Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I'm not strong enough to stay away
can't run from you
I just run back to you
like a moth I'm drawn in to your flame

---

DECEMBER 2010

It wasn't love, not at first. Something far more reckless.

Meg reveled in the blood as it splattered against her cheek. She ducked the broad swing of an iron blade, clashing again with her attacker in vicious percussion. Her agile movements were lethal, easily turning the other demon's own offensive against it. A misstep sent its weapon flying out of its hand, and Meg brought it crashing to its knees in front of her, beheading the meatsuit in a savage blow and trapping the possessor inside.

Fuck this demon in particular, she thought with an acid snarl, adding a one-off Latin curse to ensure it stayed trapped. She defied most physical laws as she did everything else, but now there was little fanfare to that brutality. No showing off or taunting her prey—her usual modus operandi was dialed down in lieu of the frustrated and angry disposition rattling through her. It wasn't even about survival anymore. It was about distracting herself from the cataclysm of thoughts and feelings rotting her mind. Best cure for that, Meg found, was unleashing pain and suffering on those she deemed worthy of an unholy ass-reaming.

Three more of Crowley's leftover soldiers surrounded her, ready to flay her alive and tear her from her host in the name of their broken mission. Jagged claws slashed at stolen flesh, and Meg seized hold of the closest demon and sent it careening through a wall. One crippling blow from her power tore it in half, and the dead host folded into a crumpled heap. The other two were smarter, drawing her into combat. Her trueform snapped and flared, licking out like tongues of fire against their advance. The way she'd just ripped the other one to pieces did nothing to dissuade them, which meant they were either stupid or damn good at tearing shit up themselves.

The latter of the two, Meg hazarded to guess. She was a lightning strike as she parried and twisted—some dark wraith who took life as though it was owed to her, ruthless to find any opening and sometimes carving one out herself if it suited her better. She toed the first demon's iron blade into her own hand, marking a sizzling path through skin and bone in a violent dance. Relying on speed, Meg sidestepped a charged attack and spun to deal a breath-stealing kick to the demon's chest. It slammed into the nearest support beam, temporarily winded. Meg sprinted after it, sliding below the swing of a fist and driving the point of her weapon up into its ribs. It screamed, loud and grating against the poison blow, and she grabbed it around the collar and spun, propelling it into the frozen planks below their feet. She ripped the knife free, about to finish it off when it threw its head back and smoke poured from its mouth in hasty retreat.

Meg swore through gnashed teeth at the spineless move, but then a strong force slammed her backwards. A fist cracked against her jaw, and the coppery taste of her own blood filled her mouth. Executing a swift kick that sent the last demon sprawling, Meg rolled over her shoulder and sprung nimbly back to her feet. Her eyes had gone black as sin, and she shot up a hand to shove the dark curls out of her face.

"Come on, you shit stain," she baited with a serrated voice.

It predictably charged her, and the two demons clashed in an angry flurry of punches and sinister power. This one was no coward. It wanted her dead—far beyond orders and loyalty to a dead king. Once upon a time, Meg might have admired the son of a bitch for it. She shouted against the exertion they both put out, leather jacket snapping in time with every movement. Her smoke billowed around her, churning and knotting with her thorns in bitter symphony. Meg tasted blood again, ignoring the aching sting of each hit she took while determined to strike back harder with her own. Like she had something to prove.

Maybe she did.

But just as she was being smothered under another assault, her attacker suddenly twisted in a painful arch, its eyes lighting up like dying stars and a wretched scream tearing from its throat as they were burned out. Meg started at the out-of-nowhere display, shrinking back from the light and turning her head to avoid the blast wave of celestial power.

It was over in seconds.

Castiel cast aside the husk of the demon he'd smote, stone-faced and already visibly uncomfortable with their proximity. All Meg felt then was pissed off. She glared at the angel with eyes that spat fire.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Rescuing you, apparently."

"I had it covered," she snapped, wiping the blood from her face with the back of her hand.

Things between them had been tense over the past few weeks. Neither ever spoke about that night, of course; tacitly refusing to even acknowledge it happened, in wake of the fallout. They were especially determined to escape whatever had afflicted them in the midst of it. In point of fact, throughout that entire window of time, they hadn't spoken in person at all. Angel and demon avoided each other at all costs—which was easy enough, as they'd started out with so little contact to begin with. But necessity eventually won out, as would that dark curiosity in days to come.

Castiel looked anxious and fidgety as he glanced over the corpses at their feet. "Crowley loyalists?"

"Or independent contracts, like me," she hedged.

How was it any of his fucking business, anyway? Nosy son of a bitch, interfering with her affairs and denying her the bloodlust she'd been craving. Losing a fight was still a fight, and since he'd just smote the shit out of her only rage outlet, Meg wasn't exactly in a charitable mood. Being in his company had softened her. Made her forget things she was determined to remember now—who she was, the cause she served, what she was. That inferno of grace he carried around was too quiet and too intimate against the pull of her shadows, bringing light to what should have been kept dark. It stopped now. She'd made a mistake, indulging foolish fantasies, and she'd be damned twice over if she allowed that to happen again.

Dark eyes sized the angel up, the disposition she wore reminding Castiel of how fierce she really was despite her size. "Why are you here?"

"You called me."

Her glare was stained with angry derision. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you—" Castiel broke off, deciding that arguing would be pointless. Instead, he sighed and held up his phone. "You left me a message."

Oh. That kind of call.

Meg bent to recollect her weapon, relaxing somewhat. She played it off as easily as she might have dusted entrails from her sleeve. "About the dog-faced boys, right." She met his eyes, looking him over—dark, handsome, and sternly primitive as eddies of nature so often were. There was a muted surprise hiding behind that stone façade, and it was maddening. Feeling rage blaze from a snarling ember, Meg flashed him a disparaging smile. Her beauty was stunning but cold, that familiar mockery resurfacing in spite of his diplomacy. "What?" she began, quirking a brow at his look. "You didn't think I'd suddenly start reneging on our deal, did you?"

The question was posed as a challenge, practically daring him to throw some retort her way. But Castiel was already averting his eyes, suddenly restless. "I'm not sure what I thought."

He didn't trust those shimmering teeth or that incisive stare. More than that, he wasn't sure he trusted himself.

"You've proven yourself thus far," he admitted.

Meg approached him, and the angel took a hesitant step back—not aloof, per se, but definitely distancing himself. She couldn't really blame him. She'd been hiding like a child too, before finally sacking up. Still… at his slight retreat, Meg was bitterly amused. She held up the note with the new locations, and Castiel took it grudgingly without a word.

"I'm tickled I could inspire the angel's approval," she drawled out, autumn eyes glittering as they grew colder and colder. "Makes me feel all warm inside."

"That's likely the hellfire."

A single dark eyebrow crept for her hairline. "Was that a joke?"

"I don't make jokes."

"No shit."

He looked like he was ready to flutter off as he usually did, and Meg felt a sudden spark of her old disposition. A need to get under his skin, to assert some semblance of superiority and make up for the unsure footing after what happened between them.

When Castiel glanced at her again, she was suddenly beside him, honeyed stare too close and too perceptive. "Not regretting our little tryst already, are we?"

Although he physically didn't move, Castiel otherwise seemed to recoil from the question. His eyes arrowed away and back to hers, almost skittish. "Aren't you?" he muttered.

The demon shrugged, affecting indifference. Her confidence flared in the face of his unrest, and breathing was easier. She could deal with this. As long as he was suffering and shaken, she could pretend that she wasn't. "We don't really do regret, Clarence." Castiel made a somewhat acknowledging sound, and Meg smirked. "Still, the blushing angel thing is cute."

Turning on her heel, she presented him with her back and trotted away.

"You could have called me for assistance," he said after her, the catch in his voice revealing the regret he felt for saying anything more. Castiel's tone was low and wondering as Meg tossed him a glower over her shoulder. "Why didn't you?"

Pivoting sharply, the demon shook her head, curls falling around her face almost like armor. "Guess I got tired of ringing your bell. Like I said, Castiel, I can handle myself. I don't need you."

"I never implied that you did."

Meg laughed derisively and looked at him like he was her victim again, eyes sporting a glow that sang of triumph. "Yeah, well… your eyes say a lot more than your mouth does, angel." A taunting, jeering grin stretched across the space between them, both daring him to fight back and dismissing him completely. "Now, buzz off."

Castiel stewed in silence for awhile, becoming angry at her cavalier attitude. "You're a good liar, Meg," he said eventually, bitter and flat. "I think if I was human, I might believe you." At the inquiring defiance in her expression, he elaborated. "Your smoke flickers when you're being untruthful."

He knew she'd been just as affected as him. She was fooling no one.

Meg's smile fell a little, her features becoming agitated and flushed. Castiel, however, felt little satisfaction out of bringing her down to his level.

There was a soft flutter of wings, and the demon could do little else but stare at the empty space where he had been.

---

child, don't follow me home
you're just too perfect for my hands to hold
if you choose to stay, you'll throw it all away
and I just want to take your innocence

---

Lucifer told her:

You will make him yours. Then, when the time comes, you will make him mine. I want Castiel for this war, child. Do you understand?

Why? What's so special about him?

Meg wasn't stupid. She could tell there was something more to this angel the second she laid eyes on him in that ring of fire. But like a dog with a bone, she couldn't let it rest. She wanted to know the reason for it. He wasn't like anything else she'd seen before.

You will soon see.

The devil left her with more questions than answers, which was no surprise. After that, with Satan locked away, her mission was all but extinguished. Lucifer wasn't getting out of the Cage, not without one hell of a magic trick—and one far beyond even her reach. But Meg was driven by something else entirely in her pursuit of the angel Castiel.

Curiosity.

There was something else that lingered, too—idle and smothered at first in the back of her mind. Something she couldn't put a name to. Something that became clearer and startling the more time they spent together.

It wasn't love.

It couldn't be love.

But whatever it was, she couldn't go through one deal or one night raising hell on the town without her thoughts inevitably drifting back to that goddamn angel. He was everywhere—at the bottom of her whisky glass, inside the shadows of every alleyway, distracting her from fights, behind every blue-eyed bastard who gave her a second look. He was everywhere she didn't want him. If she slept, Meg figured he'd be in her dreams, too.

She had to get rid of him, but he was in her bones. His light had left a mark on her smoke and the demon knew she was cleaner in ways that could never again be tarnished. Castiel was a poison that was slowly giving her life instead of taking it away, and she resented him for it.

Many nights, she wished they were back in that ring of fire, when it had been simple. At least then he'd made it clear where he thought she belonged. At least then he was her mission instead of the torch she carried, and the affliction that ran in her veins.

A thousand miles away, an angel ascended into battle and his thoughts were not of heaven or winning the war, but rather of a demon whose kiss had been too soft on the night that changed them both forever.

---

you look in my eyes, I'm stripped of my pride
my soul surrenders, and you bring my heart to its knees
and it's killing me when you're away
I want to leave, and I want to stay
so confused, so hard to choose
between the pleasure and the pain

---

JANUARY 2011

The most entangled a person ever got was when they tried to convince their heads of something their hearts knew to be a lie.

It wasn't love. It would never be love.

Almost predictably, their fasting from each other didn't last.

The moon was high and full, taking advantage of another night. The cold ground rushed up at her fast and hard, making every tooth rattle in her skull as her cheek hit the dirt. Meg coughed against the creak of her own ribs, blinking away stars as a field of fur filled her spotted vision. A feral howl escaped from above her and soared towards the moon, deafening in its pain. She'd hurt it, badly, but there was no time for satisfaction because it hadn't stayed hurt for long.

Meg hated werewolves.

She shuddered, drawing her broken arm up against her chest as she struggled to put some distance between herself and the thing she'd managed to royally piss off. Its fur was gray, silver on cheeks and shoulders, contrasting with the almost black underside and ears—one of which was mangled, like a chunk had been torn away as a badge of some former fight. Drops of blood and venom dripped from its muzzle, glistening on tusk-like teeth. Its eyes were unlike any animal's—irises an arctic storm, dark sclera halos and malevolent intelligence shining bright beneath the surface.

Meg remembered everything around her being calm and then suddenly, like a feeling from hell, a sense that something was about to go very wrong. In the midst of her own little hunting venture, the trees began to hum with a thousand voices—owls, other nocturnal animals, plenty of insects—and then everything had just stopped. She'd felt all her hair stand on end, a wave of cold crawling up her neck, until all she knew was pain. She remembered the feel of her arm being seized in a clawed grasp, the bone breaking as if it was a match. What followed was a little foggy, if the bloody gash torn into her head was at all indicative. The demon had fought back, because Meg always fought back, and if it had been any other werewolf she would have wiped the forest floor with it and turned it to kibble. But as it was becoming terribly clear, in her hunt for the alpha, she'd gone and found the fucking thing.

Its incoherent ramblings while in bestial form were disjointed and hard to follow at first—not that Meg was particularly interested in whatever wolfy bullshit it was spewing. Observably, she was much more concerned with staying alive, which was an endeavor that was going over about as well as an amputee in a foot race. It wasn't until halfway through its tirade that Meg realized it was actually speaking another language. Norse, if she had to guess.

Fucking fantastic.

It crept towards her now on strong legs, healing quickly. A spark of sanity flickered behind that wild glare, which was perhaps worse than any madness. "Your King mutilated and tortured my children, you putrescent waste." The accusation spilled from its maw in a guttural snarl, curling over her injured body like death.

"Not. My. King," she managed between grit teeth, then cried out around an explosion of pain as it dug razor claws into her leg and dragged her forward.

"Enough, demon!" It snapped frothing jaws at her, and Meg's heaving pants stuttered out into another scream as the flesh of her leg was rent away beneath an angry swipe. "If the price my children pay with their lives is in the name of Crowley's hunt for Purgatory, then you too should know the fetid hell of that unspeakable place." Hot breath slammed against her face, and Meg fought to writhe her way out of the vice grip holding her down. "Whether demons are consigned there in death remains to be seen, but you will know my name as the last thing you hear before your own screams, hell bitch. I am Fenris! And my children of the moon will be avenged!"

Ah, hell, Meg thought angrily, beginning to panic. She had no idea if it could actually kill her, but she wasn't keen on finding out. Human eyes slicked to an oily black in the face of the massive jaws bearing down on her, and the demon cast out her power in a last ditch effort to stall. She threw her head back, eyes wiring shut, good arm shoved against matted fur with waning strength, and called out in the loudest voice she could muster.

"CASTIEL!"

She had no silver on her to speak of, there was none around that she could fashion into a crude weapon, and she was about to have her head torn off by the alpha werewolf. Meg shouted again, angrier now and shamefully frantic as her strength gave out, demonic will shattering like broken glass.

Too tired, too distracted, too stupid to watch your fucking back!

The ferocious roar closing in from above her nearly drowned out the fluttering of wings.

Fenris gave a startled bark, and Meg gasped out as the crushing weight suddenly left her. In its place stood Castiel, looking put out at first by her prayer, stern and chastising as he towered over the felled demon. However, upon realization of the circumstances and then seeing the state she was in, the angel became positively furious. Whirling from her with an expression of wrath, Castiel seized the charging alpha around its meaty throat and brought it slamming down against the earth with an impact that shook the trees.

At the abusive maneuver, Fenris snarled and fought back, much larger than the angel pinning him down. It clawed at grace and flesh, gaining purchase and closing powerful jaws around a trenchcoated shoulder. Castiel felt his arm wrench from the socket as he was rolled over and tackled into some brush. His eyes lit up with an inhuman force, reacting violently, and he unleashed his grace in punishing reply. He dug his hands into the wolf's coarse hide as it reeled from the assault, hurling it against a nearby tree so hard the timber split in half.

Castiel rose to his feet, a bit flustered but now completely incited. His shoulder was a mass of fiery pain, an annoying distraction, so he shook it back into place with a grunt. In front of him, claws raked over dirt and rock, gaining purchase as the werewolf sprung forward again. Castiel checked each attack, radiating a fierce determination that slowly fell away to indecision.

Crowley needed this alpha. Which meant the war—Heaven—needed this alpha. Yet, if Castiel captured and delivered Fenris to Crowley, it could very well reveal how he'd answered to the prayer of a demon. That he'd saved this demon—saved Meg. That in turn would open up a line of questioning from Crowley that the angel wasn't sure he could thwart. Questions about Meg, about his association with her. Questions that could put her in jeopardy.

Crowley still wanted her dead and would perhaps even use Castiel in some way to see that she ended up that way. The King of Hell was by no means reasonable, and it was all a murky maze of unknowns, which left Castiel conflicted and very confused. If he killed this alpha, that was one step away from Purgatory. From winning the war. If Fenris was dead, progress would be sacrificed—and for what? A demon that meant nothing to him?

You owe nothing to her. You are a soldier. You will sacrifice nothing that could hinder this mission.

Castiel wasn't sure if the voice in his head was his own or some disembodied remnant of righteous thought. It didn't matter. An image of Meg filled his head then, lying broken and bloody on the ground beneath him after being ripped apart by this werewolf. Images of her at the mercy of Crowley were quick to follow, haunting his mind in stunning ways he couldn't begin to resolve.

Castiel felt the flesh of his vessel's face split open, and the ephemeral pain was like a lightning strike of clarity that rushed straight to his bones. The voice was forgotten. Sights zeroing in, he caught Fenris by the upper limbs, eyes flashing. Jaws snapped in his face as Castiel wrestled the beast to the ground in a ruthless display of strength. The alpha roared, launching violent attacks against him until it was nearly broken free. Mere moments away from sinking daggered fangs into the angel's throat, holy steel suddenly pierced the underside of its jaw, driven straight up into its brain.

Light burst from the wound and Fenris gave a tortured howl. The werewolf fought against the death burrowing in with cold finality, ancient and undeniably powerful—nearly stronger than the will of Castiel's blade. Not taking chances, the angel slammed his palm against the creature's forehead, drowning it in holy fire to make sure it was finished and would stay finished.

After a moment of searing flesh and blinding light, Castiel withdrew his blade and allowed the carcass to drop at his feet. He mentally shed the effects of the fight, what few wounds he had beginning to heal over. He turned and caught sight then of the small demon still huddled on the ground, hurt and trembling but with a shit-eating smirk on her face that belied the state she was in.

"Well, aren't you a sight for black eyes," Meg gasped around broken ribs. The usual snark was watered down by pain and exhaustion, and with a groan her head thumped back into the dirt. Christ.

The angel was looking stern and bothered again, trying to ignore the bitter relief in her voice and how his grace settled now that she was out of danger. "Are you alright?"

"I just had the shit kicked out of me by Old Yeller. What do you think?"

He'd just saved her, yet she appeared to be angry with him. Infuriating creature. Castiel crossed the short distance and crouched down beside her. "Gratitude wouldn't be out of place," he remarked offhandedly, but his eyes as they combed over her were gentler than before. "Here. I'll transport you somewhere safe."

Meg weakly grasped his outstretched hand, wincing in preparation. "My hero," she muttered.

There was a nauseating yank of pressure in her gut, and then they were gone.

---

I tell myself that you're no good for me
I wish you well, but desire never leaves
I could fight this 'til the end
but maybe I don't want to win

---

Her jacket was off and draped over the old dining chair in the motel room, leaving behind the spackled fuchsia tank top she usually wore. Lip split, temple still oozing blood, Meg thought she must have been a sight to look at. She held her broken arm close to her borrowed body, favoring her ribs and gritting her teeth when Castiel secured the bandage around her jean-clad thigh a little too tightly.

"I can deal with this myself," she asserted, for what was surely the dozenth time.

"Be quiet."

Since their arrival, Castiel's only response to her abrasive temperament was to be an unfriendly prick. He took most of her resistance as an invitation to lecture her, citing that she'd gotten herself into enough trouble without him—and also booze and dishrags were no way to deal with wounds.

The demon huffed out an irritated and very impatient growl. "Can't you just zap me better? This is taking forever."

"I'm not healing you."

Meg's glare could have burnt a hole through his face, were he a lesser being. She'd always hated that he healed faster than she did. Didn't want his help, and yet begrudged the asshole for leaving her high and dry; for patching her up the old fashioned way, of all things. He seemed supercharged since last she saw him—he could sure as hell spare some grace to fix her up proper. But he wouldn't. And he wasn't exactly gentle, either.

Castiel moved on to her arm, inspecting it clinically and ignoring Meg's string of derisive remarks. At a particularly rough grab, she yanked away her hand with a curse. "Some bedside manner wouldn't kill you, Ratchet."

"It wouldn't," Castiel conceded, meeting her eyes briefly. "Though it's an inconvenience I'd rather put aside in favor of getting this over with."

Angry, and perhaps even stung, Meg's tone took on a note of real venom. "If it was such an inconvenience to save my ass from becoming puppy chow, you should have just let him kill me." Refusing his touch, she withdrew from him and scowled at his bewildered expression. "If I'd known you were gonna be such a dick about it, I wouldn't have wasted your precious time."

In wake of her puzzling outburst, the angel floundered a bit. He was temporarily at a loss, unable to understand why his words upset her or why she'd take them so personally. Something seemed to click though a moment later, and the harsh lines of his expression gradually fell. "I meant for your sake," he said, looking sheepish now. "You seemed… averse. To having me touch you."

She'd thought he meant tending to her was beneath him. It was fleeting, but Castiel regretted giving her that impression. While it was true he was irritated, experiencing a dismal frustration for having killed an alpha, he did stand behind his decision—even if it hovered uncertainly in the back of his mind as to whether it was the right decision to make.

"It's no inconvenience to look after you. If I had somewhere else to be, I would go."

Meg seemed assuaged by that, if somewhat floored by the muttered consideration. The little treetopper was just one surprise after another these days—which might have been charming, if it weren't so confounded. When he said things like that to her it was very… daunting. Just another reason for them to go back to the mortal enemies shtick and to shed whatever after effects of that night lingered too heavily over them still.

If only she was able to adhere to that sentiment like any person with good sense would. But… ever since she could remember, her blood had been powered by defiance.

Smothering the reaction beneath a look of indifference, Meg lifted a shoulder to shrug, allowing him to tend to her again. "Well. Being touched by an angel isn't so bad. It's usually the self-righteous pigheadedness that kills the mood." The demon gave him a deliberately stirring onceover, a smirk curling the edges of her mouth just barely. "Nix the holier than thou attitude, maybe I'll warm up to you again."

