Note: Normally I wouldn't post a section of a story, but I kind of like this one, and am trying to get back in touch with my creative side (so feedback is greatly appreciated!). This is part of a larger story I'm working on: After ending the Leviathans, Sam and Dean find Castiel, who has been tortured in Purgatory for the past year, leaving him human, traumatized, and mute. This part takes place a few months later-Meg has found out about the weakened ex-angel and has kidnapped him. Hope this isn't too confusing-maybe it's easier to read as a standalone? This is what reviews are for, though-should I add the full story as it comes or leave this as a one-shot, or forget the whole thing? ANYWAY, here's the story...

"Look at little Clarence," Meg taunts. "Wings clipped, voice stripped." She kneels down next to him. "Such a shame. I really wanted to be the one to break you, but here you are, already gone." She shrugs and smiles. "Oh, well. I can still have some fun." She whips out a hand, slapping Cas so hard his head turns.

Meg frowns. "No, no. If you don't scream or whine or beg, it takes all the fun out of it." She slaps him again, and he can taste blood.

He turns his face and looks at her. What she doesn't realize is that he has faced the very worst that any world has to offer, and yes, he is absolutely terrified right now, but he also knows her, and while he's almost expecting to be surprised, she's also familiar.

He remembers that kiss, that one kiss, how she stood next to him. He knows what she does not, and that both scares him more and comforts him, because he knows demons.

She could go either way.

She leans in close, sneers at him. "You probably don't think you'll ever scream again, don't you? How wrong you are." She lifts a hand, strokes his cheek, then slashes down it with one swift and brutal swipe.

He flinches, wavers. The looks on her face…he's beginning to lean more towards scared.

He might whimper, give her what she wants, but he can't. He physically can't. Dean asked him once—

Is it that you can't talk or that you won't?

…Can't.

…Do you think you'll ever be able to again?

Maybe…but don't think so.

-and he told the truth then. He would give anything to say Dean's name, to say anything to him, but he could give everything and still would not be able to. He doesn't know why, doesn't know what the Leviathans broke in him to mute his voice, doesn't know if it's temporary or permanent, just knows that it's the truth.

Maybe Meg sees the desperation in his eyes, the wanting, because something on her face changes and she sits back. "Goddamn," she whispers. "They really did break you. You can't." She looks away thoughtfully, and he's not sure what's going to come next, which is perhaps the most frightening thing of all. His entire body clenches, tightens so hard he hurts, bracing itself for whatever she might dish out. She trained under Alaister himself, but he was in Purgatory for a year. Can she surprise him?

She does.

She laughs, but it is not a happy laugh. There is a thread of desperation, of terrified confusion, in it. "Goddamn," she says. "I can't do it. You're just too fucking pathetic." She sits back, crosses her arms and rests them on her knees. "What do you know," she says, voice softening as she looks at him. "Alaister's heir and I can't hurt the fallen angel." She shakes her head. "What do you do to me, Clarence?"

She seems to realize what she has just said because she freezes, eyes wide. "Nothing," she murmurs breathlessly. "You do…"

They look at each other for a long moment. Castiel tilts his head, watching her intently. He remembers demons, remembers her, torturing, remembers the kiss—

I feel so…clean.

Demon versus angel, and he's not sure where he stands in that.

She finally sighs. "What are you?" she demands, almost angry. "Not an angel, not a human. You're something else entirely, aren't you, something special."

He frowns at her, wondering what she means.

"I mean," she says, startling him, but of course, she's a demon, she can read his thoughts and emotions, and he probably still has enough angel left in him to make him a little psychic himself, "I'm a demon. I shouldn't, I can't, feel anything. Heart was burned to ashes in the fires of Hell and all that's left is a big black hole." She spits these last few words, as though she might actually regret what they convey. "But you…"

She laughs again, and this time it's threaded not with desperation, but with wonder. And desperation. "Remember that kiss? All my years, I have kissed so many people, boys, girls, demons, humans, once a chicken, but we don't speak of that. All those kisses, and none of them meant a thing. One with a certain angel, and it's like it's imprinted on my nonexistent soul. Did you do something to me with that angel mojo of yours?"

No, he didn't.

She nods. "And I really don't think you can lie. Really don't think you ever could. Sure there was that thing with Crowley, we all know about that, but even then, you never outright lied. Dodged truths like bullets, but never lied."

Funny how she should be the one to see that.

She smiles. "Dean didn't. Though I guess the fact that he still forgave you despite that says something, doesn't it?"

He frowns ever so slightly. He's not sure of that.

