Chapter 8
Author's note: I'm sorry that I've been AWOL. I've been going through some pretty crappy stuff IRL and I haven't had much time to write as a result. To thank you for your patience, I've uploaded two chapters today. Hope you enjoy. Thanks once again for reading, reviewing, following and everything else.

Frantic. That was the word that best described Dean as he was searching for Metatron. Also: freaked out, desperate, over-caffeinated. Dean looked up from his research for a short moment, listened for any sounds, any signs of trouble from his brother's bedroom. There were none. Just silence.

Three hours ago, Sam had seen Lucifer. But not just that. He had seen the Cage, heard it, smelled it. Felt it. After the muttering had come the begging. And afther that, the screaming, sobbing, trying to escape the bunker, trying to hurt himself. Finally, Sam had wrestled Dean for a pair of kitchen scissors, repeatedly telling him that he couldn't do it anymore, that Lucifer had won, "Fine, you bastard. You said it ends when I can't take it anymore, well I'm done. I can't-"
Dean had punched his brother in the face, momentarily stunning him. Then, he had taken the scissors from Sam's hand, while simutaneously reaching for something he'd had in his pocket ever since they'd returned from the hospital. It was a plan B Dean had hoped he would never have to deploy. A syringe of a powerful sedative. Dean had reached over and jammed it into Sam's thigh. Lowered his little brother to the ground as he went down. Out like a light.

Searching, searching, searching. Words, words, words. Dead ends, dead ends, dead ends.
Until, finally, something came up. Things started coming together. Cogs were turning. Puzzle pieces were falling into place.
A thunderstorm, a library struck by lightning. The whole building was fine, but the books were missing. A writer, fighting a losing battle with lymphoma. Docters were baffled when suddenly, he was completely healthy. A bookstore, close to going bankrupt. The owners won the 15 million dollar jackpot, the store kept going strong. All these things and more had happened in the same two-horse town.
This wasn't a coincendence. There was just no way. This had Metatron written all over it. Metatron was in Trueville, South Dakota.
There was only one hotel in Trueville, a five star resort called the Golden Valley Inn. Dean wanted, needed to go there. Right now. But what about Sam?

After knocking Sam out, Dean had put him in a fireman's carry, carried him to his bedroom. Even with all that was happening, he couldn't help but notice how light his brother had become. Dean laid Sam gently down on his bed, took off his boots, changed him from jeans into sweats that wouldn't cut off circulation. Then, dragging his feet despite the urgency of the situation, Dean went to fetch the cuffs for Sam's hands and feet. It was all frightningly familiar.
As Dean began fastening the first cuff, over Sam's left wrist, memories came flooding back.
Sam's addiction to demon blood and all the lies that had come with it. Ruby and her sick mindgames. The gruelling hours spent listening to his detoxing little brother's screams as they echoed off the walls of Bobby's panic room. Those had been some of the darkest days of not just Sam's, but Dean's life. And it was happening all over again. Only worse. Because here, there was no panic room, only panic. And worse still: there was no Bobby.

There was no-one for Dean to leave Sam with, no-one that he trusted the way he had trusted Bobby. No-one he trusted so completely, so effortlessly with the most important thing in the world. Castiel was not an option: more than three months had passed and not a peep from him. And to be honest, Dean was still pissed off at him, still hadn't rebuilt his faith in the angel.
Still, there was no way Dean could bring Sam with him, nor him to leave him by himself in this state. The dilemma that had been merely theoretical two weeks ago, when Dean had first found out about Metatron, had now become a terrifying reality.
Should Dean stay with Sam then? Should he call Garth and have him handle Metatron in his stead? No. It wasn't fair to expose Garth to an avenging angel. And besides, Dean trusted no-one but himself to gank the bastard. Garth was a good hunter, maybe even a great one, but Dean needed to handle this himself. For Sammy.
Still, he did need Garth. Bobby was gone, so he would have to settle for 'the new Bobby'.
Garth had come through for his little brother before and Dean would just have to trust him to do it again.
Dean got out his phone and dialed the weird, skinny, loyal little hunter's number.

"Dean... What's up?" Garth's tone was distracted, the line crackly, the background noises loud but undistinctive.
"Garth, I need your help. How far are you from the bunker?"
"Hold on a sec." There was a shuffling noise, then the sound of a rusty car door being slammed.
"I'm about an hour out. What is it, Dean? Is this about your brother?" Garth sounded a lot more focused now, not to mention concerned.
Dean cleared his throat, took a deep breath, fruitlessly attempted to calm his frayed nerves. Finally, he ran a hand over his face and answered the question.
"Yeah- yeah it is. I need you to watch Sam for me."
They arranged for Garth to come to the bunker and as soon as he'd hung up, Dean started filling his duffel with everything and anything he might need to take down an angel. After that, he started planning which roads he'd take to Trueville. It was going to be a long drive, but in his mind, Dean was already there, taking Metatron out once and for all.

Meanwhile, at the Golden Valley Inn, Metatron was enjoying an in-room dinner of freshly caught lobster with a velvety butter dressing. Things were going well, he could feel it. Dean would be here soon.
The television was on, an old 007 movie playing. On screen, the villain was just about to tell James that classic line, as Metatron looked up from his meal. What a great line, how fitting of the situation. Metatron smiled, licked some butter sauce of his fingers, said the words right as they came out of the bad guy's mouth.

"Good evening Mr Bond, I've been expecting you."