Castiel sighed, attempting to ignore that look and all it implied. Lest he remind her, they didn't talk about that. He secured the last fastenings around her arm, gaze lingering too long on the milky expanse of smooth skin before he turned his attention to the injuries on her face. "Was that the alpha?" he asked, deciding that a subject change was in order. He knew Fenris was the alpha, but wondered if Meg did. Anything that got his mind off the memory of that skin and how it had felt against his would be a welcome reprieve.

"Yeah, in all its glory. Sure lived up to the title, didn't he?"

"Fenris," the angel acknowledged with a wise and pensive frown. "What I know of him is very little, but he was a god, in his own right."

"Trying to make me feel better for getting my ass kicked?"

Castiel's glance was somewhat dry. "Just stating a fact."

"Mmhmm."

Not for the first time, she wondered how he'd so effortlessly dominated that fight. As a general rule, angels were considered vastly more powerful than demons, true, but Fenris may as well have been a bug under her little treetopper's heel. The alpha wolf, who was apparently considered to be godlike in strength, had stood no chance. Even on her worst day, Meg was a terror in battle, and yet she'd nearly been decimated. She thought again of how supercharged Castiel seemed lately, but wasn't given enough time to properly dwell on it before he was speaking again.

"Why were you hunting him?"

Meg's eyes narrowed at the reproachful tone of his voice. "Same reason I was hunting those vampires," she said. "Answers. I want to know what the hell Crowley was up to before you went and turned him into a charcoal briquette." Castiel had the decency to appear abashed, almost wary now as he averted his eyes from her. Meg mistook the evasiveness for chagrin, and his next words seemed to solidify that notion.

"It was impulsive, killing him like that. I should have trapped him, questioned him."

"Do you see me crying? Ding dong, the bastard's dead."

He paused a moment, reconciling Meg's odd idioms with what they entailed. "And the werewolf?"

Dark eyes rolled as he pressed the issue. "Guess I went and stuck my nose a little too close to where it didn't belong."

Castiel did his best to hide a chastising look. "A habit, I've noticed."

"Fuck you too, Grumpy."

Looking slightly disgruntled, he nonetheless deigned to ignore that. Reaching for the bottle of rubbing alcohol, Castiel blotted a bit onto the cloth he held. "So, you were reckless."

Meg flashed him a tight grin that was all teeth. "What can I say, it's a problem."

He'd noticed that, too. More, he thought of how visibly drained she was, even given the fight she'd just been in. How… vexed. This demon was not a creature to be trifled with, a fact he knew intimately well. But Meg wasn't resting, at least that much was clear. She was pushing her limitations, tempting her luck, and needlessly so. Even demons required the occasional respite. Castiel considered saying as much, but wondered if she might attack him for it.

"Took me off guard," she admitted then, only confirming his thoughts. Her candor surprised him. "You go looking for the big bad wolf, you don't always expect to find him under the first rock you step on. Might have stood a chance if I'd been ready."

"Perhaps," Castiel granted, pressing the cloth over the wound at her temple.

Meg grimaced a bit at the sting, then narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't pretend to humor me," she said. It was a little scornful, but the angel didn't bite.

"I wasn't. It'd take a fool to underestimate how powerful you are." The cloth came away red, and Castiel frowned. He didn't notice the fleeting look of surprise on her face, or the spark of something darker that followed. Instead, as he stared into the stained material he held, Castiel hesitated. "Did he… say anything to you?"

That earned him a puzzled scowl. "Not a lot of talking going on." He supposed that rang true. Before he could relax, though, Meg spoke up again. "But… there was something about Crowley looking for Purgatory. Some revelation, huh?" she said, sharing sentiment with the angel's rather stunned reaction to the news. If anything, Castiel looked as if he'd seen a ghost. "More reason for him to be roasted and toasted. Opening up monster land is pretty crazy, even for me. Now that he's dead, I guess it doesn't really matter anymore, but still… any foggy notion as to why the hell he'd be stupid enough to pull a stunt like that?"

Tensing, Castiel withdrew. "No," he murmured, looking away. A muscle flexed in his jaw, and he began busying himself with the medical supplies.

It was silent for a moment, and the demon considered him beneath the arc of her brow. "You knew he was torturing the alphas for Purgatory, didn't you?" The barefaced guilt in his eyes made her laugh. "Let me guess, the angels are chasing their tails along with rest of us. No one knows the answer to the underworld's biggest riddle. Well, I'm betting the cheeky dillhole was looking for real estate. Lot of power stashed away in a place like that."

"I suppose that's a reasonable assumption," Castiel said, slanting his gaze back to hers.

He was stonewalling her, as usual. That was nothing new—something she'd even grown to expect. At this point, she was starting to find it endearing.

"Speaking of the family," Meg nudged his knee with hers, "how are things in the attic?"

His jaw went stiff, and the glance he spared her was fleeting and empty. "Not well."

It couldn't have been a more obvious hedge of the topic if he'd tried, although Meg wondered herself what compelled her to ask. At the mere mention of the war, the angel seemed to clam up, his tone becoming short. Meg nudged him again, hoping to draw some pissy rejoinder out of him—if only to ensure that some normality could return between them. "Chin up, Atlas. No better chump to hold up the world than you."

My hero, she called him earlier. The notion was absurd in many ways, almost a mockery of the situation he'd found himself stuck in. Castiel shook his head at the diverse memories and of all his rotten deeds that were executed to ensure victory. He grew very somber in that reflection, almost defeated. "I'm no hero," he said quietly. The air in the room seemed suddenly heavy between them, much of his energy withering. "I'm just doing the best I can."

She had no idea the sins living under his name, and Castiel wondered why he was confiding in her at all. It seemed perverse, to be spilling those doubts at her feet—certainly unwise on his part to be exhibiting such vulnerability in front of a demon. But whenever he looked at her, those eyes and the tarnished soul beneath compelled it from him. Castiel felt that he couldn't hide from her, that she saw too much, and he worried how well that perceptiveness might see right through him. Not only to reveal the lies he told to those around him, but most of all the lies he told himself. The fears, his battle-worn disillusionment, the profound ache in his chest at what she instilled in him—it was all so crushing. So confusing.

"Stuff it, cherub cakes," Meg teased in a softer voice, drawing him out of those harrowing thoughts. "Don't pretend you don't enjoy the flattery."

"I'm a Seraph. Not a Cherub."

She made a quiet, interested sound as she watched him tend to her. "Daddy must have given you an upgrade, how impressive. Lucy told me you were only a Power."

God had, in fact. The day Sam leapt into the Cage. But that was no business of hers. Castiel's gaze as it was set on her now grew heated and brusque. "Don't speak about him."

Oh, she'd missed that fire. Missed its burn.

Meg's dark eyes rose slowly to meet his. "Him being… your Creator, or mine?"

"Neither."

The mention of Lucifer brought him grief and resentment, especially when Meg seemed to speak of him so fondly. What sort of creature followed their god so blindly and without conscience was beyond him. And then it hit him.

I would. And have.

The uncomfortable realization was shoved down and out of the way where he wouldn't need to dwell on it. He was nothing like this demon. Castiel repeated that to himself silently, more than once, just to be sure he was convinced.

"Sorry, Clarence," Meg droned around a disarming smile, chasing that fire. "Old habits, remember?"

She was doing it again. Missing was that surly reticence, replaced by sultry provocation. It had been her favorite form of torment before the game she played crashed down around their ears. There had to be a reason for her sudden relapse, but Castiel tried not to think about it, avoiding those memories as neatly as shadows fled the light. Something else was bothering him too, and so he focused his ruminations there. "When you called for me… what made you so sure I would come?"

By the look on her face, she hadn't been expecting that. A little thrown, Meg seemed to bristle before eventually replying. "I don't know." Her gaze was sharp as she studied his face, trying to pry into his thoughts the way he seemed to be doing with her. "But you did, didn't you? With bells on. I wonder why."

Castiel smoothed the cloth once more against the wound on her face, eyes darting to hers and seeming stormy. "It doesn't matter why."

His proximity was suddenly too intoxicating, and Meg grabbed at his wrist with tight fingers, drawing it down. "I don't just mean today." Her voice held an interrogative edge, heedless of the warning look in his eyes and how he regarded her grip like he was about to swat it like a gnat. "After our little encounter, I figured you'd have run for the hills by now. That I'd never see you again."

Goddamn it, this was a road she'd been desperate to avoid. But the words tumbled from her lips without her consent, disembodied from the voice in her head that demanded she run from him now while she could. But, like any good moth…

"I could say the same to you," Castiel said in retaliation, becoming visibly agitated. Meg was unpredictable, and he hated that. It was bad enough trying to follow along with the Winchesters' mercurial moods, but this demon was all over the map. It was as though she behaved that way just to toy with him, the sole purpose of her existence being to torment his. Perhaps the notion bore testament to an inflated sense of his own ego or worth in her eyes, but Castiel saw no other reason for it.

More importantly, why could they not stop themselves from ending up here? Angel and demon both had been determined to erase any and all former intimacy, and yet her skin was a branding iron against his, the pull of her smoke once more a siren call against his restraint—too intense and yet not enough. Never enough. Her companionship, however antagonistic, was something he'd come to rely on; sought after in ways that were criminal of him. He had to stop this. Why could he not stop this?

"You are… beyond me." Not beneath. Beyond. The discrepancy was nearly missed in his futile protest as Castiel struggled towards understanding her. The barest mention of their sexual affair weeks before had incited her rage and yet here she was tempting him again. "For days, you fled me. Weeks. You said it was nothing, and so it was. Why now then do you—"

"Sorry, sweetheart," Meg said, becoming cross at his dodging. "Demon has the floor now. Answer the question."

Castiel pulled his wrist away with quiet force, glaring into her face as it hovered near his. The light above their heads flickered idly. "I am not your sweetheart. And I'm certainly not obligated to do anything you say." His eyes had grown colder, volatile. The lines in his forehead were more defined now, possessing the expression of a marble statue intent on vilifying her. "I saved your life, Meg. You're the one indebted to me."

He rarely used her name. Rather, the name she went by. Somewhere, deep down, Meg thought that might have meant something. The need to rile him was too overpowering for her to wonder about it, so instead she peered over the edge of that frying pan and into the flames. "And how exactly would you like me to repay you?"

Castiel lost some of that defiance. The tone she wielded now was too dangerous for his peace of mind—if it had been a threat, he could handle that. Threats from her were nothing, expected even. But that voice, low and intimate, sent about a thousand warning bells off in his head and a jolt of electricity straight down to his core. "With silence," he soon replied, but there was less conviction to it than he'd intended.

There was no mountain he wouldn't move to comprehend just a piece of her. Her motivations were so unclear and it was maddening. He could feel himself slowly losing his mind over it, over her. What sanity he had took one hit after another, staggering over unsteady ground and towards the ebbing chasm between them.

He could feel her and he wasn't even touching her.

Meg seemed bitterly amused by his response, and with a derisive snort she shook her head. "You sure know how to make a girl's nethers quiver, don't you?"

She felt his rage, sudden and violent, coursing through his vessel. "You shouldn't say things like that to me."

"Why?" Meg pressed, enjoying his reaction because it validated hers. He had that look, the one that hovered between wrath and passion. A part of her was terrified for it, as it dredged up memories from the night of their fall, of feelings that neither of them could explain away. The other, more wicked part of her was encouraged by it. "Afraid you like it too much when I do?"

"Yes."

She wasn't ready for that husky, conflicted voice, or the way he practically growled the word at her in helpless inclination. By the look on Castiel's face, he hadn't meant to say it either. Blue eyes were dark with want and confusion, with something desperate, and all she could think then was damn that curiosity. Damn whatever this was between them. It was predatory and consuming and she couldn't breathe it bore down against her so destructively.

"What, did you finally run out of pious denial?" Before she even realized she was reaching for him, quick as lightning he'd snatched her hand and pulled it from his face, maintaining that glare of death he kept reserved just for her. Meg laughed with dark satisfaction, as though it were nothing—which only infuriated him. The fact that she was always laughing at things he found no humor in usually served to provoke him, but then Castiel rarely found anything amusing at all. "You said I shouldn't be underestimated. Tell me why that is."

She needed to know.

More than anything, she needed to hear him say the words.

Castiel looked loath to answer, but he didn't leave her waiting long. "I've seen what you can do, Meg." His voice scraped low, a sound that rolled through her despite everything. "You killed a pack of hellhounds singlehandedly with my blade. My weapon, which should obey only me. You were the Winchesters' first enemy, before they even knew Azazel's name, and you survived. No one survives. No one escapes them. Not even Lucifer could." He saw the way she hung on his every word, enamored with him and the way he built her up even against his better judgment. She could get drunk on the way he was looking at her now. The unmistakable lust in his eyes was better than any adrenaline rush. "You're more than what you've fallen to. You're distracted."

"You think I'm distracted by you?"

Castiel heard the slight tinge in her incredulous retort, wild and uncertain. He stared down into her eyes, not sure what to do as he felt her hands pull at his coat in muted accusation. "Regardless," he began lowly, fraying at the edges under the weight of her touch, "you were brave enough once to call out an angel when he was the one getting… sloppy. Consider this as me returning the favor."

"I don't need favors from you."

Meg told herself didn't want any part of the effect he had on her, but she did. She'd had no intention of ever reliving those breathless, carnal moments with him again, but she was desperate to. She just wanted to feel alive again—to forget the hand she'd been dealt and the bounty on her head. The way Castiel was looking at her now…? So did he.

"What do you need from me, Meg?"

Those last words and the way he said them did her in. "Just can't say no to a damsel in distress, can you? That's why you came running when I called. That little light of yours is wrapped around my finger, nice and tight." Another flat, bitter laugh. "You play being righteous, Cas, but the truth is you got a taste of something bad and you liked it."

Blue eyes flashed dangerously. "You're no damsel."

The abrupt change, her voice rough and her eyes too dark should have warned him. They glittered with something obscure, but it wasn't evil. Something much worse.

Hope.

"Maybe not. But I'm not wrong, am I? I'm as bad as they come, and you're just aching for another taste, aren't you?" He wasn't the only one hungry for more. Wasn't the only one left shaken and stripped raw. "You want to know what I need?" demanded Meg, drawing him closer, the seduction back in her voice. "I need that memory gone, Castiel. Make it disappear. Make me forget."

This time would be different. It had to be. He'd bow to her, and the world would make sense again. She just needed something to make sense again.

The demon abruptly pushed forward, lips snatching against his as every resolve shattered. The touch was like a needle to a junkie and ripped his skin apart, whispering lovely, burning pain. Castiel felt the cold in her veins as his pulse jumped, and he lost all ability to breathe. A groan tore itself from his throat, and every instinct he had leapt to obey her needs. She tasted like ash, like the apple in the Garden. Just like he remembered and had desired ever since.

Meg bit and teased at his mouth, swallowing his livid protest, almost frantic to draw a reaction out of him and then reveling in the way he started to respond to her. Deeply, messily, hungrily. Castiel's own thoughts turned mutinous as they tangled in his head; thoughts of having her again, of having her always —needing her again and now, or he might somehow die. That weakness embittered and infuriated him.

Like holy water splashing against her skin, the angel's hands were suddenly steel clamps over her shoulders and he gave her a forceful push back.

"Don't," he said—with that deep, growling voice that did so much on its own. "Don't."

He was dazed, temper like a furnace and spewing silent threats with his eyes. The blue was practically swallowed by his blown out pupils, and Meg felt the electric current where his skin touched hers. She glared back into his face as they both struggled to catch their breath, ignoring the way his tight grip aggravated her arm. "Then let go," she told him. Her voice held the cut of a knife, challenging with so few words and yet communicating so much more.

He didn't.

Meg stuck her nose right in his face again, hooking her leg around the back of his knee and dragging both the angel and the chair he sat on closer across the peeling linoleum. "I'm already healing and that big bad wolf is fifty shades of dead. Heaven's calling, and you're not answering. So drop the bullshit and ask yourself why you're really still here."

Unable to look away from her, Castiel seethed against his racing thoughts. There was no answer that wouldn't damn him. "You," he managed out, angry and winded and feeling like she had won something from him. Not even caring, just needing—feeling almost drugged as his eyes dropped to her waiting mouth.

He wouldn't be able to stop. He did not want to stop. Heaven help him, retreat was the furthest thing from his mind.

Meg flashed a smile was pure triumph, empowered by that confession. Castiel felt the curve of it just barely graze his lips as she leaned into him. "The fall hurts less the second time around," she whispered, breath wafting hot over his skin as their noses brushed. "Just close your eyes and enjoy the rush."

"You think I enjoy this?" Castiel asserted, drawing back just enough so that she could see the resentment pouring out of him. The denial sounded empty even to his own ears, and so the grin she wore in the face of it came as no surprise.

"This pretty body you're wearing says you do."

Fuck it. She was a demon. And she wanted something. She'd take it.

Gone was her need to run, that shock of fear she'd felt before dissolving around them in place of something else. Maybe they were both addicts. The words were barely out of her mouth before Castiel was kissing her again, bringing her to life again. With surprising force, Meg's fingers closed around his tie and coat so that she could haul him to his feet and propel him around. Both chairs clattered to the floor as their positions were swapped, and she shoved against his chest until the backs of his legs hit the bed.

"You're still injured," said the angel errantly, but there was no concern in the words, just flat desire. He hissed in a breath as both of her hands slid under his coat to trail down his back, shedding the layer from him completely.

"And you're still a pain in the ass." Meg pushed a hand into his hair, her other hand fisting into the white dress shirt he wore. "You asked what I needed. Here's your answer. Put up or shut up."

With another brutal shove, Castiel found himself on his back, Meg falling with him and crawling to straddle his waist. Like every time before, both were stunned and set on fire at the touch of their mouths in combination with their bodies. The sensation of sparks raining down around them flared like a match being struck.

Deft fingers dug into his chest through his shirt, working at the buttons as his hands and lips demanded her closer. Meg felt like herself again as she shoved open the white material, leaning down to nip at his jawline, feeling the pressure of the angel's power wherever he touched her.

There was no describing the agony she gave him as Castiel leaned into her mouth when it found his again. He felt adrift as ever that he couldn't reconcile this strong attachment he harbored. This demon, Meg—she was a poison too familiar. Too… precious. Even in the midst of those revelations, he fought to dominate her every move, almost in spite of it—and although he was much stronger, something about the illusion of struggle was invigorating. He was losing ground either way, having wanted so badly to touch her again since learning the beauty of it. To hold her, fall with her in the most intimate way two beings could. Sex disguised that need as a heat of the moment consequence, where it was allowed to mean nothing and expected to be indulged. They both took advantage of that distraction, even as they blinded themselves against its too familiar pull.

Angry infatuation clashed with heartfelt desire, their fevered sounds mingling in dazed bliss. Confounded and just barely withstanding it, Meg explored his body with hers—touching, moving, drawing white hot sensations to the surface in wake of the emotion trying to claw its way free.

At Castiel's breathless reply, her voice went deceptively gentle even as her hands and body continued to speak in ways her lips would never. "Feels good?"

The angel choked down another tortured groan at whatever magic she was doing to him. His eyes fell shut, expression showing how he regretted taking pleasure from it.

"Can't hear you."

Castiel nodded faintly. "Yes," he said, hands sliding beneath her shirt to feel that skin again. He wanted to be a part of her again. Wanted that skin pressed up against his, cold and burning all at once until every coherent thought abandoned him. "Yes."

His voice was tight and fiercely submissive, and Meg drew back just a little, their bodies still touching as she regarded him beneath a conquering smile. "Angels. So obedient," she breathed into his mouth, drawing the tie out of his collar with a snap of fabric. He looked positively wrecked; chest heaving with panting breaths, hair in disarray, blue eyes startlingly bright and full of inclinations an angel had no business with. That raw nature was something Meg wasn't used to seeing there, and it was breathtaking. The sight of him looking like that, a creature of nearly limitless power—wanting her, staring up at her in rapture as though she was some kind of goddess—it was a shock of life that went straight to her heart.

An even darker delight bloomed at the nebulous of her smoke when the angel surged up and crushed her to his chest, yanking at the ends of her hair in some form of righteous protest. Meg laughed as she pushed back into him, tongue swiping against his bottom lip and drawing it into her mouth to distract him from the bite of her teeth. Castiel pulled away and growled low against her neck at the very deliberate roll of her hips.

"Amma aishh," he said into sweat-damp skin, the words knifing through her like a Kurdish blade.

The power of it made her bones rattle. However, the furious adoration of his tone did something else to her entirely. "Cas…" she murmured in a fraying voice. Her fingers sunk into his hair, tugging with something akin to tenderness even as she used her other hand to shove his shirt down over his shoulders. Her words broke into a reedy moan when Castiel pulled her flush into his lap and his mouth began marking a scorched trail down her collarbone. Her head tipped back, shivers cascading through her body and into his as they clung to each other.

"I will make you forget everything," Castiel promised.

He knew she hadn't meant just their first time. Meg was suffering beneath the weight of so much beyond her control—at war with herself and fighting alone against the armies of Hell.

"Good," she gasped, head thrown back, arms embracing him. The sincerity beneath the cold delivery of his words was a promise in and of itself. Softer, she said it again, brimming with relief. "Good."

Pale skin bore the taste of sulfur and heady promise beneath the brand of his lips, a maze of poetic irony Castiel ached to get lost in again. His fingers splayed against her ribcage as he hauled her against him tighter still, feeling the beast below the surface as she invaded his light, swallowing each other's throaty moans at the friction they created together. She'd wanted his anger and he poured it into her, wanting to punish her for not listening to him, for trying to force his hand. For making him want her so much that he didn't care about redemption or damnation.

Castiel grasped at her hips as her claws raked down his skin—pinching and pulling as their kiss became weighty and fire-filled. Composure had long ago been lost, discarded the way his coat had been, the way Meg's tank top had fluttered to the floor in a quick heap. More, as their mouths clashed thoughtlessly, Castiel felt her longing and despair—the way her thorns burrowed in, smoke curling around his light in a macabre embrace.

It felt… good. So good to be wanted.

Castiel wasn't sure he'd ever felt wanted before, and it made him greedy. More than the demon would ever realize, he knew that darkness she felt. The loneliness. Heaven, he'd tried to forget how easy it was to want something he couldn't have. To want something forbidden. But her body fit against his too perfectly, true forms complementing the other's in ecstasy just as they did in battle. Castiel wondered how he'd ever thought it could be wrong for them to be together—not when it was like this.