"He did. Believe me, he did. No one else could deal with you unless they completely did." She shrugs as if to apologize but it's the truth.

He looks away briefly, then back. It's okay. He knows.

For a moment, it strikes him that he is having a deeper conversation with her than he ever has with Dean. Maybe it's because demons thrive on the very rawest of humanity, the most base of emotions, while Dean shies away from them, maybe it's simply because she can hear his thoughts while Dean has to rely on signed translations of English translations of his native Enochian. Still—

"Like I said," she says with a wry smile, "what do you do to me?" She ducks her head, not looking at him, hair falling in front of her face that makes her look, even knowing the demonic being her vessel houses, incredibly vulnerable. "I think—I shouldn't—I can't—"

It's no wonder she can't put it into words, this is entirely new for her. To be honest, it's entirely new for the entire history and race of demons. He can feel it, radiating off her, and she's right, it should be impossible, and he wonders if maybe he did, without meaning to, without being aware of it, change her with that kiss.

She looks up at him through that curtain of hair. He can see the vessel now, not the demon, a young girl in her early twenties, being thrust into an unknown world and both excited and, mostly, fucking terrified. Amazingly, he can relate.

She pulls away, tosses her hair back as she reads what he is thinking and feeling. "No," she says strongly. "I'm not some tender little girl. I trained under Alaister, I'm heir to hell, I'm the baddest motherfucker out there—"

He acts on an impulse, which surprises him. He hates impulses, hates when anything doesn't go according to plan, even when its his own actions. Of course, this isn't the world, isn't any world, not really. It's just them, and what that is, he doesn't know, she doesn't know, no one knows, so any rules can't be broken, instead they have to be made up as they go.

He brushes a stray strand of hair from her face, silencing her. Their eyes meet, and he can feel her. This time, the terror, the vulnerability, is nothing but her. He realizes, and reminds her, that she was once "some tender little girl," and at her very core, still is.

"No," she protests, but it's weak, and quickly silenced by Castiel's lips on her own.

This kiss is different. It's not a passionate reenactment of a scene from a porn movie. This wasn't taught by the pizza man, but by Dean, Dean as he stepped into the shower that first time, clothes rapidly getting uncomfortably soaked, because Cas was too scared to do it alone; Dean as undressed Castiel over the course of an hour, going as slow as the new and damaged human was capable of; Dean as he curled up against Cas at night, both to silence the night mares and, though he'd never admit it, to assure himself that the angel wouldn't disappear again with the morning. The kiss is tender and protective and comforting, and most of all, it's true, it's all that he's feeling for Meg at this moment.

And as a demon, she feels that. The kiss is broken by a choked sob. "I'm not…" she says. "I'm a demon. I'm not—"

Worth it

How many times has he heard that from Dean? Dean and Meg, how surprisingly similar they've turned out to be, "the baddest motherfuckers" wrapped like a shield around an all too vulnerable heart.

"I don't have a heart," she reiterates harshly.

Castiel can't believe her. She couldn't hurt him but didn't—

"It would have been no fun without the screams!"

She confessed to something forbidden—

"I didn't—"

She felt breathless and hopeful and almost human, and her humanity was showing through.

Many times, Castiel has wished for a speck of angel, and now is no different. He would use it all to erase the darkness from her, not to kill her, but to return her to life.

He strokes her cheek, much as she did earlier, and she flinches as though expecting a similar slash—when did he become the tormentor?—that doesn't come. He holds her close, and she allows him to. She doesn't cry, doesn't speak, and neither does he, not out loud or in his head.

A role reversal. She is the vulnerable, he is the strong. He never realized how well they fit together, and he would almost be guilty, would almost feel he were betraying Dean, but this is different, he knows, and she knows. Just as strong, but different.

She speaks, but doesn't move. "They're coming," she says, voice empty of any emotion. "They'll be here soon. To kill me."

He doesn't ask who she means.

She sighs heavily and closes her eyes, resting against him. She is so, so weary. "I guess it's time, anyway," she says resolutely. "Everything comes to an end, and all that, and I guess it's my end."

He strokes her hair, saying nothing. So long, the demon has talked while the girl has been silenced. It is her turn to speak.

She shuts her eyes tightly, making fists of her hands. "I don't wanna die," she says rapidly, the desperation of a teenager on the brink of life and not ready for it to be snuffed out. "Not now."

There's a better place, he starts to tell her.

She pushes him away physically and mentally. "Not for me," she reminds him. She points at herself. "Demon, remember? Not for me."

