bitch Ruby although how they would have gotten through the salt and protective sigils is beyond Dean, but he wouldn't put anything past those vultures. The brief surge of relief Dean feels is replaced with a whole new wave of taught, fractured nerves because this still might shape up to be a big ugly train-wreck of a situation, it's not like he and Sam have been engaging in biblically sound behavior as of late.
"And don't I know it." The stranger intones and Dean flushes scarlet with the realization that Castiel and his buddy probably had front row seats to the afternoon shower show. The stranger rolls his eyes and folds himself into one of the hotel's rickety dining chairs in the Barbie-sized kitchenette. He runs finger over the surface of the table as if he expected the two men to be keeping themselves ensconced in far swankier digs than the Goldenrod Motor Inn.
Castiel holds up a palm toward Sam and Dean and sits at the table to demonstrate that neither he nor his companion has come to fight.
"Do not be afraid. Metatron brings you news
Dean shrugs, "Least we can do is listen, right Sammy? I mean, if Ozzy and Harriet were going to do any smiting I have a feeling we'd be grease spots on the carpet already." Only then does Dean notice that Sam is frozen, every muscle of his body a bowstring stretched to breaking.
"The Metatron?" Sam stares at the "man" beside Castiel with a mixture of abject fear and unmitigated awe.
"Yes" A delighted smile plays across his road-worn, handsome face. "It's about time one of you knuckle-draggers recognized the name. No offense."
"Sammy," Dean doesn't take his eyes off their guests. "Who is this chuckle-head?"
"None taken….Dean," Sam swallows, his throat parched. "Metatron is the voice of God. As the scribe of Heaven, he accounts for each word that falls from the lips of the Creator." Dean's eyebrows knit together, Dean is a brilliant man, but research and ancient Hebraic cannon has never been his strong suit. Sam tries another tack. "According to Judaic mysticism he's like the angelic version of Will Riker."
"Huh?...Ahh." Dean's eyes widen and he sits on the bed, dangling the 9MM between his knees. "So Cas, when did we rate a visit from the home office?"
"Dean, please allow Metatron to speak, he will explain." Castiel looks even more weary than usual and Dean's sharp comeback about lapdogs and leashes dies on his tongue.
"Shut up, all of you. Christ almighty, I'm tired dead tired of this nonsense. Especially you." Metatron jabs a finger at Sam and Castiel winces. "You've been insufferable and almost impossible to keep alive, if it weren't for the almighty wanting to see how this all shakes out, I'd have sorted you out months ago." Dean snickers. "Oh, I wouldn't laugh too loud if I were you, Mr. Suffer-in-Silence, what do you think has been driving him over the edge for the past eight months." Dean's jaw snaps shut.
Metatron pauses, straightening his coat and rising to stand, a pair of snow-white wings, feathered and pure as the dove that returned to Noah baring the branch and a promise of land, grow and spread from his body. "I am the Metatron, the Voice of the Almighty God and I bring to you a message…"