But he was not pristine anymore.

The moment he would unleash creatures so vile and foul on the earth was many months away, but even as his intentions remained noble and good, he knew. His mental break was still only a shadow on the horizon, yet even now Castiel recognized the evil lying dormant in himself. The truth of the matter was that he was no better than her. No different at all, he realized, and perhaps that was the reason for their perfection.

Abominable.

Meg saw it, too. How he so desperately wanted to lose himself as much as she wanted to find him. The demon took his face in her hands and let out a reckless sound as she begged and demanded for him with all the conviction she didn't know she possessed. Hell on earth, he was stunning—a thousand times better than anything she'd anticipated while imagining this moment the first time, or the second.

Embraces became punctuated by the delicious ache of bruises. Angel and demon molded and clashed—in all the wrong places, the best places. It was all teeth and anger and despair too, because they were both so directionless. Neither of them had kings to serve anymore. Burying his face against her neck, Castiel held her smaller body tightly to his as she moved above him and muffled screams poured out of them both. Wrapped up in each other, neither knew how to prepare themselves for the rubble about to follow.

This thing between them, whatever it was, was the spark that would ignite and burn down the whole forest. Destroy everything they had ever been. That fire was a drug that impelled their mutual addiction—to it, and to each other. Such an outcome was ultimately inevitable.

As soldiers, they were both conquered and defeated, and this time there would be no going back.

---

no, it's too much, burn my sun
up in flames we go, you fire breather
ash and dust on my door, smoke rise
trying to survive inside your heart
no, I can't stay away

---

"Not gonna run away this time, are you?"

Castiel grunted a noncommittal reply, trying to ignore the feel of her and how energy and life and sensation were still cascading through him. "You ran away last time," he eventually muttered.

They laid entwined now in the darkness of the room together, the lights having been blown out again. Glass was scattered on the floor, sharp and waiting, and Meg hummed softly.

Her smaller body was like silk along his, soft mouth lingering over the frown he wore. Her tongue peeked out to tease his bottom lip, dragging slowly and too arousing. The angel's hands were on her sides then, charged and strong to push her away as he lay there, troubling over lost causes. Meg sank into the mattress with a wry chuckle, delighting too much in the cloud of self-loathing that hung over his head. It was shitty of her, but she liked this way better.

Ignoring the wordless dismissal, she slung an arm over his bare chest and settled into his side. "You're a hoot, Clarence. Don't poop out on me now." The affection was more needling than domestic—an act bent solely on making him as uncomfortable as she could. Regardless, he was already beyond compromised, so the thought of falling further was little more than a nagging voice in the back of his head now. "Keep pretending to hate me, though. Makes it easier."

Pretending to hate Meg did make it easier. But it mattered little now. Everything was off its axis, and Castiel was frankly surprised the universe hadn't somehow caved in on itself. The colossal foolishness of this entire affair… so much inherently wrong, and yet the note of dread just wasn't enough to pierce through the faraway indifference that was still so new and foreign to him.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't speak."

Why was it that, in the midst of passion, he felt committed to her in every way—that she was the only source of light left in the world, one that he'd been searching for through eternity? A gem to be cared after and cherished—protected at all costs. The thought of dishonoring her in any way was equally off-putting, yet now in the aftermath all he felt was a detached sense of aggravation for that weakness. For allowing her any sway over him at all. Was it his own conscience? An inborn righteous instinct, reminding him that she was his enemy—a thing to be feared and destroyed? An ache developed quickly behind his skull, leaving him at odds with himself. Castiel didn't want to think about it, didn't want to be reminded of where he was and of what they'd done yet again. It was too complicated, too confusing, and the demon seemed determined to shove it back in his face.

He knew she was overcompensating. Like before, Meg was just as unsettled and affected by the paradox as he was—she just hid it better this time.

At his words, she barely withheld the amused snort. Probing fingers traced invisible sigils over his throat and shoulder, ones that could probably damage him if written in blood. "You know, I'm shocked you don't have a girlfriend. Especially with pillow talk like that." Meg's voice was honey and vinegar in his ear. "Guess that's a no to the three kids and a poodle? I'll cancel the white picket fence."

There were claw marks running down his back again. A bite mark on his shoulder, bruises on her ribs. Castiel stared up at the ceiling, responding with his usual unimpressed tone. "If we spawned a child, it would be catastrophic."

"Aw, you think?" Meg fluttered her lashes to herself with feigned innocence, as though she really were wondering. The coy demeanor seemed absurd on her. "Little boy? Your killer looks, my nasty peepers? Sounds dreamy."

"If you want me to leave, just say so."

Her dulcet laughter burrowed its way under his skin, making it crawl, making it tingle with the memories of what they'd done only moments ago. The disembodied journey as she took him to a state of nirvana, exercising complete control over him. All the worries and fears he'd been consumed with fleeing his mind until he felt good, wonderful, amazing, important. Hurtling through unmistakable heights under her spell and crushing her close, face buried in her chest to muffle his soft groans while her arms and body embraced him. Like before, the unmistakable and terrifying wonder of release was unlike anything he'd ever known. Words of Enochian and Latin had spilled out into the space between them as their mouths sought each other's in the midst of shuddering ecstasy. She was a tempest, beyond exquisite.

This was what their first time should have been like, Meg thought. No earth-shattering emotion that left them in wreckage, just two beings helping each other survive the blinding pleasure and another night in a world bent on destroying them.

"Don't be such a killjoy." Without much preamble, she rolled on top of him again, dark hair forming a curtain around their faces. Tapered nails pressed impatiently into the meat of his arms, her brown eyes flashing black. Castiel was as good at this as she knew he would be. "Another round, cloudhopper? Your halo isn't quite bent enough yet."

Wrong. So very wrong.

The angel glared up at her, pouring as much hatred and revulsion into the exchange as he physically could, although they both knew it meant nothing. Large hands were strong and hot at her hips with that same smoldering urge to snuff her out for good. It was perfect. It was what she'd been craving from him all along—passion as consuming as that ring of fire. She would take him to paradise and beyond, steal every last ounce of him and take it into herself. She would ruin and rebuild him, and in the end he would thank her.

"Do you know what you do to me?"

Castiel's voice was gravelly and rough, a threat buried somewhere there. Traces of accusation made the words more embittered, and Meg's lips pulled apart in a decidedly profane smile. Around him, smoke and thorns curled like a pit of snakes, through his skin and straight down to his light.

"Of course you do," he growled.

Damn the consequences.

Meg's wicked laughter was like a death knell when, instead of destroying her, Castiel yanked her down and crashed his mouth into hers to start the fall all over again.

That's my boy.

---

she stole my soul from me
her heart is cold and empty
there's poison on her lips
and I paid the price
another victim of a love crime

---

Delta Mendota was a truly pitiful excuse for a witch. One that had the special pleasure of getting on Meg's last fucking nerve.

Several years back, when Delta hovered at the cusp of her early teens, Crowley had been one smooth promise away from turning her to the smarmy dick side. Something about the Mendotas had snared his interest, and so for whatever reason, he'd sought out the last in a long line of mediocrity.

Meg, oblivious to the Mendota appeal, nonetheless had gotten to her first. After all, a fellow young woman was a better sell than some silk-tongued salesman, at least at the time. This would all have ended well and good, if not for the kicker.

For the last three stops in a row, Meg found herself choking down a mouthful of her own blood. Witches in general loved their little hex bags, but these were a damn nuisance to track down. The harder she looked and the more she used her power, the worse the effect became. Each and every time, Meg ended up porting herself to some new location, states away. Scavenger hunts were never her thing, and the entire ordeal left her pissy and vengeful.

The little shit owed her a soul claim, and apparently the time to pay up had floated by without Meg even realizing. She'd been too busy securing her rightful place in the infernal hierarchy to notice, but clearly Delta hadn't forgotten. It was the only explanation for the sudden witch problem that she could figure. The timeline fit, and as a rule, Meg otherwise avoided the bodily fluid spewing hags. It wasn't liked she'd gone and made enemies of the tribe without even realizing.

A dark thought occurred to her then, because were it any other circumstance… she would have suspected Crowley. He went through witches like toilet paper, often using them as mouthpieces and offshore eliminators. It was an ingenious way to snuff somebody without attaching your name to the deed, and one of Crowley's favored methods of dealing with headaches he felt were beneath him.

But Crowley was dead.

Meg reminded herself of this a few more times, frowning to herself in thought. Her actual interest in the soul was little—a simple loose end to be tied up—but now she was concerned with making sure Delta stayed the hell out of her way. She didn't need witches gumming up the works and causing trouble for her ascension back to the top. Assassination attempts always rubbed her the wrong way—and when Meg got rubbed the wrong way, she tended to get vicious. The setback was finding Delta so that violence could be delivered. Meg had no hellhounds under her command to fetch up the prize, not to mention that whatever varsity level magic Delta stumbled upon was one hell of a cloaking spell.

The whole situation smelled rotten, and Meg didn't like it.

Still… while she didn't have any chompers waiting at heel, she did have something better.

Drumming her fingers boredly on the cheap tabletop, the demon waited. The desk clerk had been in love the second he laid eyes on her, over the top in his efforts to impress her with the latest ratty dive she'd holed up in. The level of desperation would have been entertaining if it weren't so pathetic, and Meg counseled herself on patience when he stuffed her arms with extra towels, a bathrobe that reeked of pot, and a stack of magazines. Snapping and killing the poor bastard would do no one any favors, although the magazines were a guilty pleasure and they weren't months old either. Regardless… sometimes Meg wished she'd just taken some ripe truck driver as a meatsuit.

There had been a bowl of fruit waiting for her on the table when she arrived inside, and the strength of her eye roll was almost painful. After that, waiting was easy in comparison to the week she'd been having.

Her wrath bringer arrived at long last and with his usual brusqueness, curtains fluttering under the gust of wind that followed. Meg gave her guest a cursory onceover. "Hey, handsome. Decide to take the scenic route?"

When Castiel did little else but stand there looking put out, she gave him her best bedroom eyes, leaning back in the worn dining chair with her feet propped up. This was the sum of their relationship over the past several weeks—interaction kept sparse and by necessity, although any informational exchanges usually led to other things with them now.

"No kiss hello?"

The angel was rough around the edges, sporting a superficial gash over his eyebrow and a spattering of blood on his trenchcoat. The blade in his hand disappeared as he glanced around the motel room, already preoccupied with some distant responsibility. Inevitably, blue eyes fell on the empty bed before darting back to her waiting face, seeing something puckish there. Castiel's expression took on a note of weary suspicion at the sight.

"I'm not having intercourse with you right now."

Meg's cheeks dimpled with the strength of her smirk. He was too much fun sometimes. "How disappointing." She stalled a bit. "No need for that puritan sensibility, I called you for something else."

"And what is that?" Brow creasing, Castiel hazarded a step closer. The suspicion he felt before only grew at her prolonged silence, but when he squinted at her, the demon merely laughed. "That look usually means you want something. I only assumed."

"Touché, Clarence. I'd give you a gold star for catching on so quick, but… bigger fish." He was looking around restlessly again, seeming anxious, and Meg quirked an eyebrow as she reached for the bowl of fruit and plucked a few grapes. "In a hurry?"

"In battle," he replied, getting agitated now.

Meg leisurely popped a grape into her mouth. "I may have pissed off a witch."

Castiel deflated. "What?"

"Spare me the theatrics, would you? Your comebacks suck, anyways." The angel harrumphed impressively, but silenced whatever retort he had brewing. Meg was actually impressed by the restraint, even though she knew it wouldn't last. "Situation is she owes me, won't pony up, and apparently has decided that her best bet of erasing that snazzy black mark from her record is to play hide and gank with the boogeyman. Boogeyman is me, by the way. Long story short, my hackles are itchy."

Castiel's expression was flat as he absorbed her glib summary. "You mean you want me to go collect your merchandise?"

Meg scoffed. "Oh, please. Mendota the teenage witch isn't worth the migraine. The whole soul thing was a little side gig I had going to bide my time until we busted Lucifer out. Witches annoy the shit out of me, but I needed the juice. Sue me."

"What exactly do you need me for, then? Why not deal with her yourself?"

Dark eyes glinted as the demon imparted him with her sweetest smile. "Now why would I, when I have you?"

Lesser men had surrendered entire armies for that smile.

Castiel, though, remained unconvinced. "The more you say, the less I believe you."

His stony disapproval was as predictable as it was exasperating, and Meg countered it with an insolent stare of her own. "Yeah, how do you figure?"

His gaze was focused on her with laser precision, as if determined to analyze each breath she took. "You want the soul, Meg. Claiming otherwise is a waste of both our times. She refused to honor your deal, and now you're angry."

The demon rolled her eyes. "Yes, so little integrity among young people today." Her façade of pretentiousness fell. "I'd be stupid to turn down a soul, precious, but as usual you're missing the point."

"Which is?"

Meg rose to her feet, snatching more fruit from the bowl on her way. "Let's just say I've developed a nasty need to hack up a lung these last few days. You think it's something in the water?"

The facetious attitude helped nothing, but Castiel sighed as he understood. "She's trying to kill you." He should have realized. Absurd as it was, he was suddenly angry and worried all at once.

Meg knocked his foot playfully with hers. "Nice work, Columbo. Hex begs won't kill a thing like me, but they're annoying as a turd at a picnic. That, and it's a bitch washing blood out of this shirt. It's my favorite, so color me bothered."

He turned aside, taking a few steps nowhere to digest the situation. "You're sure it's her? This witch who owes you?"

"Who else would it be?"

Tactlessly, Castiel reminded her, "Surely one adolescent witch is not the only enemy you have."

His reward was a fiery scowl. "Don't be an asshole."

"I'm not being—" Again, he sighed. After a moment of silent deliberation, he turned back to her with a grim frown. "You're very capable. I don't know what I can possibly offer that you can't handle yourself."

"Mind-blowing orgasms?"

That earned her a heated look. "You know what I mean. I'm not your errand boy."

Dark eyes narrowed. "No? As I recall, that's exactly what you are. We had a deal too, remember? Did you think because I gave you a special peep at my panties that would change?"

Castiel took a step into her space, on the verge of laying down threats. "I serve Heaven—a Heaven at war. Not you. Remember that, because it's getting tiresome repeating it."

"Come on, Castiel. We both know your bark is worse than your bite."

"You haven't seen my bite," he cautioned her darkly. His marching gait and blood-streaked face only leant credence to such a warning. He wasn't done, either. "Just because you have my protection does not mean you have my loyalty. Whatever this is, between us—" he gestured between them both, "—does not entitle you."

The demon's frosty stare revealed how little she appreciated being talked down to. For a long time, it was just the two of them as they were meant to be—forever at odds and drowning in conflict. "Are you done making your point?"

"Only if you actually intend on hearing it."

Meg shook her head, dismissing his need to lecture. "Maybe I can't find the bitch, maybe I can. Maybe I have more important things on my mind, like earning my damn title back from Crowley's little band of jackasses."

Harried by such obstinance, Castiel massaged the bridge of his nose in a very human gesture of defeat, wishing he could drive some sense into her. "You are supposed to be laying low, not going out looking for fights."

Meg laughed at his attempt to assail her with logic. "While the concern is cute… it kind of makes me wanna punch you."

"And me? Do I not have better things to do?" He couldn't help but grow more irate. It would always escape him how one small demon could be so vexing. "I am commanding an army on the battlefront of paradise, and you're asking me to track down a witch on the basis of simple spite. Your pride is not my mission, Meg. I have bigger fish, as you call it."

"The sooner you stop arguing, the quicker this can all be over. Or should we examine how empty your track record is for saying no to me?" Seeing that Castiel was about to protest, Meg cut in. "Look. I need this fixed. I don't have time to track her down and yank out her gooey bits. Figured your semi-omniscient flyboy powers would do the trick."

Castiel was quiet for a moment, studying her too closely for her peace of mind. "There was a time when you would've hated to admit needing my help. You do seem somewhat ambivalent towards the actual soul, so it must be something else. What is it about this witch?"

Meg pursed her lips, dark curls sliding over her shoulders as she shook her head. "She's too powerful. It doesn't track and I can't figure it out. Small fry like her? I eat that level magic for breakfast. She shouldn't be able to faze me, but I can't get anywhere near her."

"That's valid," Castiel admitted, mulling over the information pensively. Witches, as a rule, were malevolent to begin with. It would do the world no good if one gained too much power. The last time one did, Samhain had been risen from hell.

"Not to mention the Mendotas are like fucking squirrels when it comes to hiding their hex bags."

Castiel seemed startled by that. "You haven't been able to recover them?"

Given Meg's knowledge and strength of power, she should have had no trouble with something so common as a hex bag. The news that this witch had surmounted a demon of her stature was unsettling.

"Why do you think I've been popping all over the grid? Trying to dodge the little party favors. With her plays going off the defense and straight into the offensive, I'm telling you… something doesn't track. Could just be a rookie acting too big for her britches, but I don't like looking over my shoulder. It smells rotten."

The dulcet notes of Meg's voice were low and dangerous, and Castiel was reminded again of how fearsome she could be. How the sarcasm and sharp smiles were clever masks she wore to disguise what lay beneath.

As if to disprove that perception, Meg suddenly lost all trace of that cold demeanor and held out one of the fruits for him to take. "Grape?"

Castiel regarded it with slight impatience, although most of his bluster appeared to have faded. "I don't eat, and neither do you."

"Don't need to. But they were free with the room." After this little rap session, she'd have to see if her meatsuit could get her a flatscreen. Shrugging, Meg wiggled the grape in front of the angel's nose. "You sure?"

The suspicion was back. "Is this some kind of innuendo?"

"Maybe. Open your mouth."

Castiel gave both the demon and the grape a critical look. "No," he said. But a cloud of resignation had fallen over him. "I'll find your witch. Stay here."

Meg's winsome smirk showed enormous satisfaction. "Good boy."

Castiel's eyes narrowed in lax warning, but otherwise he made no remark. "What's her name?"

"Delta Mendota."

With a flutter of wings, he was gone.

Meg's smile softened into a devious little quirk. There was something fun about watching the angel scurry all over the globe for her. Castiel wasn't stupid—he likely was aware of the pleasure it brought her, not that she was exactly subtle about it. Still, despite her frustration with the circumstances and that she really did need his help, a part of her wanted to know what else she could get him to do with only a word and silent promise. Not for any nefarious means, really, but she genuinely was baffled by the attentiveness—even if he obeyed her grudgingly.

Sometimes she caught herself wondering what she might do for him, given the right motivation. The thought, as usual, arrived without invitation, nestling into the back of her mind as though making a home for itself. The significance of it caused her to frown as she was once more riddled with warm reminders of that first night when the floodgates had opened. Meg shoved those memories far away.

Castiel surprised her then when he reappeared suddenly, looking lost. "Strange," he murmured.

Eyebrows climbing, Meg tried to puzzle out how it went. "You found her?"

He looked like he didn't know where to begin. "Yes. But Delta Mendota doesn't even know how to properly craft a hex bag." Castiel shook his head, bewildered by what he'd found. "It wasn't her. It couldn't be."

"How the hell do you know that? Did you read her mind or something?"

"Yes," he replied factually, the bluntness of it unexpected. "She's a witch, but barely. I believe she was more interested in the popularity and success of her musical group's latest performance. Regardless, I wiped her memories of you."

"Well, that's gonna come back and bite me in the ass. Why didn't you just kill her?"

"Because she is not your problem," Castiel pointed out. He allowed his thoughts to sort through what had been gathered, reflecting then almost to himself. "You were right about this not making sense."

Meg's features became dubious and irritated. "Gosh, and here I thought one adolescent witch surely can't be the only enemy I have."

The angel frowned at her. "I don't sound like that."

She held up a hand, ignoring his objection. "If it's not Delta, I'm right back where I started. Maybe I'm not the sunniest of people, but I generally don't go making enemies of witches in my spare time. Which means—" A chill stole down her back, age-old survival instinct and paranoia resurfacing. There wasn't a lot in this world that Meg actually feared, and maybe it was pride, or maybe it was just that a lot of evil sons of bitches out there had been afraid of her for too long, but every villain had their weakness. And Meg had survived too long to ignore a gut instinct. "I swear, if I didn't know any better…"

She'd watched the King of Hell burn with her own eyes. He was ash—dead and gone, dust to dust.

"What?" Castiel prompted, when she trailed off into uneasy silence.

Feeling her power flare around her like an eddy, Meg stood there slowly roiling. The lights behind Castiel flickered as she shook her head. "This whole thing smells like fucking Crowley."

The angel tensed up, grace sparking. Meg felt the air around them move as though his wings were stirring. "Crowley is dead," he said firmly, a strange look in his eyes as he denied the possibility. Perhaps that was conviction.

Meg looked at him, some of that anxiety quelling when she did. Something about the angel was grounding, and she believed him. "Yeah, I know," she muttered. Not realizing her eyes had gone black, she allowed them to retreat into their human guise. With nominal effort, she eventually settled. "I know."

Even as she said it, her thoughts warred.

Crowley was a survivor, too—cunning and slippery. There was a reason he'd ascended to the throne of Hell. But no one escaped a smiting like that, especially from this particular angel. Castiel would have known if Crowley survived. He'd sense it, and he'd rain down a wrath so fierce that the plagues of Egypt would have looked benign in comparison. She may have teased him for his soft spot for her, but she wasn't blind. Some raw, unmined stronghold slept inside him—something that wasn't there in the ring of fire. It came and went sometimes, as fickle as a breeze. Meg couldn't begin to predict it, and she wasn't sure she even wanted the privilege of knowing what he'd done to himself.

Castiel gave the room a cursory glance, distancing himself from the topic. She appreciated the deviation. "I sense no hex bags here," he said. "But, given your experience…"

Meg's eyebrows wrinkled up inquisitively when he stepped into her space, then laid a hand over her heart. Surprised into silence, she tensed and drew in a sharp breath as a spark of utter light was sent through her body. Power too ancient to comprehend seeped into her bones from the touch, setting her afire and then promptly dousing those flames in acid. The demon swayed a little, vision gone starry and dark at the corners. Whatever he'd done to her, it packed a hell of a punch.

Meg grimaced as that unfamiliar ache rushing through her abruptly faded. "What the hell…" she breathed out, stuck somewhere between pain and wonder and trying to puzzle out the difference. Christ, was that some kind of angel roofie?

"I apologize for any discomfort."