He places a hand against her heart, and she gasps at the intimate touch. He concentrates and he can feel the thudding. He feels weak, and wonders if maybe he did have a speck of angel left in him, at least enough to call in one more favor from God.

She places her own hands on top of his, looks up at him in astonished confusion at what she feels. "I—Did you—" she shakes her head. "I don't understand."

There's a better place, he repeats. Your heart is not ash. You may face purgatory, which is not pleasant, he winces at the memory, but it is not your heart that will burn there but your sins. You have a shred of goodness in you still, however much you deny it. Heaven is just a crack for you…but there is a crack.

She looks as though she can't quite make herself believe. "How do you know?" she asks, with childish trust.

I don't. But I believe. That's faith.

"I don't know if I have faith," she points out.

He leans forward, pressing their foreheads together, locking onto her eyes so that they're all the other sees. Do you have faith in me? He asks, the barest whisper in her mind, unasked.

Yes, she replies, even quieter, but there. Out loud, she asks, "Stay?"

He nods. What angel wouldn't?

And it doesn't miss him that, all the power of the world, all the souls of purgatory, all the change he created, he never felt closer to God than at this very moment.

"Cas!"

The shout breaks the moment.

Castiel turns to see Dean striding forward purposefully, a look of grim determination on his face. To be honest, right now that look scares Cas more than Meg, the loose and childlike form next to him. Months ago, when he first reemerged from Purgatory, he would have been sent into a possibly irretrievable tailspin at this—the demon turned helpless companion, the best friend and comrade walking with hatred in his eyes—who could he trust? It still almost paralyzes him now, and ironically, the only thing that keeps him in this world is Meg's quivering form, relying on him.

It has been so long since he has been the one other relied on, and he's not sure what to do with that.

S'okay, he hears her whisper, and he's not sure if it's out loud or in his mind, but there's a grim resolution to it. I'm ready.

Those are the words that has him throwing his hand up in the way of Dean's gun, surprising both himself and the hunter, who comes to a sudden stop.

"You okay?" and Castiel is immensely relieved to see that determined hatred soften into fierce protectiveness and worry. That is the Dean he knows. The hatred was a part of the worry, he knows, but it's good to see it ease. There is too much hatred, the whole world could drown in it. Could drown.

He shudders internally and focuses on the present. Everyone is looking at him in confusion, and he can't blame them.

"Okay," he signs to Dean. That he can answer, that he can handle.

Dean nods. "She hurt you?" He says this looking at Meg and Castiel has to wave his hand to remind him to look at him. He's usually very good at this, but this is an unusual moment, so Castiel forgives him.

"Okay," Castiel repeats, putting force into his words, trying to convey so much in those four letters. I'm okay, she didn't hurt me, she wouldn't hurt me, she—he doesn't know how to say it other than—loves me.

"Bitch, if you did anything to him, I'll—"

"Waste me?" Meg asks with a scoff. She casually pulls away from Castiel, and Castiel wonders how Dean could have seen them so close and still thought he was in danger. He's scared, he realizes, and not thinking straight. Castiel knows what that's like, but not really, because fear for a loved one is even more intense than for oneself. She stands and spreads her arms. "Go ahead and try." She sneers. "Bitch."

Dean raises the knife, the demon-killing knife, ready to stab at her, and Castiel tenses, ready to jump to Meg's defense, when she looks back at him, and her eyes are tender, and her voice, so human, caresses his thoughts.

Thankyou

Youcarednooneever

Idon'tknowwhattosaybut

You'vedoneenough

Itsokay.i'mready.

She is, she is fully prepared, she wants it to be over, and Castiel prays with everything he has that there really is something better for her because demon or not, regardless of what she's done, some of her actions, these last few moments…she deserves a chance.

He shuts his eyes tightly so he doesn't see the knife twist in her helpless body, the flash as the life escapes her, wishes he could close his ears against the soft gasp she breathes in her last, wishes he could close his mind but at the same time glad he can't because

.

He will never forget.

Dean is next to him now, arms around him, checking him for damage, physical or otherwise. Castiel wants to explain what he has done, but he doesn't have the words, not even in Enochian, so he just allows Dean to hold him and allows himself to hold Dean.

The world's too big, and it's only gotten bigger, and he's fucking terrified right now and needs his bed the darkness the closeness

But Dean seems to sense this—maybe he can read Castiel's heart and mind after all—and even as they stand, even as they awkwardly move like Siamese twins to the car, he keeps Castiel pressed to him, reducing the world to just their two bodies. Castiel can deal with that.