Death by Life / Book Eight / The Life Series / Supernatural

Do You Believe In Miracles?

"You'd really rather not find out and let him loose into the world?" Crowley asked. "You're the best shot at killing him. You know you are. They know you are. They're just as scared as you are." I opened my mouth to speak. Crowley cut me off. "Yes, I know, I know. You're not scared. Even though it's so obvious for everyone to see that you are. You kill Metatron now, all of this... all of it... is over. Isn't that what you really want?" I looked up. "But you have to get through that door, and you have to get the blade. And I can help you."

I sighed, looking down.

  ~~~~~~~~  

I had the blade wrapped in a cloth, walking into a diner, toward an empty table, a bag over my shoulder, putting the bag on the floor, the blade on the table, sitting down.

Crowley followed, sitting down across from me.

I pulled out my laptop, opening it up.

A waitress walked closer. "What can I get you two?"

"Coffee," I answered. "Black."

"Are you serious?" Crowley asked. "You take this girl's table, her time, you spread out like an overgrown teenager, and for what? What's the tip on a single cup of Joe? A nickle?" I ignored him, typing away on my laptop. The waitress walked away, leaving. "So, this is what you, Squirrel and Moose do, eh? Crisscross the country, searching for evil, order your nitrates, partake of the local attraction. You never get tired of the rat race? Never get tired of the same old husband, same old life? Never get the urge to just... bugger off and howl at the moon? Never ask yourself, 'Is this it? Is this all there is?'"

I looked up from the laptop. "You really think I wanna talk about my husband and my life with you?"

Crowley smirked barely, looking away. "I kicked human blood, you know."

"Oh, so you're full-metal douche again,"  I told him. "Well, that's fantastic. Would you like a stuffed bear?"

"Just trying to make conversation," Crowley told me.

I sighed in annoyance. "How's Hell, Crowley?"

"Hell's fine," Crowley answered. "Hell's like a Swiss watch. Don't worry about Hell. Hell's complicated."

"'Game of Thrones' is complicated," I told him. "Hell ain't complicated. Your problem ain't Hell. It's you."

"Fair enough," Crowley told me. "What's your problem, then?"

"My problem is Metatron," I answered. "Right now there's nothing. There's not angel smitings, no crazy acts of God, no vermin, hail. If Metatron's making his move on earth, he is taking his sweet-ass time."

Two men in suits walked in.

"Never fear," Crowley told me. "Cavalry's here." 

Man 1 handed Crowley a yellow smart phone, whispering into his ear.

Crowley nodded, gesturing for them to leave.

The men walked out, leaving.

The waitress brought me my coffee, walking away, leaving.

"And?" I asked, taking a drink.

"Apparently... your angel has gone viral," Crowley told me, handing the phone to me.

I played the recording.

Two teenage boys were following a girl down the sidewalk, filming her ass.

"And that, America, is perfection," Boy 1 told us.

"No, dude, that's your sister," Boy 2 told him. A car crashed into a woman walking, making her fall dead. The boys quickly ran to the scene with the camera still recording. "Oh, my God! She's dead, man! She's dead."