"What—"

"Protection," he explained. "Though, it won't last. I'd have branded your ribs, but I couldn't be sure what effect an Enochian warding would have on your… form."

Her veins still rang from the holy aftertaste, leaving her a bit disoriented. "In that case, thanks for feeling me up. Hopefully your tricks treat better than mine. What now?"

"I must return to Heaven."

"That's it?"

Castiel became somewhat curt. "You called on me mid-battle. By my account, you made it quite clear that the witch's soul was beneath you. Your prime concern was that she was out to kill you. She isn't. I've done what I can."

Meg tried to hide her disappointment, but her annoyance showed front and center. "Well. Thanks for the solid. Sorry to hold your majesty up." She crossed her arms beneath a sullen look. "Fly away, little bee."

"Do not patronize me." Castiel's voice was gruff and he looked as though he wanted to shake her. He turned aside, away from that inciting stare so that he could muse privately. Softer then, he said, "Meg… I want to help you. Against every reservation I possess." He shook his head, wondering if he was even getting through to her. "I'll do what I can, when I can. Don't abuse that. You're many things, but petty isn't one of them."

Dark eyes thawed a bit. "That's sweet, Clarence."

For a brief moment, it looked as though she might have meant it. Perhaps there was a part of her that truly did. But when Meg had her mind set on something, she stuck to it with deadly force, and right now she was intent on being prickly.

"I almost believe the sincerity."

Castiel felt something approaching defeat. "I am sincere. You're taking no time to rest or regain strength, I've told you already. You're being reckless and you're going after the throne while Hell is still in chaos. Bide your time. I know you're smarter than this. Whether one witch has outdone you or not, you're tired. You've been running so long, and even with Crowley gone, his men aren't likely to stop pursuing you."

The tense cut of her shoulders grew less severe as those words sunk in. Castiel looked positively threadbare, and Meg did know that he was stretching himself thin for her. She reached out a hand, fussing idly with his tie as she mulled things over. "You're telling me I should be careful?"

Castiel watched her fingers slide over the blue fabric before meeting her eyes. "Saying that would imply a deeper attachment. I'm saying don't be foolish. Seeing you dead would be… disappointing."

The corners of Meg's mouth twitched up, sharp features tempering a bit. She abandoned the tie and instead lifted her hand to touch the nasty graze over his brow, thumb wiping some of the blood away. "Ever think of heeding your own words, Atlas?"

Castiel reacted to the contact as she expected he would—reticent and somewhat guarded. Instead of retreating right away though, he lingered a bit, eventually offering her a solemn, parting nod. "Goodbye, Meg."

Her fingers slid down his cheek, giving his chin a light squeeze. "Bye, Clarence. I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon enough."

Castiel's jaw clenched so hard she heard the grinding of his vessel's teeth. Meg smiled to herself as he turned away from her, having clearly understood what she meant. Maybe if she dirtied him up just a little more, he'd stop making her feel so clean whenever she was with him.

"Hey. How about some biblical irony for the road?"

Bemused, Castiel turned back to see her pluck an apple from the bowl on the table. She tossed it to him, a somewhat repentant smirk playing at her lips as she did. He caught it with noticeable reservation, and a heavy look passed between demon and angel. When he eventually disappeared, the apple went with him.

Meg stood there long after he was already gone, contemplating his words and wondering how it was that an angel of the Lord was so determined to whip her ass back into shape. If anything, roll in the sheets or not, he should have been trying to crush her beneath his heel. Angels, as she'd known them, were dicks that way.

She stared at the spot where he'd stood, subject to too many thoughts. She could feel him still, some disembodied part of him always lingering at her side, even when they were worlds apart. He was imprinted on her, body and mind.

"A capite ad calcem," Meg muttered to herself, fingers hovering over the literal mark he'd left over her heart. She allowed her eyes to lose their humanity, black inkiness swallowing the brown. There was a need in her somewhere to shed all guises and she pressed out with her power, careful at first, touching it against the barrier of his warding magic. It didn't react to her as it should have—there was no pain, no retaliation, just a mild stretching to allow her ample room to breathe.

Such a spell should have meant her ruin, to be marked by an angel like that. As it was wont to do, though, nature bent around them. Meg's eyes lost their pitch shade, and something like defeat wound its way into her bones.

But maybe it wasn't defeat at all. Maybe it was just surrender.

---

I still hear the sound of your voice
singing in my head
I can't surrender
the rope is slowly coming apart
but hanging by a thread

---

Light-years away and making his tumultuous ascent back into Heaven, Castiel's own words replayed in the back of his mind.

It doesn't entitle you, he'd told her.

Even as he'd said the words, he knew they were meaningless. Already he was allowing her things he'd permit no other being alive, other than the Winchesters. In some cases, not even them. It wasn't the sex that encouraged it. Something else entirely he couldn't put his finger on just yet.

He'd played off her dilemma as best he could at the time, but Castiel had every intention of getting to the bottom of this witch crisis. There was no sense in sharing that with her. Just more ammunition she could use against him, whether for her own amusement, or something worse. Whatever came of it, it was sure to be at his expense.

Perhaps he was wrong, though… and that's really all this was. Sex.

There were legends in every culture of good men falling astray through the wiles of a woman. Castiel wasn't exactly versed in such matters, after all. He'd been completely innocent for the better part of two thousand years. Dean had at least several running jokes in his arsenal pertaining to the angel's virtue. Not to mention that two millennia spent oblivious was a long time in comparison to his brief sojourn into the terrifying dominion of romance.

Hardly romance, he thought sourly. Whatever the term, as Castiel met the enemy in battle, he was grimly aware that curiosity was going to end up killing them both.

---

her eyes and words are so icy
oh but she burns
hot fast and angry as she can be
I walk my days on a wire

---

FEBRUARY 2011

The rush of emotion was slower to reveal this time. It was not through a burst of endorphins while in intimate embrace, not a roller coaster but a gradual burn. It spanned over not one moment lost in erotic bliss, but over the many months spent together. Fighting together, as one instead of against.

The change was realized as infatuation grew into something fonder.

"I have to go."

Meg glanced up from the inspection of her bloody weapon to where the angel was already getting to his feet. He drew his blade from the skinwalker corpse and then it was gone, up his sleeve until needed again. He was mere seconds from porting away. "Heaven calling you?"

"No. Dean." There was a strange emotion that skirted across the angel's expression, similar to guilt. Meg wondered if Team Free Will was at odds again. Something had the angel wound in knots, and when Castiel spoke again, it was with grave distress. "It's Sam… Death retrieved his soul from the Cage."

Meg's eyebrows rose for her hairline. "Holy shit," she muttered, standing too. "Bullwinkle okay?"

Her companion hesitated to answer. "Do you really care?"

"Let's not argue semantics." Meg tucked her weapon back into the sheathe at her hip and swiped the hair out of her eyes, still charged from the earlier fight. "Call it morbid curiosity."

There was admittedly a part of her that had always felt some strange connection to Sam, a perverse understanding that stretched back into a loaded history with the younger Winchester. Castiel likely knew the surface details, but if he did, he didn't say as much.

"I don't know. I sincerely doubt it." He shook his head, becoming restless as dread began to fill the pit in his stomach. "Damn it, I warned Dean…"

Meg stepped into his space as he trailed off, kicking aside a stray limb as she did. "Your little boyfriends are up shit creek without waders. Can't be good."

"I don't know what that means, but it sounds unpleasant so I will agree with you."

"Can I get that in writing?"

Some of his tension ebbed at her glib remark, and he heaved a riled breath. The expression he wore now said how much he didn't like it when she said things like that, but also that he didn't quite hate it either. Spreading his wings to port himself to Bobby's, Castiel hesitated when the demon gave him a lazy little wave.

"Try to avoid trouble," he told her quietly. "While I'm gone."

Meg's grin barely reached her eyes, but it was enough to let him know she found him entertaining. "Still sounds like 'be careful' to me."

Castiel's only reply was to disappear.

Meg counted that as another victory.

---

two lovers, two forces
of love and hate
I pull you, you pull me
we complicate

---

Trouble, as it turned out, was a nuisance.

And the true danger of it was that all trouble started out the same: as fun.

The draw she felt towards him in Carthage was powerful in ways she hadn't been able to comprehend at the time. Even before she was trapped alongside him in that ring of fire, she couldn't help but stray closer. This, of course, was what had gotten her trapped in the first place. Beyond that, Meg wanted some fun. He was trouble, and she liked that. When they'd made their deal, true it was banding together in the interest of a common cause, but Meg wanted more. She was sure to get herself trapped again—that, at least, was a certainty.

But the uncertainty of it all… perhaps that was the real reason she'd offered him the deal. It was an itch she couldn't scratch but was looking to, the missing piece of some strange puzzle that should have been left unassembled.

Opening Pandora never did anyone any good, she'd reminded herself. But Meg wore temerity like a badge, and if there was one thing she enjoyed defying most of all, it was herself. Throughout the ages, she'd learned that there was nothing prettier than complete annihilation right before the lights went out.

That was when a match strike became the forest fire. It was thrilling and it was terrifying, because Castiel was dangerous in ways she'd never expected.

The first time she made him smile, Meg knew they were in trouble.

It was a quiet thing, there and gone before she knew it, but completely unexpected. A grudging appreciation of her morbid humor as they stood over some dead ghouls together, and he'd turned his head to hide it. That was when it all became clear, in the moments she watched his face change completely; becoming softer, younger, his lips sliding up into something remarkable. Meg felt like she knew that smile. That it had somehow belonged to her, lifetimes ago.

She was falling hard, and so was he.

---

I watched the city burn
these dreams like ashes float away
are you afraid?
will you find a way to walk away?
how long will you let it burn?

---

"Actual dragons?"

"That's what they said."

Meg looked utterly astounded, and the expression was almost comical on her normally wintry features. "You're shitting me."

Castiel sent her a furrowed expression as they walked. "You didn't know they existed?"

Meg glanced at him sharply, rattling her key impatiently in the lock to the room she'd acquired. "What, and you did?"

"I thought they had died out."

He had that pensive look about him again, the one he got when he suspected something darker afoot. Meg abandoned her efforts with the lock and turned to lean on the door so that she could look at him. "Exactly how much have you got rattling around up in that big shiny angel brain?"

Castiel stared at her, limpid eyes narrowing as he considered her question carefully. "Considering I've existed for many thousands of years, that answer should be obvious." At the interested look she wore, his regard was somewhat dry. "The knowledge I possess would overwhelm you, I think."

Meg crossed her arms. "Try me."

"Regaling you with countless lifetimes of inestimable knowledge would be…" Castiel acquired a more lofty expression, replying in a way that he knew would rankle her, "a losing battle."

Meg snorted, reaching a hand out to smack his arm as she turned back to the door. "You're such a little shit sometimes."

Castiel wondered idly at the miniscule attack. The strike had seemed affectionate rather than violent, but he shelved his curiosity for the moment. The demon had already opened the door with a flick of her wrist, using her power to compel the lock's obedience.

"Play dumb and innocent, but I know you're not as stupid as you look."

Castiel frowned as he followed her into the dimly lit room. "That wasn't a compliment at all."

Meg tossed him a riling grin over her shoulder as she stripped off her jacket. "Don't be a dick and maybe the next one will be less backhanded." Castiel looked momentarily affronted, but it passed. As it became obvious, the medieval reveal still sat with her. "So… here there be dragons, huh? That doesn't strike you as weird?"

His brow was set in contemplation. "It is… weird. A sighting in this century certainly bodes nothing good."

"Is it ever good?"

"Rarely," he conceded. Blue eyes tracked back to hers, reading her preoccupied expression. "You look as though you're plotting a grand assumption. That also bodes ill."

She'd ignore that for now. "What about unicorns?"

Trace confusion filled his face at the leftfield speculation. "What about them?"

Meg shrugged, forgoing the use of bandages and healing the patchwork of scrapes on her arm with the influence of her power. "They're not real, are they? Do rainbows shoot out of their ass?"

Castiel's stare was blank with defeat. "Sometimes when you speak, the words that come out of you are completely incomprehensible." There were times when he suspected that she deliberately said the most ridiculous thing that came to mind just to fuck with him. By the impish glimmer of satisfaction in those dusky eyes and the way she chuckled to herself, he was not far off.

"It's a talent. Some people juggle."

Castiel sighed, no longer invested in humoring whatever prying sense of curiosity she was determined to badger him with. "Unicorns are not real."

The demon canted her head, dark curls spilling over a shoulder. Her regard of him turned sly. "You sure about that?"

Of course he was sure. "I've never seen one."

That seemed to hold a strange effect over her. Meg began sauntering his way. "That's your only proof?"

She seemed somehow triumphant, even though Castiel was sure no gauntlet had been thrown. "What other proof do you require?"

Meg grinned in spite of that righteous arrogance, amused by it even. "Angelic irony is so… charming. Trust an agent of Heaven to refuse the concept of belief without sight."

"A demon insisting on faith is more reasonable?"

She reached out a hand to tug on his tie, dark eyes never leaving his. "Sometimes you're so full of yourself, it's actually cute."

Castiel glanced down at the way her fingers wrapped around the blue fabric, feeling the brush of her shoes against his. "And I suppose you think you're very modest."

Painted lips pulled back from white teeth in a furtive smile. "Have I mentioned how much it tickles me when you get all sarcastic?"

Her voice was velvety low across the slight space between them, and Castiel made attempts to disguise his reaction of it with haughty disinterest. "You're a terrible influence."

Her laughter was a wayward symphony. Castiel felt her other hand playing with the folds of his lapel as her eyes tracked a lewd path down his form before he could even realize he was doing the same. "Wanna stick around?" she asked. "Move some furniture while we wait for the wonder twins to call again?"

"I find your innuendos to be frustrating."

"Don't pretend you don't enjoy them."

Castiel's nose brushed against hers. "I never said I didn't enjoy them," he said in a murmur.

The hand on his tie drew him a little closer. "What's the matter then, old thing? Don't you like it when you can't keep up with me?"

His hand was suddenly gripping hers too tight over the tie, blue eyes growing darker as they sought hers. For awhile, that cold marble stare was the only thing filling the silence between them, even as his other arm slipped discreetly around her waist.

"Now, see…" Meg whispered along the curve of his lips, "you're much cuter when you're shutting up."

"So are you," the angel muttered back, before pulling her smaller body against his and sealing their mouths completely.

---

even if I try to win the fight
my heart would overrule my mind
I'm not strong enough to stay away
I'm not to blame, my heart is chained to you
and I can't get free

---

It was becoming easier for them to fall into each other. Remarkable how effortlessly they did so, contrary to their natures as tensions collided in ways that spelled out relief. They rode out the aftershocks together, a tangle of glistening limbs and gasping breaths on the floor. The intent along the way had failed, and they hadn't quite made it to the bed.

"Park it, cloudhopper," Meg said when she felt him start to pull away. Her soft laugh spilled over him like an embrace.

It was strange, he thought, having her voice to keep him anchored. What was stranger was Meg herself—that she had any desire to be close to him, once her goal was achieved. But then, he'd never really experienced anyone wanting to be close to him. Castiel offered a wordless reply, shifting so that they laid side by side instead of entwined. No one should want him. As the war so often liked to remind him, he was tainted.

So was she, of course, but at least the demon couldn't help what she was. Castiel could claim no such excuse.

Curious despite himself, the angel turned blue eyes on the creature beside him. "Why?" he asked. The aftermath of these ardent encounters always played tricks on his mind, and he wondered if they did for Meg too. He felt unworthy of her, but unable to break away. Disparaging himself for desiring more and yet hating that it was never enough, that something was missing. The hollow feeling disturbed him, and it was difficult to reason out why that feeling haunted him as much as it did. He knew that lying with her like this was considered one of the most heinous acts an angel could perform, but something lost inside him told a different story. It said that guilt wasn't the reason for that feeling at all.

She still had yet to answer him.

"Meg?"

"I'm not done with you, yet."

"I have nowhere else to go."

She sighed, a spark of true fondness breaking through. "You're a damn tragedy, sometimes."

Castiel considered this, weary and mired within his own thoughts, and reined in a sigh of his own. "I'd rather be forgettable."

For some reason, that got her attention. The way she looked at him was different. More intense. "Clarence, you're a lot of things. Forgettable will never be one of them."

One day, the heartbreaking irony of those words would crush them both, but for now that day was inconceivable. For now, those words perplexed him, even as they stirred something awake in him. Castiel turned away again, blue eyes scanning the ceiling for some assistance. "I can't decide if that's a compliment or a complaint."

"Neither can I," Meg muttered to herself, though the angel of course had heard. He always heard.

This thing between them was becoming too habitual. Both angel and demon found unexpected solace in the routine of their affair. It was a strange comfort in many ways—yet one more thing for them to lose their pride over. Neither creature was meant for the feelings they inspired in each other, and it wrought havoc in them both. Aside from the distraction of the war, some of Castiel's most trusted allies had noticed a change in him. Balthazar, Rachel, Ezekiel… Dean and Sam and spoken out about it on more than one occasion already. The war was devastating, but at least it was simple. Sentiment towards it could be explained and rationalized. Whatever this was between them was a disaster.

Even still, with each other, the shame never lasted long. There was blissful oblivion in finding ecstasy with her, Castiel discovered. Stunning moments where duties and burdens were forgotten in a haze. Compared to his other sins, he hoped the positive outweighed the bad. More and more, though, Castiel found he was selfish beyond what he'd ever thought capable of himself.

"Do you think I use you?" he asked, on the verge of contrition.

Meg hmphed in amusement at that, but by the foreign things she confessed in the midst of passion, Castiel knew more than anything that they used each other. A little breathless still, she shook her head. "Baby, you can use me however you want."

Castiel's brow furrowed together, something perturbing him. He decided he didn't like it when she called him that.

"Don't get all broody on me now. Our little arrangement was just starting to get good."

"I can see through you, you know."

She needed this as much as he did. When all her bravado and carefully constructed sarcasm fell away, the demon he'd known in Carthage was not the demon of now. Too often he forgot how those traits were just veneers she'd built to mask what hid beneath. Castiel knew too well of masks. He had so many of his own now.

Beside him, he felt Meg bristle, going tense for a spell before that conflict subsided. "Nobody likes a know-it-all. You'd better start doing things to me again, before I lose interest and vamoose."

Feeling too much, Castiel instead took the route of the coward. He disappeared quietly and without a word, leaving Meg to stare at the ceiling in his stead. Clinging to the sensation he'd left behind, she trailed her fingers lightly over the skin above her heart, where the angel's lips had professed his unfathomable desire. So often she found that he could be positively sinful without even meaning to, but there were other times when the things he said to her were not sinful at all.

As each dawn rose after yet another night of pleasure, their hatred and spite of each other grew less and less. Preconceived stigmas and inborn natures were shed alongside inhibitions in the wake of something much greater.

Something as dangerous as it was powerful.

---

is this what you wanted?
did I make your dreams come true?
you're sitting in a corner, wondering what you got into
and you ache for things you don't understand
there's no such thing as fate
only yourself to blame you never walked away

---

"I've been down with a broken heart since the day I learned to speak. The devil gave me a crooked start when he gave me crooked feet. But Gabriel done came to me and kissed me in my sleep, and I'll be singin' like an angel until I'm six feet deep."

The demon sat behind the wheel of a 1976 Mustang as she sang along with the radio, head tipped back as the breeze from the open window blew threw her hair. The car was an almost predictable bright cherry red as it sped down the deserted highway, horsepower roaring to life under the cloudless sky.

"I'm gonna raise, raise hell. There's a story no one's telling. You gotta raise, raise hell. Go on and ring that bell."

"Did you steal this car?"

Meg wasn't even startled to hear the angel's voice or to see him suddenly beside her in the passenger seat, despite that the volume of the music drowned out the sound of his arrival. "Wouldn't you like to know," she said over the noise, finally turning it down when Castiel's piercing stare won out. "Does it matter?"

"I need more locations," he hedged instead, deigning to overlook any grand theft auto.

Meg dug a pen and pad out of the glove box in front of him. It had been awhile since she'd seen him last. "All business, no play, huh?"

The radio continued to drone with the modern folk song, its southern-sounding twang perplexing him. She had peculiar taste in music, he thought. But then, what did he know? Sam, he knew, favored similar music, although Dean swore up and down that the genre was unforgivable. Meg herself seemed to enjoy all music.

"Keep your eyes on the road," Castiel advised when she propped the pad on the console between them and started to write.

The vehicle occasionally swerved, but the demon merely smiled to herself at his remark. "Be happy I'm wearing a seatbelt."

"Gabriel is dead, by the way."

Meg glanced over at him, seeming amused with his sudden interest in the song. "Is he? From what I've heard about him… I wouldn't be so sure."

"Regardless, I'm not fond of the insinuation that he'd be kissing you."

Meg's smile broadened into a full grin. "Well, isn't that adorable." With her free hand, she tore off the piece of paper with the locations and held it up for him to take. "Green looks good on you."

Castiel's brow wrinkled up as he accepted the list. "Should I understand that?"

"To be honest, it's more comical when you don't." Meg relaxed back into her seat, singing along once more and sending him the occasional sidelong look, which he suspected meant something else he didn't understand. "You came upon a lightning strike and eyes a bright clear blue. I took a tie from around my neck, and gave my heart to you."

By her lingering smirk, she was trying to get under his skin with the lyrics. Even still, that complacency faded somewhat and she eventually trailed off as she watched him. Castiel had gone silent, but for some reason she couldn't understand. One that had nothing to do with the song or her driving. He stared out the windshield as the scenery swept by, lost in thought. There was a strange, dismal expression in place of the stern impassivity she was more familiar with, and now that she thought about it, Meg decided he had looked a little frayed at the edges when he'd shown up.

"Hey," she said, her voice softer and less barbed.

Even with the music playing, Castiel heard her. "Yes?"

Still, he didn't look away from the winding road. As the miles and minutes passed on, he seemed more and more bleak.

I dug a hole inside my heart and put you in your grave. At this point, it was you and me, and mama didn't raise no slave.

"Why not blow off the monster run and road trip with me for a bit?" It was said through her usual crooked smile, but there was an underlying guilelessness that couldn't be missed. "Wanna see the world's largest ball of twine? Sing shitty showtunes? How bad do you suck at I Spy?"

He turned his head to stare at her, and Meg knew at least half of what she was saying went clear over his head, but somehow she could see that he'd latched on to the heart of her offer. Castiel's reply was nonetheless very somber, almost grim. "No. I have to do this."

There was something about his sullen demeanor that made her wonder if something had happened. Something more than the usual shit he had to deal with. "That's some heavy angst for a fucking side gig, Clarence." Despite the crassness of the words, they were spoken softly. Speculatively. It was strange, she thought, how he so often insisted his focus remain on Heaven and the war, and yet he was determined to hunt down creatures of no consequence to him. Were Crowley's plans for Purgatory really that important? It was to her, but why would Castiel devote so much time to it when his own kingdom was crumbling down? There had to be more to it, and Meg wondered what he wasn't telling her. Even if Castiel's interests were of the same vein, with Crowley dead, it wasn't a race anymore. He could bide his time, as he'd told her.

But he wasn't.

The war, monster hunting, the Winchesters, her… that was a heavy burden to carry for anyone. Superhuman or not.

Meg glanced at the angel riding shotgun, wondering if she'd ever know the mystery—or if she even wanted to.

Castiel's gaze slid away from hers and out past the window, no longer looking ahead either, but at what was passing them by. "There are things required of me that I… don't like." He waited for her impish response, but it never came. Instead, she was quietly listening, waiting for him to go on. "It's the war," he confessed quietly. "Sometimes I don't recognize myself, or what it's turning me into."

"Can't argue that," she agreed at length. "Barely recognized you myself as the same angel who tossed me into the frying pan."

He supposed he appreciated her attempts to lighten the conversation. After all, it seemed selfless—as though she might have done it for his benefit instead of her own. But it wasn't enough to erase the images branded into his unforgetting mind; images of his fallen brothers and sisters in the wake of this latest battle. Possibly worse, images of Sam beating a policeman bloody, cavorting with countless women and respecting them very little, discrediting the importance of his own family, murdering innocent men, the painful flashbacks of his time in hell…

Castiel had observed, unseen, for most of the Winchesters' trip to Bristol as Sam relived his first time passing through the Rhode Island town when soulless. The angel had seen Sam's memories as they returned in force, memories of those dark moments in an even darker timeline. Because of it, Sam was miserable with himself and what he'd done without a conscience, and Castiel felt unspeakable regret. The notion that it was truly his fault was inescapable and it weighed heavily on the angel's shoulders, serving as a reminder of his failure to raise the boy properly.

Castiel tried to wash out the hurt he felt for such a terrible mistake. For all his mistakes. He was deceiving his friends, his kin, everyone around him. He was in partnership with the King of Hell, floundering in a mission to secure the bestial souls of Purgatory and the obscene power they contained. "I'd rather not discuss it."

"Fine, whatever," Meg said easily, allowing him the mystery. "Catch you later."

She expected him to flutter off as he usually did, leaving her to wonder after him, but he hadn't moved. His gaze had fallen to rest on his hands as they sat idly in his lap, the pad of a thumb crimping the corner of the paper he held. The demon was not easily caught off guard, but his next words shocked her.

"Do you think I'm a villain?"

He asked because she would know. It was not condescending, not at all. He genuinely needed to know her answer. He just needed someone to tell him if he was out of his mind, if he was indeed no better than the creatures he hated and was built to destroy.

Meg regarded him with surprising sincerity, her expression growing very serious. She made no quip, but her eyes said he was so far off the mark that she might find it funny later.

"You're still just Castiel."

I sent my love across the sea and though I didn't cry, the radio droned. That voice will haunt my every dream until the day I die.

His eyes as he stared at her seemed bluer than ever, some great weight dissolving around him with no grand fanfare. The look he wore was still heavy, but there was gratitude lurking somewhere beneath that stony stoicism. Meg almost had to look away. Idly, a thought occurred to her, and she wondered what kind of music Castiel might like. It was a strange thing to snare her attention, and with a restless frown she sent it away. If the angel noticed the oddity, he gave no indication. Instead, he nodded slightly, seeming more sure of himself.

"Goodbye, Meg."

The rustle of wings was quiet as he vanished, and Meg turned her eyes back towards the road ahead.

Go on and ring that bell.

Go on and ring that bell.

Go on and ring that bell.

---

you took my face in both your hands
and looked me in the eye
and I went down with such a force
that in your grave I lie

---

When she found him at their meeting place, Meg had no choice but to take in the sight of sizzling corpses and burnt wings with some measure of awe. He'd hate her for it, but it was mostly involuntary. She stared down at the ashen smear beneath her feet, into the lifeless eyes turned permanently towards heaven. The piercing ring of celestial death knells still hung heavy in the air around them as Meg turned her eyes on Castiel.

He was a fighter before, she knew that, but lately he was positively brutal. Whatever skill and strength he had before seemed to have been decupled since she found him wiping out that nest of vampires, so many months ago.

Castiel looked up slowly from the dead angels surrounding him, totaling four. His blade was coated in blood, still smoking. Eyes were blue as opal, shining bright with power that took too long to dim. He looked utterly indestructible, and yet completely miserable with himself as the heat of battle ebbed.

"The hell happened?" Meg wondered, trying to keep the admiration and slight tinge of fear from her voice.

"They followed me."

"Ambush from Raphael?"

Castiel nodded grimly, stowing his blade. "There have been more of them lately."

That seemed to be all he was willing to divulge. "Nothing like an assassination attempt to start the day off right," she observed dourly. It was a shame she'd missed the fireworks. There was nothing quite like watching Castiel go vengeful.

"You'll forgive me if I don't find the humor."

"Do you see me laughing?"

"No," Castiel admitted, granting her with a heavy look. "But I've come to know you well enough to see how much you enjoy this."

Great. Now he was mad.

Meg spread her hands in a heedless show of indifference. "Sorry I'm not shedding tears for the assholes who tried to kill you." She looked almost sovereign standing there, a dark eddy of strength among the ruined heavenly host. A glance at her feet though reminded her of how little she shared in common with these creatures, and just how much her companion did. "But then, they're not my family."

"They're not," Castiel agreed, his eyes pinning her to the spot.

To her credit, Meg did not recoil under the intensity of that stare. She met it head on, without challenge, in search of some kind of explanation. "You're alive, they're dead. What more do you want?"

Castiel seemed to soften at that, regardless of the edge her words carried. "I want the fighting to be over," he said quietly.

Meg's broad stance lost tension, her shoulders sagging a bit at his heartfelt response. "Well, that's a pretty daydream, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is."

"You think you can achieve something like that?"

Castiel became withdrawn, that latent darkness in him flaring beneath the surface. "I will either find a way, or make one."

The words scraped over the space between them like sandpaper, a fitting inscription for a headstone, she thought. It was a dangerous goal to live by, as experience had shown her how often the search for peace cost more lives than any other ideal throughout the ages. But the defeat weaved into Castiel's shoulders was too potent to belittle. Meg sighed, moseying over to him. "Come on, Cas, you finally grew a pair. I know you're looking for a lion and lamb ending, but some bastards just need to be conquered. Simple as that."

He didn't look entirely convinced. "A pair of what?"

The deadpan confusion came out of nowhere, and Meg laughed helplessly. She shook her head, a smile spilling over that resembled a thousand sharp things. "Your people skills are showing." Like a curtain falling, she grew serious very quickly then and glanced around. "Is it safe here?"

Her moods were so erratic, and lately his were possibly more so. It always proved a small phenomenon that they collaborated as well as they did.

Composing himself, Castiel activated. "Unlikely there will be more." He'd allowed for no return report, after all. "Still, it'd be prudent to move on."

"Rally in Maple Town, then? We're about thirty miles from the border." At his look, Meg flashed her patent smirk. "What? I always wanted to go to Canada. We'll bag a moose and catch a hockey game after the bloodshed."

Despite that he found everything she said to be absurd, Castiel's mood was lightening, the weight on his shoulders inexplicably less onerous. Meg was good at that, he'd found. "Hockey game?" he parroted. He was familiar with the sport, but only through throwaway comments made by Dean and Sam.

"Yes. And you're buying me one of those beer helmets."

The angel's eyes crimped up in confusion. He wasn't sure he even wanted to know what that was. "I have no money," he said instead. What would a contraption like that cost, anyway?

"Semantics, tree topper. Meet you in an hour. Try not to bring any company."

Castiel watched her go in silence, for the first time in awhile knowing a sense of calm.

He knew there would be no hockey game, that she was merely playing into the scenario for entertainment's sake. But something about the way she did that was irrefutably touching. It had been so long since anyone had said something for the express purpose of improving his spirits. He couldn't remember the last time someone had.

Once more, Castiel set his gaze on the dead at his feet. Angels who had given their lives in the service of bringing his to an end. Out of sight, overhead, the rebel commander heard the cries and shouts of more distant battles beyond the clouds.

"Qaaon," he said to the sky. "Bagale nenni ol dasaari oiad ol oi iarri?"

His fortitude suffered a deafening blow, but with renewed creed, his blade dropped into his waiting hand and the wings at his back spread wide.

Meg would have to understand his delay.

---

red sun rises like an early warning
go to the river where the water runs
wash him deep where the tides are turning
and if you fall
let the river run dry

---

MARCH 2011

In a crowded penthouse party heaven belonging to some formerly moneyed CEO, two angels were among the human apparitions. It had become a customary means of cloaking themselves from Raphael's followers and any watchful eyes, skipping through the favored heavens of human souls. A soft blue sky arched past the skylight overhead, and calm ocean waters lapped tranquilly beyond the open balconies.

Bent over a cocktail table with a drink in hand, Balthazar was the picture of relaxed and jaunty. He gave his counterpart a subtly questioning look as he raised his glass. "I'm supposing you've heard the rumors, of course."

Castiel looked out of place amid the vibrant partygoers, wondering why Balthazar had chosen this particular heaven out of the billions available to them. He stood stiff as a board, trying to ignore every drunken stumble that careened his way. "What rumors?" he asked, vaguely suspicious. His brother was a gossip at the best of times.

"That Raphy is back," Balthazar replied casually, sipping his scotch. "Word is he's finally got a new vessel and is ready to play ball." There was a look of dawning dread on his commander's face as realization set in, and Balthazar held up a finger with an unbothered smile on his face. "Now, now… before your knickers get twisted, hear me out." He set down his drink, leaning forward over the little table covertly. "I know exactly how to get him off your ass. More importantly, off the ass of yours truly." Balthazar waved importantly at himself, to illustrate his point.

Castiel was still quite alarmed, and as such was ready to hear Balthazar's plan. "How? Ezekiel has yet to find Eden." He'd long ago directed his elder brother into searching out Jophiel, the powerful Seraph who stood guard over the infamous garden, but that quest was proving futile. Bartholomew was torturing prisoners of the enemy, Samandriel was seeking help amongst the penitents, and Rachel was commanding his army while he stood here with Balthazar and plotted their next move. All avenues had been met with failure, and so when Balthazar said he had something new for them to sink their teeth into, Castiel practically pounced. "Your expression says I will hate it, but at this point one of your schemes may be just what we need."

"Oh, Cas. I'm flattered." Balthazar grinned easily and spread his arms, as if the answer were obvious. "The weapons."

Dismayed and observably disappointed, Castiel set his jaw and looked sidelong at his brother. "You mean the weapons you stole and were careless with? Careless enough so that Balam somehow got his hands on Joshua's Horn and decimated a great number of my men?"

Balthazar had the decency to look chagrinned, but he shook his head. "That was a mistake. Even still, the nukes I've kept safely tucked away are enough to make Joshy's Horn look like a bloody kazoo." The angel was confident now again, his coy smile growing. One of his eyebrows lifted just slightly. "We play snatch and grab."

"From your own hiding place?"

"You'd better believe Raphael has eyes under every stone—especially if he's scored himself a new bag of bones. We go traipsing after my secret stash, he's bound to notice. When that kind of power gets woke, it rings a bloody dinner bell."

Castiel appeared skeptical, but was willing to hear his brother out. "Tell me this plan."

Balthazar's tone took on a warning note, despite those twinkling eyes. "Don't know if you're going to like it…"

Impatient and not bothering to hide it, Castiel allowed his stare to bore into the other angel with a trace of threat. "Just tell me, Balthazar."

His brother smirked a bit as he fiddled with his scotch glass. "Ever heard of a battle tactic called a feint, Cas?"

"Of course I have." Castiel seemed annoyed at the implication that he might not. "It involves drawing the attention of the enemy to an area in battle with little import. At which time, the offensive strategy can take place without interruption." Balthazar looked at his brother pointedly, suggestively. Castiel's frown only deepened. "What are you saying?"

"We stage a distraction and send Raphael and company on a wild goose chase, while you get the weapons." Balthazar took great care to put a hand over his own heart in false humility. "With yours truly leading the way, of course."

Digesting the idea, Castiel was nodding intently, eyes down in thought. "This sounds promising." He peered at Balthazar in veiled hopefulness. "What distraction did you have in mind?"

Balthazar in turn grew mildly hesitant. "This is the part you're not going to like," he admitted, reluctant to say what he'd planned. He waited a couple more beats, then came out with it. "The Winchesters."

Immediately, Castiel's face showed complete aversion. "No," he said. Intense and meaningful in a way that was borne out of complete protectiveness, Castiel drew himself up to his full height. "They won't be used in that way. It's too dangerous."

A bit impatient, Balthazar sighed loftily and looked at the scene around them. "Do you want to win the war or not, Cassie?" Deeply abiding guilt showed in his brother's face, and Balthazar jabbed a finger down onto the table and pressed his advantage. "Then this is how. We need those weapons, and you know we do." Overhead, seagulls swooped past the glass of the skylight, their squawking cries filling the new silence as the party lost steam. When Castiel still said nothing, only looked down at the table unseeingly, Balthazar continued in his efforts to convince him. "I've got it all thought out—I've done my research, I promise you that. Yes, there's a slight risk to the boys, but it's nothing they can't handle. They've surmounted the bloody Morning Star, for Dad's sake, a few holy henchman will be nothing." Balthazar chanced a roguish, self-assured grin. "It'll practically be a vacation for them." His easygoing demeanor was not matched by Castiel. Giving up on his more playful attempts, Balthazar became serious. "If this can give you the upper hand, why not risk it?"

Castiel's eyes snapped up to his brother balefully. "Because I don't want to risk them."

Not to mention that if he was off on some critical mission that required every ounce of his concentration, he wouldn't be there if she called for him. Things had settled some since he'd told her to bide her time, but even still. Disasters happened, and they happened fast. What if Crowley found her? What if the witch on her heels contrived a way past all his careful wards? What if Raphael or his own followers somehow discovered their affair and decided to have her killed as punishment to him for coveting something he should never have?

What if she needed him? Would he go to her? Would he abandon his post? Would he even hear her—given that Balthazar rarely hid his valuables in convenient dimensions? The humanity of these emotions escaped him.

Sighing chidingly, Balthazar seemed almost to read into Castiel's thoughts and gave his brother a patronizing look. "Cas, Cas, Cas… the time of wants is sadly past. The time of action is upon us. I can assure you, the reward will outweigh the risk."

Not convinced, Castiel stayed stony and silent. His eyes were piercing, testing and probing and clearly wondering if it were the right course of action.

Balthazar was contrite—he knew he'd wronged his brother in the past, and he did wish to atone. "Let me make up for my mistakes, once and for all," he requested, an earnest warmth leaking into his voice. "Just say yes, and the weapons are yours. I'll take care of the lying-to-their-faces part, and you don't have to get your hands dirty. This will work. I vow it to you on my own existence." There was more uncertain silence from Castiel, and Balthazar couldn't understand why his brother was so hesitant. "Cas, you need these weapons."

A weary sigh fell from Castiel's parted lips. "I know that I do."

Deep in thought, the angel in the trenchcoat and skewed tie deliberated for a terse, prolonged moment. Dark brows pushed towards each other as he weighed his options and considered the lives at stake.

"Balthazar, if any of them are harmed at all…" he trailed off, very loath to continue onward with that thought. He certainly couldn't tell the other angel about his relationship—association—with the demon Meg. The mere notion that she would be alone in the wake of his absence was troubling enough, and while the Winchesters might be on a vacation, she would be open to attack. She was one soldier against the entire populace of Hell. The odds were not in her favor at all, and she had too few allies and too many out for her head.

Balthazar smiled a little at his brother, whose concern for the humans was unique—some said it freakish, at best. "Not a hair on their heads, Cas old boy. Your pets will be safe where I send them… if a little emotionally disturbed." A muscle jumped in Castiel's already tight jaw. His struggle was marked and vast, and Balthazar didn't see the issue or why his leader had to even think about it. Win the war, by the simple act of dangling those two apes as bait. They'd be fine, and even if they weren't, there were plenty of angels who could bring humans back from the dead—Castiel included. What was the dilemma? Prompting his brother out of his silence, Balthazar asked, "Do you trust me, or no?"

Castiel's conflicted gaze rose slowly up to his. He looked upset with himself and very trapped, forced into a scenario he hated. However, he was also quite resigned. "Tell me what to do," he said heavily.

A slow, delighted smile spread across Balthazar's face. He reached out, clapping him once on the side of the arm with enthusiasm. "Right choice, Cassie. Right choice."

Somewhere, a champagne bottle popped and a cork sailed high.

---

afraid to lose control
and caught up in this world
I've wasted time, I've wasted breath
I think I've thought myself to death

---

Drenched and pissed, Meg put her shoulder into the stubborn door and barged her way into her most recent motel room. It was raining like a bitch outside and, not unlike a cat, Meg hated getting wet when it wasn't on her own terms. It had been storming for days, with no end in sight, and she was ready to get the hell out of this town.

"You used the door."

The voice materialized at her side, and Meg turned her head to see Castiel standing at the window, staring out at the rain. She kicked off her sodden boots, which cost her another two inches in height, and padded over to the kitchenette. "Why do you say that like someone just steamrolled your puppy?"Castiel had no answer and she began wringing out her hair in the rusty sink. "Been trying to cut back on the whack-a-mole entrances," she said. "Easier to hide when you put the demon juice under a lid."

"Mm."

Meg paused in her task, dark eyes finding him in the shadows of the room. She reached over and switched on the light, flooding the room with illumination. "Something's on your mind."

"A lot of things."

"That narrows it down." She disappeared momentarily into the bathroom, discarding her jacket over the shower rail to dry. "Not gonna make me carve it out of you, are ya?" she called out to him.

The teasing undercurrent of her voice helped his fitfulness to settle, and Castiel glanced at her briefly when she stepped back into the room. "It's… Dean and Sam are…"

"What?"

Castiel thought better of what he was going to say, aborting that line of discussion. That didn't stop the Winchesters' livid prayers from filling his head or their blustery insults from reaching his ears. "Nothing. It doesn't matter." They were very, very angry with him. Castiel did his best to ignore it. "The mission was successful."

He had told Meg about his endeavor to secure the weapons of Heaven, and she frankly was surprised he hadn't gone after them sooner. However, after he'd explained the risks associated with a recovery mission of this caliber, she'd told him he was fucking nuts, but good luck.

Meg stopped what she was doing. "You mean you got the weapons?"

"Yes."

"Holy shit," she said. Her interest was snared as she waited for him to go on.

"It will take time to move them and siphon their power, but for now we wait for the field to clear."

"When do you take back Heaven then?" she asked, moving over to him.

"What do you mean?"

"You've got the weapons. Wasn't that your big ace in the hole?"

Castiel hesitated, turning away from her probing gaze to look out the window and into the storm. "I have another… ace in the hole. The process is nearing completion. Once I have this final thing, then I'll be ready."

Well, that was a curveball.

Meg allowed a single eyebrow to quirk at this new development. "I'll assume you didn't mean for that to sound as ominous as it did."

Though she had flipped on the lights, Castiel was still wreathed in shadow. The rain played secrets across the surface of his eyes, and the sudden crack of thunder pulled the demon's focus.

"Your cousins having a bowling tournament up there, or what? It's been storming for the past three days."

"The climate patterns are being affected by the skirmishes in Heaven," Castiel explained, toneless. His shoulders moved around a sigh. "Many prayers complain about the weather."

"I'd complain, too," she said, baiting him so that he'd pull out of his funk. "If I didn't think it'd get me smote on the spot, that is. Do you have any idea what rain does to leather?"

Her catty smile drew a faintly amused smirk out of him, and Meg supposed that was as good as she was going to get. Turning away from him and anxious to get out of her wet clothes, she pulled her tank top over her head so she could wring it out in the sink like she had with her hair. "So, if the ninja turtle wins, he vaporizes your little God Squad and the planet?"

Castiel glanced over his shoulder briefly, eyes tracking his companion as she moved about the room in her jeans and bra. "Yes. There are other things Raphael strives towards, even with the apocalypse being at the forefront of his priorities. Things would get unspeakably worse though if he were actually able to…"

The words stalled on his tongue, throat closing up around them as instinct told him to parse what he said around her.

"Able to what, Castiel?" Dark eyes were locked on his, her voice gone somewhat flat as she recognized his refusal to tell her. "Break Lucifer out of the Cage?" At Castiel's tense and very grave expression, Meg's smirking reply was rueful. "Can't say I blame you for battening down the hatches on that tiny detail."

Lucifer is just using demons to achieve an end, and once he does… he'll destroy you all.

Castiel's voice filled her head, his words from their first meeting in Carthage once again repeating in her head as it had for weeks after she'd been cast into the flames. Try as she might to ignore it, the words still taunted her to this day. What was worse was that a fraction of her twisted soul had the nerve to question her master even then, to wonder if the trapped angel with the pretty frown was right.

Feeling vulnerable in front of him now, she shoved the thoughts away with a wink and artificial smile. "Relax, angel. Not like there's anyone for me to run and tell."

Castiel watched as she tossed her shirt at the end of the bed and began rooting around in the various drawers of the shoddy nightstand. Meg wasn't the only one with recurring memories of that day.

We're going to Heaven, Clarence!

"Lucifer promised to take you to Heaven," he said quietly, realization finding him at last. With some new understanding, he stared at the pale line of her back and felt something approaching compassion. "You wanted to see Heaven."

The demon had gone tense as a spring under those words, but when she spoke again her voice was perfectly casual. She even chuckled as she resumed her fruitless search. "I'd be careful painting me with any nobility—you'll just end up disappointed. And you can keep your precious attic. Trust me, the constant pissing matches are a huge turn off." She slammed the drawer shut suddenly in mild outburst. "Just like this fucking motel for not having any clothes lying around. What kind of overnight, by the hour, shithole doesn't at least have a spare tee shirt—"

She whirled around in frustration, and Castiel was suddenly beside her. His trenchcoat was gone from his shoulders, held out for her to take.

At her cool look of surprise, he said, "It's quite warm." Meg did nothing, so he elaborated a bit more. "You were making a lot of noise. I could hear the couple next door calling the front desk to complain."

There was a soft, speculative sound as she accepted the coat. "Well, I'm a little tongue-tied, Clarence. Not used to you putting clothes on me." She looked up at him again, seeing that his eyes were already set on her.

"You're a peculiar demon," he said thoughtfully. "I can't say I've ever come across another with such a docile idiosyncrasy."

"Oh?" Meg asked archly. "And what idiosyncrasy is that?"

Castiel watched her pull the coat over her slight body, and it practically swallowed her. The sight was somehow very pleasant. "You don't like getting wet."

Meg raised an eyebrow, withholding some crude rejoinder. She stepped forward so that her small feet were just between his own, and stared up into his face. "I don't like getting rained on. There's a difference."

"I'm certain there is."

Humming, Meg reached up to part the folds of his coat just a sliver more, eyes dropping to indicate her still-wet jeans. "Don't suppose you wanna dry these for me?" she asked. "The old-fashioned way is just so boring. Unless you'd prefer having a naked demon snuggle up with your favorite coat."

Her impish smile was further proof that no good would come of answering that.

With dry regard and a tinge of affectionate exasperation, Castiel lifted his hands and slid them over her hips. Meg peered up into his face as his focus centered on their point of contact and the hands pressed against her grew decidedly warm. They emitted a soft light, grace humming as his power began to erase that feeling of dampness.

"That's a nice parlor trick, Clarence."

Castiel made a quiet sound of acknowledgment, thumb brushing over the skin at the waistband of her jeans. His eyes traveled up the milky expanse of her stomach, over the scars, the black lace that covered the curve of her breasts and the talisman necklace that rested between them. There was a sense of calm starting to override the tension hanging between them, one that he didn't want to sever just yet, and, sighing, he returned his eyes to the floor.

"Don't be so polite," she murmured, fingers playing at the ends of his shirt. "You'll make a girl blush." Or believe she's worth something. "I prefer an angel who knows what he wants."

Castiel raised his eyes to meet hers, hand sliding a little higher until it rested over the curve of her waist. Damp tendrils of hair framed her apple face, falling over the shoulders of his coat she wore so convincingly. "Is what I want such a mystery?" he asked.

"I don't know," Meg intoned softly, dark eyes sparkling up at him. "Sometimes you look like you wanna turn me into an ash tray."

Impulsively, perhaps even to prove a point, Castiel closed the small distance between them and laid his lips over hers. The kiss was chaste and lingered only a moment, but it was enough to wipe the smirk from her face.

"What was that for?" she asked, only after he'd drawn away. Meg wondered if she sounded as suspicious to him as she did to herself.

"I wondered what it would feel like with no clear motive in mind."

"Hm."

Castiel carefully weighed the moment as it hung in the air between them, so as not to misread a single glance. Meg was the one avoiding his gaze now, but she hadn't withdrawn either. "Should I not have?"

Meg cleared her throat, sultry veneer piecing itself back together. "Demons are for killing, Castiel," she said beneath a lurking smile. "Didn't they teach you that at bible camp?"

"So are angels," he pointed out.

She humored that notion, a curious look overcoming her face. "It's strange we haven't tried to kill each other yet," the demon admitted.

"I threw you into fire."

"Yeah, but you didn't finish me off."

"I—" Castiel broke off, considering her words. He'd been ready to argue, but thought better of it as he realized the truth in her statement. "I didn't, you're right."

"Always am."

"Hardly," he muttered, even as a smile twitched the very corner of his mouth.

That smile was immediately wiped away at the sudden summons that pulled on his gut. All trace of previous contentment fell from his face, replaced by grim contempt.

"You look like you just ate something grody."

Meg's brow was knit in suspicion as Castiel began to pull away. He shook his head, frowning deeply. "I'm being called."

"Winchesters?"

"No. I'm needed in Heaven. I have to go."

His brusque tone lent the notion that whatever awaited him would not be pleasant. "What about your duds?" she asked, plucking at the ends of his coat. "You look practically naked like that, and this is coming from someone who's seen you naked."

"I'll return for it later," he said, needing to go before his summoner grew impatient and came looking for him.

His wings spread, but something made Castiel steal one last look at the demon wearing his coat.

Her hands had wrapped it tighter around herself, and she looked almost at home in it. Against his better judgment, the angel allowed himself the smallest window of time to consider the history they were forging together. How it began in flame, and would so likely end. It was no coincidence that it burned when they touched—from the very start of it all until now. When grace met darkness and angel kissed demon.

But Castiel was mired along the path of the deceiver. A place where not even Meg could follow.

He should never have looked back.

---

you're like a dagger
and stick me in the heart
taste the blood from my blade
and when we sleep, would you shelter me
in your warm and darkened grave

---

Therefore, whoever desires peace, let him prepare for war.

It was not Heaven that summoned him.

With no amount of eagerness and only dark foreboding, Castiel answered the call. Almost immediately, he found himself in a dim warehouse littered with trash. No one seemed to be there, and the angel was temporarily confused. Then, behind him, he heard the familiar voice.

"Cas, old buddy."

Castiel turned sharply, never happy to see the King of Hell, but the guilt weighing on him so heavily made him especially uncivil this time.

Crowley appeared marginally flummoxed at what he was seeing. "Where's your coat?"

"My wardrobe doesn't concern you."

Crowley huffed at the sour greeting, affronted. "Well, to hell with you then."

Castiel glanced around, surveying the area. Why were they meeting here? He'd assumed Crowley would have found a new headquarters by now instead of this empty and derelict building that was more likely to collapse in on them than anything. Leery, he narrowed his eyes. "What is this place?"

The King chuckled, sauntering over and looking up and around the place fondly. "My, I don't know. I suppose I'm hesitant to show off the new domicile to you, since you turned my last one into a bloody parking lot at those two lumberjacks' behest."

Not in the mood for Crowley's already virulent mood, Castiel just glared. "Those creatures were milked of their worth, you said it yourself. If I left them alive and they'd somehow escaped? Gotten out into the world? What then? Dean and Sam would have noticed, and surely they'd start asking questions I can't answer."

"Don't play the logic card on me, naked Columbo. Let's not forget who the brains of this outfit happens to be."

"What do you want?"

"What do I want?" Crowley asked, feigning innocence. "I just wanted to remind you of our little arrangement."

Castiel's face remained hard and unfriendly. "I haven't forgotten."

"Is that so?" The demon was by all appearances calm and conversational. "Well, just for starters, let's rewind a bit to the last time you bothered to show up in person. I'd like to know what, exactly, you were thinking," Crowley began, voice low and smooth… until suddenly he was flying into a fit of rage: "when you chauffeured the Winchesters and that little whore to our sodding old stomping grounds?!" The ringing silence was a stark contrast to the shouted outburst, echoing in the huge space, and Crowley fixed the stony angel with a critically admonishing look.

Castiel grew angry at the demon's audacity. Crowley was not his superior, and when he spoke as if he was, Castiel felt ancient fury boil in his veins. Crowley still refused to let the events at the old prison go—worse, he seemed to view Castiel as an apprentice of sorts in need of guidance on proper villainy.

You're still just Castiel.

He was not a villain. He wasn't.

"I was thinking that I was playing along," he replied hostilely. "The demon was in league with Sam and Dean by the time I arrived. Other than that, I made certain they believed your death, didn't I? What else was I supposed to do?"

Face twisted into an ugly, sarcastic expression, Crowley just sneered. "Oh, I don't know. Stayed away, like I told you? How about not answering their bloody calls to begin with? You were supposed to arrive in the nick of time to save those damn hunters, not show up in the middle of the eleventh hour. If not for your untimely intervention, that little thorn in my side would have been a snack for my hounds and done for good."

"You strayed from the plan—by sending hellhounds and involving the Campbells."

Ignoring the angel's bluster entirely, Crowley leaned closer and his voice took on a soft, warning tone. "Let me be blunt with you, trenchcoat. You can't be flitting down to earth and traipsing about with the boys right now. You can't be going 'round for a visit whenever the mood strikes. The more time you spend around the Winchesters, the more you risk them finding out about the dirty little details of our partnership. No house calls. You're distracted, even now. And it's sure as hell more than some simple feud with the boys. More than whatever dog's breakfast is happening upstairs." Crowley paced a slow circle around Castiel, who was getting stormier by the second. The demon shook his head, disgusted. "Christ, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you had a girlfriend."

Castiel bristled, saying nothing. He forged an expression of annoyance, of indifference. Crowley seemed to have composed himself, temper fizzing out, but he lost none of his gravity.

"Back on point. The Winchesters start asking questions… like you said yourself, those questions will require answers. They keep digging, and they'll find out I never owned Sam's soul in the first place. They keep prodding, and everything we've so carefully put into motion comes crashing down. Do you see the problem now?" There was a long, tense silence and Castiel, resigned and reluctant, understood that Crowley had a point. "They'll find out about what you and I are doing with Purgatory, mate…" Crowley's expression was serious. "They won't stand for it. They'll turn on you in a steaming second. Mark my words."

Castiel mulled over such a notion with trepidation, feeling suddenly restless. "They're my friends."

"Please." Crowley despaired at Castiel's naivety. Once more he invaded the angel's space, intense and trying to get him to wake up and listen to reason. "The beans get spilled, Purgatory might as well be Atlantis. They'll muck it up. They will tear it down, and then Raphael takes you to the slaughterhouse."

"I have the weapons."

"The weapons don't help me, Castiel. And it's not going to be enough for you, either. Deep down, you know it." Crowley shook his head. "Don't count on those bloody nukes, it'll bite you in the ass."

Castiel hesitated, considering Crowley's words. He knew it was what the humans called the moral gray area, what he was doing—partnering with the King of Hell to find and open a gate to the realm of monsters. To use the souls therein to defeat his own brother. But it was all a means to an end. A preferable means to an end? No, but it was the only way Castiel knew to stop the apocalypse from restarting. The Winchesters would want that, too. "Dean and Sam are reasonable," he said slowly, still in deep thought. "If I explain to them…"

"Is there no bottom to your ignorance?" Crowley asked, cutting him off. "These are the Winchesters. It's Captain America and Dudley Do Right. They find out you're working with me… our little arrangement? Trust me… when that happens, they won't be calling you friend."

Castiel knew the demon was ultimately right. That Dean especially would not stand for what Castiel was doing in the dark, in secret. He wondered briefly, hoping, if he might confide in Meg, but immediately thought better of it. She would react perhaps even worse than Dean would. For some reason, Meg despised the King of Hell more than he and Dean combined. She would hate him. She would revile him. Strangely, that thought upset him. It left Castiel with a miserable pit in his gut he rushed to ignore.

Still… lying to her, to all of them, felt abhorrent.

"Inter arma enim silent leges. Finis coronat opus. Good out of evil. Don't lose steam on me now, partner." As if reading into the angel's disposition, Crowley concluded, "They simply can't know. It has to stay a secret."

Castiel looked at him sharply, jaw clenched tight. He felt cornered and, as a result, defiant. "I tire of secrets."

"Cry me a river," Crowley said, disinterested, but then a sly smile grew on his face. It was one of pride. "You and I both know you've gotten good at keeping them, haven't you?" The demon turned smug, speaking again with more grandeur. "We're all enemies here. Each more a Judas than the last."

Castiel said nothing for a long moment, simply letting his glare say things he had no energy to speak aloud. Then, over the encounter and angry at how true everything Crowley had said was, the angel turned to go. "We're done here."

Crowley's soft, pleased chuckle paused him momentarily. "Why do you seem so surprised that this is a torrid little thing you and I've got going, hmm? You should have known." Castiel turned a little to look at Crowley with hard eyes. The demon waggled his eyebrows up knowingly. "That's just what you get, isn't it? Partnering with a demon."

Yes. He supposed it was.

The notion was toxic, forcing his mind elsewhere, and his reflections turned to the other torrid relationship in his life. His affair with Meg was something he often found himself thinking about, never able to rationalize or explain it, even to just himself. He knew it was wrong, of course he did. But no longer did he dread the moments spent shared with her. He almost looked forward to them now. They had their ups and downs—more the latter than the former, but even so. Not only did they serve as an idyllic reprieve from the stress and desolation that came from war and having to deceive those he cared about, they also afforded him comfort. It was absurdly perverse, but Meg was… becoming important to him.

Perhaps that was the problem, as Crowley's words had planted a seed of doubt.

Castiel did not enjoy his time spent with the King of Hell, but with Meg he very much did. Especially lately. That, in all likelihood, was where he'd gone wrong. Meg felt… safe, in a way. But only because of his aversion to Crowley. What if he had no interaction with Hell's sovereign? Would he still feel the same about lying with a demon?

Was this where he'd gone wrong? Was this the beginning of an even darker path? After all, the greatest temptations were sins sought after and pursued. Partnering with Crowley was wrong, but he never enjoyed it. His relationship to Meg was very different. Not to mention that… Crowley was right.

Castiel was distracted.

Enjoying the angel's growing temper and guilt, Crowley milked it in his typical fashion. "I can see you're suffering a real stumper, I'll leave you to it. See you again when your next dose of super juice runs out."

Wordlessly, Castiel left the place before Crowley even could, righteous anger and a feeling of self-loathing coursing through him. What exactly was he doing? With Crowley, with Heaven, this bizarre affair with Meg… well, at least with Crowley and Heaven he had an answer. He knew what he was doing there, or at least trying to do. The right thing, he thought. He hoped. With Meg, it was completely indulgent, possibly selfish. But again, as it always did, the thought of purposely keeping the truth from Dean and Sam, even from Meg… it made him feel wrong. He didn't want to have to lie to any of them, but Crowley was right. The more time Castiel spent with the Winchesters, even with Meg, the more risk of them finding out what he was doing. He could already tell that Meg knew he was up to something more than simply restoring Heaven and preventing a new armageddon. Still, the more he saw them, the more he would have to lie to protect himself to ensure that the plan to open Purgatory wouldn't be derailed. Being away from the boys was upsetting enough, but… more and more, the thought of being away from the demon with the smoky eyes and sharp smiles became harder to bear. Whatever time they'd been apart already was starting to feel too long. If it were up to Castiel, he would… well, the thought disturbed him. Mostly because his thoughts on the matter were more pleasant than they had any right to be.

He thought he might never leave her, given the choice.

But the war. His duties. The things that chained him to Heaven. As always, those things awaited.

---

the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
drunk and driven by a devil's hunger
into the water, let it pull him under
don't you lift him, let him drown alive

---

Three weeks passed without any contact between them. Twenty-one days. In that window of time, Castiel withdrew from not only the desires that had taken over him, both physical and emotional, but also from Meg herself. From the Winchesters. From everything. Earth became a memory, and he hadn't returned to it since. Not even for his coat, despite that he was somehow at odds without it. Crowley's parting words had burrowed too deep and continued to gnaw at him in those days, refusing him respite or selfish pursuits. The angel had been called on, prayed for, and phoned by both the demon and the hunters, but he didn't answer. Crowley, as much as it was painful to admit, was not wrong. Connections… distractions cost lives. They were an endangerment. More, they were a weakness he could not afford.

However, Castiel was in desperate need of a distraction right now.

Don't be reckless—words always spoken to Meg, it was a lecture not uncommon, but one he should have heeded himself. The extraction mission had been impulsive and bred from the heart. Yet another path he knew better to avoid, and yet ignored. Rachel thankfully had escaped, and she at least knew better than to come back for him. Unlike some, she still knew how to operate as a proper angel, a good soldier. His army would be in capable hands.

Even so, that likely wouldn't make a difference. No matter how he hoped otherwise, Castiel couldn't shed the forlorn realization that the war would be over regardless, should he perish here. Especially with this most recent defeat.

"The weapons belong once again to Heaven." The flat voice pierced through his ringing head, emotionless as a stone. "Now, you will tell us this strategy you are building against Raphael."

His faction's efforts would be fruitless without those weapons, and without him they would truly be doomed.

"You know that I won't."

Castiel kept his voice calm despite the pain, his face as impassive as he could manage. Still, his attention strayed elsewhere to the slaughtered brothers and sisters just meters away. Dark wings lay scorched into the cold cement, where a small flurry of ashen feathers still gathered. They had been some of his bravest soldiers. These angels who believed in him, fought with him to their death and for a cause they barely understood.

He remembered their begging cries, calling out for him, and then ultimately their silence as they were murdered at his feet. He tried to shake the memory, retreating from those images, but they were branded into his skull. It was a grief too familiar, and all he seemed capable of holding these days. Castiel was accustomed to it now, as the last several years had brought him his fair share of it. Pain, though, had never been unknown to him. Being a warrior for Heaven meant living and breathing the sensation, especially in battle. At times, even in torture.

Similar to the tribulation he knew now.

This pain, however, was different. It was brighter, so much sharper, and felt with an intensity that was blinding. It was experienced on a level that would send a human being mad just before their body burned to ash. Every secret corner of his mind reeled with inconsolable ache, and only through great effort did Castiel resist the tempting pull of unconsciousness.

The chains rendered the flesh of his vessel raw and bloody within the shackles, but that was trivial in comparison. A fond memory when weighed against the unthinkable suffering he knew now.

Three spears, by his count. It felt like more.

It felt like his grace was ripping itself apart at the seams. Castiel drew in a ragged breath and looked around the room he was in, as much as his bindings would allow, and realized it had once been a church. Holy and sacred, a place of worship for Father before it had been defiled by this barbaric practice.

Irony, he supposed. Angels seemed to have a knack for it.

There was the faintest echo of God's presence in the shadows, in the dust, in the frame of the building itself. Even in the state of ruin it knew now, there was holiness. That should have been enough to give Castiel a measure of comfort in his current situation, but instead it brought him only more grief. It was a reminder of how alone he was. Here, in this destitute place, betrayed by his own kin in the midst of a war that never would have begun if Father hadn't left.

Castiel's wrists and legs were chained, the brick wall cold at his back. There were three binding spears shoved into his bones, draining his blood and his power with alarming speed. He struggled against the toxic effects, but such magic was insurmountable for any angel. It was how they'd trapped him so successfully. Even ensuing his recent consumption of new souls, that power was already tattered and shorn. With each labored breath, Castiel's throat caught painfully, his bright eyes dimming as the taint spread through him. His blade was too far away, left with the assortment of other instruments which sat guarded by a second enemy angel. Castiel tried calling it forth, but without his power, it didn't respond to him.

"You will tell us," Ion repeated, harsher than before.

"No."

Two more angels flanked his interrogator; Daniel and Adina. Castiel knew their names but was determined to forget them. They had forsaken him in every way, forsaken the kin who lay dead at their feet. There had been seven more of Raphael's men, but in victory they had returned to Heaven for debriefing.

"He will burn you out," Ion said. "Raphael will show no mercy for silence."

"Then summon him, and let this be done."

Ion's expression grew fierce, a grave disappointment shining through that marble veneer. "You are our brother no longer, Castiel. You are wretched as the beasts beneath us, and you belong in the Pit. No…" he said then, thinking better of it. "You belong in the Cage."

Castiel said nothing, although the accusation stung almost as keenly as the magic shredding him to pieces.

Behind them, Daniel stepped forward, plucking a new spear from the velvet case. The weapon was ornate, riddled with Enochian sigilism and scripture, black as coal to the naked eye but steaming with poison to the heavenly host. Damaged as he was, Castiel could still sense its awful power. The sight brought him unease, and it sent dread shuddering through his body beneath the outward bitterness he wore.

The spear was handed to Ion as Daniel spoke. "Let us see how that angelic voice sounds when it's screaming and begging."

Vision darkening at the corners, hurting, Castiel tried to brace himself as best he could. Ion approached him, holding up the barbed point between them.

"Nothing to say, still?"

Receiving no response, he drove the spear into Castiel's side with a sharp thrust and watched as blue eyes lit up with pain.

Composure shattering, Castiel fought to maintain his stoic front. His jaw quivered and his entire body began to shake as white, blistering hot heat radiated from the new wound. This was a torment he had never wished to know. It eradicated all thought and restraint, what discipline he had falling away like rain. Tears filled his eyes from the sheer strength of it as Ion twisted the spear just a little more, watching as blood ran from the wound and covered the sanctified metal. Castiel gritted his teeth against the yell building in his throat as his power was stripped away slowly, strand by strand. The pain was so intense, so vivid, that he couldn't remember ever feeling anything else. His grace struggled against the damage being inflicted on it, slamming against the walls of the body he wore. A sharp ringing outburst from his true voice slipped through and every window in the building shattered.

"Another," Ion said tonelessly, extending a hand.

A fifth spear was placed in his palm and Ion took the golden hilt in a firm grasp. He watched pitilessly as dark lines crept up Castiel's throat from beneath the open collar. They resembled a patchwork of twisted vines, evidence of the awful battle taking place inside his host.

"Do you know the disappointment we felt? When you declared war on our home?"

"Where is that arrogant talk of freedom now?" wondered Daniel spitefully. Had he only known the taste of freedom himself, he might have spoken differently.

"He deserves this," said Adina.

"Freedom does not belong to angels," Ion went on. "It is beyond you. And it has led you to rot."

There was no reply. Only a fraught, quiet moan as grace tried futilely to reassemble itself.

Ion drove the next spear into his chest this time, feeling it slide between ribs and slice into a lung. The weapon was true to its purpose and sent shockwaves of ancient decimation through him, renting and tearing his grace apart as the others had before it. Castiel's eyes abruptly flared bright as another layer of his power was crushed.

Blood began to fill his throat from the wound before spilling over his lips and down his chin. A hitching, wet gasp slipped from him as Ion pushed the spear in deeper and the edges kissed bone. Castiel's body spasmed, all color draining completely from his face. A second quake tore through the building and rattled the very foundations under the weight of his angelic voice.

"Tell us, Castiel! What is this war machine? What is this new weapon? You will tell us!"

Castiel clamped his jaw shut and closed his eyes, fighting back a cry with whatever last vestiges of strength he had. He wouldn't scream. He would not. Just some time, he only needed a moment. The smallest distraction…

The blood welling up in his throat was choking him as he coughed, heart pounding frantically in a staggered beat that was starting to struggle and fail. Blue eyes were beginning to dull again as the body he was trapped in died around him. "Another," Castiel rasped out, weakly lifting his head so that he could face his brother with a defiant stare.

The angels would assume it a final act of rebellion. Not see it for the misdirect it was.

Sure enough, Ion scowled at the deliberate provocation, all too eager to fulfill Castiel's wish. The suited angel turned his back on him, reaching for the last spear himself. Castiel had already bowed his head, whispering the incantation under his breath. His voice was so battered it made barely a sound, but there was an arcane power embedded in the words—words so wrong and foreign to a son of Heaven.

"Daemon, ipsa subiecto voluntati meam. Amarantha, ligandum eos partier coram me. Ego postulo auxilium tuum."

It was not a direct summoning, but she would hear. Whether or not she responded was her decision to make.

Either way, soon it wouldn't matter. Castiel was fading.

Ion turned back on him a moment later, angrier than before as they were running out of leverage. He snarled and clamped a hand around Castiel's neck, bringing their faces a mere few inches apart. "Perhaps we should rip out your grace completely," he decided then.

This time, without even waiting for a reply that would never come, Ion dropped the spear and shoved his hand through the fragile barrier of Castiel's vessel. It tore and ripped through flesh, striking home at the very core, the very spirit of his estranged brother. Cruel fingers gripped at the light he found there, pulsating like a heartbeat, and pulled.

Castiel's head snapped up, eyes screwing shut against an anguished gasp. He tried to retreat, but he had no strength left anymore. A deep growl of agony rolled through his broken chest at the horrid sensation of his very essence being torn from him. It was everything Castiel was, and the quickly spreading emptiness as his grace was stolen from within, each tenuous tendril snapping free… felt like utter desolation. Nothing but bitter cold as his connection to Heaven nearly became severed.

"Get the fuck away from him," a voice said suddenly.

The calm intonation was as deadly as an archangel's blade, slithering over every ear and bringing a chill to the desolate house of worship. All trace of holy remnant fled on a swift wind from the sinister presence. Ion abandoned his judgment, attention shifting over his shoulder as he turned away from Castiel. All three angels were shocked to see that there was now a demon in the room with them. They exchanged puzzled looks between each other, unable to comprehend this new development. The notion of fear didn't even occur to them, but it would soon.

Meg stood at the furthest end of the room, tempest personified. Her smoke curled and snapped around her in a violent gale, eyes gone black and fierce. Her gaze had found who it was looking for, and what it saw there made her blood boil. Castiel hung limply in chains, his head down and blood dripping from his mouth and body into a thick pool on the floor. Meg saw red.

"Who's first?" she asked foully, surveying the room and silently absorbing every miniscule detail.

The confusion had dissolved from the other angels in the room, replaced by wintry indifference. "Kill it," Ion said dispassionately.

Meg decided he would be last.

With ferocious and lethal force, she began laying into the angels. Castiel's blade was grabbed from the nearby stand in a blur of speed, the holy steel arching fast. It sliced through Adina's throat before the angel could even register danger, light spilling into the darkness of the room as her face went slack with shock. Meg didn't wait for retaliation. A split second later she already had the point of the weapon slamming up into Adina's chest. Grace poured from the wound and exploded outward at the killing blow, the angel's scream forgotten as Meg was already engaging the next one standing in her way.

Daniel attacked before she could withdraw the blade, his hand rushing to smite her. Meg ducked his reach, the two of them trading blows before she threw out a hand, calling the dropped spear from across the room. There was no time to worry if it might hurt her the way it had Castiel. Whatever it was, it did a number on angels. The weapon skidded over the floor towards her and she toed it into her hand in the midst of disarming Daniel, who stumbled roughly under the force of her attack. Locking one hand into the angel's collar from behind, she used the other to drive the spear through his back and up into his spine.

Daniel gasped and immediately crashed to the floor, the bones of his knees cracking from the force. Inexplicably, the angel's grace stuttered out like a dying star, so dim she barely recognized him as an angel anymore. Seizing the opportunity that vulnerability presented, Meg snapped his vessel's neck and drowned him power. Daniel crumpled over completely, by all appearances dead.

Before she could pivot back, an iron grip closed around her neck and propelled her through the air like a ragdoll against the opposite wall. She hit the brick hard, barely keeping her feet under her when she dropped. Ion was already in front of her, blade bearing down. Meg twisted away, the point embedding deeply into the wall. Ion tore it free, bricks shattering loose and crumbling around them. Savage power flew out of the demon like a punch, slamming into the angel and raking invisible claws over its grace. The two forces brawled a bit, darkness and light clashing in an electrical storm.

Ion's blade descended again and angel and demon became locked together as Meg caught his wrist.

"Submit, fiend," Ion thundered down at her through gnashed teeth. His will poured over her, eating away at malevolent strength.

"No chance in hell," Meg hissed back, the sharpened teeth of her true face baring in a gruesome smile. With carnal authority, she began to recite a Latin chant. "Omnipotentis Dei potestatem invoco. Omnipotentis Dei potestatem invoco."

Ion's eyes widened to saucers at the crippling words and he staggered back a step. "No—"

Meg shoved him hard until his back hit the wall, overpowering him now. "Aborro te ut," she spat. Ion threw his head back, gasping out as light began to erupt from his eyes and mouth like liquid fire. Meg wrenched his blade away, tossing it across the room. "Angelum omnium obsequendum." His struggling became erratic and with a snarl, Meg pinned him to the spot by the throat. "Domine expuet!" She was relentless. Black eyes refused to shrink back from the inferno as the angel began to break free from the vessel it had claimed. "Domine expuet!"

Trespassing grace illuminated the entire room in a terrifying display. The building shook, dust and plaster raining around them. Lights above their heads started bursting.

"Deum adempiremus veritas!"

In a violent flash of white, Ion was expelled from his vessel and banished back to Heaven. Meg released the body that remained and it slid to the floor in a heap as the air around them settled. She stared down with disdain for a moment before extending that sour look to the other two bodies at her flank.

"Kumbaya, assholes."

The demon turned away from them and set her eyes on the angel in chains. Castiel was deathly still, his face downturned from her. If it wasn't for the tremble that had settled into his limbs and the soft, pained gasp as he tried to move, Meg might have feared the worst. He was silent as she approached, skin shining and feverish the closer she got to him. The blood loss didn't appear to have stopped, either.

"Hey," she tried, shaking him gently. There was a low sound for her efforts, but his shoulders barely even twitched. Meg thought of how quickly the ginger angel had gone down when she put just one of those rebar-looking things through him. Castiel had five. "Jesus, how nasty do these things bite?"

"Adphaht," he managed out, sounding almost delirious.

"You're not stuck in some cloudhoppy mumbo jumbo mode, are you?" Meg reached up and slid her hands over his face, tilting it so that she could see him. Castiel's skin was a worrying shade of gray, his eyes glassy and filled with pain as they flickered open. "Where's your language setting, Clarence?"

"Sorry," he murmured. "Everything scattered."

"Look at me. Hey."

It took much longer than it should have, but Castiel's eyes eventually focused on Meg's face and he gave a meager nod. "I am with you."

"Good. Keep it that way." Castiel's eyelids fluttered, his head lolling until she held him steady. "What the hell did they do to you?"

The demon glanced at the massacred mess that was his torso, hoping to catch some glimpse of the angel's miraculous healing powers returning, but his condition stayed the same. She suspected what would need to come next, and grimaced.

"Doesn't matter," he rasped. For the first time, Castiel seemed to realize the other angels were dead, discluding Ion who had been banished. Meg had dealt with them all, virtually weaponless. In those charged moments, her wrath had contested even the heavenly host. Through waning consciousness, stirrings of awe began to filter into his voice. "How… how did…"

"Baby, I've got a whole sleeve full of tricks you don't know about."

"Don't call me that."

"How do I get these out?" she asked, appraising the damage. A note of concern had leaked into her voice as she realized this was going to get messy.

Castiel's head fell back against the wall as he closed his eyes. "The painful way."

"Fun," Meg said wryly. She pursed her lips at the dirty work set out before her. "Say when."

"When…?"

She wrenched the first one out and Castiel screamed, voice catching hoarsely at the surprise burst of pain. Meg held him down against the wall as he instinctively tried to curl up around his wounds. "Don't move, don't move."

Even so, as the first one pulled free, the angel felt like he could breathe again. He sucked in a deep breath, savoring the relief it brought. At his back, wings quivered with similar contentment. Castiel reacted to the others with tight grunts as they were removed, eyes wired shut and jaw clenched, but for the most part each hurt less coming out than the one before.

By the end of it, he was panting and covered in sweat, but already he looked better than he had when she found him. He'd gotten some color back, and the ugly-looking lines around his neck seemed to have begun to fade.

Meg glanced over the last spear with an inquiring frown. "Why didn't I think of these? Clever." She tossed it away, turning her eyes back on the angel. "I hurt just looking at you."

Castiel made some noncommittal sound, leaning on her dependently as he sagged in the chains. The metal broke apart with a lazy flare of her power and clattered at their feet. Castiel swayed forward, bearings deserting him without the support of the shackles.

Meg caught him in her arms, keeping him upright. "Easy there, tough guy. You good to stand?"

"Fine."

Awareness began to slowly filter back, along with the angel's pride. It no longer felt as though he was choking up tar, for one thing, and there was something to that victory, however small. And whether the room continued to pitch around him or not. Still, as the saying went: he was far from out of the woods. The worst of it was soon to come.

"Uh huh." Meg was dubious at the very least. Not waiting for permission, she ducked under his arm to brace him and shoulder some of the weight. "Don't tell me you'd rather pull a Dumpty and drop flat on your face than ask for a helping beastie to lean on."

"I called on you."

"True," Meg admitted as they began to walk. She decided it would have just been easier to throw him over her shoulder like a holy sack of potatoes. Castiel might actually try to smite her if she did that, though. She stooped down a bit, plucking his blade from Adina's body. "Lose something else? First that damn coat, now your shiny toy. You're a hot mess, Clarence."

Castiel's breathing was ragged from the exertion of movement, but as he took in his dead captors, he managed a few words. "I am… impressed."

"Well now, that sounds an awful lot like 'thank you.'"

Castiel groaned, stumbling a bit and pausing to regain his footing. His head swam. "'Impressed' does not sound anything like 'thank you,'" he said after a moment. There was a pit in his stomach like something unpleasant had taken refuge there, chest still aching as though it were on fire.

Meg helped hitch his posture up a little higher as she kicked the door open. "Maybe you could humor the girl who just saved your ass," she grunted as they staggered out into the fresh air. "You're not gonna die on me, are you?"

"N… no."

"'Cause if anyone's gonna punch your ticket, Castiel, it'll be me."

"I said I'm…"

Once they were free of the building, Castiel finally gave in to the allure of unconsciousness and blacked out.

---

take me to church
I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
offer me my deathless death
good God, let me give you my life

---

Hands pinning him down, knives digging in.

A weight on his chest. He couldn't breathe.

Grace shrieking. Will crumbling. A tool poised over his eye. The bone-chilling whir of sound as it inched closer. What was this?

His own voice but different somehow shouting no, no, NO!

Hurts.

Loud, everything loud. He was a hurricane leashed to a shell of blood and bone and flesh, a comet—sound should not have had any sway over him. The vessel that held him was surely in the throes of death, wracked with tremors and too hot. So very hot.

The vision vanished, chased by many more. Each confusing and consuming.

Wings. Please, not his wings.

His own blood.

Father, I am here! Help me!

The blood of his siblings. On his hands, on his blade. Bathing his feet.

In the distance, a mountain spilled fire.

His truevoice called out of its own mind, well past the borders of earth and its stars. Before, Castiel had known this moment would come. He never expected that it would feel like this though, as the poison bled away. His mind, in the meantime, didn't remember being captured or what was done to him—didn't remember anything. Only flailed and lashed out at whatever was keeping him prisoner now.

A present darkness, hovering at the edge of his senses. Demon—there was a demon closing in.

It must be destroyed! Vrgel!

A voice not his own pierced suddenly through the void, whispering a rush of comfort as something closed over his hand and held tight.

---

the good Lord speaks like a rolling thunder
let that fever make the water rise
hold my hand, oh baby
it's a long way down to the bottom of the river

---

Castiel felt awareness slowly return. Inhaling sharply, his eyes dragged open and he found himself on the bed of some obscure motel room. Nightfall had come, much of the evening having slipped away from him. Threadbare blankets were coarse beneath his weight, and a sluggish glance to the right found his suit jacket and shirt flung over a chair. Turning his head too quickly caused the room to spin and strange spots flared over his vision. The nausea he'd been experiencing earlier returned full force. Castiel screwed his eyes shut against the unpleasant feeling.

"Welcome back, Dorothy. That was a hell of an acid trip."

The voice came from only a few feet away. Risking another spell of vertigo, the angel reopened his eyes to see Meg beside him, seated on the edge of the bed. There was a bowl of water and blood-soaked bandages on the nightstand that she exchanged for clean ones. She seemed almost wary of him, a strange mutilation hanging off her smoke that carried the weight of ozone and the authority of Heaven.

"Did you bring me here?"

A ghost of some secret smile filled her face under the glow of the nearby lamp. "Sack of potatoes," she said, revealing nothing else.

That baffled him, but he let it go. The quiver of her smoke was too distracting. "Why are you hurt? What…"

Why was it so difficult to piece together words? Speech eluded his grasp, drifting just out of reach. Castiel felt as though his body was dropping through the bed and then alternatively rising untethered towards Heaven. Once more, the world tilted and rolled. Meg's voice drifted over him again, droning low in the unlit room.

"Hush little angel, don't say a word."

It was only after those words that Castiel realized he'd been muttering broken Enochian under his breath, and then calling Meg's name when there was no response. It felt like he was losing time. Everything felt orderly and as it should until he realized it wasn't. He said her name again, wondering why he was falling.

Why was he falling?

"Apachana. Noromi adgmach faboan."

"Whatever nasty business you got from those pokers isn't out of your system yet. You've been spewing that chicken scratch for about an hour. I think I'm almost fluent."

"Ollor bng ashh darbs," Castiel whispered, eyelids fluttering again as the world went dark. "Oiad ashh darbs. Oiad hohorala oi baltoh."

"Broken record, Cas. Rest."

"Hoath…"

---

her fight and fury is fiery
oh but she loves
sweet and right and merciful
I'm all but washed in the tide of her
and it's worth it, it's divine

---

That awareness came and went, too fickle for his peace of mind, or for Meg's. Four more times he sank into a fitful abyss and had to crawl back into consciousness. How long had it been?

Apparently the question was spoken aloud, because Meg answered.

"You were pretty out of it for about three hours after I hauled you here," she relayed.

Pretty out of it, as it turned out, was an understatement. Those first few hours had found Castiel thrashing aimlessly and shouting ancient words beyond her understanding. It was an angel lost to fever and hallucinations as the poison worked its way out of his vessel. In his disorientation, he'd lost control and nearly killed her. If he hadn't been so weak, he might have succeeded. Grace flared under distress and reacted to her darkness in exactly the way it was meant to. That she was trying to help him didn't matter—it sensed a threat and sent Castiel into some wild state of self-defense. She'd had to retreat several times, struggling to suppress his grace with her power as it fought against her like a wounded animal. Despair had been a thousand Enochian prayers, swarming chaotically in his head and spilling out into the world. Something outside had caught fire, which Meg thought fucking strange, but she decided the staff could deal with it.

As abruptly as it started, the delirium had ceased and Castiel gained a much more decent hold of his bearings. After his violent outbursts, there were the catatonic ramblings, but now that enough time had passed, he seemed more with it. Even as he shivered unexpectedly, the aberration stemming from his ordeal, most of his symptoms were gone.

"This is a nice change of pace." At his furrowed look, Meg elaborated. "Usually you're the one playing doctor."

Castiel shifted a bit as Meg slid the needle through the raw edges of his skin. He glanced down at his topless form and gave another restless shift.

That earned him a genuine laugh. "After all the scandalous things we've done together, this is what gets your dander up?" The space around them was quiet as they spoke, voices mingling softly. "Trust me, a shirtless and unconscious angel is not as fun as it sounds."

"It isn't that. I'm… cold."

The sensation was off-putting and uncomfortable. He didn't like it.

"Mm." Meg shook her head, muttering, "Still. Even unconscious and ass-reamed, that grace packs a punch." Pausing, she reached over her shoulder and tossed another blanket over him.

Castiel now understood the reason for her previous hesitation and unfortunately the damage to her smoke, and he felt regret. "It's a defense mechanism, when we're especially vulnerable. Anything it perceives as a threat…"

Meg shrugged, appearing unconcerned. "You'd think it would have cozied up to me by now." She patted his stomach. "Here, sit up."

Castiel obeyed, pushing himself upright with some effort. He groaned as he eased back against the headboard, and Meg's eyes flicked to his as she worked.

"What the hell were those things?"

He felt her gaze drift to the awful wounds that still resisted his healing. Her fingers grazed over one, trying to puzzle out what could have done such damage to an angel. "Allar Nazad," he said. "They're binding spears—a very powerful and very dangerous weapon of Heaven. Shredders of grace." Castiel frowned, becoming very somber. "I haven't seen them in over a thousand years. Our superiors said they were too barbaric."

"Looks like Raphael is going old school, huh?"

Castiel watched the needle with unseeing eyes, his voice becoming quiet. "I expected better from him."

Meg stilled in her work, giving him a pointed look. "Well, there's your problem."

Castiel ignored that, instead attempting to get comfortable as she secured the first bandage over his chest. His eyes swept over her pensively, drinking in the picture she painted. Her jacket was tossed aside over his, hair piled up into a messy bun, and Castiel couldn't help but think how ordinary she looked like that. The sight was undeniably lovely. Conversely, that weariness he'd sensed on her before was no more; thorns sharper, her darkness denser. Couple that with the unholy devastation she wrought on his enemy brethren, she was the very incarnation of the creature he'd met over a year ago. Formidable and deadly.

"You look very well."

"As opposed to half-dead?" Meg's expression softened into a teasing quirk, one of which he'd become too familiar with. She'd taken advantage of his absence, holing up, gathering strength and strategy. Castiel had ultimately been right, though she'd never tell him that. The demon felt stronger now than she had in awhile. "Maybe I took your advice to heart."

"That's… surprising."

"Trying to say I'm stubborn or something?" Castiel grunted and Meg chuckled to herself. "When do you get your juice back?"

"I can already feel it. The process of its full return will be slow, but… manageable."

"Guess that means I dodged the babysitting bullet."

Castiel frowned at that, her choice of words somehow upsetting him. "I am not a baby."

"Still stuck on that figure of speech, aren't you? I can't decide if it's annoying or cute."

"Idiom or not, I don't like it."

"Sore subject, got it." Without fanfare, Meg allowed the matter to drop. Curiosity got the better of her then, compelling her next question. "Why'd you drop a line on me?"

Why her, out of everyone? An angel calling on a demon for aid was a new level of bizarre, even for them. But the second she'd heard his voice, every avenue of former pursuit had been abandoned. She'd been halfway across the world, unearthing legends of some First Blade that Crowley had apparently been after before his death. In a blink, though, she'd gone running to the angel. Without question. Her unfounded loyalty startled her a bit, but like most things with Castiel, she swept it away so as not to have to deal with it.

The angel was considering her closely now, as though he wondered her reasons for asking. Dark eyes regarded him seriously, more patient than he could ever remember seeing them.

"I wasn't sure who I could trust."

Her eyebrow crept high. "But you thought you could trust me?"

It was more than that, and yet that was exactly it. His soldiers would have died if it meant he lived. He needed someone strong and capable who would never give their lives for him. Meg was that someone. She wouldn't die for him. She'd die for no one but herself.

"You want to survive," he said, the words carrying weight. "We'll leave it at that."

But something about the look in her eyes… how she tended to him now… it was almost enough to make him reconsider his estimations. Perhaps he did trust her.

His response seemed to appease her. "You angels are like lemmings," she agreed, returning to her task. "So ready to sacrifice yourself for any righteous cause you can get your hands on. You practically trip over each other trying to die. Still… it's been awhile since I've tangoed with you scary fucks." She smirked a little, fingers crawling teasingly over his ribs. "Well. The tango with weapons, anyway."

Castiel felt his own faint smile. "You say that, but you're not afraid of us. Not like other demons."

He couldn't help but praise her. Her excellent agility and experience made her an impregnable wall against most enemies. Castiel thought the demon must have fought many battles from disadvantageous positions, bounding through fatal odds like a ghost and living on. He wondered if she had been a soldier of some sort when she'd been human.

"I suppose I am a little. Just too stupid for it to matter, I guess." Meg lifted a strip of medical tape for him to hold. Castiel wordlessly complied, allowing her to stick it over his thumb until she needed it. "Fighting when you're scared makes you something. If nothing scares you, you're just crazy." She granted him with one of her harlequin smiles. "But maybe I'm a little of that, too."

Castiel's regard of that was ruefully fond. "Yes," he agreed softly.

"When I showed up, it looked pretty bad." When the angel offered nothing to that, Meg pressed a little more. "He was ripping out your grace, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"Would you have died?"

"Under normal circumstances, no. But with the Nazad, it would have been instantaneous." Castiel was grim, his eyes skirting away from hers. "It was meant as an insult. Killing me by first stripping me of who I was. Forcing me to die as a human, instead of an angel."

"That's pretty cold for a bunch of fuzzballs who're supposed to sit on clouds all day, playing harps."

"Only the Cherubim play harps."

"You know what I mean."

Castiel replied with a solemn nod. He did understand. "Angels haven't been angels for a very long time." At first, he spoke as if he wasn't even one of them, until the point came where Meg wondered if it was perhaps more personal than he intended. "We've forgotten who we are. We're not of earth, but we also aren't the barbaric creatures we've turned ourselves into." Castiel shook his head, his voice becoming softly introspective and showing much more emotion than she was used to seeing on him. "I don't understand what's become of us. Mindless servants, no matter how heinous the cause." His own words caused his face to fall and suddenly he looked too vulnerable. "We're confused and scattered and listening to the wrong voices."

"You think it's because God left?"

"Perhaps."

Castiel remembered a time when Meg had mocked him for an absent father. But there was no mockery in her words now. "You're not like them."

A rueful look showed at her comment and he looked down briefly as his face settled into that expression. "I am… different," he said simply, his gruff voice laced with the faintest trace of chagrin.

Meg took in his noble profile as he looked away, taking the time to really look at him. The shadow of stubble, the little wrinkles and worry lines that made his face a roadmap of uncharted emotion. The shaggy, tousled hair that curled behind his ears. The graceful dip where his jaw ended and neck began. "In most ways," she added idly, unable to keep the barest evidence of veneration from her tone.

"It used to bother me very much," Castiel admitted. "That I wasn't like the others. Perhaps it still does."

"Different is better, Clarence. It's how the world changes—whether for better or worse."

His eyes found hers again, and his softening expression inched towards hope. "You really think that?"

"How could I not?"

Castiel had no good answer to that, but seemed content with her reply all the same.

"That angel I sent back to Oz—will he be a problem?"

"He might be." Castiel hesitated, speaking carefully. "You only exorcised him."

"If I'd had another weapon on me, his trip would have been more permanent."

"I wouldn't have expected you to know that spell. Although, I suppose I should have."

Meg smiled a little, nudging his thigh with her knee. "What, did somebody miss the memo that you mooks could be exorcised, too?"

"I knew we could be." Castiel grew cagey, avoiding her eyes as he spoke again. "Alistair… tried to use the spell on me once. Sam stopped him before I was cast out."

Alistair, the master torturer in Hell. Who Meg had apprenticed under with flying colors.

"Oh."

Contrition was an unusual thing for Meg, but Castiel caught its fleeting path as it spread from her face to her eyes. More predictably, she avoided the topic neatly, to his relief. "How'd you get caught in the first place?"

"Raphael's followers captured a small faction of my soldiers. Tonight was intended to be a rescue mission."

"And did you save them? Any of them?"

Guilt and grief were permanent fixtures on his face as he replied. "No."

"What the hell does that tell you?"

It told him this war would be won only through Pyrrhic victory. That his cause would continue to incur terrible losses, no matter how much he gave and sacrificed to ensure otherwise. Her wry tone was a reminder of his overhanging failure and Castiel felt hopelessly inadequate. "I had to try."

Sharp features softened and she withheld her retort. With another sigh, Meg looked into his face and tried to puzzle out what he was thinking. "You lost the weapons, didn't you? Damn archangel exploited your weakness and because of it, you left the nukes in the open."

Castiel looked away. "Yes."

"And those spears… that's how they were able to take you out?" She'd seen how he'd laid waste to the angels before. To demons, monsters, and everything in between. Castiel did not go gently and he was a force of nature. He was dangerous in ways unfathomable, and when he set his mind to wrath, there were rarely survivors. It would take one hell of a trick to decimate him like that.

He nodded heavily at her assumption. "The effect is immediate."

Meg said nothing else, leaving him in silence with his thoughts. He wished she would say something else, if only to spare him that. More and more, as the months crept on and he lost more of his kin, Castiel found that he hated being a leader. Too many people counting on him, too many people dying. No matter how hard he tried, they were losing ground against Raphael. This loss of the heavenly weapons would be devastating. Already, he could hear the stressing calls of Balthazar and Rachel, as well as many others. So many voices filling his head, so much fear. Castiel had sent his reply across the distance, instructing them to retreat for now. To leave him until he could recover.

As weak as he was, Castiel knew the souls of perdition had kept him alive during that session of torture. No angel should have endured that. The power was dimmer now, siphoned brutally under the influence of the Nazad, but it kept him grounded. It was a buzz in the back of his mind, ever-present and a dark reminder of what he was becoming.

What is the war machine, Ion had demanded. What is the weapon?

Castiel wondered if they would have believed him, had he told them the truth.

He was the war machine. The weapon was Castiel.

The souls were his power, and he was becoming dependant on them. It was impossible to ignore the way his vessel and grace both craved that deplorable strength, weighing him down. Castiel loathed himself for enjoying it.

Maybe he wasn't even an angel anymore. He was turning himself into something else, something twisted. He was in league with the King of Hell. He had declared war on Heaven.

You're asking me to be the next Lucifer.

His own words, haunting him without end beneath the fog of war. Pride had sworn he was above Satan, but his actions were frighteningly similar. As much as he was desperate for victory, that the sacrifices not be in vain… Castiel doubted himself. He wondered what Meg would say, if she knew. If she'd be disgusted. If she'd be proud. The angel wasn't sure which would be worse.

Regardless of consequence, he was becoming desperate to know the end of this, so threadbare inside.

It can't be for nothing, he thought. The Winchesters fought too hard. They've given too much. And I have come too far.

"Hey."

The sudden brush of her fingers beneath his chin broke Castiel from his reverie. He finally looked at her, wondering why she appeared to be waiting for something. "What?"

"Were you even listening?"

He ducked his eyes, skirting hers. "Sorry."

Meg considered him thoughtfully, her expression thawing. "Don't be sorry."

He felt that heady feeling in the pit of his stomach as his eyes found hers again. Unable to help the instinct to confide in her, Castiel asked, "Am I foolish?"

That surprised her. His normally stoic gaze was full of sorrow and questions he didn't know how to ask. "Probably. But… knowing you, you'd be more miserable doing nothing. So, just keep going. Hell, I believe in you."

Something like hope made his insides knot. "Do you?"

Meg clapped her hands together a few times for effect. "I do, I do," she told him, with that teasing smile that only halfway reached her eyes.

Castiel thought that must have been a reference of some sort, but unexpected candor made him confess something else. "I'm glad you're here."

Caught off guard, Meg stewed a moment, searching for a response. "Well. Lucky for you, I've always been a sucker for a lost boy." She secured the final bandage over his injuries. "What about this other thing you have going?"

"I haven't lost that."

"You never told me what exactly Plan B was."

Castiel shook his head. "You're safer not knowing."

"Oh?" There was a lingering challenge beneath the word. "I'm safer, or you're safer?"

Castiel felt a buzz of nerves, an inclination of warning seeping into his tone. "It's not of import. If you needed to know, I would share its details."

Her derisive laugh rang bitter. The dismissal left her more affronted than she cared to admit, but it didn't stop her acid retort. "That's just a cheap way of saying—"

"Meg. Enough."

The anger came out of him before he could stop it. Even though there was no outward power behind his reply, something hidden and dangerous shook itself to life. Meg felt her insides immediately coil, for reasons she couldn't explain, and a mild tremor crawled down her spine. Dusky eyes were calculating, smoke flaring up a bit defensively. By the look on Castiel's face, he clearly had caught himself and was now regretting his outburst.

She had to remind herself that whatever set him off likely had nothing to do with her. The shit was hitting the fan up in heaven, spilling across the earth in consequence, and his mind was occupied with higher deeds. Still, even as his dark expression leant towards a greater purpose, there had been something quietly terrifying about that anger, especially when there was no grand storm surrounding it. Meg couldn't put her finger on it, but she made sure he knew by her expression that she didn't appreciate it. "Tell me, don't tell me." She sat back with a grudging scowl, thorns knotting around her. "But don't try to bullshit me."

Castiel was repentant. "You really are safer." All wrath in his gaze faded, replaced with deeper grief. He was losing too many as it was. Meg seemed unconvinced though, and he decided this conversation was better left incomplete. They stared at each other awhile before he finally glanced down at his bandaged form. "You didn't have to do this."

"You don't have to butter me up," she countered, her tone still somewhat wry. "You're much more useful to me alive than dead."

He was getting better at seeing through her farces. He looked at her more tenderly, now that some of the lingering tension had subsided. "Thank you." At her floored expression, the corners of his mouth tugged apart. "I'm not above gratitude to a… beastie."

Castiel was glad for his spontaneous reply, because the effect it had on her was rewarding. The underlying gravity had clearly startled her at first, surprise washing over her face and making her beauty seem less cold.

Meg's slow smile was without barb, just reaching the edges of her eyes. "I'll be damned," she said, drawing a humored grunt out of him. "You really are trying to earn brownie points, aren't you? For the next time you're stuck in a jam."

"I'm not sure what that means."

"Sure you're not." Meg considered him a moment. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

She wondered when that became his response instead of the world-weary resignation he used to confront her with. "Why are you still here?"

"I can't go anywhere in this condition."

"Yeah, I got that. But that's not what I'm talking about. You haven't even looked at a monster in almost a month, much less gone looking to hogtie one. You don't have time for it, besides. Which means you don't need me anymore."

Castiel felt that same distant pull that he'd always felt around her, a slave to it. With some clarity, he decided there'd be no resisting it this time. "Your company isn't quite the… burden I used to associate it with." Softer then, he said, "I find it difficult to be rid of you, body or mind."

The honesty, not to mention his sincerity, took her completely off guard. Castiel smiled a little, looking worn out but just a little more content.

"I was right," he said then. "'Thank you' sounds nothing like 'impressed.'"

Laughter bubbled out of the demon beside him and she swatted his arm. "Dick."

That laughter was infectious. Briefly, Castiel forgot what had been weighing so heavily on his mind. "Insufferable creature."

Her reaction to that was approving. "Damn, I've missed Grumpstiel."

"You do have an annoying habit of erasing my ill moods."

"I could blaspheme. I know that's one of your favorites."

He sighed.

"Not to start something, but it felt like maybe you were avoiding me, for awhile." Meg's fingers played idly over his arm, luring answers out of him he wished to be kept hidden. "Didn't anyone ever tell you girls hate it when you ignore their calls?"

"I wasn't on earth," Castiel replied, expression falling a bit. "Ignoring you was… unintentional."

"What, no cell reception in Heaven?" Meg clearly wasn't buying his meager excuse, but let it go without further comment. She seemed closer than she had before.

"Keeping in contact with anyone has become…"

Castiel allowed himself a moment to see her. It was strange how, in all the many years he'd observed and interacted with humanity, he had never been so affected by one woman as he was with this demon. He'd found the occasional one appealing to look at, of course. This even included the disaster at the brothel which Dean took him to almost two years prior. But nothing compared to the fire she stoked inside of him. Castiel didn't even feel like the same angel who had spilled assurances to a young woman about her postman father abandoning her.

The words spilled out of him before he could stop them. "Crowley was right. It's…" He looked upwards only briefly, all former placidity fracturing beneath a guilt-ridden frown. "It's not going well for me in Heaven. Not at all."

Castiel was difficult to read, though he clearly thought something. His deliberations were personal, however. Maybe even beyond her comprehension. He did like reminding her of that. "Desperate times, huh?"

"I can't think of a time when I've ever been more desperate."

He was lying to her. The realization shouldn't have bothered him, but it did. Relentless, it ate away at him—a constant voice in the back of his head, reminding him that what he was doing was despicable. Using her, manipulating her. Being intimate with her even as he plotted with her greatest enemy behind her back.

Castiel was unable to meet her eyes any longer. Exhausted, he tipped his head back against the headboard in defeat. His tone was dark and upset in the time it took him to find the words. "Not even you can imagine what I've done."

Meg saw the weight of the universes piled high on his shoulders. "Bad people don't hate themselves for doing bad things. In my experience."

That intrigued him. Castiel lifted his head again, studying her change in expression. "Do you hate yourself for the things you've done?" he asked after awhile, drawing the valor to look her in the eye.

No answer.

"That was… too much," he realized, discerning her reaction without having to be told.

Meg glanced at him as she busied her hands once more, seeing recognition cross his features and something like respect. They were both stumbling around in the desert. The vultures were circling, and whatever water they found was likely to drown them. That fleeting realization was soon succeeded by something passionately resolute. "Don't worry, featherbrain. Your reasons for doing all this are what's gonna save you in the end. Don't forget that."

Her delivery was blithe enough, but Castiel could feel the weight behind her soft reassurance. "I'm still just Castiel," he said quietly to himself, echoing her own words to him. The declaration seemed hollow and empty.

He would kill Crowley for her. Of course he would. But not yet. It had to wait.

Just a little longer.

Please, just a little longer.

Finis coronat opus, rang Crowley's sovereign counsel in his head. To hear them again even in the discretion of his own mind brought Castiel an impulse to retch, but the reminder was necessary. The end crowns the work.

"You sure you know what you're doing?"

Meg's voice was calm and grounding beside him, despite the gloomy undercurrent the words carried. Castiel lifted his gaze to hers reluctantly, searching her eyes hopelessly. "What other choice do I have?"

I am not the villain.

Meg allowed that remark to fall between them heavily, unable to deny her understanding. "Want me to stick around?" she asked instead. She saw the dark bags under his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged and his eyelids drooped. The spears had certainly done a number on him, and Castiel wasn't going anywhere for quite awhile.

"That isn't necessary."

"That's not what I asked."

The room had gradually fallen dark, its only illumination served by the few candles Meg had lit when the lights had been hurting his eyes. Castiel could still make out her silhouette, details eluding him the harder he looked. It was strange, not being able to see as he willed, while the effects of his torture continued to fade. He remembered the loss of his powers before, after carving a banishing sigil into his chest, and it had not been pleasant.

He also remembered waking up in that hospital bed alone, and how the feeling of true isolation had gripped him with icy talons—no matter how fleeting it was.

Castiel considered Meg beneath the swoop of drowsy eyes, her presence chaotic as ever but ultimately assuaging. Feeling her near was not unpleasant. In fact, it was growing to be something he depended on as the months progressed. Being away from her for so long was something he found to be… disagreeable. A feeling that left him strangely bereft and one he had no desire to repeat anytime soon.

"You can stay."

---

He gave her the wardings necessary to keep him hidden from his enemies, and Meg placed them around the shanty room accordingly. Castiel assured her those wards would be enough for the time he needed to recover, but Meg ignored his encouragements that she was not obligated to him. It would be a long night, and so she busied herself with idle entertainments while he rested. Mostly she kept silent vigil, paging through the occasional gossip rag and trying to entertain herself with celebrity hairstyles and who had made who pregnant, but the nonsense just couldn't hold her interest. She paced for several minutes, checking the wards and the door before she was eventually satisfied.

As Castiel drifted in and out of unconsciousness, Meg sat now at the table near the window, staring out the pebbled glass and into the rain. She drummed her nails lightly on the tabletop, the very picture of casual, even as she remained alert and ready for any threat. With Castiel's guard down, he needed more than just a few wards to protect him.

The shitty television droned on in the background of her sentry duty, The Greatest American Hero being the current program at this ungodly hour. It was running some old marathon on one of the few and only channels this motel apparently got. She'd turned it on for white noise, but before long she was humming the theme song under her breath in time with her fingers.

Her hair was let back down, leather jacket once more over her shoulders. She was battle-ready, if anyone came looking. But as she glanced over her shoulder to the sleeping angel on the bed, her militant veneer began to chip away. He was curled up almost like a cat, broad shoulders shuddering slightly as the last of the toxins worked their way out of his vessel. She'd lost count how many times he'd vomited up streams of blood into that stupid ice bucket, croaking that it was unpleasant but necessary. Meg had wanted to punch him for getting himself into such a mess in the first place. He was starting to heal finally, but for some reason the sight of him like that had caused an ache to go through her. He'd looked so ready to die in that church and that wasn't… right.

That must have been how the angel had felt, frustrated at her for stumbling so far off her game. In hindsight, she didn't blame him one bit. Having still not looked away, Meg swept her eyes up his body, over his chest and face, lingering too long on his injuries and willing them gone. It was strange how he could look so small when those layers of clothing were removed. Like armor, stripped away. It wasn't so different when they were breaking furniture and shattering lights together. There was something foreign and raw to see him so uncollected, but in the midst of passion it was much more appealing. Right now she just wanted him back on his feet again and decimating anything that stood in his way.

Another episode was starting. Before long, she was singing the show's catchy theme softly to herself, unaware at first that she was. "Look at what's happened to me. I can't believe it myself." The tune promised to be stuck in her head for the next few days, at least. "Suddenly I'm up on top of the world. It should have been somebody else. Believe it or not, I'm walking on air. I never thought I could feel so free—" Snapping out of her inanimate musings, she noticed Castiel stirring awake. Maybe she'd been too loud. "Sorry, Clarence. I'll pipe down."

The angel made a quiet sound, settling a bit. "Keep singing," he murmured, already drifting again.

Icy features thawed into something much softer, and the demon's lips drew into a faint smile.

Castiel was tired, battered, and mourning. Longing for an eternity of placid awareness and certitude. Meg really couldn't blame him. She remembered things being simpler too, remembered being simpler herself. Still somehow, he always managed to carry her in ways larger than his priorities should have allowed. Seeing this, watching him in action, watching him fall and reach for her before anyone else, expanded her heart. That was how it felt: a space in her chest growing larger to make room for Castiel. The little tree topper who cast her into flame.

He was changing her.

In so many inconceivable ways, he was. That realization and the emotions swimming inside her were foreign and crippling. In wake of it, Meg had suddenly been given the gift and curse of hope, when so many times before that notion had failed her. Hidden away beneath the fractious exterior and conceited affectations, a part of her believed that Castiel would never betray that faith.

"Flying away on a wing and a prayer. Who could it be? Believe it or not, it's just me."

---

I never saw you coming
and I'll never be the same
you come around and the armor falls
pierce the room like a cannonball
now all we know is don't let go

---

Morning found Castiel as himself again. With surety and steady hands, he donned his armor. Before he could reach for his tie, though, Meg was already securing it around his neck. Her eyes found his as she knotted it loosely, glad to see him standing tall and proud again, but knowing how easily a scenario like yesterday could happen again.

"Something's still missing, Clarence." Her tone was lightly teasing, but her eyes held something heavy as she reached into her bag on the nightstand and pulled out his folded trenchcoat.

The sight of it in her hands affected Castiel in ways he couldn't quite identify, and, gingerly, he took it from her and slid it back over his shoulders where it belonged.

"I appreciate you holding onto it for me."

"Don't stay away so long this time," she told him. Castiel could confuse humor on the best of days, and Meg's somewhat uncertain tone didn't help matters. He heard her words for what they were and nodded solemnly. "You tend to run into trouble when you do. Put that page back in my book."

His hands remained at his sides as he regarded her hesitantly. "I'll… do my best."

"You're good?" Even as she'd watched the ragged holes close up on his body, vanishing to leave only smooth skin behind, she couldn't help but ask. Castiel was still a shade too pale, wound sites still red and enflamed, even if the worst had passed.

"Yes. Some residual effects, but nothing strong enough to hinder me in battle."

"It was pretty bad, when you first woke up. I guess you probably don't even remember it, though."

There was very little to be remembered of his delirium. Mostly scattered glimpses and impressions of pain. Castiel was more aware of what had followed. It wasn't often he got to rest without having to worry about someone putting a blade in his back. The novelty wasn't lost on him, nor was the fact that he had trusted a demon with his safety in the midst of it all. It spoke worlds about how differently he viewed Meg now.

Still…

"There is one thing I do remember," Castiel said, eventually ending the long silence. "I remember someone gripping my hand and a voice telling me to hold on." His voice trailed off, becoming softer, and there was more gentleness as he looked down at her now than Meg had ever seen in him before. "I don't think I will ever forget that."

Castiel looked as though he'd experienced great revelation and, of its own mind, her hand reached up to smooth over the lapel of his coat. Dark eyes watched the tan material slide beneath her fingers as Meg considered several different remarks she could have replied with. All of them eventually fell through, and so she said nothing.

The moment was short-lived, but Castiel caught her hand before she could draw back too far. Something cool and solid pressed into her palm, and Meg looked down to see an angel blade there. Her eyes darted back up to his, confused.

"Take this," Castiel said.

"You're giving me your blade?"

He had others. Castiel knew though that it wasn't his being armed or not that gave her pause. He was giving her something sacred. A weapon that could kill him in a single blow, kill any one of his brothers and sisters. He was quite literally laying his life and the lives of his kin in the hands of a demon.

"You may need it."

Ion would have surely reported by now that a demon had saved the commander of the rebels. They had some fortune on their side, as the angel would require time to attain a new vessel after being expelled. That would afford Castiel a window to retrieve the Nazad and hide them properly before a secondary attack could be mounted. More… he had to hope that Meg would be safe, and that she hadn't condemned her own fate by salvaging his.

Her dark eyes drank him in, keenly searching his. Too many questions hung between them still, but Meg overlooked them in favor of the present danger he faced. "If you do run into trouble..."

Castiel nodded, thumb grazing over her knuckles. He wasn't sure what compelled him to say it, but the quiet words spilled between them like a confession. "Be careful."

With a flutter of wings, he was gone, and Meg knew it then, without a doubt. Castiel had transformed her forever, and she would follow him until the day she died.

That border between them was slowly fading, until eventually there'd be no space left at all. Just an angel and a demon and each other.

It wasn't love. But maybe it would be.

---

it's like a light of a new day
it came from out of the blue
breaking me out of the spell I was in
making all of my wishes come true

---

A white room.

A scarlet-haired woman sat behind a desk.

"Report," she said in a clipped voice.

Abaddon was a beast still bound by time at this point, of little threat to the present, but this was no Knight of Hell. Although, in some ways, she would prove to be so much worse. She wore a gray suit, hair tucked neatly into a bun at the back of her head.

Ion, a mere suggestion of shape and still without a proper shell, hovered at attention. A sound very dissimilar to speech rang obediently from his light, relaying what had been witnessed. "Castiel was retrieved."

"By his soldiers," the woman surmised.

"No," said Ion. "It was… a demon."

Cold displeasure overcame her otherwise neutral appearance. "Crowley?" She seemed annoyed to even speak the name. The King's interference had been expected, but the reality of it still left her with contempt.

The grace in front of her sang now with grave unease. "Not Crowley. Another."

The woman's chin jerked up. Imperial authority fanned out in a rush. "Describe it," she snapped.

"An Old One, of the purebloods. She has served in Hell for nearly two thousand years." Ion's words held a weight of foreboding. "Azazel's daughter."

The color drained from the woman's sharp features, replaced a moment later by wintry alarm. An Enochian curse was spat, echoing quietly in the neat office. Ion's grace shifted restlessly as he awaited further orders.

"He's been resisting me lately, what little I've done to persuade. I knew there must be a reason."

The air around her now was positively severe.

"How would you have me respond?" When there was no immediate instruction, Ion pressed. "Naomi. Should I find and kill it?"

"Not yet. The situation has now become very delicate." Her eyes scanned the surface of the desk, weighing the developments with tight resignation. After a tense beat of silence, Naomi looked back to her inferior. Her tone was brisk. "Continue working for Raphael. Say nothing."

---

it's my own desire
it's my own remorse
help me to decide
help me make the most of freedom
and of pleasure
nothing ever lasts forever